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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. Monday, October 13, 2003
Our chief weapon is SURPRISE! Surprise, and fear...fear, and surprise.... Our two weapons are fear and surprise, and ruthless efficiency....
Martha Stewart doesn't expect prison Nobody expected the Spanish Inquisition, either, sister!
Oh, almost forgot…
I was in the middle of another one of those faux-celebrity sightings this weekend—and I was the faux celebrity! At the grocery store last night I was walking along the soft-drink aisle and had just bent over to pick up some fine store-brand diet sodas when a guy walked by, did a double-take, and started to go on by, then stopped and said, “I know it’s not you, but has anyone ever said you look like Eli Gold?” Ah yes, my old doppleganger—famed as The Voice of the Arena Football League, The Voice of NASCAR, and more irksome, The Voice of the Crimson Tide. “Yeah, I get that every once in a while,” I said in my most avuncular voice, “but I’m not him.” Not that we didn’t used to share some resemblances—both of us are of the more girthsome sorts, and nearsighted, and we both have the broad jaw and freakishly large head that are the marks of incredible intelligence. And I can imitate him given the proper goading. However, Gold is now white-headed, with lots of head showing, while I still have a quite respectable covering, even though it has the George Clooneyesque graying about the temples. And Eli has about four inches in height on me, and in the day, outweighed me by a good 50 pounds. Anyway, I just chuckled and told the guy that I do get that some, and that I used to go to church with a little old man who would come up to me every Sunday and tell me I looked “just like that Eli feller.” Which was probably too much to share, because the guy then started wanting to talk about Eli’s broadcast schedule, and what all he does, and Alabama football. “Yeah, I saw you and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, that’s him,’ but then I figured it couldn’t be, because what would he be doing here in Trussville at 10 at night!” “Oh, you know, getting groceries!” I kept trying to go on and get the rest of my stuff, and could quite flee because we had to discuss more things about which I have no personal knowledge. We finally were the whole length of the aisle apart before he finally decided to give me some cue that I could run away. Which I did. Man, being a celebrity is tough.
Full of Surprises
Not that I really WANT lots of surprises… Got home Friday and it was like tripping into a riot—walk in the door and am met with everyone yakking at top volume and running around and clothes and bags and fish and WHOA! First things first! Reba said Jonathan’s practice had been called off, which meant that the invitation extended earlier in the week by the grandparents to come spend the night for the kiddies could be accepted, which was nice for them, but GREAT for Miss Reba and me because we could go on a DATE! I was willing to go see any kind of a chick flick she could imagine. But first, we had to finish getting the kids packed, and I was a blur of thrown clothing—“HERE! HERE! HERE’S THIS!” Finally got everyone ready, and oh, yeah, fish. “What fish are you talking about?” Little Boy piped up, “One of the moms brought a BIG bag full of GUPPIES to school today and she had NINETY-NINE and she gave us all some for our ECOSYSTEM!!” Ecosystem in this case being a rather loose definition for a sawn-in-half half-liter water bottle with some gravel and about twenty guppies in the bottom part, and the top part with some dirt and grass sprouts. “That one’s Boompa, and that one’s Cheechee!” They both have icky egg-sac things pooching out their sides. “They’re gonna have BABIES!!” Ah, the miracle of life, in all of its tiny, fishy, smelly, grotesque glory. Luckily, we have a little tabletop cylinder aquarium from the last time someone gave us fish to kil—raise—and so they got moved to more spacious digs later in the weekend. But until then, the chorus was, “We have to feed them, Dad!” Yes, Daddy knows. Only too well. “We’ll have to get some more food later, but right now, DADDY HAS TO GO ON A DATE WITH MOMMY SO ALL OF YOU NEED TO LEAVE! NOW!” Into the van, off to Reba’s mom and dad’s house, shove them in the door and run. Off to the theater—the movie start time was 7:10, which is when we got in line for the tickets, then we had to get popcorn, and so by the time we got in there, it was 7:30. Still got to see two more previews before the movie started. The movie being Under the Tuscan Sun, based upon the memoir of the same name by Francis Mayes. Movie Review Time (might include spoilers) I had heard only a little bit about this one, some of it to the effect that it was a bit like Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, a.k.a. The Money Pit, but that’s a stretch. There is an old house, and contractors, and dust—but there are also itinerant Polish laborers, and gourmet food, and olives, and nuns, and exploring the stereotypes of internationalism in general and Italy in particular by wallowing in them as heartily as the episode of I Love Lucy when she stomps grapes, and a Romeo and Juliet subplot, and a Fellini prima donna subplot, and a trendy lesbian power-couple subplot (moviemaking has now gotten to the point of much early-‘70s dreck, which included swingers as the titillating, gasp-inducing taboo sexual proclivity du jour, except now instead of Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, we have Bob & Ted, and Carol & Alice) and little old men with flowers, and flag flinging, and, and, and! all rolled up in some really beautiful cinematography shot on location. Eh. It has some nice moments, and maybe the book is far less of a cudgel when is comes to making ‘A Point’ about ‘Life’, and ‘Greater Meanings’, and such. You know, some people think of the richness of Italian cooking, and they think of garlic, and they think if you want it REALLY authentic, you gotta add LOTS of garlic. Kind of the same thing going on with the movie—subtlety really has its charm, and a little garlic goes a long way. The parts that are obviously intended to be subtle and shy and coy go and ruin it with all the all the winking and nudging and elbowing and, “Hey, d’you get it? This is ARTISTIC, and we’re being SUBTLE! SEE?!” that it becomes an exercise in patience to get through it. Almost like those movies where you can tell who paid for product placements, as the star taps on an Apple while drinking a Coke, and then hops into his new Escalade and drives to a GAP. It sounds like I hated it, but I really didn’t—it’s not bad, really. Lots of architectural eye-candy (enough to make a Picture of Tuscany a Day calendar), and Diane Lane is winsome. Just too much garlic. BUT, I got to go on a date, which was the best part. And then we got to go to Kohl’s! A new one just opened up across the highway from the theater, so, this being a date, we had to go shopping at a department store. ::sigh:: Ostensibly, this was to look for a new bedspread for Jonathan, but Reba just wanted to go look. Thank heavens we got there thirty minutes before it closed. Then home, then to bed, then for once, up not quite so early in a nice, quiet house. We even had a real breakfast for a change, with real, honest to goodness coffee. Mmm. Thus braced for the day, we went and picked up Boy to take him to his game. The girls decided they wanted to stay behind and play, which was fine, because I get tired of hearing Oldest complain about having to go to the park. Jonathan’s team lost again. 3-0. But, he played his little heart out again—he is FINALLY running with some vigor, and he did a good job at his position. We played a co-ed team out of Leeds, and they were very well coached, and the girls played just as well as their boy teammates. We had the loudmouthed Yankee dad. Oh well. Then, on to more stores for yet more shopping! First up to Wal-Mart for fish food (“Did you feed my fish this morning, Daddy?”—he’s so worried about them), and to pick up a genuine plastic broken pirate’s chest for the little things to swim around, and some other stuff. I was just in a hurry to get back to the van to listen to the Auburn game. (It turned out to be a pretty ugly win, but that’s just fine.) Then off to JCPenney’s to look for this bedspread thing again, then back to the grandparent’s house, then back to our house for more housework and laundry and cleaning the table off. Our kitchen table, being one of those handy horizontal surfaces common to households, attracts all manner of ephemera and detritus and flotsam and jetsam and junk and cast-offs until it’s about six feet high in the middle and leaves us with about a quarter of an inch of space on the perimeter to balance plates and glasses. It was about to slide off and seriously harm someone, so I did the chore of cleaning it all off. There was enough stuff on there to break a dumpster, but it’s all gone now. (Actually, relocated, but we won’t say where.) More clothes folding, and child scrubbing, and then to bed with the lot of them, then back up Sunday for church, and afterwards across town for Bible Bowl (both our junior and our senior team won again) and then back to the building for a meeting that never happened, and then I found out I am supposed to be adding a new class for our college age kids right here in the middle of the quarter, which means that even though I had given myself a quarter’s break that I’ll have to wind up teaching anyway and which means I have to come up with something to talk about, and then we had evening worship, and then we had to go BACK to the grandparent’s house because a certain small girl had left her baby doll over there, and then back to the house for supper, and then after they were in the bed, I had to go to the stinkin’ grocery store. Which actually was a very nice respite. Home again, groceries put away, then upstairs to find that the same Tiny Girl who had left her doll at Grandmom’s had gathered every single stuffed animal in the house and put them on my side of the bed and crawled on top of them and was snoring soundly. ::sigh:: SO, I gathered up the animals and marched them all back to her bed, then attempted to get her up and back with them. Less successfully than the animals, it turned out. She went, but under extreme protest, which I really didn’t mind as long as I had a place to sleep. Which I did, until I came here. AND NOW, I have a ton of junk to get done, and no time to do it in. Which means for the next week, updates are going to be sporadic here on el Blog con Possum. I know all both of you will be not the least bit disappointed, as there is plenty to read elsewheres in the old blogroll. I’ll still be posting junk, but it will be a junk of both lesser quality and quantity than usual, so please bear with me. At some point, the quantity will increase, although the quality will remain at the level to which you should have by now grown accustomed. Friday, October 10, 2003
Another one.
Long week, that is. It’s been sort of a blur—and promises to continue being one. Boy has his soccer practice tonight, then there’s a couple of soccer games tomorrow, and then there’s other junk that must be done about which I know only that I am going to be the one to have to do it. I did find out a handy tip this week. Do you have paper grocery sacks full of old magazines that you really don’t want to throw away? Do you have old jugs of bug killer you need to get rid of? Do you spend all of your weekend time doing things other than throwing away old magazines and insecticide? Well, let me tell you what you do…let GRAVITY work for YOU! That’s right, just stack up that sack of magazines on top of an unstable pile of junk, directly over those old jugs. Allow to sit for a time sufficient to allow the MIRACLE OF GRAVITY to pull that sack down on top of the jugs, which will turn over, split, and release their contents all over the magazines, as well as the garage floor. This environmental crisis AUTOMATICALLY causes the disposal of icky bug killer and dusty magazines to vault to the TOP of the ol’ honey-do list, and your messy old mess gets cleaned up—JUST! LIKE! THAT! That happened Tuesday—walked into the garage when I got home and was nearly knocked flat by the rich, fruity aroma of liquid Dursban. Was also met by a tumult of anxious souls wanting the pater familias to do something other than stand there and say, “boy howdy, that sure does stink.” The whole affair took a much more ominous turn when the magazines were ones I really DIDN’T want to get rid of—some early-90s commemorative magazines, a catalog of neat crafts from about 1979, a couple of car books. Thankfully, they didn’t get doused (much) so I snuck them into a different place, safe from the clutches of gravity. Not so lucky were two old string mops that I didn’t even know we had—they did soak up lots of bug killer, so I guess they served their purpose. Being a child of parents who grew up during the Depression, I couldn’t bear to throw two whole mops away, and was overjoyed to see that these, although cheap, had removable handles! I have my own buck-and-a-quarter quarterstaffs!! Now I can practice my Matrix-inspired kendo skills!! Or go snow skiing! Or hiking! Or fishing! Or whale hunting! (After they’re sharpened, of course.) I can build an exceedingly heavy kite! I can whack at high-hung pinatas! I could poke a nail in the end, put on an black and white striped jumpsuit and orange vest, and pretend to be a convict picking up trash! Hmm? No. I’d rather not mop, thank you. (You can see why it takes so long to get me to do anything—lots of time spent figuring out ways to waste time doing anything else than the task at hand.) Anyway, it’s about time to go off and weekend some more. All of you have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday. OO! OO!! I know! I could perform the world’s shortest pole vault! Or maybe I cou…
U.S., Shiites disagree on Baghdad ambush
I'm certain the disagreement will be handled in a calm, rational, manner.
From the "Stories Which Defy All Attempts at Parody" File: Supermodel helps launch cat food auction NEW YORK (AP) -- Frederique Van Der Wal has gone from the catwalk to cat food. The supermodel is helping launch an auction of celebrity cat food bowls, which will be up for bids on eBay from Thursday through Oct. 26.
Speaking of mighty weird--Man held in Gadsden bomb scare claimed device was 'gift' GADSDEN, Ala. (AP) -- A Gadsden man charged with placing a fake bomb outside a military recruiting office previously left a copy of the Ten Commandments at a federal court and claimed both were "gifts."Man, it's getting to where you can't tell 'em apart without a program.
It’s that time again!
Yet another attempt to predict the outcome of this weekend’s Festivities in Fayetteville, aka the Auburn Tigers versus the Feral Swine of Arkansas game. This is going to be a good one, and it’s a shame it’s going to be on Jefferson-Pilot (11:30 CT kickoff). (I usually will just turn down the sound and listen to it on the radio.) Anyway, the Tigers are having to face off against ANOTHER 7th ranked team for the second time in as many weeks, and another one which is unbeaten, and one that is even bigger and more physical than the Vols were, and one who is in the same division in the same conference, and their coach is a real Nutt. Add to all of that the bad mojo of Auburn's past two attempts to do the Tiger Gone Bad Act on Arkansas, resulting in losses of 38-17 and 42-17, and things look not quite so promising. The one benefit of Auburn’s earlier defeats is the dope slap of reality that says "we can lose", which seemed to hold them up well last week against Tennessee. If they keep that attitude and execute plays with authority and not get rattled, they should do just fine. It’s not like they’re going up against a team with any sort of good cheerleader website, after all. Not that it hurt Arkansas last year, but they STILL don’t have any sort of picture page up—being the big hog in the state of Arkansas seems like it would almost demand a bit more work than simply coming up with stuff like Razorback Christmas greetings. I mean, come on! Arkansas Tech has its Sweethearts, and Arkansas State has cheerleaders (even if they do have a way-too-high goofy guy ratio), and they got ‘em down there at Southern Arkansas University. And believe it or not, the best site is from Harding University (!), who even have INDIVIDUAL bios, like this one for Bonnie, who can bench press 250 pounds. I just can’t figure it out. Then again, maybe people just don’t want to see a girl who needs to shave her back. In any case, I have once again gone to the near-miraculous Internet to consult with various prediction technologies which are available to online users. First, I went over and asked Happy Fanny, who said: I like the looks of this.Hmm. That sounded right promising, so in order to make the selection more scientific, I stopped in at the Oracle of Dephi (not connected with Delphi Electronics) and got this response: Change your ways and all will be well.Oooo. What ways? I have no ways. Then I figured out that “ways” must be Greek for underwear, so I promise I’ll change. Finally, in an effort to waste the maximum amount of time, I asked the Mighty Weirdo, and got this response: Dear Concerned Tiger Fan,Thanks, Mighty Weirdo!! (Who knew he was a Tiger fan!?)
More Dumb Ol' Work to Do Today
'Nother light day for blogaciousness, so please bear with me. Or bare with me, for that matter. (Although you wouldn't believe the looks you get when you go to work naked.) Anyway, be sure and check out the folks in the blogroll upstairs, or dig through the vast secret archives of material from past months, and I'll be back in a bit. OH, and Miss Reba really liked her autographed copy of incredibly famous local meteorologist David Neal. I think to excess, but maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. I am that way, you know. Thursday, October 09, 2003
Lunch was nice.
Just got back. It has been a poor morning, starting from getting home last night. Middle Girl had a poster to do for science, and, of course, she waited until last night after church to begin getting it onto posterboard. The topic of interest was “Sleep and Nutrition for Maximum Academic Performance”—pretty heady stuff, eh? Especially considering just how well we follow the advice of learned academicians on the subject. Basically though, she just had to write down some facts and find some charts or something, but she had done a pitiful bit of looking in the encyclopedia and had only a scatterdash handful of mess to show for her effort. Tuesday evening I printed her off some stuff from the Internet, but she said that pictures of Jane Russell did not count, so I got her some MORE stuff on diet and sleep. Which she more or less ignored. Last night, we got in and set to work. I had already given her a few huge-amount-of-my-folks’-money-spent-on-architecture-school tips about laying out her board with the information. Which she more or less ignored. She had started writing all over the board, and as with EVERY OTHER SINGLE POSTER I’ve ever helped her with, I told her to do it l i g h t l y in pencil first. Which meant big thick hard lines and letters that were going everywhere and then all squinched up on one end. STOP! the presses. “What?” “Well honey, you need to draw some lines to help you keep the letters straight, and you need to do it REALLY light and then go back over it in marker, and you need to get all of the words centered up…here, give me your pencil, and go get me a straightedge.” Famous last words. So, I lined everything up, and lightly put in the title in pencil, and gave her a marker. “Esssssss. Elllllllllll—oops! Is that bad, Daddy?” “Just be exCEEDINGLY careful, sugar—that’s INK you know.” “What does ‘axxeatingly’ mean?” “Here, give me the marker.” I did the top line, then she did the other line, and then it came time to lay down some factitude. But something still wasn’t quite right with the layout—AHH, a border. “Here, let’s put a border around the outside to make it pop a bit.” Other famous last words. I whipped a hardedge pencil line around everything then made a text box on each side for our stunning collection of facts, then gave her a marker. “Oops. I got off over here, Daddy!” “That’s okay, give me the marker.” I expertly free-handed over the guideline all around—one of the few remaining things which produces a sense of wonderment in my older kids. “How do you keep it so straight! I can’t do that!” Actually, you can. Just concentrate on making it from one end to the other without picking up the pen. Don’t sit there and scratch, scratch, scratch all the way down to the end of the line—just one smooth stroke. It’ll be a bit wavy, but it’ll be straight enough to do the job without looking too hard-edged. (That right there was a whole quarter’s worth of tuition value you just got—just send my mom a check.) After that, she was more or less on her own. I made her pick about six facts on each topic and write them down on the poster—which she was finally able to do without leaving dents the size of the Grand Canyon in the posterboard—and I proofed them. I gave her an idea for some little pie-charty type things to put on there to take up some white space, and voila, we get in bed past midnight. In order to try to regain a bit of my sleep deficit, I set my clock for a little AFTER five…and worried about it the rest of the night—dreaming that I had overslept, WAKE!, dreaming that it had gone off, WAKE!, dreaming I got up and turned it off, WAKE! Did you know that the normal adult needs at least 8 hours of sleep a night? Did you know that not getting that much makes you abnormal? Well, it does. So, up at five:eleven, watch a little of the early local news, fall out of bed, crawl to the shower, finally wake up, sit and shave a while, brush teeth, wake the big kids and herd Cat to the potty (she has—cross your fingers, now—not wet the bed in over a month), get dressed, wake the big kids up AGAIN, get Cat dressed, wake the big kids up AGAIN, fix a large, traditional Southern breakfast of store-bought frozen waffles—two per child, mind you!!—round ‘em up and head out the door. And then I got here. Meeting first thing for an hour and a half, then come in and sit down to do my real work and get blindsided by an irate developer on the phone complaining about his project getting stopped. Long story, but basically he had not done a complete accounting of all of the work he actually intended to do on his building, which according to the permit application was just a little painting and repair. And which turned out to be a complete renovation. So, he got stopped, because he never got a design review approval (my little part of paradise), and the permit guys were also taken by surprise by the actual amount of work being done. So, here he comes, both barrels blazing. I pick up the phone, and he’s in full battle mode. I let him vent, every once in a while stopping him to explain the process, and finally figure out the thing he’s most mad about is that his DRYWALL CONTRACTOR (what about THAT for a coincidence—just this week I posted on getting plastered!) was standing around not doing anything (how he could tell any difference, I don’t know) because the job was shut down. I finally talked him in off the ledge by letting him know that our particular branding iron had nothing to do with inside work, and that I would call the inspector and let him know it was okay for him to proceed with the sheetrock. That seemed to pacify him for the most part, but I still got to hear all about the lesser part. Whatever. He still gets to come see us in a couple of weeks for the exterior stuff. BUT, for those of you in similar circumstances, fed up with governmental idiocy and ready to chew someone a new one, a few tips— 1--I know I’m you’re employee. I understand you pay my salary. Fair enough. But the job you hired me to do is what I’m doing, just like when a cop stops you for speeding. 2--Although you may be frustrated at your treatment so far at the rough hands of others, I really am looking for a way to accommodate both you AND my other 242, 819 bosses, if you will just hush for a minute and let me. 3--I really could not care less a) how much money you have, b) how much you spend in taxes, b) how much money you bring in, c) who you have lunch with, d) what civic groups you belong to and schmooze with, e) who you know—even if it’s my boss, f) what you think of government, g) how much it’s going to cost you because you were delayed because you got caught doing something that looked suspiciously like unpermitted work, h) how much money you have, i) how long you’ve been in business, j) how stupid I am, k) how many people worship the very pot you crap in, l) how much money you have, or m) who you know—even if it’s my boss’s boss; because the job you’re paying me to do requires me to be impartial and treat you just like the poor joe with no money and no connections. Even if you weren’t paying me to do that, I’d do it anyway. So back off. 4--Realize that not all government workers are crazed, stupid idiots. According to the latest statistics, only about 96.6% of us are, so when you find someone on the phone who wants to help you, who is trying hard to be accommodating, and who has actually been in your shoes trying to deal with a mindless bureaucracy, and who sounds like a reasonably intelligent person and is not prone to making chittering sounds like a chimp, it might be best to realize that person can be a great ally to you and not do all in your power to alienate him. Off to lunch, then—Miss Reba and I have been economizing of late by bringing our lunch instead of eating out every day, but I have just about had my fill of tiny little bits of cardboard and plastic film, so we had a date today. Beautiful day downtown—cool and clear, and a new bootleg fruit vendor! Right across the street from the Trust Jesus Guy—made me feel all cool and urbaney. We had decided to go to Quiznos, so I got there and made a quick dash for the john—needs cleaning, guys. Although it does have an interesting closet—a small partitioned-off dead space that backs up to the original building wall—that’s some real bricks and timber! Back out to stand in line, and who do I see? Well, this being the Week of Past Brushes With Celebrities, it was George W. Bush! There’s a lawyer-type who works down the block who looks startlingly like Bar’s boy. I imagine he probably gets a lot of people who say he looks just like Laura’s husband, so I told him, “Hey, you look just like Wesley Clark!” Not really. I just stood in line. BUT, it was a good place to stand. There was a tall girl in front of me who looked like she had just stepped out of LIFE magazine, circa April, 1962. Demure floral print dress, little white flats, neat platinum hair pulled back with a cloth band—she looked like a six-foot-tall cross between Sandra Dee, Grace Kelly, and more disturbingly, a bit like Mo Collins’ character of Trina on MADtv. I believe she was probably left here by an advanced civilization of alien Amazons to conduct observations of Earth life, and all they had to go on for costuming was a 1960 Sears catalog. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Reba finally got there and we had a good lunch—lots of beef and cheese and onions—and then it was time to head back. Blah. The one bright spot was that on the way back I did a quick tour of the park, where the EMA folks were still hanging out. The one nice thing about it is that events like this tend to displace the Several of the booths had those ‘tornado in a bottle’ things, but you know, once you’ve seen one… I figured I would see if there were any more celebrities to stalk—Channel 42 had Bonnie McLaughlin at a table with all sorts of weather information about what to do in case of a tornado (panic), but I didn’t stop because there were too many people around and it didn’t look like she had any photos. The ABC 33/40 booth was empty, although it did have several helpful brochures about what to do during a tornado (take cover, panic), and crayon-coloring sheets with the amazing heroic cartoon meteorologist character, James Spann. Finally got around to the FOX6 booth, hoping against hope the lovely Miss Preede would be about (yes, I’m still stalking her, too) but it was just a bunch of dumb ol’ weather guys—including the Professor: “Oh, and in case you're wondering... The “K” stands for Klimasewski, and ironically, the “Klima” in his name means “climate!”Yes, the bitter, bitter, mocking irony of it all. And there was Fred Hunter, a really decent sort of weatherguy, and the king of all weathermen and keeper of the FOX6 Live VIPIR! Radar, renowned Gadsdenian, the very imitatably-voiced David Neal. Dave looks a whole lot like Reba’s older brother (who is married and lives in New Jersey, so no requests for addresses, please) and we sometimes joke about her brother doing the weather. So, I got Mr. Neal to sign a photo to Reba. I know she will get a kick out of it—“Hi Reba! Thanks for watching, David Neal.” And then I waded through more kids and came here and wrote this, and now it’s time to go home and get Bec all fixed up for soccer practice, where I intend to crawl on top of a set of bleachers and sleep. Not really. They’re too uncomfortable.
I may go insane.
Outside my window right now in Linn Park is a great big event with all sorts of tents and schoolkids. Every year, the local Emergency Management folks put on some kind of fair/PR deal [It's called the Community Awareness Day Ed. ] and get all the local news stations to send their LIVE-ZIppEE-DOPPLER8000 STORM SPOT CHASE TRACK TEAM guys to plug their stations and give away brochures on what to do in case of a tornado (panic). Then there's local police and fire departments and burglar alarm vendors and a Pepsi booth (because when the chips are down, you want to hold out some hope that Shakira will come and dance with you). And I am going to go insane because there is a mobile public address/siren unit for sirening and addressing the public at riots and stuff. And it's parked right outside my window. And every ten minutes, the operator hits the button for a spaceship sounding wwWWHHHUOOOOPP- BLIPPA-BLIPPA- BLIPPA-BLIPPA BRAAAAAAHHHHH hhhuuoooooo. And the Pepsi booth is alternating the first stanza of The Beach Boys' "Little Deuce Coupe" every five minutes with M.C. Hammer's "Can't Touch This." That's the ONLY two songs. (In an actual emergency, you would be instructed where to tune in your area for news and the only two songs approved by the Department of Homeland Security.) And there's kids screaming at the top of their very wide-awake lungs. Argh. UPDATE: I have made a mistake. There are two other songs--a few bars from "Girl from Ipanema", and thensome kind of World-Beat nose flute music that is the aural equivalent of being cornered in an alley by a mime.
Well, flitter--Part II.
I was all set to have fun and just found out my presence is desired at someone else's meeting. I bet it will be LOADS OF FUN. ::sigh:: UPDATE: Actually, not the worst thing in the world, I suppose. Talked ONCE MORE about the old H.S. Kress Building, about which I wrote a post nearly a year ago. Still trying to get everyone to work together, but it looks like it's finally off of dead center. Maybe. Blogging is going ot be light the rest of the day--not light like yesterday, but no fooling light as I have loads of junk to get done so as to continue drawing a paycheck. The one thing that the Magic 8-Ball got wrong was my million dollar payout from Mrs. Abacha. I may have to wait until next week or something for it, but until then, I'm now off to be a good bureaucrat.
Almost as disturbing...
...as my thought the other day about "The Siegfried and Roy Moore Show" is this person who just found Possumblog by Googling for siegfried and roy tigger attack. When Fictional Stuffed Animals Go Wild. That's going to be the title of my new video. You ought to see the footage of Piglet torching a Hummer. Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Nine potential park and ride sites identified [...] Nine potential pilot sites have been identified by the Regional Planning Commission of Greater Birmingham, according to a press statement from the organization. They include: Interstate 20 at Leeds; Interstate 59 at Chalkville Road near Trussville; I-20/59 in Bessemer; I-65 in Gardendale; U.S. Highway 31 and Lorna Road; Center Point Parkway; Alabama Highway 79 and Pine Hill Road near Tarrant; U.S. Highway 280 near Brook Highland and Inverness; and in Forestdale on U.S. 78.Well, good for the ol' hometown! Park and ride lots are a great way to cut down on congestion, thus leaving a whole lot more room for me.
Two Degrees of Separation
The other day I was blithering about the new governor of California being in Birmingham a while ago, and it just occurred to me to mention to you that I have only two degrees of separation from him. My dad had a heart attack along in the early '70s and had begun working out at a gym over in Homewood afterwards to try to get his strength back, and it just so happened that a film crew came to town to film Stay Hungry, and the body builders in the film trained at the same gym. So, my dad got to meet Mr. Schwarzenegger, and thus I feel that I should have no problem getting an invitation to his inauguration, since we are so close and all.
Shriver played key role in husband's bid
Well, as a reward, I hope they feed her a cheeseburger or two. [And I'm not the only one who thinks so]
EVIL DRUG-RUNNING SUVs!--Police: Big ecstasy stash found in SUV during traffic stop The Associated PressYeah, 57,000 tabs of XTC is bad, but they were found in an SUV!! EEEEKKKK!! I've commented on it before--the type of vehicle is really not material to the story--nothing about an SUV makes it better or worse for drug-running, and to include it in the story just makes it sound like the writer is trying to make an (unrelated) point about the evils of SUVs. Personally, I blame Canada.
Langford plans to hire PR firm ERIC VELASCOI hate to say it, but the idea that somehow by spending money on a PR firm to tout how much you do for everyone else in the state, directed at everyone else in the state, will do anything at all to change negative attitudes about Jefferson County by folks outside or inside the county is a REAL stretch of the imagination. "We're tired of it," he said. "We must be proactive on how we fund things in Jefferson County. We will have to learn to say no to anything that doesn't enhance Jefferson County."So, it would probably not make any sense to use that PR money to press for constitutional changes that might actually help the county--better just to make everyone feel good. But the public relations firm can spread the word among current and would-be residents about the financial role Jefferson County plays in the state and its efforts to make the county a viable place to live and work.Of course, when you see one of those county cars pulling up in front of the adult video and book store over in East Lake early one afternoon and see an employee get out to go return stuff--which I witnessed a while back--that bumper sticker ain't going to help a whole lot. "But you can't put them on county cars," Commissioner Gary White joked, referring to a recent ban on unauthorized personal bumper stickers on county vehicles. "A number of employees already have complained they had to take off their 'Langford for Commissioner' bumper stickers."I've got a better idea--instead of hiring a PR firm, hire a better set of comedy writers.
I know SOMEBODY who will be very happy with today's Lileks-- [...] So I went to that aforementioned shop (“Nine Thousand Variations on Plain Old Frickin’ Jergins, Fer Chrissakes”) and got something infused with botanicals. Whatever those are. Probably muskrat testicles. Who-hee, lookee that, Cletus, I shot him raht in the botanicals! [...]Imagine that--a guy goes from Minnesota to New York, and he mentions Cletus!! Good job, all you fellows over there at the BBQ Emporium! (I'm just glad he said "muskrat" instead of possum.) And yes, I am now blessedly out of my stupid meeting. Which means I have a bit of typing to do, so as I warned yesterday, your hot, steaming pile of Possumpixels is going to be limited today. Tuesday, October 07, 2003
And, as with this morning...
Tomorrow morning will be full of regulatory excess as I go about doing what I'm supposed to be doing, so blogging will again be light. I forgot about it until just a minute ago, but Little Boy was in town today to go see the Titanic exhibit at the McWane Center up the street a bit. I didn't get to go see him, but I know that he and his little class full of smarty pants kids had a grand time. This morning he was the first one dressed--he came in with his school shirt on and all brushed and combed as close to perfection as little boys can get. "So, buddy. You going to McWane today?" "YES, SIR!!" "Going to go see the thing about the Titanic?" Head nod yes. Well, little shaver, let's just see what all you know about this here boat deal..."Do you know how the Titanic sank?" "Mm-hm...it hit an iceberg, and instead of hitting it with the bow, it turned to the side, and it scraped all down the side of the hull, and it made a big tear in the side, and..." Whoa. The little rat's in fourth grade! "And do you know what about the design of the compartments caused it..." "They didn't get all the watertight doors closed, and the water came in and it flooded a bunch of the compartments in the bow, and as they filled up, the ones behind got filled up because the water went over the top of the walls, and when they got flooded the whole stern lifted out of the water and it broke off and it sank." Wow. "And what did they say about the Titanic when it was built?" "That it was unsinkable. But it wasn't." "And did they build another one like..." "Yes, they built one called the Olympic, and it was just like it." Good grief, the stinker's a derned encyclopedia! "And was there a ship that came by and resc..." "Yes, the Carpathia came by and picked up around 700 people out of the water." "Were there not enough lifeboa..." "No, they didn't put enough on because the company wanted the decks open for people to walk, and they didn't think it would sink anyway, and if they had only put about 20 more on board everyone could have had a space on a boat." Doggone it all. Time to see if I could stump him one last time, "Were there any passengers from Alabama on board?" "Ahhh. Hmm. I don' t know, Daddy, were there?" Well, thank goodness I finally found a way to save a little face! Yes there were--there was Colonel Archibald Gracie IV, namesake of the Gracies who built Gracie Mansion in New York, who was born in Mobile in 1859 and later lived in Washington and New York; and there was Mr. Martin Rothschild, born to Prussian immigrants who lived in Alabama for 20 years, although Martin only lived here for the first three years of his life before the family moved to New York. To be fair, this morning the only thing I could remember about this was that I thought there were some people, but I wasn't real sure. I had to get to work to look it up. Thank goodness for the Internet, or else I would have to remember stuff on my own. ANYway, it's about time to go for today, so I'll see you all later on tomorrow.
You know, you just have to wonder about some people…
But then again, the rewards for joining are just irresistible. As it was for Georgian Kara Kaffe[not her real name] who, though coffee is her drug of choice, was tantalized by the sweet remembrances of the syrupy goodness of good ol’ Milo’s Sweet Tea (as featured in the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack.) She got herself all hopped up on caffeine and left a comment over at Matt’s place about feeling the lonely emptiness of life lived without The Tea. Feeling sad and empathetic for her plight, I summoned Chet the E-Mail Boy to my office and proceeded to dictate a missive to this poor child of the South (Kara, not Chet.) Chet, a tear glistening from his cheek just like that Louisianan-Sicilian-Indian guy, scurried off to his telegraph set and sent away an invitation to Ms. Achiever to fulfill her destiny and become a part of the ever-expanding Yellowhammer Fall Foliage Appreciation Society, despite knowing that it would completely ruin whatever was left of her dignity. Sometimes you just have to hit bottom, you know. In mere hours, Chet came wheezing back up the steps with a freshly inked draft copy of her reply in hand, which I promptly proofed and had him correct, and finally I was handed the final draft. First, Ms. Kara discounted my idea of changing the name of her blog if she like Milo’s Tea so much: I can't tell you the hours I spent trying to reverse engineer Milo's tea while in college. But Teachiever doesn't have quite the same ring, now does it?Well, I thought it did. But whatever. It’s not like it’s about ME or anything… I have read the membership rules:Silly person. 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;You mean, THIS ONE!! 3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty goodI want to stop right now and say that any girl who calls me “baby” or “hon” gets in automatically. In the interest of completeness, however, we continue… 4) Functionally literateThe rules say nothing about mandatory firearms ownership—only that a small shrine to Mormon inventiveness be displayed on a handy wall or desktop. Since Miss Coffee has admitted an accident-prone streak, however, we and our insurance carrier do ask that you stay away from the black powder locker. 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever readOh, I think we can safely say you qualify—the only question is if it’s worth it just to get a jug of tea! Reckon so. SO THEN, not wishing to deny the rich, hot goodness and dodgy fellowship inherent to the Cotton State Stimulant and Recoil Club, it is by the power vested in my by several small voices in my head that we hereby hogtie and deliver one Karo Sweetener [not her real name], percolator of Coffee Achiever, into the clammy embrace of the Axis of Weevil. WELCOME, you Coffee Queen, you, and in celebration of your entrance into society, you will be receiving 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 pickup cat, 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! Use them in good health. BUT WAIT, there’s more! As we all know, Jimmy from next door (not Jimmy from Accounts Payable) has been doing decorative crafts for new members as therapy for his “condition.” Since Coffee Achieving is the theme of Kara’s blog, Jimmy has gone to Hardees and gotten a whole pile of coffee grounds and will be making you your very own portrait. He has gotten very good with his mosaic work, although he is a bit worried that the tiny grounds might take a while to get glued down right. And he needs a picture of you. Don’t send anything with you naked though, because his aunt caught him with some more of those books the other day and she hasn’t quit yelling at him yet. And unfortunately, we cannot overnight the Milo's tea to you--we have tried everything, but it keep pouring out of the envelope. But Lureen just had the Maverick aligned, and so she should be there within about a day or so, so it's not like you're missing out a whole lot.
Well, now, Fifth Place ain't so shabby, either!
Tennessee man wins Fiddle title By Kelly Kazek, Kkazek@pclnet.netCongrats, Radiators!
Sorry to not have more posted today, but silly old work has a way of doing that. BUT, sometimes, visitors come by in dire need of information, of help and assistance in areas where few have the straight answers. Such as the nice person who just dropped by looking for information on the secret to mudding and taping drywall properly.
Indeed, it is an arcane and mysterious craft, and the information has been handed down through generations of artisans. You probably don't realize this, but many of our Founding Fathers were Plasterers, a secret guild even more secretive than the Masons (but not nearly so drunk as the Painters, although their name did become synonymous with being drunk, i.e., plastered.) From time immemorial, royal plasterers have honed their skills and taught legions of acolytes the honored rites such as The Smoke Break and Lunch. Even Shakespeare immortalized these men in his never-published play, The Plasterer of Barcelona: [...]Such power and force! In any event, to the question at hand--first secret in any building project is to purchase the Possumblog Guide to Home Repair, available in the bookstore for only $99.95 (Vol. One "A - Ampere"). Second secret, grab a telephone book and call at least three licensed drywall contractors to give you a contract price. Make sure they are bonded and insured, and that after you decide on one to use, that you use a written contract which spells out the scope of work, the time for completion, how payments are to be handled, and liquidated damages for nonperformance. Third, after signing the contract, move away for several weeks and live with friends or in a hotel. There now, hope that helps.
And you say this is how Sisyphus started out?
No fun this morning--the paying gig intervenes. Be back in a bit. Monday, October 06, 2003
And now an item related to my second post of the morning...
"Why didn't he know how much I loved him, how much I loved that show?"Why indeed.
Roy Still Critical After Tiger Attack
I know I've made jokes about Siegfried and Roy before, but this was a terrible thing to happen to anyone, and I hope he recovers. And I know it's wrong, but I can't keep the perverse thought out of my head for a new show if Roy is not able to return to Vegas-- Siegfried and Roy Moore.
Here's one for Lucy:
Man Wants to Question Parrot in Court ALEXANDRIA, Va. - A man claims a woman wrongly adopted his lost parrot — and he can prove it if given a chance to question the bird in court.You know, some people in this world go an entire lifetime without ever hearing the phrase "opportunity to depose the parrot."
Well, now…
Now THAT was a weekend. Friday night was Little Boy’s practice, but before that we had to take some food to one of the folks we go to church with. We had every intention of making them a big vat of soup, but Thursday night was so jam-packed that there was no time, so Reba went to the store and got some chickens and a pie and some rolls and some okra and some salad and, boy, am I making myself hungry all over again. Boy and I packed up and took off down the hill and then back up the next before pulling into their driveway. We walked up and rang the doorbell, but they had gone elsewhere for a bit, so we got the neighbor to let us in. Little Boy helped me bring the vittles in then set in to playing with their cat while the neighbor lady and I chatted. In a small-world sort of thing, it turns out the cat originally belonged to her daughter, who went to Auburn and gradumicated in ’91. Which means we were there around the same time. Go figure. Finished getting the food put away and went on to practice. The regular coach was out of town on business, so the loudmouthed guy from Pennsylvania (no wonder the abbreviation is PA) and a couple of other of the dads decided to put the boys through their paces. ::sigh:: Four different guys jabbering at them to do four different things. They got finished and it was back to the house, where we found that the fan was all clogged up with piles of smelly brown material. Just a tip, kids, but it’s best to do what Mom says. That’s it. Just that little bit will keep a lid on a lot of heartbreak and high drama that could have come straight out of a Tennessee Williams play and prevent the release of WMD. That’s Weapons of Motherly Destruction. I know this, which is why I have remained unBobbitted to this day, but kids, you know…always thinking they can stick their tongues to the pump handle in winter with no effect. Anyway, it seems that there is now an electronic embargo (no TV, radios, GameBoys, CD players, videos, DVDs, &c., &c.) against anyone under 40 years of age until the house is cleaned up. Which means that it might be lifted when the youngest one hits 40, but I wasn’t about to question it. Even poor little Jonathan got hit with the ban, and he even tried to use his tender puppy-dog/Precious Moments eyes, but to no avail. Oh well. At least there won’t be any electronic noise to drown out the normal din. Boy had some supper and got scrubbed and it was to bed for all of them, then up again early on Saturday. Believe it or not, I actually was awakened by the alarm clock this week instead of squealing kids. Sadly, I still had to get up. Stumbled into the shower and woke myself up, dressed and started making the rounds to get everyone else up. Cat’s game was at 9:00 and Jonathan’s game was at 11:10. Cat had to be there by 8:30, which, as usual, meant that one of her parents thought we could all leave the house at 8:30. Thankfully, this week there was a twist in the plot, since Rebecca and the rest of us were supposed to go to one of her friend’s houses for a birthday party, and NO GIFT HAD YET BEEN PURCHASED! I got Cat and Jonathan all decked out and it was time to go. Of course, no one else was ready, so I went upstairs and sidled up behind Miss Reba as she was dishabille there in front of the mirror putting on her makeup and asked her, “Since we haven’t gotten Br…” “You want to go ahead and take Catherine and Jonathan on to the park and let us go to the store and we’ll meet you there?” YES!! “Well, we are running behind just a tiny bit, and she does need to go ahead and get up there, so we probably should go on and that’ll give you time to shop.” YES!! I did a little more neck grazing and then took off to grab the kids and their junk and throw it all in the van and go screeching off to the park. Got there, got parked, and got her down to the field with minutes to spare. Hoo-ray. And it turned out to be a pretty good game. I told her before we got out, “Catherine, I want you to really run hard today, and if someone on the other team gets the ball, get it away, and if your team has it, help them score a goal.” Which she pretty well did. She actually looked like she was concentrating, and she ran and ran, and she even kicked it a couple of times in the right direction, and they wound up winning 5-2 (not that we keep score, lest their tender psyches become damaged by losing.) “WE WON, DADDY!!” “I KNOW, sugar, you did very well!” “Yes, Daddy, I KNOW!” Stinker. We went on up to the concession stand to wait for Boy’s game to start and to wait on Mom and the other girls to get there. They did and we sat around one of the plastic tables for a while, and then it was finally time for Boy to go play. Moving from one place to another with us is like moving an armored brigade—it’s loud and slow and there is no small amount of danger, but eventually we do manage to get where we’re going. (Then the problem is stopping.) But stop we did and set up shop way down on one end of the bleachers. I always like to sit right in the middle so I don’t have to strain so hard to see both ends of the field, but Reba said, “Don’t you want to sit down there?” “Well, no, I’d like to sit…” “Wouldn’t you really like to sit down there were it’s LESS. CROWDED.” Then the loudmouth started screaming at his kid while they were warming up… “Ohhhh. Yes. Yes indeed. We need LOTS of room, so we need to move way down there!” He gets on her nerves almost as bad as he does mine, so a little separation is a Very Good Thing. Not that it really helps from a decibel point of view—he still sounds like a jackhammer. Anyway, we were braced for another loss—the majority of the boys have the attention span of a crab—but in a complete surprise, they played exactly like they were supposed to! They clumped up a bit, and had some missed passes, but otherwise it was like a completely different team. And Jonathan played like a real little demon, which was even more surprising, considering how unfun practice has been. But he ran hard, and managed to get a beautiful assist on one of the two goals we scored. The other team, from Clay-Chalkville was not bad, but we managed to hold them scoreless, for a final score of 2-0. Boy was very proud of himself. NOW, off to the birthday party. It was supposed to be a swim party, but I told the kids they weren’t about to get in there—we are right in the heart of the Bitterly Cold Alabama Autumn, after all. They didn’t really mind. We stayed for about an hour and had some hot pinata action and some cake and presents and such, then it was back to the house. I had to cut the grass. REAL bad. The past three weeks have had zero minutes for lawn maintenance, so the weeds that managed to survive the paraquat or Agent Orange or whatever it was I sprayed on there had to be cut, and the little birdie feeders had to be filled, and the great wads of tiny baby mimosa had to be cursed. (That does just about as well as spraying them.) Got out the Murray and proceeded on my normal route—all the way around the property line once, then the little strip between the sidewalk and the gutter, then up and down the right side of the driveway, then the front yard. Saturday’s pattern selection was a diagonal laid out on a 30 degree angle from the sidewalk—I was going to do the Camden Yard pattern, but I was running short on time. After the front, there was the up and down on the left side of the house, then back and forth across the backyard. As I’ve mentioned before, being dragged behind the mower is a nice, relaxing way to clear the mind and get your daily dose of carbon monoxide. It’s nice, too, because you can mutter to yourself and no one can hear. Sometimes this helps to develop some clarity of thought about matters of great importance, but in this case I was stymied by the idea that there are some Democrats in California who have now decided that what a person does in his private life has some bearing on his fitness for public office. I always thought it did, but a few years ago I was scolded for being so narrow-minded and backward. Now, it seems I was right all along. I doubt I’ll get an apology, though. Finished the yard and put away the threshing machine, took another shower and got ready to go over to Reba’s mom and dad’s for supper. Any other time I would beg off because I was SO FLIPPING TIRED, but they have cable, which meant access to ESPN, which meant I could get to watch the Auburn game. Oh, and what a game! This is the Auburn team that got picked to be the post-season champs—incredible work by the offensive line and by the defense. (Of course, some other bunch of guys showed up for the first two games, which is why the Tigers now hold the coveted #34 spot in the polls.) They held the Vols to FOUR rushing yards—184 less than their season average! The Plainsmen did let a lot of balls fly around the secondary, letting Tennessee get just a bit too close for comfort, but overall it was a stellar effort and an exciting game against a solid, well-coached Volunteer team. (Then some moron had to nearly ruin everything by throwing a lit roll of toilet paper at Toomer’s Corner.) Downside of all the festivities is that there were also little children who got to stay up well past their bedtimes, making for much crankiness when it was time to head home. Home, bed, snore, up again for church. Good lesson, but, as always, the calm and quietude of worship conspired with the pile of warm sleepy children snuggled up under me to nearly cause me to fall forward in a dead slumber. Which would probably have been embarrassing. Luckily, Jonathan has a habit of grabbing my hand and putting it on his head so I’ll rub on him and pat him while he naps, so that keeps me going. Most of the time. Oh, and I had one of those OTHER terribly embarrassing moments—I had gone out between class and worship to put something in the van and noticed a car pull up and let an older lady and a little girl out at the canopy. I had never seen the car before, nor the lady, so as I got back to the building I walked over with a big smile and stuck out my hand and introduced myself. She told me her name and I asked, “Are y’all visiting with us today?” “No. We’ve been coming here for a year and a half.” Oops. The tone of her voice was not the least bit pleasant. I stammered around and told her I was very sorry that I had not gotten to meet her, and she allowed that her husband isn’t a church member and that they always sit in the back and leave as soon as church is over. “And we just come for preaching.” Five minutes before it starts, too, apparently. Well, I guess I should do a better job of guarding the exits. But you know, I don’t think I would act all pained and get in a snit if someone didn’t recognize me, when I go out of my way to NOT be recognized. But that’s just me, I suppose. On to home, lunch, laundry, house-cleaning, then time to get Rebecca ready for her game. I hate Sunday games—there’s no time to change from church clothes to jeans and back, so I usually wind up going in my suit, which looks darned weird. And it’s always hot. AND this one was going to be a late one, so Reba and the kids went on back to church and I took Bec to her game. And in the rarest occurrence of the entire sports season so far, her team also won, thus meaning that ALL the kids won, as well as Auburn!! Her game was a tight one from a scoring standpoint—the other team was held in check just about the entire time except for a couple of very fortunate goals. It had stayed 2-1 in our favor until about the 58th minute (out of 60), when they got a clear kick on a corner shot to tie it up 2-2. Our girls showed tremendous poise and went right back down and scored on a breakaway, with only a minute to spare. So they were very happy. Back into the van, where we rolled back across the county as Middle Girl changed in the back seat into her church clothes, then we got to church very late and sneaked into the back row, then it was time for supper, then home again, jiggety-jig. Where I collapsed on the bed. Then I got here, and it’s busy, and I haven’t had a whole lot of time for nothing fun, and now I have another meeting to go to and I’m real excited. (Not really.)
I’m working on it
There’ll be something here in a bit—I had to find out how the WSU game ended up this weekend, so I’m running behind. BUT, there is one thing that has been bothering me since last night. What is the deal with Rob Lowe’s hair? I’ve been seeing these promos for The Lyon’s Den, and something looked weird, then last night I caught the end of the show and was just baffled. It looks like a piece. Sorry, it does. Now, I realize I shouldn’t criticize—I’m not a Hollywood actor trying to make a comeback, nor have I ever been in a porno movie—but still, that weird, shaggy looking mop on his head, with the little sticking-out wisps in the back on his neck, make it look like a wig. Is this the NEW style for man-hair for me to ignore? Someone could have at least sent out a memo, like the one when Brad Pitt put all those beads in his beard. As it is, it’s doggone distracting to the rich plotline and sizzling dialogue and nice sideways-slanty light (it seems that it’s perpetually 4:30 in the afternoon) and the hard-hitting drama stuff. On the other hand, it does have Elizabeth MmmmmMitchell, so I may be forced to watch.
Wow--that darned old 8-Ball is something else!!
It all came true--well, all except for that million dollars part. I figure, though, that since Mrs. Abacha is a trustworthy representative of a former government leader that I have nothing to worry about. Except for our Monday staff meeting, which is just about to start. Oh, but once that's over with, buddy-boy, you'll get all sorts of stories. Some of them might even have some basis in fact!! See you in a bit. Friday, October 03, 2003
I consulted the Magic 8-Ball again...
The outlook is favorable for lots of running around this weekend. And that I will not get to sleep late on Saturday. And I will be given one million dollars. Well, it could happen! Anyway, I figure whatever happens, you'll all get to hear about come Monday, either in the police blotter, the obituaries, or on Possumblog! So, all of you have a good weekend, and come back around Monday and see how it all turns out.
Well, we did beat Western Kentucky…
Time once again for the fearless Possumblog Sports Center to swing open the barn door and discuss the only sport worth discussing, Auburn football! The cursed Rocky Toppers of Tennessee will be traveling to the Plains this weekend, with their oh-so-big Number 7 ranking, and their oh-so-undefeated record, and their oh-big-fat-hairy-deal SEC winning percentage of .791, and their Navel Squadron, and they actually think that they can defeat the second best defense in the nation! Hmph!, I say. Or not. The Tigers have looked very good against Vanderbilt and Western Kentucky, but neither of those particular squads were the challenge that the Vols will be (or for that matter, that USC was. Or even Georgia Tech. ::urk::) The last two games, the Plainsmen have started clicking again like they should, and we do have the home field advantage, but we may have bitten off a chunk we can’t finish here. As to the most telling gauge of potential success, the cheerleaders for the Vols and the Tigers both share a pretty weak official website, although the Smokies cheerleaders do have their own personal site that is pretty nice, although a bit shy on photographs (and, of course, is ruined with ones with guys. Sheesh. Just keep clicking reload and it will cycle through to pictures without guys.) What it may lack in visuals, though, it more than makes up for with its written presentation—especially the very nice feature of a message board, upon which was found this startling call for help: 10/2/2003: need a guy to work w/ me on partner stunts..will pay!!!Indeed. Pardon me, I need to open a window--it's getting a bit hot in here. There. Anyway, given the poor showing by Possumblog’s Chief Sports Statistician (the statuesque and well-armed redhead Ipsa Dixie) in the past four weeks, I have decided to consult the office’s Magic 8-Ball as to the outcome of this game—“Will Auburn beat Tennessee this weekend in football?” “AS I SEE IT, YES” Once more for luck… “YOU MAY RELY ON IT” Good enough for me, and it keeps Miss Dixie from trying to stab me with my letter opener. The game kicks off at 6:45 Central and will be shown on ESPN.
About Last Night
Our little rolling family escapade last night went off tolerably well, although I must say that I forgot one crucial bit of potential late-making mayhem lurking around...the fact that I...ME...I could be the one to be late! Made it fine all the way to the Trussville exit then hit a slowrolling wall of vehicles tied up by a three-car smackdown in front of the shopping center entrance. Looked like someone driving a new red T-Bird had to stop short, which in turn caused the person behind to have to buy the 'Bird some new tailights, and then there was one more vehicle behind who will have to do the same for the middle person. One of those mixed emotion things--the girl driving the Thunderbird was real cute, but her car is one of those models which looked better after it was hit. I have tried so hard to like the new Thunderbird, but I just can't get there. Could be the tiny V8, (even though it makes good power), or it could just be that I have a thing for ones like this. Anywho, got to Cat's practice about 15 minutes late, got her stuff and Bec's and watched her stand around (she occasionally would skip toward the sidelines). Time to go, she ran/walked her laps, then on to Rebecca's practice, hoping I would be able to get there in time to allow Tiny Terror to get to the bathroom. (She was twisting and hopping and about to bust, but she did make it.) We got ourselves something to eat and some hot chocolate, and we sat down at one of the picnic tables and I read her one of her books, Judy Moody Engages in Occultic Behaviors, which she seemed to enjoy. We finished up our food, got a refill on the chocolate, and moved down to watch Bec practice and read some more. But not before having to schlub all the way back to the van to get her blankie. (Grr.) I made sure we stopped at the restroom again, just to make sure there would not be another unscheduled interruption. Back down to the chair, where we managed to get all of four chapters read in amongst her caffeine and sugar related bout of extreme wiggliness and hostility to sitting still. She wouldn't run during HER practice, but she was like Speedy Gonzales at big sister's. Up, down, up, down, all around. ::sigh:: No more hot chocolate for her. Back home at 8:30, Reba came in about fifteen minutes later, Ashley told me they lost 24-20 or some such, finally got the last child in bed at 10, tucked Mom and myself in at about 11. I need some hot chocolate.
Finding Fabio
I figure Miss Janis will appreciate this one. Got up and out of the house this morning without any breakfast, so I figured I would stop at the BP station to stock up on salted, dried meat snacks and a refreshing Diet Coke before getting on the interstate. I have a passing familiarity with most of the folks who work at the BP, as well as the owned-by-the-same-folks Amoco next door—the Swarthy Swingin’ Guy of Indeterminate Near Eastern Extraction, The Big Girl, The Smoker, The Lifer—but today there was someone new. Someone…exotic. Tall, gangly, hard into his late-40s, variety of head shop jewelry on his arms (not to mention the nice ring-like bauble hanging from his upper ear), and to top the whole ensemble off, a long, tumbling mane of bleach-blond hair lightly pulled into a pony tail. He was someone who looked almost like he had stepped right off of a Harlequin Romance cover, to a cramped spot on a big squishy mat behind a cash register. He probably hears from a lot of people that he looks like Fabio (even though he’s more The Fabio Experience than the actual article), so I didn’t mention it. And he was nice enough to give me back two dollar bills that had stuck to one of the other bills, which I really don’t think Fabio would have done. Anyway, it was just sort of jolting to see him there among the Slim Jims and 64 ounce coffee jugs.
"We're showing off our self-sufficient, Neanderthal lifestyle. If you can't derive some entertainment from that, you're weird."
Thanks for the confirmation.
From Alastair McIntyre's Electric Scotland, a long article by Raymond Campbell Paterson on the Scot-Irish, a term, it turns out, which is a peculiar invention of Americans: [...] In the short period left before the outbreak of the American Revolution a further 30,000 Ulstermen left for the colonies, joining some 200,000 who had already made their homes there earlier in the century. The contemporary image of the Ulster Protestant is most commonly that of the Orangeman, with all of his exaggerated loyalty to Britain and the Crown. For the dispossessed of the 1770s the opposite was true: they had lost everything, and came to America with an intense hostility towards all things British.Now the last sentence might be laying it on just a bit thick, but the article is informative nonetheless. And of even more significance to those of us who love firearms, there is an article about Scotsman John Paris Lee. Mr. Lee is the inventor of the Lee-Enfield rifle, in all of its variants probably the finest bolt-action military rifle ever made. The Electric Scotland article also makes note of the Lee rifles which were sold to the U.S. Navy--these were the Model 1879 in .45-70 caliber, but there was a later model also designed by Lee--these were not British Enfields, but a completely different and unique design; the Lee Navy rifle of 1895 in 6mm caliber. (Here's another article reprinted from a news story from 1898.) At the time, the U.S. Army was still using the Krag-Jorgensen rifle, but its .30-40 cartridge was showing up as being inferior to the Mauser cartridge used by Spanish forces in Cuba. The Lee, issued to the Navy and Marine Corps, used a 6mm (.236 cal) cartridge which was hotter and shot flatter, the action of the rifle was of a unique straight-pull type, and unlike the Krag's side-opening loading door, it loaded from stripper clips through the top of the action. (That photo of the ammo is from a site which specializes in obsolete cartridges. The cartridges and clip are offered for sale at $250! The rifles themselves, when they can be found, usually sell for over a thousand.) It saw service in Cuba, the Philipines and in the Boxer Rebellion, but was superseded in service by the Krag--according to this blurb by John Spangler (scroll down to Question #4422) it was undone by its fragility and the desire for ammunition and parts commonality among the services. There was also resistance to the wider adoption of its cartridge from the more tradition-minded ordnance folks (the same types who resisted the move to the .30 caliber cartridge from the husky .45-70), and the not to mention the fact that a boatload of them went down with the USS Maine. The shortcomings of the Krag were eventually done away with by the adoption of the M1903 Springfield, which loaded the stout .30-'06 cartridge (well, eventually, after the inferior .30-'03 cartridge was redone) into its magazine well using stripper clips, just like the Lee that preceded it. The United States military would not again adopt a battle rifle cartridge smaller than .30 caliber until the .223 (5.56mm) caliber M-16 was adopted by the Air Force in 1964.
Fun With Numbers
Ex-Jeffco tax assessor Charles Crim dies ERIC VELASCOHe went to work when he was 7 years old? The story goes on to say that he started working for the County in 1947, which means he put in a good, hard 56 years, which is shy of seven decades by a bit. I've noticed this in several different articles lately, where a person's time of service is counted based upon the nearest ten year period--the most recent one I can think of is Valerie Plame, a 40ish woman whom some reports have described as having a CIA career that covered three decades. I imagine she probably started work there sometime in the late-Eighties and continued until now, but twelve or thirteen or fourteen years does not three decades make. (Unless she found out about them from the CIA's Homepage for Kids and went to work at 10.) Anyway, it seems like writers are trying to give the impression of much more impressively long time of service for some reason--such a way of counting is really depressing, though, since my life has now spanned two whole centuries. No wonder I'm so sleepy all the time.
Bush plans fund-raising luncheon in Birmingham MARY ORNDORFFOooh, $2000 grickles. Hmmm--I wonder if I could swing a press credential as one of the editors of The Proboscis?! Thursday, October 02, 2003
What an odd little world
A couple of weeks ago when Weevil State University sprang into the national consciousness, little did I know that my tongue-in-cheekiness was not quite so far-fetched. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The University of Arkansas-Monticello.
On the run
Going to be another one of those interesting evenings, dependent for its success almost entirely upon whether or not Miss Reba is able to claw herself away from her work on time or not. Oldest Girl is supposed to play at homecoming tonight with the rest of the band—she has to be at school at 5:30. Tiny Girl has soccer practice at 5:30 at the Catholic church’s field, and it gets over with at 6:30. Middle Girl has soccer practice at the soccer park, starting at 6:30. As you see, there is some overlap here. This is not A Good Thing. If all things work out exactly on schedule, Miss Reba will leave work at 4, drive to Paradise On The Cahaba, pick up the three youngest at school around 4:30, drive to the house and pick up Ashley (who in the intervening time has been tasked with filling up two water bottles and assembling socks and cleats and shinguards, in addition to making sure she has her clarinet and music) at around 4:45, get the backpacks in the house, let everyone drain their tiny little bladders, throw the equipment and junk and children back into the van, drive back over to the middle school, let Ashley and her clarinet out sometime before 5:30, drive the couple of blocks over to Holy Infant and drop off Cat right at 5:30, at which time Daddy is supposed to be there to receive the handoff of both Cat and Rebecca, then Mom will turn around and head back to the game to keep an eye on lurking teenaged boys, and potentially one Little Boy who likes to tag along with her so he can look at the middle school cheerleaders because they make a big fuss over him because he’s so cute. Not that I’m jealous. After taking the handoff, Daddy had intended to sit in his chair and read a new set of periodicals he purchased when he had to go the grocery store at 9 o’clock last night after getting home from church, but Dad, being increasingly at the mercy of his tiny, walnut-sized brain, forgot those magazines and so will be forced to just sit there like a lump and watch his little girl wander around. Then he will pack up the girls and head over to the real soccer park, where Middle Girl will be a tad late due to the conflict in timing, but where there is such a thing as a place to get some vittles and such like. Along about 8 or so, we’ll pack up again and go home, where I hope with every fiber of my being that the large pile of children will not be faced with the prospect of homework, and will instead be able dunk themselves and degrime and go to bed. Yeah, that would be nice. Just got off the phone with Miss Reba a few minutes ago, and she said she was going to get to go on time. We’ll see.
As Promised
Well, this is going to be sort of strange, and I know visitors to Possumblog will be startled by seeing something strange here, but here goes. In the spirit of mass Moonian weddings, we are going to perform a never-before-performed Mass Induction into the Alabama Society of Time Wasting (aka The Axis of Weevil)! Gather the children and Granny and get the camcorder, because this may never be done ever again... Ready? Now? ::sigh:: ::looks at watch:: Okay? Okay now? Good (sheesh)--BY THE POWER GRANTED ME by Arnold Schwarzenegger when he came to Birmingham to film Stay Hungry, it is with great pleasure that we herewith induct, shanghai, detain, and otherwise encumber the following renowned personages into the Cotton State Finger Pointing Club: John & Suzanne Farmer Kerry David Cujo Sea Doc Matt Cuthbert NOW and forever, or until such time as they are cured, with all of the rights and privileges which should fall unto them, being that they have more or less fulfilled at least some of the Official Membership Rules. Welcome, new persons!! Now, as you know, space is limited here at the Axis of Weevil World Headquarters, and until we expand, you will all be required to share a trailer. You will be filmed and your exploits broadcast to a national television audience in the vein of the now-popular "reality TV" genre of programming. Remember, the cameras are always on, so it's best not to say anything about benevolent despots. As with all new members of the Axis of Weevil, you will each be receiving your very own World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing a treasure trove of items as listed in the post posted two posts ago. However, seeing as how Chet the E-Mail Boy has damaged his bunion, and since Rhonda lost the car keys to the Pinto, we will not be able to deliver these. On the bright side, Jimmy from next door says his condition has moderated a great deal in the past two days, and he has consented to make for each one of you a lampshade with your initials beautifully composed in elbow macaroni. So, there.
I feel the earth...move...under my feet
Earthquakes rattle Escambia community ATMORE -- A pair of earthquakes five days apart rattled the rural community of Robinsonville, a Geologic Survey official confirmed Wednesday. They measured 2.9 and 3.3 on the Richter scale and were the area's first temblors since a 4.9 struck in 1997.Yep, we're seismically active. An interesting fact is that the strongest quake ever measured in Alabama was centered between Irondale and Trussville in 1916 along what's called the Red Gap fault.
Just who ARE these people?!
My little list above that goes by the name Axis of Weevil, that is. Well, you see (which is how all good stories begin, as well as most of my run-on sentences) when I first started doing Possumblog back in December of 2000 & 1, I wasn’t sure how many other Alabama bloggers there were, but I wanted to find a few simply because I thought it would be nice to point out that there are lots of good folks who live here who don’t necessarily fit in with the preconceived notions some folks seem to have about Alabama. (See!—85 words and encumbered with only four commas!) Along about March or so of Twenty Ought Two, I had found a couple of folks who would admit they had some ties to the Heart of Dixie; a bloodthirsty War Liberal dude, and a smart chick from Wetumpka who lives up in New Yawk. (As an interesting aside, both of them used to actually use BlogSpot!! Hee-hee.) Anyway, after a lot of looking around and inquiring in filthy back alleys, I started finding a few more Alabama-ish folks, natives or members of the Redneck Diaspora. Some were tremendous writers—funny, sharp, intelligent, could fabricate tractor parts in their home machine shop—and I added them on my blogroll in a snap. Of course, this being the Internet and all, there were some other folks I stumbled across... Folks who, while their driver’s license might have said they lived here, could just as well have been dropped here by the big flying saucer behind the comet. Then there were the ones who wrote maudlin, long-winded essays in microscopic dark gray text on black backgrounds (you will notice that the readable parts of Possumblog are composed entirely of black text on white background, just like the good Gutenberg intended). Anyway, along with the folks on the list, there were others who, in distinct opposition to my desire to show that Alabama is full of good folks and good writers, were neither. So, I figured I would come up with a way to separate out the folks I liked to read from the ones I didn’t, and thus was born the Official Membership Rules of the Axis of Weevil: 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;Well, then the whole shebang just took off—being on someone’s blogroll is one thing, but a CLUB is something else entirely!! So, folks would stop by, inquire about the Axis, fill out the application, and subject themselves to sporadic bouts of ritualized paddlings and lectures on the benefits of red clay in the diet. So, over the intervening year and a half now, the Axis has grown a lot, along with the rest of Blogonia (and occasionally shrunk a bit, as folks are cured from the obsessive blogging disease). Drawn by the lure of the fabulous and World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, which now contains: 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 pickup truck, a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger AleI managed to find folks all over the country to chat and play with and swap manatee recipes with. But, one thing that my list has NOT been is a real list of every Alabama blogger who honest-to-goodness lives here. This has come to my attention because I have had several local folks who have come by and visited, and I still haven’t gotten around to putting them on the blogroll even though they are home folks—nice people such as young computer geek girl Kerry, who runs the always warm and tasty Webgrits.com, and David the Largeheartedboy toiling away up there in North Alabama, and Steven King’s favorite slobbering beast Cujo, who lives down yonder toward the Gulf and writes Water Never Sleeps, and former Special Forces guy and paramedic Doc from up Huntsville way who writes a good one over at Sea ‘Doc’.net—all these folks do great work and have been awfully nice when they drop by. The only reason I haven’t gotten them onto the blogroll (aside from being rather dim initially to the fact that they are from Alabama) is sheer laziness—all of you please forgive me my lethargy. This oversight will be rectified shortly… ALONG WITH a link to a guy who has been going around and doing his own bit of back alley scrounging to come up with a list of REAL, LIVE, IN STATE Alabama bloggers—one Matt Cuthbert from right here in Birmingham who writes Impending Distractions. In addition to his blog, Matt is the guy who has been responsible for getting together AL.com’s Huge Giant List of Alabama Bloggers, which can be seen by clicking on this helpful button:  ONE HUNDRED SIX BLOGS, folks! All from right here in the greatest state ever to be called Alabama! Now, I don’t quite know how many of those folks would actually want to associate with the riff-raff known as the Axis of Weevil, but they certainly do at least need a link up topside somewhere. As well as one way down at the end of the page (as if anyone ever reads down that far, but hey…) So, anyway, those of you with a hankering to do some reading, go see what all you can find...Chet the E-Mail Boy and I have some Gift Packs to prepare!
You know, I really like doing this.
No, not THAT, this...sitting here typing this. Because by doing this, and publishing it on the ol' Web, I have met the most interesting sorts of folks--such as, say, Fritz Schranck from up in Delaware. I just got off the blower with Fritz, and unlike the last time, Ed Grimley was not mentioned once but that didn't seem to matter a bit. Fritz was actually calling with a question about ADA compliance--I assume he called me because of my well-known abillty to spell ADA--but, as with anyone else that you know, the conversation took some pretty wide arcs and covered Important Topics of Great Concern to All, such as the ability of some to distinguish the smells of various barnyard animal droppings (and how those differ from the smell which required a call to the septic tank guy); political graft; Weevil State University Authorized Merchandise; older women; the art of marshmallow growing; daughters, and the boys who want to date them; the best way for fathers to deter advances from said boys (being: a) acting crazy, or b) be seen lovingly polishing guns while watching Full Metal Jacket, c) being overly affectionate toward him, or d) a combination of all three); political expediencies; maintaining happy marital relationships over the course of many years (tip: nobody's perfect, except your wife); and stuff like that. Of course, Chet the E-Mail Boy was a bit jealous, and felt he was being ignored, but you know how he is. Anyway, as good as it is to read Fritz, it's even more fun to talk at him. Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Fun with Referrer Logs
Oh, what an odd day--seems to be more than the normal number of desperate folks out there so badly searching for something that they decide to click on something called Possumblog for help. Such as the person wanting to know about manual handling and reba. Look here RIGHT NOW...you don't need to know ANYTHING about that subject at ALL!! Next up, someone who thinks this might be a good place to "right click and choose" russian girl. Well, I have to say, of all the number of Possumblog Industries subsidiaries that I have founded over the years, this idea never occurred to me. Then again, neither did opening any forklift mechanic schools in california, although such a school is probably more in keeping with the general tone of this blog. And finally, where else could you go EXCEPT to Possumblog if you want to find out about rachel welch- cavewoman? Maybe here--(it's black and white, but then again, it was taken a million years B.C.; you know, back before they could spell 'Raquel.')
Adventures in Headline Writing: Silverstone Show Smited by God
The article's just a silly puff piece, so I don't know what I expected in the way of Great Literature, but the headline should read "smitten", not "smited." (Then again, maybe the headline writer's Bible said the fruit was bited by Eve.) And then there's this head-scratcher: Judicial nomination seems head to Senate Reminds me of that old news filmclip of Joe Namath being asked by some smart aleck reporter, "What did you major in at Alabama, basket weaving?" Joe shot back, "No, journalism."
Well, I'll be...
Southern identity on decline, study says By AMBER McDOWELLIs it just me, or does anyone else get the sense that the results of the study might indicate some sort of political bias on the part of the researchers, or is it just the way the article is written? "As with other parts of the country, continuing urbanization and immigration have had an impact on the South," said sociology professor Larry Griffin, who headed the study.It would have been nice to explore exactly WHAT it is that they are supposedly rejecting, rather than speculating. You could just as well say that people with brown hair living in those 13 states identify themselves as Southerners, and come up with equal results. As for Fleming, she said she understands why conservatives continue to classify themselves as Southerners.Again, the test bias is that people are required to identify themselves as to their political affiliation--there is no objective standard. A person who is comfortable identifying himself as a liberal around here might be seen as a raging right-winger by someone in Berkley. And, there are PLENTY of liberals out there who don't like change, either--NO one, of any stripe, likes to change things they are comfortable with. It might make some folks feel better and superior to point and laugh about hide-bound, backward, hard-shell conservatives, but it really doesn't go very far in really explaining anything (other than that hypocrites come in all stripes, too). Elouise North, a 79-year-old gift shop manager at Carter House, describes herself as both a Southerner and a conservative.And just because you're a liberal doesn't mean you would do anything any different from Miss Elouise. Being a liberal doesn't mean you have to be rude or pushy. (Yeah, I know--hard to believe but true.) North was born in Gallatin, 25 miles northeast of Nashville, but moved to Franklin 44 years ago after she married. During that time, she says she's seen so many new people move here that "it's no wonder" the number of self-described Southerners has dropped.Bingo. Give that lady a chaw--people tend to identify with their birthplace, regardless of where they move to. Remember, just 'cause the cat had kittens in the oven don't mean they're biscuits.
Hope this turns out well
Dauphin Island set to take control of Sand Island Lighthouse DAUPHIN ISLAND, Ala. (AP) -- The prospects for restoring the Sand Island Lighthouse are getting a little brighter.I hope they are able to save the old light--it sits offshore about four miles south of the east end of Dauphin Island, marking the beginning of the channel into Mobile Bay. Over the last hundred years or so, it has been reduced to little more than the light tower itself on top of a few rocks at the base. At one time, Sand Island was a real island, with a keeper's house and several other outbuildings. The original light was built in 1838, then replaced with a nice new structure in 1859. This tower was destroyed during the Late Unpleasantness by some Rebs who noticed Yankees had infested it and were spying on Fort Morgan. They blasted it apart, but when the Yankees reestablished federal control in 1864, a temporary wooden tower was constructed which lasted until 1873, when the present structure was built. Two hurricanes in 1906 and in 1919 blew away most of the buildings, and most of the island, too, for that matter. Today nothing but the tower stands. The Alabama Lighthouse Association's website is here (and they also look after the Mid-bay Light and the Rear Range Light), and The Sand Island Lighthouse Preservation Group has a website here.
Never ceasing to be amazed.
Those of you with more robust memories than I might remember that I posted a little post about my Night Hawk frozen dinner I ate for lunch way back on September 22. Proving once and for all that You Can Find Anything on the Internet, I noticed this morning a comment left for that post: Check out my Night Hawk fan page!Did I dare? Well, of course! It seems Clay Humphries of Mobile, Alabama really, REALLY likes Night Hawk brand dinners, and even managed to get a COUPON from the good folks in Buda! (Would that I had such luck with my favorite local teevee reporter!) In addition to receiving some much deserved one-on-one attention from the home office, Clay also lets us in on some of his favorites in the FAQ section: 1. TOM Asks- What is my favorite Night Hawk Meal?All your Mac are belong to us! Anyway, one of my kids will confirm that the Steak and Mac is good--they got into our stash one night for supper after soccer, and the flavorful packet of goo was a big hit. And I really have to compliment Clay on the car. That there is a 1974 Spirit of America Chevy Nova (RPO Z-51). So, there you go. Tuesday, September 30, 2003
You just never know.
Rebecca had her practice last night, and since it was her birthday, Mama and I decided to surprise her with some cupcakes for her and her team after practice. We’re so busy that it’s nearly impossible to schedule any sort of real party, and we figured she would like being with her friends. So, off to the park, where I told her I was going to have to drop her off with her coach, and then I had to run to the store, and then I would be right back. “Okay. What do you have to get at the store, Daddy?” “Just some stuff.” “Okay.” Off to the store, where I found tray upon tray of cupcakes, brightly decorated in every conceivable sort of doodad, except soccer balls. Birds, footballs, Barbies, pumpkins, flowers, baseballs, Howard Dean (not really)--but nary a soccer ball. They did have some unbricabrac’d ones, and I figured that surely there would be some of the coveted decorations behind the counter. If I could only get the attention of the lone employee, who was studiously (and loudly) cleaning some crusty something or other on the other side of the deli area. I stood there hoping she would notice me (I’m an optimist like that), and finally decided that I would go see if I could speed things along. “Ma’am?” CLANGscuffleCLANGshhhhhhhhhCLANG “MA’AM?” THUNKTHUNKTHUNK “MA’AM!?” A head peeped around the corner, “D’you call me?” Finally. “Yes, ma’am, I was wondering if you have any little soccer ball picks to decorate cupcakes with?” She looked like I had just asked for a five pound block of unobtainium. “What?” “You know, the little plastic picks that you can stick on top of cupcakes? For decoration?” “Hm. Foller me on down here.” Yes, ma’am. I followed and she got to the bakery case and started digging around underneath before triumphantly pulling out the item, holding it aloft as if it were a magical amulet (not really) and said, “This what you want?” Indeedy-do. “Yes, ma’am, I need 24 if you have them.” She grabbed a big bagful and started carefully sorting them like a pharmacist does pills, then sealed them up in a ziplock bag and handed them over. Success! “Thank you!” “Uh-huh.” Oh well...if nothing else, I was excited. So, off then again to the park where I put the cakes into the cooler at the concession stand. Then I parked my ample haunches in my folding chair down on the field and downed two big cups of dense black java in the intervening time to keep from being so chilly. At the very end of practice I got the coach’s attention to let him know I had an announcement. I told the girls it was Rebecca’s birthday and there were cupca…and all semblance of order was lost as they grabbed their bags and balls and shoes and water bottles and took off on a mad dash for the concession stand. They loaded up on hot chocolate and grabbed themselves some sugar (sorry parents) and they proceeded to jabber like nuclear-fueled gibbons. Rebecca, as is her usual way, just grinned and giggled as they messed with her and teased her to try to get her to talk. She is exceedingly quiet around groups of people, and affects a shyness that is quite out of character with her normal ninety-to-nothing commotion when she’s around us. The girls love her to pieces, and they HAVE heard her talk some, but they like to joke with her anyway. Which she kinda likes. “Does Rebecca ever talk at home?!” “Oh yes, she sure does—when she gets wound up she won’t quit!” “What does she sound like?” “Oh, like a crow and a parrot, or a badger!” Gales of laughter, but in good fun—Rebecca was sitting in a chair about to burst from suppressed laughter, and I gave her a big hug to let her know I was just kidding with her. The girls continued eating and socializing, and after a while the crowd thinned down and I started getting ready to go, and then ANOTHER round of “Happy Birthday” set in. Her chair had gotten turned around some time earlier, so her back was to the kids singing to her, and she was wiggling like a water balloon from laughing, as they tried in vain to get her to turn around. Nothing doing! After I cleaned up a bit more and made sure everyone’s little siblings had gotten something, I managed to get her to say a teensy little “thank-you” to everyone for staying, and then I said goodnight to all of them until Thursday. I grabbed her bag and we headed off to the van with her remaining three cupcakes, and just as I got her inside, her coach came bounding up. He is relentlessly bouncy—like Tigger on crack, but is an incredibly good fellow with a great way with the kids. “Hey kid!” She waved. He stuck his head in the door of the van. “Listen, I have a present for you—let’s see if I can remember it. Okay, let’s see—there’s this Swiss proverb—and you see I have my Swiss jersey on—that says, Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden. That means ‘to speak—or speaking—is silver, but silence is golden.’ AND, there was this man named…ahhhh, Carlyle, yeah, that’s it, Thomas Carlyle, and he remembered that saying, too, and do you know what he said?” Head shake no. “He said that ‘Speech is of time, but silence is of eternity.’ So, you know, it’s okay to be quiet sometimes, kid.” She nodded her head, and he turned to bounce off down the hill. I stopped him and stuck out my hand. “Thanks, Mark.” Good fellow, even if he did nearly make me cry. You know, I live in a pretty interesting town. Under all speech that is good for anything there lies a silence that is better, Silence is deep as Eternity; speech is shallow as Time.
Sunscreen no guarantee against cancer, warn experts
And it tastes terrible, too--it's all I can do to get down a whole tablespoon without choking.
Wheat jumps on weaker dollar
Isn't that just like wheat? Bunch of bullies, every last stalk of them!
From Snopes.com, an interesting transcript taken from the lecture notes of Don Walter, a U.S. District Court judge from Shreveport, Louisiana who went to Iraq to assist in rebuilding the judicial system. [...] Despite my initial opposition to the war, I am now convinced, whether we find any weapons of mass destruction or prove Saddam sheltered and financed terrorists, absolutely, we should have overthrown the Baathists, indeed, we should have done it sooner.It's long, but worth the time to read, if nothing else as an example of the difference between criticism with the intent to promote a political position, and constructive criticism.
Perpetuating the Stereotype, Volume 48: Pinson man threatens to kill son after Tide loses PINSON, Ala. (AP) -- A Pinson man was charged with attempted murder for holding a gun to his son's head and pulling the trigger in the midst of a tantrum after Alabama's double overtime loss to Arkansas Saturday, authorities said.Well, right off the bat here, let's notice that the headline says he was only threatening to kill him. That's some more sort of threat, if you ask me. The bullet narrowly missed 20-year-old Seth Logan, who said he picked the wrong time to ask his dad for a car, sheriff's spokesman Deputy Randy Christian said Monday.Well, yeah--that does sound like a bad time to ask. Joseph Alan Logan, 46, surrendered to police Saturday and was charged with attempted murder and domestic violence. He was released from the Jefferson County jail Sunday on $7,500 bond.Oh, there you go, getting all judgemental... The request upset Joseph Logan because his son has already wrecked several vehicles, Logan told investigators.You know, it's the old thing, 'If I had meant to kill him, I would have.' Anyway, his kid HAD wrecked other cars and all... According to the police report, Joseph Logan had been drinking alcoholHey, what are the odds of THAT!? and began slamming doors, tossing boxes and throwing dishes in the sinkHey, what are the odds of THAT!? after the Crimson Tide lost its football game to Arkansas, 34-31 in double overtime, Saturday.Hey, what are...never mind. While Joseph Logan was throwing the tantrum, Seth Logan asked for a new car.Daddy had to go to the car to get his gun!? Probably made him even madder. Seth Logan fled to a neighbor's house to call police. He told police his ear was numb and his head ringing, but he was OK.Uh-huh. Sheriff's authorities called the SWAT team after discovering the armed father still had a 13-year-old son in the house with him.::sigh:: UPDATE: The bond figure may have been incorrectly reported--Wendy Garner on Channel 13 read it this morning (10/1) as being $75,000 in lieu of $7,500, although the story about it on their news page still says $7,500. I believe Wendy--she did go to Auburn after all. Monday, September 29, 2003
In between the numerous Google searchers that land here looking for pictures of Patricia Heaton's recently uplifted entertainment center or for disgusting images of the dewy soft Norah O'Donnell, every once in a while I get some truly sick individual looking for stuff like 2005 mustangs uncovered pictures.
The horror...the horror... Well, here you go, you prevert.
There are very few places in the world...
...where you could have gone this weekend and heard "Superfreak" on the bagpipes. I do not know if this is a blessing or a curse.
So.
Friday evening, got home and did stuff which I can’t remember, then got Boy ready for his practice. Off to the park, sat there in my chair with my newest magazine and watched his teammates act like…well, it might be better not to say. No one would want to see his or her sweet little boy compared to a capuchin monkey on crack, so I just won’t say that. Let’s just say they were rather more active and less attentive than usual. I feel so sorry for Jonathan—he wants so bad just to play and not have to put up with dealing with these little d…arlings, but every practice, every game, they never get any better. ::sigh:: (That one’s from him this time.) Wrapped up and back to the house, via the grocery store, we went in and picked up some salad for our special treat of Friday Pizza. Of course, by the time we walked in the door, it was nearly nine, so I just ate a hunk of tepid Domino’s, figuring I would eat some more for breakfast. (MMMmmmm—tastes just like college!) Got into bed, forgetting to give the normal Friday Evening Instructions for Saturday Morning--Do not wake Daddy. Do not yell. Do not talk loudly. Do not turn on any radios, or CD players, or televisions, or electronic devices which beep, bloop, blip, honk, scream, ratchet, hum, whistle, ululate, talk, yell, sing, say the alphabet, howl, bark, meow, moo, cackle, pop, or otherwise wake Daddy when employed as designed by their manufacturers. Which meant that before the rooster crowed on Saturday, I was awakened by “SHHHHHH!! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THAT!! DADDY SAYS WE AREN’T SPOSED TO!!” “I msmkdhhshhlslsf shddhh sllswwwoeu…” “SSSSSSSSS SSSSHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHH!!! DADDY SAYS WE HAVE TO BE QUIET!! WHEN HE WAKES UP—YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN TROUBLE!!” Mmph. Urghh. This went on for a couple of more times before I gently rolled out of bed (trying not to wake Reba) to go assert my dominance. You know, you would think a large, stumbling, disheveled, slovenly, ugly man in his underwear, suddenly appearing out of nowhere in a darkened house, would have a more frightening effect on little children. “Hellllllowwww, Daddy! I told him he need to be qui…” “Do. Not. Talk. Go. Back. To. Bed. NOW.” I scootched back into bed and dropped back to sleep, only to be awakened shortly thereafter by more tumult. Up again, told them all to go to a neutral corner to be dealt with later. Eased back into bed, eyes closed, WHUMP—sheet comes over, Reba sits up, then goes to the bathroom. Oh pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease—water runs in sink, then the hairbrush starts. ::sigh:: Time to get up. She went on downstairs and I got up and took my shower, came down to get myself some cold pizza, only to find that it was completely gone. Not even any bones left. Reba came out of the laundry room—“The washing machine is leaking.” Let’s recap—Friday morning, shelf in laundry room collapses, Saturday morning, awoken at dawn by little children who, any other day of the week, are impossible to get roused, who then eat up all my precious pizza as if they were locusts attacking a wheat field, then the washing machine we just purchased a few months ago is leaking. And I still have a shelf to put back up. And Catherine’s complaining about her tummy. And we have to go to her game in an hour, because we’re supposed to bring the snacks. “Okay. I’ll take a look at it.” Mop up the floor with the towels which are still to be washed, unhook the hoses, lay the machine forward onto its front so I can see up under the bottom, annnnnd…a nice piece of corrugated metal firmly bolted to the bottom. ::sigh:: No seeing inside of that baby without major surgery. So, I put it back, hooked it up, and threw in the towels. Both physically and metaphorically. Didn’t know what was wrong, and didn’t rightly care. But, it worked fine. Go figure. Then there was the task of getting us to the park. Cat got dressed under protest. She’d been complaining of general evil humours for a couple of days—cranky, ill-tempered. And Saturday was no different. But she got all dressed up. As did the rest of the kids. And I was already dressed. Ready to leave? Why, you silly person, you! Someone decided to shower and wash her hair and put on makeup right when it was time to leave! “I don’t care. Take her on if you want. Whatever you want to do. Fine.” Which, being translated, means the exact opposite. So, I consigned myself to being late. Of all the large buttons I have which are red and say “DO NOT PRESS”, this is one that gets the biggest workout. I really do not like being late. If I could be everywhere thirty minutes early, I would. I am trying to have an override button installed so I could counteract the huge amount of stress and adrenaline and throbbing arteries in my neck that the frequent pushing of this button causes, but so far there’s simply not enough room for one big enough. I have thought about simply hitting myself with a hammer. Anyway, we got to the park with her game well underway, and Cat complained the entire time. Reba walked her around to her bench and told the coach she wasn’t feeling well, and to his credit he said she could play or not play. So she came back and curled up in one of our folding chairs with her butt hanging out the side, staying that way most of the game. They did manage to win this time, which was nice for a change. Seems like it wound up being about 5-1 or so. Back home, a little soup for lunch, which Catherine again seemed to not be enjoying, a bit more cleanup, marked the wall to install some more clips and get the shelf put back up (decided to put a whole bunch on there), then it was time to get ready for Little Boy’s game. Back up to the park (blessedly on time, since everyone was already dressed and ready to go), and took our places. Oh. My. Jonathan’s team got beaten like a dirty rug. The other team was from Pell City, and although they were pretty good, we were simply terrible. It was blazing hot, and the boys weren’t passing the ball, or even really going after it at all, and the other team was. Final score was 8-0, including one goal they managed to score by kicking it in close to the sideline (not a particularly hard kick) and one of our players tried to block it with his knee but only managed to bunt it into our goal as our keeper stood there looking at it roll by. ::sigh:: The little boy who deflected it in was Little Boy. He tiny little heart was very hurt. But it was still early in the game when that happened, and after they scored all those other points I think he figured out that his one really wasn’t that big of a deal. If nothing else, Catherine seemed to have perked up a bit while it was going on, and even managed to enjoy a chicken sandwich. Home again, started getting everyone cleaned up and their dirty clothes off, discussed going to the hardware store later, did some other stuff (consisting of going out to the church building to have a teachers meeting with all the new ones for the upcoming quarter, of whom only FOUR came—and I even brought Snickers!), then got back home around 4:30 or so. I was standing there in the kitchen with Reba discussing my non-meeting when all the sudden Catherine comes pounding around the corner out of the den headed toward the downstairs bathroom—head down, chubby little arms pumping furiously, just about to turn the corner at the refrigerator and—blupblurpBLUH BWUUUUUGHGGGGGHH… BluuHHHH-UUUUGGGGHH… Ooo. One of those memories I had repressed from years ago when they were little—the running upchuck. All in the floor. Up the cabinet. On Reba’s laptop from work. Into the bookbag on the floor. Onto the Igloo cooler. On the rug. On her. Around her. Eww. Cat started crying and we told her to hold still so for some reason she plopped down in the floor. Poor thing—and she was still going. Breakfast, lunch, soccer park food, a 1987 Illinois license plate, all displayed in living color there on the floor. And then there was the waterworks. As she sat there, sniffling, crying, a clear puddle gently spread outward from her bottom. Yep. She had been trying to get to the potty, after all. No use just re-living one repressed memory from early daddyhood—might as well get them all. Plenty of paper towels and stifled gag reflexes later, we had her somewhat cleaned up enough to go finish her off in the shower. “Hey, when you make that trip to the hardware store, get a real mop.” I had to laugh. Reba has a thing about getting these worthless, do-nothing gadget mops that are more of an annoyance than anything else, but I think she has been loathe to admit they are not intended for actual use. So she finally had an excuse for a real live, honest-to-goodness yarn mop with a stickball bat for a handle. And a bucket. “Okeedoke. Be back in a bit.” Off to the hardware store. Mop, bucket, shelf clips. Home, check on Baby Girl, who was now freshly scrubbed, fluffed, pressed, and folded. Mopped the floor with vigor and Pine Sol, reinstalled the shelf (and will take Larry Anderson’s suggestion of using a nice stout timber under the freestanding end), and finished getting the rest of them dunked and cleaned. And then it was time to present the valuable prizes—I had also stopped along the way back for six cupcakes and some ice cream for someone who today is eleven years old. She had been pestering us all day to let her open her presents Saturday, so after they were all bathed and pajamaed (the kids, not the presents), we let her at them (the presents, not the kids). She seemed to enjoy her gifts immensely—a couple of CDs, a DVD, some books, and a couple of little racks to put her CDs in. She was in high cotton and jabbering a mile a minute. And she’s growing up. You notice, no dolls. And she shed no tears about not getting no dolls. Oh, she still loves to play with them, and has scads all over the house, but still. She’s growing up. Got them into bed in a bit, then I collapsed into bed like Lil’ Abner, then got up again sometime early Sunday to get ready for church. Again, since this was not Saturday, it was nearly impossible to get anyone to wake up. And they seem to be impervious to the things that work on me. Finally up and out the door, on to church, finish up with my 5th and 6th graders, run around trying to find the folks who didn’t come to the meeting on Saturday so as to berate them and mock them sorely and rail against them with mighty words, then it was time for worship. That one hour of peace and quiet sure is nice. Even with everyone climbing over me to go to the restroom. Home, with only enough time for Bec to run in and get on her uniform for her soccer game, then straight back to the park. Got a snack for the little ones, then went on over and set up our row of chairs again. This game turned out much better than Jonathan’s. The other team had not played on a field as big, and tended to clump up a bit, while our girls finally got to where they could pass the ball around comfortably. Final score was 6-1. Rebecca got a couple of good kicks in and an assist on a goal, so she was tickled pink. Afterwards, we went and got some lunch over at Applebee’s. I don’t know why. I vaguely remember getting good service at some point in the past. Or maybe not. In any event, our waitress was a study in polite, deadpan, distractedness. The food was good enough to eat. Even for Catherine, who, although still a bit off her feed, finally decided she was hungry. Back home to change and let Rebecca wash away the grime, then back up to church for them to study their Bible Bowl questions and let me run off a bunch of stuff on the copier, then it was once again time for another hour of peace and quiet. Then home, some supper, then to bed. And now for some blessed peace and quiet while I go to lunch!
That smell…
Around 6:15 this morning, the unmistakable dusty burning odor of the furnace kicking on for the first time in about seven months or so. It’s the smell of fall. Last night it got down in the mid-40s, and by this morning the house was jussssst chilly enough for the burner to click on. Of course, this was long after I had gotten out of the shower, when a nice blast of warm air would have been welcome, but as you know, I’m not one to complain. In any event, it’s still nice to smell fall getting here. Pretty soon there’ll be leaf smoke, and that weird dead vine smell from the back of the yard, and there’s just something otherworldly about the smell of hickory smoke on a cold day. Barbecue joints (of which there are legion around here) smell good anytime, but there is just something about that smell when it’s cold and clear outside that makes it all okay. And, fall is also nice because the goldenrod is blooming again. (Goldenrod gets a bad rap from allergy sufferers, but it’s really ragweed that’s doing that to you—so enjoy the goldenrod.) Alabama used to be called the Goldenrod State before some guys from the Men’s Camellia Club in Greenville got all miffed and got the Legislature to change state flowers in 1959. (“Men’s Camellia Club”…sheesh.) Anyway, nothing like driving by a big field of yellow this time of year, with a bit of a nip in the air, and hickory smoke.
Horrible Homicidal Maniac SUVs!!
A sad story about a car wreck in which 4 people died and 17 were injured while on the run from Border Patrol agents in California. The headline: 4 die as SUV overturns on Calif. highway, makes it sound as though it's another one of those terrible stories about dangerous SUVs careening all over the highway. Five times in this short article, the fact that the vehicle they were in was an SUV was mentioned, including a couple of references to it being a Chevy Suburban. None of which has anything at all to do with the fact that a single vehicle, loaded with TWENTY ONE people (even though it was designed to carry no more than nine) was attempting to avoid the police and travelling at high speed before it crashed. I don't want or need an SUV, but the constant harping about their dangers is just stupid, especially in stories in which it's completely immaterial. (I'm surprised they didn't say if the driver was smoking, or talking on a cell phone and eating high-fat frozen yogurt. Or that the Suburban had a FULLY AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION!! Eek!)
Glückwünsche, y'all!
Montgomery teacher named national German teacher of year MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- Nellie Tietz loves to push her eighth-grade German students at Baldwin Arts and Academics Magnet School to get the most out of them. That dedication is paying off. "She is a wonderful teacher," Nickey Wirshing said. "She pushes you and you hate it, but then you love her for it." Her students aren't the only ones who love Tietz. The National Association of Teachers of German has named her the 2003 Outstanding German Educator at the secondary level. The 6,000-member organization selects three winners each year — one at the elementary level, one for secondary education and one who teaches college-level German. She will be honored at the association's annual meeting in Philadelphia in November. [...]Good job, Ms. Tietz.
First Lady Laura Bush is seen here entering Bethesda Naval Hospital to have a 195 pound malignanant tumor removed from her knuckle.
(Not really)
Well now, HELLO!!
Made it through another one, I did! But for the moment, I have to scurry off to my Monday staff meeting to hear everyone complain about the 'Bama game. Be back in a bit with more rousing tales of Life Along the Pinchgut. Friday, September 26, 2003
You know what?
It's about time for me to leave. Been a long week, but maybe this weekend won't be quite so busy--we have one less soccer game to attend on Saturday. Woohoo!! Of course, that time will have to be spent trying to replace the nice wire shelf in the laundry room, and cutting the grass, and trying to sneak away somewhere to get some sleep. And, there is still another practice tonight for Little Boy, which will require much folding chair sitting on my part, but I might be up for that. Hope you all have a fun weekend, and I'll see you all back here bright and early on Monday.
The Auburn Creed
Occasionally, I just like to read this. I know I may write like I'm a big raving Auburn fan--most of that is just for entertaiment value--I liked going to school there, but like any other place, it has its bad parts, too. I never really got into the pageantry and social stuff while I was there, and even today, about the most I do is wear the occasional logo shirt or cap. Again, despite a lot of the silly stuff I post, that experience is just another part of my life which fairly well bulges with other parts jockeying for priority. But, I still like to read this--it was written in a time when people actually wrote things like this, and believed in them, and tried to live up to the ideals in them. I believe that this is a practical world and that I can count only on what I earn. Therefore, I believe in work, hard work. -George Petrie (1945)
From the "Adventures in Headline Writing" File: Cooperation seen in football sex case
Sounds like it would be painful, no matter what sort of cooperation you get.
The Amazing Story of the Interrobang
In the comments about yesterday's post regarding William Faulkner's birthday, I noted that he and I both use punctuation, although I do allow that I use a whole lot more, liberally plastering every sentence with all sorts of stuff, whether it's needed or not. I slipped in a reference to the interrobang (and, of course, misspelled it) and Vachon was perplexed as to what this might be. Well, ::chuckling lightly:: it's not a unit of European currency, nor ::thoughtfully stroking chin and taking down a note-to-self:: is it any one of those odd fetish things you see on the Internet. The interrobang is a punctuation mark combining the oomph of an exclamation point with the quizzical look of the interrogatory mark--picture a question mark overlapped with an exclamation mark, each sharing the same dot at the bottom. Better yet, go here and get the whole story. I use the concept a lot, as when I write things like "Wesley Clark!?", but most people don't have anything loaded on their computers which will support an interrobang, so I just stick with the old two-stroke method.
ONCE AGAIN...
Possumblog Sports Center is on the air!! This week's big game will feature a showdown between the Red Towel Wavers of Western Caintuck and the coming-off-a-weeklong-vacation Tigers of Auburn University. The Birmingham News is reporting the Tigers will be debuting a new offense this week, which might be helpful. Or not. The Tiger rolled up a bunch of points against Vanderbilt, and Western Kentucky plays down in Division 1-AA, but the article notes that the Hilltoppers: [...] won last year's Division I-AA national championship. Western Kentucky has won 13 consecutive games and has allowed only 58 points in its last nine games, though none of those contests were against a big-time school. [...]Given the way the Plainsmen fared in their first two games, there were a lot of people saying rather uncharitable things about Auburn's "big-time" status; such as, that with their big-time status and a dollar, a variety of fine quality items could be purchased at the Dollar Tree. One thing all the big league schools have to contend with is that although they might still get the top athletes, they can only get so many. The leveling of the field in recent years due to scholarship restrictions has made it much easier for the East Carolinas and Western Kentuckies to play at a higher level than they used to, and be credible threats. If the Tigers allow themselves to repeat the bumbling taxi squad mistakes of earlier games--offsides, fumbles, missed assignments, holding, pass interference--and fail to take advantage of the supposed advantages of this new offensive scheme, they might wind up 1-3 at the final gun. A bright spot for the Tigers is that despite the fascination the KY folks have with primary-colored cotton terrycloth, that fighting spirit does not seem to have carried over to the way the cheerleaders are represented. First, there's only one picture of them, and as always, it is gummed up with too many guys. Second, the sun is coming from their back, so they are all silhouetted--I mean, if they can have pictures of freshman volleyball players and Latvian tennis players, you would think they would do a better job with their cheerleaders. The Tigers have managed to FINALLY get a few pictures together from this year's games--the site is still a bit on the unsophisticated side (which ought to tell you a lot, coming as it does from ME!), but at least they do now have something to show for the USC game (with Marine Sergeant Ian Hogg, famed for flying an Auburn flag from his Humvee--and be sure to check out the title of the .jpg), and for Vandy. GaTech? Missing in action, it appears. This one is rather amusing--check the one fellow in the background right between the second and third girls from the left. Looks just like Goober. ANYWAY, having exhausted myself with the hyperlinks, it comes now for the time when we consult our efficient and down-to-business (yet still statuesque) Possumblog Chief Sports Statistician Ipsa Dixie to give us her prognostication for the outcome of the game. As you all know, Ipsa has had a rough patch over the past month, correctly predicting not a single contest. As I mentioned in previous posts, she was severely chastised and given a raise. And she has since been very good about not touching Chet the E-Mail Boy. She took today off to get a massage and a manicure and go shopping, but she did leave me a very nice note, which, after you mark out all of the rather vulgar suggestions for what I could do with my request for a statistical analysis and score prediction, finally came down to this bit of information: Auburn--35 Western K-Y--21. So there you go.
Marshmallowy madness hits road
Quite possibly the longest article about Peeps you are ever likely to see in a mainstream daily newspaper.
Gravity is a stern taskmistress
You know, when I was in school, I usually never brought books home. I did all my homework in class or during study hall. The only time I ever remember having anything to carry books in was in the third grade, when for some unknown reason, we were required to carry a little cardboard satchel. It was blue and red and had a thin brass clasp. I usually left it at school. Even when I got to college, I never carried that many books with me, and never carried a backpack or briefcase or anything like that. My kids, however, have been carrying backpacks since Oldest was in four-year-old kindergarten. Over the years, we have kept adding backpacks—they all have them now—and adding books. They have desks, they have cubbyholes in their classrooms, the Oldest has had a real locker for two years now, yet they all STILL manage to bring home what feels like an entire shelf full of books every day. Over the years, the backpacks managed to migrate to the spot right by the kitchen table, piled up by the utility room door. Which makes passage nearly impossible, and you can’t just scoot them out of the way because they’re like kicking a sack of wet cement. Sure, it was convenient for them to get to, but a darned annoying circumstance for the two adults in the house. Fortunately, there was one of those adults who in a nice bit of foresight had installed wire shelving in the laundry room a couple of years ago to hold the tremendous pile of fall and winter coats and jackets, which, like the backpacks, tended to congregate themselves right beside the kitchen table…or on the chairs, or on the table. “Hmm”, thought one of these adults, “if all the sleeping bags and clothes hangers and yardsticks and light bulbs and towels and fabric softener sheets and lengths of speaker wire were cleaned off the TOP of the coat shelf, students might have room to gently place their backpacks up there.” So, the adult dutifully cleaned off the shelf, surprising himself about the sheer size of the space available, not realizing with all the other junk up there how commodious it was. “Look children. Look. Look,” said the adult. “There is room. There is room. Room for backpacks.” The children looked and were suitably nonplussed. “This is where you can all put your backpacks to keep them up out of the floor, okay?” ‘kay. This has worked very well. They still sling them on the floor while doing homework, but they do put them up on the shelf afterwards. It’s hard for them when the packs are loaded down, but you figure it builds character. I was getting them all ready this morning—Catherine in particular seemed to have OD’d on crabby pills, Rebecca was poking along, Ashley was avoiding doing anything resembling getting dressed, and Jonathan was busily dressing and playing in his closet when I heard the distinct sound of a Little Boy in Trouble. I wrestled a ponytail holder into Catherine’s hair and went out into the hallway. Rebecca was standing in the door of her bedroom, “What was that noise?” “Well, it sounds like your brother has NOT BEEN GETTING DRESSED, and has been PLAYING INSIDE OF HIS CLOSET, and has GOTTEN BURIED BY PILES OF JUNK!!” Jonathan peeked around the corner of his door. He was sitting in the floor. “That wasn’t me, Daddy—I’m putting my shoes on just like you told me to do.” “Well, it must have bee…” ::sigh:: I got Cat to brush her teeth and as she did that I went downstairs to survey the damage. Flipped on the laundry room light—nice pile of coats in the floor, a couple of giant black backpacks and one with pretty yellow straps. On the wall, an angle brace bent downward exactly 135° opposite its original up-pointing angle, and two big ragged holes the size of quarters where the wall clips had pulled out. One consolation was that the end pocket was still quite firmly attached. Then again, it never really held any weight. Add something else to the honey-do list. BUT, in the eternal quest to defy gravity, I must crow a bit about Rebecca’s Alka Seltzer rocket. She told me about it this morning on the way to school (after the shelf crash). Not all of the kids built one—it turns out this was for extra credit, so only about half of them built one. Anyway, she said that hers went higher than ANYONE ELSE’S! TWICE!! I tell you, that intensive testing process really paid off big. She said all the other kids had the wimpy black plastic film canisters, which we already knew by rigorous testing did not provide sufficient thrust. And she said they had some shoddy launch procedures which left the lids not fully fastened, allowing damaging leaks to occur. Hers however, shot well over the six foot high mark on both launches, and the special reinforcing and waterproofing really paid off in durability. She was very happy. Thursday, September 25, 2003
We call it being muley.
Fritz Schranck has a great post from Monday about a situation that has been brewing just to the south of town for the last 13 years. ("Town" being Birmingham, "just to the south" being Mountain Brook.) Read it all--it's interesting, and lays out what all has happened over the years so that even someone who's lived here can figure it out.
Well, my friend, you’ve come to the right place.
Earlier today there was a visitor who stopped by after searching far and wide for how to do a book report for an eight grader. You know, hardly a day goes by when we here at Possumblog are not called upon to help out youngsters and their parents in their joint quest to circumvent the idea that homework is to be done by the student. At least our querist is on the right track, and has successfully discovered the first step toward writing a convincing book report--disguising the grammar and spelling. Oft times, parents will write the book report for their “eight [sic] grader”, oblivious to the usual poor quality of such works, and fill it with big words and fanciful ideas. Unless a concerted effort is made to conceal these, most teachers are able to pick out work done by parents because there are usually at least 7-14% fewer misspelled words, and the grammar usually sounds more “grown-uppy”. So, be sure to throw in lots of phrases such as, “he done” and, “whitch is relly stuped” and, “duh”. Second, the actual book itself is unimportant. Those yellow and black books in the bookstore are just fine; you don’t have to read nearly as much and they are usually cheaper than the real book. Third, be sure to use very large font sizes (14 point is minimum, 26 is preferred), double spacing, 2” margins, a cover sheet, and a back sheet. Fourth, the best thing you can do is get a really cool cover. This always impresses teachers. There now, hope that helps! Let us know how it turns out for you!
Just one literary thing after another...
'Green Eggs and Ham' put into Latin [...] Retitled "Virent Ova! Viret Perna!!" the Seuss classic has been rendered into Latin by Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers Inc. of Wauconda, Ill. The target audience is "people who took Latin in school and have fond remembrance of it, teachers and students who take Latin — and, of course, Seuss fans," Kelly Hughes, a spokeswoman for the publisher, said Wednesday. [...]Well, whaddya know.
I'm not sure "chutzpah" is in the Law...
Hearing on extension for Moore stalls MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- A hearing on suspended Chief Justice Roy Moore's request for more time to respond to ethics charges turned into a debate Thursday over whether Moore could seek to disqualify judges on the Court of the Judiciary. [...]I'm sure that's probably a perfectly valid legal question, but asking it is painting an awfully large red circle on your chest--or rather, upon that of your client. It comes across as a rather poorly veiled threat upon the status of the members of the panel, whether it was intended as such or not. And it sounds as though that's the way they interpreted the question. Just because all things are lawful, doesn't mean they're all expedient.
And speaking of writing stuff...
William Faulker was born on this date in 1897. I blush to admit this, sounding as it does of mindless braggadocio, but my writing has been compared to Faulkner's. You will notice we both use each of the letters of the alphabet, and many of the same words. And punctuation! (How could I forget punctuation!?)
Hey, you know what this party needs!?!
Why, one of the increasingly rare excerpts from the fine little Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book (1901 Edition) by Don Lemon and Charles Nisbet, that’s what! As you all may recall, this tiny little book was a Christmas present last year from dear Miss Reba—an O. Henryesque sort of gift, in that she has no idea about that I write this silly blog, but obviously she knows I need some help. I have been doing bits out of it since December, and have just about pumped the well dry—it’s only 310 tiny little 16mo pages long, and more than half is taken up with WORDS OFTEN MISSPELLED, ABBREVIATIONS, and FORMS OF ADDRESS—ENGLISH, FRENCH, AND GERMAN. (Did you know that the proper way to address an emperor or king in English is “To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty”, and the opening salutation is “May it please your Majesty”? In German, this becomes, “Seiner Majestaat dem Deutschen Kaiser (und ‘Koenige’)”, with the letter addressed to, “Allerdurchlauchtigster, Grossmaachtigster Kaiser (und Koenig), Allergnaadigster Kaiser (Koenig) und Herr!” Nah, I didn’t know that, either. And a side note--I had to replace all the little umlauts and stuff because they were showing up as question marks and making a big mess all over the floor. The closest phonetic equivalents were substituted.) Anyway, with all that stuff, there’s not a lot of room left over for some really good advice about how to write, but what’s in there has been just wonderful. And so, we come to the last bit of wisdom from this particular source: Well, there you go.
Ow.
Just got through sealing up my envelope with my nice list of continuing ed courses for the year, some sort of odd little survey, and a fat check for 150 clams--the last part causing much anguish and torment. But, you may all rest easy now, knowing that I am legal for one more year.
Well, I'll be. Learn something new every day, don't you?
Via the Straight Dope, how those touch-on, touch-off lamps work.
Watching History Unfold Before My Eyes
Slammers signing first Tuscaloosa pro hockey player They won't say who, but the minor league Alabama Slammers plan to make history by signing the first-ever Tuscaloosa native to play professional ice hockey. [...]::sinff:: Kinda gets you right here, doesn't it? (In case you want to know more about the WHA2 team, here's the link. No pictures of the cheerleaders, though.)
Man, them there French is just too clever... Rumsfeld Is Ace of Spades in French Deck of Cards
By Mark John...by at least half...France Heat Wave Death Toll Set at 14,802
More expensive by the dozen
Janis Gore (and LittleA, too--sorry not to pick up on that) both mention something I have noticed in the last couple of years, too--the increased cost for some products packaged in what we used to call "economy" sizes. I have noticed the same thing--toilet paper and towels and detergent and cereal and all sorts of other things that, if you bought the prepackaged bundle of 12 or the 15 pound box, would be more expensive than if you bought 12 individual packs or 15 one-pound boxes. I'm sure there's some sort of perfectly valid reason ::guffaw:: why this happens, but it does seem awfully suspicious that after years of conditioning us power consumers to go for the bigger box since it will have a lower unit cost, and now it mysteriously has a higher unit cost. Whatever--companies are free to set prices however they wish and make their profits, but this sure seems like a bad way to build goodwill. In the end, be smart and check the unit prices--take a calculator if you have to, and make sure to not pay any more than you have to.
Saying the darndest things...
Back at it again. You know, taking off work to go do other work just means you get further behind in your work. Not that that has ever had much of an effect on me. Anyway, got home last night to be greeted by everyone running around doing homework and trying to get ready for church and getting supper ready--more or less the normal madhouse routine. Rushed around, finally got the table set after moving everyone off somewhere else, threw some vittles down, said the prayer, and began chowing down. Somewhere in among the normal din of four kids all saying something at the same time, Rebecca was jabbering away about something, when she suddenly got a very thoughtful look on her face. "You know, sometimes if I get bored, I will think to myself and say, 'A baby was just born.' 'There's a tornado happening.' 'There's an earthquake.' 'Someone just got married.' 'Someone just died.' All around the world, things like that are going on all the time." All the other kids started chiming in with silly crap, and the whole thing degenerated into the idea that somewhere someone was breaking wind, but I still haven't gotten over the little leap of understanding she had demonstrated. She'll be eleven on Monday, and maybe by that time kids have some conception of the big picture, but there's still something vaguely odd about being there when the light comes on. Almost like seeing her when she was born. Good kid. Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Po' ol' Jimmy the Rug...Traficant said to end presidential bid CLEVELAND (AP) -- Former Ohio congressman James A. Traficant Jr. is no longer seeking to trade his prison cell for the Oval Office, campaign supporters said Wednesday.Hm. Imagine that.
Well, now, again.
That sure was long. Even with caffeine. Actually, it wasn't such a bad meeting, although I didn't learn that much new stuff. The nice fellow doing the presentation had himself a hundred PowerPoint slides, but the most interesting were the ones which showed just how...inventive...some roofing contractors can be when it comes to figuring out stuff in the field. It's all well and good to have a hundred slides with verbiage, but good sharp closeups are much more helpful. He did have a movie in there of an ASTM uplift test which was really cool. The metal roof panels pooched up like the ridges on a Ruffles potato chip and then there was a crosswise buckling at midspan and then FPOOOM!, a whole seam gave way all at once. Tearing stuff up is just real neat. And thankfully, he was blessedly free of most of the verbal gobbledygook that most salesguys fall into--maybe because he was from Iowa or something--but the only real jolting thing was his decision to pronounce "plethora" as pl&-THOR'-ah, rather than the way I've always heard it, 'ple-th&-r& (imagine the '&" symbols being schwas). Wouldn't have been so bad except he did it twice. Still, not near as bad as the laminated lumber guy from last year who insisted on pronouncing everthing wrong. Did get to see a fellow I used to work with back at the Bad Place. He left a few years back and went to HealthSouth, and promptly lost his job when the SHTF with the accounting scandal. He looked around a while and never found anything, and started running a picture framing shop, which went bankrupt. And then his wife lost her job. Tough times, but he said he just found out he got hired back on at HealthSouth, to replace his boss. Nice raise, too. And his wife managed to find a job as a clinic manager for a local doc-in-the-box, so it has turned out okay for them. We reminisced a bit about the Bad Place, including the bevy of HealthSouth babes that used to work in the same building before they built the Richard Scrushy Center for the Advanced Study of Richard Scrushy. One in particular, The Blonde Jaguar Goddess (a nomenclature necessary to distinguish her in conversation from The Goddess and from The Blonde Volvo Girl), he said he ran into at some sort of company function and actually managed to get a hug from her. So see, it all turns out okay. Anyway, back to work now. Hmm? Oh, yes, there was a lunch. A neatly arranged plate of four lunch meat slices, two slices of cheese, a tomato slice, a piece of lettuce, and a basket full of loaf bread. OH, wait--and some slightly soggy potato chips on the plate. And a brownie. Not quite the same as barbecue, I have to say.
Well, now.
That sure was interesting. (Although this opinion might be simply the lack of caffeine.) Anyway, got the morning's meeting out of the way, and must now type like a fiend on real work before taking off to go to my last continuing ed seminar of the year. This one's going to be about the heady and exciting world of standing seam metal roofing, and will be held at the swingin' Holiday Inn-Oxmoor. I am all a'twitter. Again, probably just lack of caffeine. In other news, Miss Reba really, REALLY liked her Barber's tee-shirt. Simply amazing--that got a better reaction than the anniversary lingerie! That's not a complaint, by the way. So, anyway, off to the typing mine--I'll see you all later on this afternoon. Tuesday, September 23, 2003
"Strangely strange...but oddly normal."
More on that in a bit, but the continuing ed seminar was a blast. Despite not being able to make use of my sweepstakes tickets this past weekend, I still got to go visit the Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum, even if I did have to sit through an hour of incredibly dull Alabama Power Company propaganda. (Hee--I bet I get a comment from some gal I know who works there...) And to make it even better, they had the barbecue I missed, too--little bit of pork, little bit of chicken, some beans, potato salad, a slice of pecan pie, and some sweet tea--in other words, stuff that'll make my blood turn to syrup. Sure was tasty, though. As was the museum. I've yacked and blabbered about this place ad nauseum in the past, but it really was a treat to finally get to see the place. They have a collection of around 750 motorcycles and a few cars, arranged in a huge, airy concrete structure with a central ramp connecting the various levels--it looks a bit like a parking deck, but despite the industrial materials and finishes, it really sings. The view out the window to the track and surrounding hills helps some, too. The collection is incredibly deep, with an amazing assortment of bikes from glorified bicycles like a fully restored 1905 Indian Camelback (something like this, from another site) all the way to the spectacular and quite huge Honda Valkyrie Rune with its watercooled flat six and custom bodywork. The nice thing is that not all of the motorcycles are restored--some have the patina of careful, long-term use, while others, like the racing bikes, have a fair amount of road rash; and then there are others that look as though they came right out of a shed. In any case, they are all impeccably presented and no matter how fanatically restored or just used, for the most part they can all be cranked and ridden. Not that I did that. The title for this post came from a description on one odd bike, a 1995 Aprilia Moto 6.5, designed by Phillipe Stark (he of the craptacular line of Target non-necessities) as a motorcycle designed to appeal to scooter riders or car drivers. The styling, at least to bikers, was controversial, at best, but I kinda like it. Another cool bike, especially if you hale from the Bottom Side is a 1996 Britten V-1000 racing bike, designed and constructed by a now-deceased young man named John Britten from New Zealand. The bike is full of innovative details and has a large number of carbon fiber parts including the frame and wheels. It is reputed to be one of only ten in the world. As I mentioned, there are a few cars sprinkled in amongst the two wheelers, including a whole area down on the (inaccessible) ground floor restoration area full of vintage Loti, with a polished aluminum 7, three or so 11s, an Elan fixed head coupe (probably one of the straightest around) along with a pile of tiny Formula cars. Again, these were all beyond reach, but up on the third floor was a beautiful black John Player Special Team Lotus F-1 car originally driven by Elio de Angelis (teammate most of the time at Lotus with Nigel Mansell). I always liked the looks of the JPS cars. In all, a great place, and they have a gift shop, too, which meant that I had to buy a couple of tee shirts. I'm going to give them to Reba, but I think she'll let me wear them.
Life Imitates Art Imitating Life, or, er...aw, who knows.
Via War Liberal and Weevil State University Dean of Library Sciences Mac Thomason, this interesting story from today's Birmingham News: Suspended Chief Justice Roy Moore has formed a new legal defense fund with a $2 million capital campaign and the fund plans to build an institute to foster his crusade for displaying a Ten Commandments monument in a public building.For any nice person we may have offended with our good-natured japes about selling polyresin 10 Commandments yard ornaments, or keychains, or decorative soaps bearing the likeness of Roy Moore, or any of the other fine line of Moorenumentals™, well, we weren't quite so far from the truth, I suppose, now were we? (I wonder what happens the other two hours when there's not a commandment to quote?)
Yeah, I know, I know...
I said I was through for the day, but doggone it, sometimes things happen that just make a person very proud to be a swimmer in the Sea of Bloggia--such as when you get a visitor searching for philanthropical farting, and I'M THE ONLY SEARCH RESULT!! Man, I feel so...special. Not as special like Elizabeth Spiers, mind you, but special in that other way.
...and great was the fall thereof.
That old autumnal equinox popped up, and sure enough, it feels like fall today. I like fall and spring the best; sorta chilly in the mornings, nice in the afternoons. (Spring's best of all, though, because there's none of those annoying falling leaves.) No soccer practice last night due to all the rain from yesterday, which meant time to actually sit down with everyone and eat supper, which was about like sitting down to eat at a restaurant with six strangers. "Hello, my name is Mr. Oglesby--and who might you be?" "Daaaaaaaddeeee, I'm Jonathan!! You know, your son?!" "I have a SON!?" Giggles all around. And you know, for it to be a bunch of strangers, that lady sitting next to me sure didn't seem to mind me rubbing on her leg... Anyway, food, then homework--Rebecca has had an assignment for weeks now to fix an Alka Seltzer powered rocket out of a paper tube. She finally brought home the instructions last night, which was very convenient seeing as how it's due today. ::sigh:: (At least they come by their procrastination honestly.) She has started off making a tube out of notebook paper, without realizing that the pattern was printed on her instruction sheet. Which meant her tube was not what you would call correct. Enter Father, the Rocket Scientist. First, we needed a film canister. You're supposed to plop an Alka Seltzer into it with some water and shove it into the end of the paper tube and when enough pressure builds up, it blasts off. In theory. Got one of the myriad black plastic canisters from the pile of junk strewn throughout the house and sat down and we redid the paper tube so that it fit nice and snug around the canister, then retaped the pretty blue construction paper fins onto the side, and finished it off with a paper nose cone. Found the Alka Seltzer box and began moving the rocket from the assembly area to launch pad 1A at Cape Possumaveral. Dropped in the tablet, slammed on the lid, shoved the paper onto the can, and sat the whole mess down on the patio table. ...5 ...4 ...3 ...2 ...1! ...1! ONE! "Daddy, is it going to..." pfft. The little lid popped off and the tube fell over. Well now, that was disappointing. I gathered up the remaining bit of Alka Seltzer and put some more water in the can and tried it one more time. pfft. Well, by the hairs of Robert Goddard, this is supposed to do something better than this, surely! Got another tablet and took the can out of the paper and just sat it there on the table, and relit the wick. Pop. It went up about a foot this time, unencumbered as it was by any sort of payload. Hmm. I did some quick calculations and figured that the lid had a friction coefficient which was not high enough to allow sufficient reaction force to build up in the pressure vessel. "Honey, I think we nee..." "We need one of those clear cans with the tight lid, because that one's coming off too quick and Kelli says she used one like that and it went really high." Well, yeah. So, off to plunder some more. Mom supplied another canister, and by this time, we had also gathered another member of Mission Control in the form of a little boy. Once again, we rebuilt the rocket, which by this time was thoroughly soaked toward the exhaust end, and installed the new motor. Water, tablet, shove, place, countdown. ...5 ...4 ...3 POPPPP! Cooooool. The whole mess lifted up off the table a good two feet--the launch team examined the recovered vehicle and found that the motor had driven itself two inches up into the body of the rocket tube, which is pretty danged neat, you know. If it had been dry, it might have held better. We still had some more Alka Seltzer, so we did one more firing, which once again let out a satisfying pop. Alas, our launch vehicle was beyond repair--the structural integrity had been greatly compromised by the combined effects of dihydrogen monoxide and the wear of repeated motor replacements. But that didn't mean we couldn't do more motor testing!! So we went and got yet more tablets and filled up the canister with water out of the flower pot (it was more convenient than going back inside the house each time) and did two more runs. POPPPP!! Nearly to the eave of the house!! We received a dignitary who wished to review our testing procedures, and the kids were nearly beside themselves telling Mommy how the water!, and the paper!, and it BLOWED up!, and it fell over!, and it popped!, and it WENT WAY UP HIGH!, and then!, and!, and!..."SHHH--y'all are going to make the neighbors call the police!!" Final set up for launch, water, tablet, place can on table, countdown... ...5 ...4 ...3 ...2 ...1 ONNNNNNNE! "Mommy, look, it's going to pop...NOW! 2...1...NOW!" NOW! POPFOOOMMMMM!! Danged thing popped all the way up onto the roof--20 feet up at least. There was great joy in the power and success of the test--but no small amount of sadness at the miscalculation of the orbital trajectory which led to the loss of the test motor. And Mom, being the source of new funding and equipment, was in none too good of a mood about having to take out yet another roll of film so Rebecca could have another canister. But after much cajolery and backroom dealing, a new canister was procured. And we had to rebuild a tube around it. This time, we made it a bit stronger, with better paper, and reinforced the nozzle end, and put a little paper strap across the top of the canister to hold it in place. Be interesting to hear how the launch goes today. WHAT WILL ALSO BE INTERESTING, is that due to the horrid influences of the real world, I have to put up my blog toys and get some work done. Meeting in ten minutes, and other garbage to do, and then, yet another continuing education seminar to attend. Oddly enough, it's going to be held out at the Barber Motorsports Park--some sort of irony or something or other in that, eh? And there'll be little blogging tomorrow, too, because I have my bimonthly bureaucratic exercise in bureaucratic excess, with all the attendent note taking and transcribing, and ANOTHER continuing ed seminar that afternoon!! SO, not much possumy fun in the next couple of days--run up to the blogroll above and see what everyone else is doing, or go visit THE PROBOSCIS, the official campus newspaper of Weevil State University. You'll be glad you did! Maybe. Monday, September 22, 2003
Trussville--Land of the Free, Home of the Merkel
Neat story from yesterday's Birmingham News about the good folks at GSI, Inc., who have a shop right up the road from me a piece, and who are the sole U.S. importer of Merkel shotguns. Which are not your average H&R single shot--they range in price from $3,600 to $60,000.
A lot going on in town this past weekend...
There was motorcycle racing at The Park that I didn't get to go to (but despite that, from all accounts it turned out very well with around 17,000 folks on Saturday), and then there was the Sidewalk Moving Picture Festival, which I also didn't get to go to. It, too, seemed to have gotten some really good press and had a record turn out. It's a neat little event, and not one of those things you normally think about when you think of Birmingham.
Mmmmm! That's Good Night Hawk!!
As mentioned, one of our excursions included a trip to Wal-Mart for...for...for stuff, which also included groceries. Reba got some frozen dinners for us to take in our lunch--I didn't really pay any attention to them until just now as I was nuking it. "Western Charbroil -- Charbroiled Beef Patty with Gravy and Seasoned Potatoes with Cheddar Cheese." It's made by some company out of Buda, Texas called Night Hawk Frozen Foods. Never heard of it, and the tagline on the back of the box sorta made me a bit queasy: Eww. Charbroiled night hawk. But, where there's a frozen dinner, there's a story, so after about two seconds of powergoogling, I came across an article from the January 26, 2001 edition of the Austin Chronicle, which in minute detail tells you everything you need to know about this brand, which just happens to be one of those historical American food brands like White Castle or Howard Johnson's, and its founder, Mr. Harry Akin. Interesting story. And the food's pretty good, too. It has a nice charbroiled flavor.
Oh, kay. As I said, long old weekend—Boy had practice Friday night, which actually wasn’t so bad in that I got to be a taste testing guinea pi…possum for the guy in the concession stand. He had found some ribeye cutlets at Sam’s Club and wanted to know what they might taste like as a sandwich. Pretty darned good, overall. He heated one up on the griddle and threw some of those Chef Emeril spices on there (all the great taste of Emeril in a bottle) and it was really good. I asked him if they were going to have some steak sauce standing by, and he gave himself a Homer D’oh slap on the head for forgetting, but promised to have some for Saturday. Then I started getting all fancy and told him it would be good with some grilled onions, and maybe some of that cheese sauce from the nachos, but he was already shaking his head no. With as much business as they have, all that stuff’s just too much work.
But, I did get a free sandwich for being a test victim, so who am I to complain? Saturday, we had a change in schedule so we wound up having to take two vans to all the various places—Boy’s game was over in the Clay pasture field (I’m not saying this to be mean—not really—but the only leveling their field has had was whatever the Bush Hog sliced off. Full of dips and rolls and it all slopes downhill.) We loaded up and got there around noon, and sure enough, the one field in our whole league without a restroom, and he has to pee. ::sigh:: “There’s the bushes, Son. You should have gone at the house.” This caused immediate cessation of the urge and a tiny pained expression at the thought of someone seeing him wander off into the scrub. Head shake no. “Son, you have GOT to go…you won’t be able to make it the whole game!” Head shake no. “I’LL go with you!” Head shake no. I got his hand and we started walking over to the fire station. There were a couple of trucks parked outside, which made me think someone might be there. That, and it was a fire station. You just figure it ought to have firefighters. Rang the doorbell a couple of times—nothing. “Okay, I tell you what, buddy, we’ll go over here behind the community center—I bet they have a portable toilet back there you could use.” He seemed rather dubious about this possibility, and I was even more so, but I figured once he saw that he was hidden he would go ahead and kill some weeds. On the way over, salvation came in the form of a Mason—there was a lady at the Masonic lodge apparently cleaning up and about to leave and we caught her right before she came out the door. Poor little Jonathan was beginning to hop a bit, so she kindly let us in so he could use their restroom. Interesting place—I’ve never been in a Masonic lodge before. Probably broke all kinds of secret rules. One thing that mystifies me is why it wasn’t made out of masonry. Anyway, he finished up seeing that man about a dog and we thanked the nice Mason lady for allowing us into their inner sanctum and it was back on down to the field. The other team and ours were…uh…let’s just say we were equally matched. We held each other scoreless for the first half, and then we made the mistake of changing goalkeeper. Which meant that the score wound up being 0-4. ::sigh:: Little Boy played pretty good, but it was hot and all of them got tired out. The worst part was having to share the sideline with the guy that coached his team a year ago—the loudmouthed lisping lumpen loon from Lackawanna. I SOOOO wanted the referee to send him away—he kept yelling and telling the kids to do stuff that was completely WRONG, and generally created confusion. Make it worse? He was fussing at other kids for making mistakes—he just doesn’t realize how fortunate he is that one of them wasn’t Little Boy. I put up with this joker being his coach for three months and didn’t say anything—because he was the coach, but he’s NOT the coach ANY MORE. I may have to oppress him, and show him the violence inherent in the system. He just better hope I get to him before Miss Reba does. She and the girls left early to go on to Catherine’s game back in Trussville, and as soon as Jonathan got finished, we went on, too. Got to the park and it was packed to the gills, but luckily we managed to get a parking spot right by the concession stand. Cat’s game had started, but Jonathan was hungry, which touched off a bout of hungriness among the rest of the crew, which necessitated getting food. Ashley, despite being a pill about having to go watch stupid soccer (rather than being allowed to stay home and piled up in the bed watching teevee), did come with me to assist in the hauling of our food. Four sandwiches (including one of those ribeye sandwiches), four chips, four large, tall Cokes. All in a nice cardboard box with a handle in the middle. This was actually a box for some of the other food service stuff, so the drinks didn’t quite fit exactly right. (This is what real writers call ‘foreshadowing’.) Walked all the way across the hillside—rocks, slick spots, holes, and every other obstacle—all the way back to our spot on the other side of the field. Didn’t spill a single solitary drop…until I bumped the corner of the box on the back of Jonathan’s chair, which knocked over one of those big tall Cokes into the bottom of the box. ::sigh:: I was so flustered I didn’t quite know what to do at first, and to make matters worse, there was some old hag sitting on the stands who thought my predicament was funny as anything she had ever seen on that there Carol Burnett Show. She laughed and hooted and cackled and snorted—yeah, it was kinda funny, I suppose, but not THAT funny—and I had Coke trickling out of the corner of the box. I distributed the unspilt ones to the kids and Reba, grabbed the cup that got upset and tilted the box over to one side, so that it drained into the cup. Reba got the sandwiches and chips out, and after the box quit trickling, I dumped out the ice into the cup. Hmm. Still more than half a cup’s worth in there, even if it did taste a bit corrugated cardboardy. Take that, you crabby old blabbermouth! Cat’s game was pretty good. Poor thing still can’t run worth a hoot—she has a sort of stiff-legged heel pounding gait that in addition to being slow looks rather difficult and painful. But, she has a wild time—no goals this week, but she did manage to kick it several times in the general direction of the other end of the field. As with Jonathan’s game, there was a parent of one of the kids who just made the whole thing miserable—screaming and ranting like a lunatic. Hey guy, they’re just little kids. The other team’s coach also got in on the act, but fortunately there was one of the commissioners around who told him to cool it. I talked to the commissioner later, and he said the guy agreed to tone it down, but still didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. Putz. Rebecca’s game got started while Cat was still playing. They played okay, but the heat was again a real killer and they got very tired. They managed to play to a 1-1 tie at the half, and kept it that way until the last two minutes, when the other team managed to get one over the top of our keeper’s head. Almost got it, but not quite. Then we went to the store. I SO wanted to go home and let them change, but there are sometimes Things Which Must be Done, so we made the rounds of the Big K and Wally Mart before finally getting home sometime past six. That was one long day. Supper, baths for all, to bed, then right back up. Get dressed, fix breakfast, then off to church. Gave a big handshake to our preacher, who just got back from three weeks in Russia, rode herd on my class of 5th graders, stayed awake just fine during worship, ran around afterwards trying to talk to everybody, then off for lunch at the place with Sriracha on the table, then to home, then change everyone into their soccer uniforms. Team picture day, doncha know. And Rebecca actually had a game, in addition to getting her picture made. Off to the park, stood around, Cat got hers made, Rebecca got hers made, and Jonathan didn’t. Seems no one except one other little boy from his team was there. And then, there was the sudden downpour! All the kids had been out on the field with three guys and their cameras, and then it was like someone turned on a hydroelectric plant. Buckets of rain. I had told Reba we needed to move up under the porch of the concession stand beforehand, so we managed to stay dry, but everyone else got soaked. During this time, Rebecca and her team had been down warming up, so they got drenched. After about ten minutes, the rain stopped so Reba went on back home with the two little ones, and I got my chair and umbrella and headed out to watch Bec’s game. Almost a repeat of the day before. We were tied 1-1 until the last two minutes, when the other team cleared one over our keeper’s noggin. The girls seemed very down about this one—they had played very well, and to get beaten right at the last like that took a lot of steam out of them. But, there’s always next week. Back home, five minute scrub down, back to church, long meeting afterwards, back home, supper, bed, snore, dream about ceiling leaking from all the rain, wake up, come here. Whew.
Well, it didn't kill me...
...but I sure don't feel any stronger. Dumb ol' Goethe. Anyway, loooong weekend which is now mostly a blur. Part of which is caused be the brand new rain we got yesterday. Right in the middle of having soccer pictures made. You'll get to hear all about it, whether you want to or not, but I have to type it up first, which will take time and my staying awake. IN THE MEAN TIME, it seems that the Weevil State University bandwagon really hit a nerve amongst our visitors here at Possumblog--for those who just can't get enough of the Fightin' Weevils, you may be surprised to learn that the Weevil State U. Journalism Department has started its own online version of the campus newspaper, the award-winning Proboscis. You can find out not much at all, seeing as how it's brand new, but that will soon change as soon as the rest of the Axis of Weevil membership are added on as contributing authors. As with the paper version of The Proboscis, the online version will be geared toward keeping Weevil State's vast student body up to date on campus events and news, and will continue in the rich tradition of Weevil State's founders. Obviously, the paper's staff are still new to the cyber world, so the edges are a bit rough, but that will surely change as time goes on. Or not. As a reminder, any of you Axis of Weevil members who would like to be contributors, please drop me a note via Chet the E-Mail Boy, and your name will be forwarded on to the editorial staff. So, on to my Monday staff meeting (back in the real world) and I will see you all in a bit. Friday, September 19, 2003
Weekend Stuff
Well, as has been documented ad nauseum in earlier posts, there sure won't be no racin', other than going back and forth to the soccer park. Thankfully, this weekend everyone's games are at home, which makes it much less stressful. Last night was a bit on the fun side--Cat had practice, and Rebecca had practice, and I had my piddly little zoning board meeting to go to, and everything was at the same time. Reba took Tiny Terror over to her field, along with Boy. He went because one of the guys on his team also has a sister on Catherine's team, so they get to play together while she practices. I was tasked with dumping Middle Girl at the regular field--for some reason, she insisted we take the truck. I'm not sure why she like Franklin so much, but she does. I made her put her hand on the gearshift and got her to help shift gears, which frightened her--the good way, like riding a roller coaster. She helped a bit but decided she would rather I stir the gears around. We were rolling down Highway 11, when out of the blue she piped up over the engine clatter and exhaust popping to ask, "Is Hooters a bad place?" The things they come up with... "Well, their waitresses don't wear much clothes..." "Oh. Why not?" ::sigh:: "Uh, well, it's just the way they run their restaurant--they make the girls dress up in not much." "Oh. Well, Amanda said it's a bad place and they don't eat there because the waitresses are almost nekkid." "Yep, just about." "Well, I am not EVER going to go to work there!!" Y'doggone right...of course, she's still at that age where she actually likes me and would never consider the possibility of taking up a particular habit or activity to annoy the bejabbers out of me. Let her out, made sure she found her coach, then headed back over to the meeting, which only lasted about thirty minutes, then it was back to the park, where the girls were just getting set up to play a scrimmage against the Under 12 boys. The guys were wild as bucks--falling and flipping and kicking everything in sight, hard--but not the least bit accurately. The girls took a bit more time and very nearly scored, and a couple of them gave better than they got when it came to physical confrontations. We have some stout little girls on our team. It wound up 0-0, but it was a good game. Hopefully, they will do as well Saturday and Sunday. Little Boy has his practice tonight--I haven't planned on taking the truck, so maybe I won't have to field any odd questions. In any event, we'll see what happens, and I'll tell you all about it Monday. Have yourselves a good weekend!
You know, she’s right.
Miss Janis, who is as devious and crafty as any person known, came up with the interesting idea that if the Axis of Weevil continues to add students and professors to its membership, we’ll wind up with our own university. I, being rather less inventive but more pragmatic, noted the difficulty in creating a truly world-class institute of higher learning when we don’t even have enough people to make a football team and cheerleading squad. What sort of school would that be?! Janis pressed her case, noting that we had all the necessary staff and administration, and that with the proceeds from our newly minted line of molded polyresin Moorenumentals™, we would be rolling in enough dough to buy two really nice used portable classrooms, as well as have great wads of cash in our trouser pockets. Hmm. I think I was much too hasty, perhaps…and with this being the Internet and all, who says we can’t have a football team, virtual though it may be? But what about heritage and history? Oh, heck, we can manufacture that, too. Which is why the Axis of Weevil is proud to announce that we are now accepting student applications for the 2003 Winter Semester at About Weevil State Weevil State University, a proud and envied leader among the prestigious Kudzu League schools, is a non-traditional institute of post-secondary education, devoted to offering its students the finest in instruction and boon companionship. Its diverse and inclusive faculty is the finest in the country, and they allow Weevil State University to offer baccalaureate, masters, and doctoral level degrees in such fields as Applied B.S., Ad Hominem Argumentation, Ballistics, Parrot Linguistics, Eating, Work Avoidance, Professional Wrestling, French Manicure Technology, and Aerospace Engineering. (See course catalog for full list of offerings.) History Weevil State University was founded in 1541 by two members of Hernando DeSoto’s expedition through Alabama. Senor Eduardo Roberto de Santiago Castillo (Eddie Bob), the expedition’s ink grinder, pen sharpener, and stationery carrier, and Cabo Jaime Jose Mendoza (Jimmy Joe), a petty officer in charge of a detachment of ship’s caulkers, became lost in the densely wooded forests somewhere south of the present-day town of Fayette on their trek northward. Greatly alarmed by their circumstance, they nonetheless exhibited the hardy spirit and inventiveness that is the hallmark of Weevil State University. They took stock of their situation and made an inventory of their belongings—according to Sr. Castillo, these consisted of “…our clothing which upon our backs we carried, three blocks of best ink de chine, a bag of parched maize, fourteen sheets of best white laid quarto paper, five goose quills, a bucket of tar, an iron hammer, a book of bawdy engravings, a three-legged dog (which we must with shamed faces admit we named Hernando), a carved whale ivory ear wax spoon, and a small piece of stone which was reputed to have been from the kitchen of Abraham’s home in Ur.”"The Journal of Our Travails, 1541-1569" Castillo, p. 13Using these simple items and their quick wits, they managed to befriend a local tribe of Native Americans who had taken them as war captives. Their chief, seeing that they were both useful and harmless, allowed the men some freedom to come and go, which they used to begin developing their idea for creating a New University in the New World. Originally styled as “La universidad del gran conocimiento para los salvajes de ensenanza sobre la civilizacion con el uso de la intelecto astuta y superior por la tolerancia de Carlos, del rey de Iberia y de las Américas” (The University of Great Knowledge for Teaching the Savages About Civilization Through the Use of Cunning and Superior Intellect, by the Grace of Carlos, King of Iberia and the Americas), the University became known far and wide as a place of great learning, knowledge, and general smart-aleckiness. Throughout the 16th, 17th, 18th, and 19th Centuries, the University attracted visitors and students from across the globe and established itself as a beacon of intellect in a wild and untamed continent. However, the true measure of success was the establishment in 1919 of the University’s first football team, which coincided with the renaming of the University. The infamous boll weevil plague that devastated the Alabama’s cotton crop actually proved a blessing to the state’s farmers, forcing them to practice crop diversification which allowed them to greatly increase their income. In 1919, the citizens of Enterprise, Alabama, erected a monument to the pest in honor of its work. Not to be outdone, the Regents of the University voted to similarly honor the boll weevil by changing the name of the school to Weevil State University, which was especially welcome given the tiresomeness associated with reciting the entire name of the school as it was previously recorded. The football team took on the name of “Fightin’ Weevils”, and like its namesake, proceeded to spread fear across the Southland, except rather than eating crops they spread fear with their gridiron prowess, just as they continue to do to this day. Weevil State University Today From our lush campus, still located somewhere south of Fayette, the faculty and staff of Weevil State University continue to pursue knowledge and build strong minds for the future. Go with us now on a tour of WSU… The Old Main—oldest building on campus, and location of the Registrar’s office. Eddie Bob Memorial Student Union Building—here some of our ROTC cadets relax in the comfortable and spacious Student Union. The Quad—many students find a walk across the verdant Quad the highlight of their day. The University Chapel is shown here at the end of the Business Administration complex. Student Housing—We are justifiably proud of our safe and secure student housing. Esther Williams Memorial Natatorium—The Fightin’ Weevil Swimming and Diving Team have continued to excel in their new facility, and have especially enjoyed their underwater clubhouse. The Stephen Hawking Planetarium—one of the finest facilities of its kind in the world. And of course, one of our most beloved landmarks, Weevil Field. As you can see, we are blessed with a multitude of wonderful facilities, but it’s really our people who make this place what it is. And we want YOU to be a part of it! Contact the Registrar’s Office today—you’ll be glad you did!
Paying work once again rears its ugly head--so light blogging this morning, followed by strong southerly gusts after lunch.
Although that might just be the taco salad. Thursday, September 18, 2003
Oh, the cruel, mocking pain...
I had a nice correspondence this morning with the WTTO promotion guy and he thanked me for allowing someone else to take advantage of the tickets and commiserated about having no time to do anything either (he has a kid playing football and one cheerleading). But, apparently the webguy still hasn't gotten the word--at least for the time being, I'm still listed as the winner. ::sigh:: (I tried to angle for a Dubba Dubba Twins calendar, but my plea fell on deaf ears.)
You know what this old world needs?
Why, it needs another member in the quaint and provocative Alabama Cottonseed Spitting and Blogging Society, better known to most as the fearsome Axis of Weevil!! The other day a nice young lady left a comment or three down the page a ways, and intrigued by her sudden appearance here at the gaudily palatial AoW World Headquarters, I immediately had her shadowed and surveilled and stalked to find out more about her. It turns out that Miss Meredith is not only an Alabama dweller, but she does this dwelling down at good old Alabama Polytechnic, where, in addition to writing about Thunder and Sunshine, she also goes to school doing some kind of artsy-fartsy sort of stuff (she says it’s technically called “pre-graphic design” which sound made-up to me, but hey). She’s a sophomore, and endeared herself to everyone in the office by admitting that Physics I is not easy. She said she found herself here after a bout of Xtreem Googling (a likely story) and actually liked reading the material herein. Since suffering from poor taste (or head trauma) is not a disqualifier for inclusion in the Yellowhammer Calling Society, and seeing as how she filled out the entire Axis of Weevil Application by silkscreening it onto the side of a tractor in a sort of Mondrianesque pattern and driving it in large circles out in the front yard, and seeing as how Biggin Hall needs some weevils, it just seems that the time is ripe… THEREFORE, by the power vested in me by the fact that I have one of the original seats from the old Tiger Theater, IT IS WITH GREAT FANFARE that we, the Alabama Computer Keyboard Collecting Society do hereby induct, invocate, and plunge one Meredith Mizell into the odd and frightening Axis of Weevil, with all of the rights, benefits, obligations, and constipation devolving thereto. CONGRATULATIONS, Miss Meredith—but wait! As with all new members, you too will receive the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack containing a slab of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for your pickup truck (which is actually her dad’s farm truck, but that’s close enough), 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. Now Meredith probably hasn’t read enough Possumblog to know that Jimmy from next door (not Jimmy from Accounting) and she share a common love of things artistic. Jimmy, as the rest of you know, has “a condition”, and has over the past years has done many exciting and lovely things as special gifts for new AoW members as part of his therapy. He used to do Kool-Sealing for everyone’s trailer roof, but had to quit because of his condition. The deal with the ladder didn’t help any, you know. Other therapeutic things have included decorative painted rocks for the ends of folks’ driveways, each with celebrity images such as Bear Bryant, Dale Earnhart, or Jesus; custom greeting cards (he ran out of paper for that, though, and he hasn’t been able to find any other businesses around town who are changing out their letterhead); customized brown paper bags with the recipient’s initials done in gold glitter; and at least one nail clipping mosaic of McGeorge Bundy. Since Meredith is something of an occupational soulmate, Jimmy came up with an idea for a grand gesture and seems very excited about it. He has taken to calling it “performance art”, and has been hard at work in the tool shed for two days now. He won’t let any of us look at it, so we aren’t quite sure what it might be, but his condition looks much better, and his Aunt Wanda says lately she hasn’t caught him with any of the dirty books his friends give him. So, anyway, be on the lookout, Meredith! Remember to stop by the supply closet and pick up a pack of Conte pencils and a kneadable eraser, 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.) The guy is still restriping the parking lot, so you’ll have to watch out because there are some folks who really need the stripes or else they’ll take the whole side of your car off. We moved the spare key to the little box by the hose spigot, but be careful and don’t get spider bit. NOW, all of you please feel free to run over and say hey to Meredith!
Chet Becomes Famous
I was sitting here just now checking the turnstyle to see who all has been visiting this pile, and noticed that the staff appeared to be stepping out of the shadows and taking their own path out in the cyberworld. None other than Chet the E-Mail Boy seemed to have broken the through the Pixel Curtain and become a celebrity--at least that was my supposition based upon this search string: globe shoes Chet's for cheap money. I got so excited for Chet, although the query didn't make much sense. Has Chet gone into the orthopedic shoe business? Started selling globes door-to-door? Or, was it something more sinister...something cheap, for money? I was just about to summon Chet from the basement when I ran into one of our slacker interns who pointed out that I was like, hopelessly clueless about Chet Thomas, famous 5k4t3rb0y, who, you know, like wears Globe Shoes because he's, like, their spokesdude guy. Well, better luck next time, Chet. As for our visitor, we are sorry, but our entire shoe warehouse in Slapout burned to the ground, and we are backordered for at least three months.
Removing all doubt.
Just got out of a long boring meeting--one at which my presence served only to use up valuable space and air. Had one of the neighborhood officers in, along with an academic planner person, going over a proposed master planning project they want to do. The rest of the room was our staff--my boss, a department head, three of the planning folks, and me. We were there to discuss and coordinate what sorts of information we could provide, so the pedagogue started talking and was promptly interrupted by one of the planners. This is the guy I've talked about before who tries to put on airs of great insight and depth of thought, all the way down to affecting this weird sort of I'm-trying-to-talk -like-I- grew-up-somewhere-other-than -Alabama accent, that only winds up making him sound like he has a speech impediment. Frankly, he's dumber than a stump. Can't spell worth two cents (although, that may not to matter), atrocious grammar, rational thought process similar to a squirrel. All wrapped up in that cozy coat of pretentiousness that makes me want to dope slap him in the back of the head. Anyway, he interrupts, wanting the complete backstory of why he's in the meeting, who all these people are, what's the frequency Kenneth--everything that most normal people could figure out after a few minutes of actually LISTENING to what was being said. After a nice ten minute recitation of history to placate him, we got on to the business at hand. Basically, the professor is going to get her students to help the neighborhood with an analysis of their area and offer some suggestions for future development. The nature of these things is that they are relatively limited in scope and that they don't go into all the necessary policy and budget falderol, just some neat ideas put down on paper. On our side, it usually takes years to get anything on paper, bogged down as we get on worrying about all the bureaucratic silliness. Both approaches have some value, believe it or not. In this case, the professor and her neighborhood client both realize that the end product has some limits when it comes to working it into the implementation phase, but also know the finished pretty pictures can be useful in helping people see beyond what's in place now, even if some of it turns out to be a bit pie-in-the-sky. It's done by students, after all, and you want them to learn some abstract thinking. Interruption! "Well, you're saying you want to do a master plan, but without doing some sort of costing, you just don't know what you're getting into." ::sigh:: And then he fulfilled Twain's famous dictum..."You know, I realize Berman said "Make no small plans", but without something to guideblah blah blah blah..." I stopped listening after "Berman". Now, I don't expect people who haven't studied architecture or city planning to realize the gaffe here, and professional courtesy would usually dictate that I give fellow designers the benefit of the doubt about such stumbletongueitis. But when some it comes flying out of some pretentious, put-on-accented, can't-spell-"cat", twit who has taken it upon himself to lecture a visitor (who just happens to have a doctorate) and can't get BURNHAM right, well...no quarter. Daniel Burnham was one of the big dogs of the late-19th and early 20th Century architectural world, and his work in Chicago included the Rookery, the plan for the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, and the 1909 Chicago city plan--a landmark work in American comprehensive city planning. And he is the one who said, "Make no small plans." [/snit]
I realize that I'm an ignorant savage, but this just sounds stupid: Passengers can book passage Sept. 27 for luxury Titanic voyage Party like there's no tomorrow at Beaker Bash 3. The benefit for the McWane Center will take its theme from the new 7,500-square-foot exhibit "Titanic: The Artifact Exhibit."Were it one of my relatives who died, I don't know that I would appreciate a bunch of folks raising money using the loss of my relative as a source of their evening's merrymaking.
Clue bat, Aisle Five...
From one of this morning's editorial in The Birmingham News: To most people, last week's crushing defeat of Gov. Bob Riley's tax and accountability plan sent a loud and clear message: Taxpayers want state government to be more efficient before it gets more money. Taxpayers want all government waste cut from the budgets. They want to know their government is spending wisely.Beady-Eyed Bedford, though he may be awaiting trial for using my tax money for extortion, seems to not have any trouble getting reelected. For all of the folks who voted against the Riley tax plan because you say you don't trust Montgomery insiders, it sure would be nice if you would please expend just a fraction of the same effort you put forth in defeating that legislation into seeing that Jolly Roger and his ilk are defeated come election time.
New Marketing Opportunity!!
Plans made for second monument MARY ORNDORFFMaybe it's just me, but I think there's a nice market niche here for some enterprising entrepreneur to set up shop making replicas for people's front yards--not the big bulky stone versions, but something in a nice, stone-textured polyresin that you could pick up and move to mow around. It would be lightweight enough so that you could even set it up inside your house and not have to worry about the floor structure.
The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat...
Well, flitter. As you may note in a couple of the comments below, that cool set of 21 three day passes to the Chevy Truck U.S. Superbike races this weekend and the 63 meal vouchers for Jim 'n' Nick's Barbecue that I won from WTTO are not to be. I printed out the itinerary, took it home last night, and compared it to the Gigantic Refrigerator-Mounted Calendar of Possumy Events to find that there was no way to work a three-day race weekend into a weekend full of four soccer games and church and housekeeping and yardwork and being a double-naught spy. I called the nice guy at the station and left a voice mail that I was going to have to pass on the passes. ::sigh:: Wednesday, September 17, 2003
All you need to know about Wesley Clark, from Yorkie-- [...] Any retired military officer who claims, out loud, that his whole career was about pointing him toward the political arena makes me distinctly uncomfortable. Military service is a very unique and specific calling. I'd be the last person to tell you that there aren't politics involved in that service, because there are -- there are politics involved in most jobs these days. The politics of military life, especially in high visibility positions, can be particularly brutal.to Kudzu-- [...] Generals who decide they should be President. I spent 32 years in the Army. In that time, I never knew a General who had any business being President although most I met were really good politicians. I never met Wesley Clark, but you can bet he doesn't have my vote nor do I think he will get many votes from the military. After all, he did get effectively relieved of duty by Clinton. [...]Well, if Dean is McGovern, maybe Wes is MacArthur. (Although to be fair, MacArthur ran as a Republican.) The runup to the convention is not one of those things that I particularly get all het up about, but I did think it interesting to see how Francesca and Larry see things, given their backgrounds.
Here's one for Greg Hlatky--Agility Dog 'Merlin' Receiving Nationwide Donations for Veterinary Care AUBURN -- An unknown lady walked up to Merlin's owner in the waiting room and gave $100 toward his veterinary care. In fact, since being attacked by a neighbor's dog in July, Merlin has received 72 checks from 11 states, totaling more than $3,200.Hey, whaddya know, Auburn's not just a "cow college".
SCOTLAND THE BRAVE!!
Home of Robbie Burns, bonnie lasses, haggis, and...World's Oldest Genitals Found in Scotland. Gives a whole new meaning to bagpipes, eh?
Heaven help us...McDonald's to Launch Adult Happy Meals
Don't get too excited, yet, chief-- CHICAGO - McDonald's Corp. has enlisted the aid of Oprah Winfrey's personal trainer Bob Greene to promote an adult version of the Happy Meal, the fast-food giant's latest effort to offer healthier products.A salad, an exercise booklet, and a pedometer do not a Happy Meal make. On the other hand, Weak Attempt To Beat Away The Icy Grim Hand Of An Early Athrosclerotic Death Meal doesn't really sing. Maybe if they could work a deal with Doctor Ruth...
Oftentimes...
The Editorial Staff here at Possumblog are overwhelmed by the number of visitors we get searching for knowledge out there on the Information Superhighway®--like this one nice person wondering about--at what age are possums completely mobile. Obviously, our stature within the scientific community continues to grow. That such a querist would land here in his search for truth is surely to be expected. Researchers vary in their opinion on this subject, but one thing is certain--there is no such thing as a completely mobile possum, otherwise we wouldn't see so many dead ones on the side of the road. Possum mobility specialists have been hard at work attempting to adapt various battery-powered carts to serve the nocturnal, arboreal, marsupial community. Dean Kamen has even envisioned a version of his wildly popular Segway scooter intended specifically for possums, with the added feature of it being able to climb trees, similar to his patented stair-climbing wheelchair. So far, all of these attempts have failed in some way, usually due to the operator throwing itself under the wheels as soon as the carts begin rolling. Research continues apace.
U.N. says 'ozone hole' hits record size
Delegates continue struggling over report language on whether to say U.S. is "fully", or "fully and completely" to blame.
You know, speaking of cavemen...
I just remembered that it is almost the deadline (so to speak) of Irene Adler's Wondrous Story Telling Competition! Friday's the last day, so get to work. I am still trying to come up with a plausible story which takes into account all of the evidence, yet somehow still manages to incorporate possums.
Oh, the things you can find out on the Internet...
Especially when it comes to farming--Fritz Schranck has an incredibly interesting post on marshmallow farming in Delaware. It's usually too hot down here to grow such things--we stick to planting this.
Hey, sugarmama has herself a new beau!
And yes, it is a cute picture, but you know, oddly disturbing. I mean, I realize that I'm taken and all, but to go out and find someone who looks just like me--young, tall, thin, muscular, handsome--well, it's just a bit too odd.
Okay, now--on with the scintillating recitation of four hours of sitting in a room full of architects.
As I mentioned yesterday, I had another continuing education seminar to attend yesterday--this one dealing with issues on the Americans With Disabilities Act. Most of you are familiar with this--a broad piece of civil rights legislation signed into law by George Bush (Evil Republican), designed to insure at least some level of access to the widest possible range of facilities which serve the public, for those persons who have physical disabilities. Most people think of the more obvious disabilities, which require the use of a wheelchair, but the legislation was intended to serve the widest possible range of people with disabilities, including the blind, the deaf, those with limited mobility due to diseases such as arthritis, amputees, as well as those who use wheelchairs. The law adopted a set of guidelines for construction, which in a way makes it a type of building code. However, what few architects wanted to realize at the time was that instead of a normal set of building codes as they were used to dealing with, in which the enforcement aspect was an administrative-level regulatory function, the ADA enforcement is a legal function--you don’t sit and jawbone with an inspector trying to figure out how to fix something, you sit at a long table full of lawyers and try to figure out just how much you’re going to have to pay. It’s civil rights law--not many advocacy groups go around bringing class action lawsuits over buildings not being built to code, but the ADA opened up a huge new field of disability access litigation. While courts across the country have had difficulty in coming to a common understanding about exactly who should be liable in ADA cases--the owner, the builder, the architect, the material suppliers--it doesn’t really matter because they all get served with papers, and the case must be heard, and the lawyers must be paid. Occasionally, people with disabilities are helped. Most building code violation cases usually only make it to court after something has fallen or broken or burned, and are usually more concerned (at least when it comes to designers), with showing if a reasonable standard of care was exercised, and if the architect was duly diligent in carrying out his contractural obligations and the applicable statutory requirements. On the other hand, since the requirements and standards of the ADA are open to judicial interpretation, it has not been simply a matter of showing that a particular design element--say, a ramp--was designed to be in compliance, and for whatever reason was installed incorrectly, and get yourself off the hook. This is especially pertinent in areas in which the original legislation had unclear intentions--in building codes, updates and clarifications are promulgated regularly to insure that there is are as few discrepancies as possible. In the case of the ADA, the process of clarifying discrepancies is handled more as a matter of discretionary power upon the part of the Department of Justice. In a way, it’s a bit like a cop deciding to give you a mile or two over the speed limit, to correct for possible “speedometer error”. 65 might still be the limit, and if his equipment says you’re doing 66, he has the power to ticket you. But if he’s feeling nice, he won’t. An example the instructor used, again dealing with ramps, is the result of several cases in Florida. Wheelchair ramps, which are mandated to be no steeper than 1 foot of vertical rise for ever 12 feet of horizontal run, might, due to variances in construction methods or finishing, have a few shallow dips or lumps in the surface. Overall, the ramp might be perfectly fine, but those few dips actually create a situation in which the uphill side is actually a bit steeper than 1:12. And this can actually create a lawsuit. And can actually create a need for someone to get out the jackhammer and make a new ramp. Justice has recognized some parts of the law might be unclear (such as how to deal with normal tolerances in construction), and they are less likely to try to litigate those instances. They still can, if they want to. A separate federal body, the Access Board, does come up with interpretations to guide compliance--since the ADA guidelines are minimum standards, the commentary by the Access Board is usually a good way to insure that you are erring on the side of caution. You can go it alone and make your own call that whatever you’ve done falls under the provision for “equivalent facilitation”, but it’s probably better to do what’s in front of you in black and white. Updating the ADA guidelines, since they are part of the vast sea of Federal regulations and subject to the inteminable review process, is time consuming. The proposed revision to the original guidelines is being reviewed by the Office of Management and Budget. From the law’s inception to today has been more than ten years--in the same time, most of the former stand-alone building code organizations promulgated three completely new updates of their codes, and in fact, developed a single code (the IBC) combining all of the former works into one organization and one code. Once the ADA guidelines are updated (if ever), there are a laundry list of things which should go a long way to correcting mistakes and clarifying the intent of the guidelines. You would think, given that it’s been around for ten years, and hasn’t changed any, and is fraught with legal liability, that architects would be a bit more on the ball about what is required. Most are, but there is a percentage out there who, despite five or six years of schooling, three years of internship, and a weeklong board exam, still don’t get it. Since these seminars are toward the end of the year, they tend to attract a particular group of older gents for whom time stopped around the early spring of 1967. They don’t like doing continuing education, you know, since they had it all figured out in ‘67, and they are completely baffled by the ADA. Which was excusable ten years ago, but unfathomable now. One old codger (who always comes to stuff like this and complains) was blabbering about toilets. Under the ADA, the flush handle on handicapped toilets has to be located over on the wide side of the stall. This is so a wheelchair-bound person can easily flush it without having to reach way over to the other side and possibly fall down in the pot. This is usually no problem to overcome with a flush valve, since the handle location is a matter of turning the handle to the correct side and making sure it's roughed-in correctly. Tank style toilets, however, have to be special ordered. (Usually, their handles are over on the left side, looking at it head on, and there’s no easy way to fix that in the field.) Now, believe it or not, it has always been possible to special order the handle on the wrong side, and when the ADA kicked in, this became better known to most folks. But this guy piped up in the middle of the lecture with shock in his voice, “You mean the handle has to be over on the wide side!? How’re you gonna do that with a tank!?” The instructor told him tanks could fitted with a handle on the wrong side, and it was like a demonstration of fire to Og the Caveman. The curmudgeonly Andy Rooney routine might have been cute and charming TEN YEARS AGO, but such a show of blindingly obvious ignorance by someone with a certain reputation in town is just unbelievable. But you can’t really be too hard on him--it seems to be prevalent. I may be more attuned to it since, back at the Bad Place, I was the designated ADA guru, but it’s not hard to walk into a brand new building and immediatly start picking out stuff that’s installed in the wrong place, such as door signs, or that don’t pick up on some of the more subtle parts of the law. Sorta like the Van Halen Brown M&M Contract Rider, one of the best little things to check to see if someone is really serious about compliance is to run your hand over the lever of a mechanical or electrical room door. Under the ADA, dangerous, inaccessible rooms like these are supposed to have some sort of tactile warning surface (gnurling or rough-textured finish) on the lever to alert blind people that the room should not be entered. Most buildings, it’s just not there. And if the brown M&Ms aren’t there, you figure something else isn’t either. (I do this sort of things with doors, too. Carry around a dental mirror, and check the tops of wood doors to see if they’ve been painted. Makes for much awe among painters.) Anyway, the first presenter showed us a list of stuff that we still miss—handicapped parking in the wrong places and the wrong size and marked wrong, wrong or missing signage, no clearances at doorways—a whole litany of simple stuff. And despite my aversion to lawyers, most of these items are things that, if you are so dim you can’t design it right, you probably deserve to be sued out of existence. Our presenter told us of sharks swimming through parking lots, basically scoping out if there is a correctly done accessible parking lot-to-entrance pathway—if not, they start drawing up the papers. They wouldn’t do it if it weren’t so simple. Maybe if enough people get eaten, they’ll stop swimming with meat chunks around their necks. OH, almost forgot about lunch for Jim Smith! Remember when I said vile concoction? It actually wasn’t vile, per se, just really, REALLY disappointing. Styro trays, marked with GK, CAL TURK, CS, SW, CLUB. Hmm. Must be sammiches...pick yer pizen. (I was just glad they kept the California Turkey and the Greek Style on opposite sides of the table.) I figured that in keeping with the architectural theme, I would take the classical Greek style sandwich, which turned out to be some chicken, weeds, bits of feta cheese and black olives slices, wrapped in a sickly yellow flour tortilla. And a bag of no-name chips. And a tiny cookie. I’ve seen more food in a Lean Cuisine box. And paid a WHOLE sight less for it. But, it was good enough to keep me from keeling over in the chair. Well, that, and a special guest appearance by Maud Adams, reprising her role as Octopussy! So, see? Continuing education can be very fun!
Guess what?
I just won this: The Prize(s)One of our local TV stations was running a contest, and I entered the electronic fill-in ballot exactly 69 times and WON!! 63 barbecue dinners...mmmm.
Purported Saddam Tape Demands U.S. Leave Iraq Soon
Gee, seems like he would have told Colin when he was in town. And again, is it too much to ask that we get a videotape of Saddam, maybe holding a current copy of the International Herald Tribune or something, or maybe standing in front of a television with the live feed from CNN going. I mean, muddy audiotapes may be fine for fanatical jihadis and Democrats, but it would be nice for the rest of us to have something more solid to go on.
Moore proposes moving commandments monument to U.S. Capitol
Y'know, what would be really cool is to put a nice set of rims and tires on it and a thumping big block Chevy engine in it and drive it alllll around our great nation.
"Flying morrrrrrons from the skyyyyyy..."
Proof once again that some folks ain't too brite: Grandfather flies kids to school, lands on football field The Associated PressMust. Resist. Urge. To. Make. Series of Obvious. Puns. Anyway, Grampa Tardie probably has some sort of condition or something which requires him to do things like this. Don't be too hard on him. While the children may have enjoyed it, Harold Dodge, superintendent of the school system, said the landing was a tense moment for the principal and teachers.Oh, what a bunch of nervous Nellies--whyyyyyy, back in my day, we used to have fleets of helicopters that would fly up and down beside hydroelectric plants dangling kids from ropes! What good fun--especially when we even gave a few of them some Tommy guns--until them derned LAWYERS made us stop! Now everyone gets all mad even if you just barely clip a high tension line or two, or if a couple of the little shavers get their arms too close to the rotors...what's this world coming to when a grandpa can't enjoy the simple pleasure of taking his grandson to school? Sgt. Donald Lunceford, Sheriff's Department detective, said no charges were immediately filed, but it's possible Tardie could be charged with reckless operation of aircraft. [...]Imagine that. Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Silly ol' real world
NO time for play today--I have another one of those exciting and beneficial continuing education seminars to attend this afternoon (The new ADA regs are here! The new ADA regs are here!) so all of the fun stuff has to be put away into the closet until tomorrow so I can get some actual work done today. See you tomorrow. Monday, September 15, 2003
And then, upon the Lord’s Day…
…everyone up again for another long day of activities. Breakfast, clothes, iron a shirt for Mommy and for Cat, drive, park, teach, be sermonated, try mightily to stay among the awake, and then get ready for some lunch. For some strange, mind-of-a-six-year-old reason, Catherine was insistent that we not go visit the new Chinese restaurant close to church that has that good Sriracha hot sauce Mrs. Gore and I are such fans of, but rather she wanted to go visit our old favorite in Trussville, House of Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses. (For those of you who are new to Possumblog, this is a relatively nice little place in a strip mall close to our house—not the best place, but still a nice and homey family-run place with a small lunch buffet. It’s like every other Chinese family restaurant, with the exception of the waitresses. Maybe it’s a stereotype, but you generally expect to see the kids or nephews or whoever taking the orders and stuff, but for some reason this restaurant has two young white high-school girls as waitresses. The owners and most of the kitchen staff speak English just fine, so it’s not for help with language. One of the girls is really good—sweet as she can be, smart, helpful, attractive in that incredibly attractive sort of way, but the other is rather less than snappy when it comes to service, so in the end, who knows.) Anyway, we walked in and for some reason, not only were the two normal girls there, but they had gone and hired some redheaded high school boy who looked a bit like either David Letterman or Chuckie from Rugrats. Further, he seemed to be related not to the efficient and attractive girl, but the more sluggish and not quite so well-endowed team member. “How many?” Well, let’s see, Junior, there’s six of us… ”Six. please.” “Where would you like to sit?” “Anywhere is fine.” “Here?” “Fine.” “…Or over there?” “Anywhere is fine.” “…Here?” “Yes, fine.” “This is okay?” YES! So he started grabbing chairs and a table and motioning for the Smart Stacked Girl to help him move the table. “It’s okay,” she whispered to him, “that table seats six.” “But we need some more chairs!” Then Reba tried to help out, “There’s just six of us.” He stood there for a minute, and it finally dawned on him that the table with six chairs at it had six chairs at it. I was standing there behind the Smart Stacked Girl when she turned around and looked at me and let out a low sigh and rolled her eyes. Yeah, I know, little sister. Anyway, the food was good. Then off to home where Rebecca propped her foot up and I read the paper and Reba turned around and went off back to church with the other three for the Bible Bowl contest. Rebecca has once again decided she wanted to try to play so I got to be the chauffeur back across the county for her. Got time to leave and off we went, this time with a change of clothes for her and a washcloth and some deodorant. Her game was at 4:00, which meant that it would be over with by around 5:10 or so, then we had to go all the way from Riverchase to Leeds before church started because I was supposed to lead singing. Not that we ever cut things so close… Anyway, the girls warmed up and got going—we were playing a younger, but similarly skilled team, and I take back every bad thing I thought about the unsportsmanlike play of the previous day compared to this team. I have never seen a group who played more dirty. I can’t really blame the girls, in that this is purely learned behavior—I blame their coach, who from his middle-of-the-back length, stringy blonde ponytail to his sounds-fake-to-me British accent to his propensity to argue with the referees, is someone I would like to fall headlong into a ore crusher. Your girls play dirty, sir. Bad show. And the parents got in on the act, too. The referee stopped during the course of the game and gave one man a dressing down for talking bad about the girls (remember, these are 10 and 11 year olds), then when play was about to resume, he popped off AGAIN, this time to HER. She then threatened to send the entire group of Riverchase parents to the parking lot. Once more, bad show. But as with the game the day before, the best revenge is winning. (Cleanly, I might add.) Final score, 5-0, and this time Rebecca made it through without getting hurt. But then there was the matter of getting across three counties—it was now 5:20 and church cranked back up at 6. “Rebecca, I don’t think we’re going to make it.” “It’s okay, Daddy.” So I drove and drove with her changing clothes and scrubbing stink off of herself in the back and me trying to stay at the speed limit to keep from getting stopped and we walked in at exactly 5:57. Three whole minutes to spare, leaving me exactly enough time to go to the restroom, and then stride calmly into the foyer as though it was completely normal to walk in at the last minute. And despite not getting a chance to practice, I managed to not get any of the pitches or tempos wrong, nor begin having a fatal coughing fit like usually happens. Not that I want to repeat the exercise. Then off back to home for all of us, where I found out at the Mommy-Daddy Evening Debriefing that the kids from our congregation had won the junior and senior Bible Bowl events, too! And we got some leftover hotdogs! Baths, beds, and back up today. So, there you go.
Because, you see, on Saturday…
I was sleeping nice and deep, and the alarm clock went off at seven. I was so relieved that we had a little bit of time to wallow around and stretch and doze a bit before having to get up and hit the road that I just lay there and listened to the clock tick. MMmmm. Nice, quiet, and RING! Oh, bad word! Many, many bad words! Awful, Hadean language! Grr. “Hlwawh?” (This being “hello” when you’re sleepy and want to tear someone a new one.) “Terry, Ashley’s sick this morning and wants to come home.” ::sigh:: She didn’t really want to go to the youth day thing at church, but rather than just come out and say she didn’t want to go, she decided to do what she does at school; become so overwrought that she makes herself sick. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t so incredibly obvious, and if she would quit believing her own story—but she seems eat up with George Costanza-itis: “It’s not a lie, if you believe it.” I rolled my eyes and rolled out of bed and hit the road, got to the appointed pickup spot and put her in the van and compared notes with the friend’s mom. All the signs of sandbagging—she didn’t eat anything different from anyone else Friday night, and never mentioned about being sick until Saturday morning, and the supposed bout of driving the porcelain bus was miraculously silent and unobtrusive. Not that it got her anywhere—she was certain that since she was in such poor, pitiful condition that she would be allowed to remain piled up playing her Gameboy and watching videos all day. ‘Tis so very sad, but she was told that since she looked like she was doing just fine now that she would be accompanying us to our slate of games for the day. Oh, if looks could kill. (Then again, if they could, Mom and Dad would have been pushing up daisies years ago…) Off to the park for Little Boy’s first game of the Fall Season. Team from Moody (a small town down the road a ways) who beat them pretty severely. I was surprised, given Jonathan’s lack of practice skills, but he went out and did very well—pretty good leg and endurance. Actually, given the events of earlier in the morning, the more interesting thing was when Reba went to the restroom with Catherine and Ashley, and they came back with some drinks. And with Ashley a grilled chicken sandwich. Some stomach distress, eh? To make it even worse, later on Rebecca went and got a little tray of corn chips with cheese sauce, and Ashley started hounding her to make her share it! I must say that at that point, I reached the limit of my good nature. I leaned over and unloaded--“Look, Miss I’m-Too-Sick-To-Go- Anywhere-But-I-Just-Gorged- Myself-on-a-Nasty-Chicken-Sandwich- Full-of-Mayonaisse-and-Have-Been- Bopping-Around-Like-Nothing’s-Wrong- With-Me, shut your mouth and leave your little sister alone and quit trying to eat her food, before you really DO get sick!” “BUT I REALLY WAS SI…” “Not. Another. Word.” Everyone keeps telling me this is a phase. Danged well better be, or else she’s going to bury me before she’s out of high school. Until then, back to the game. Jonathan’s team did okay, in spite of themselves, but the team from Moody was just too much for them and it finished up at 5-0. Back home for a minute or two to let him change out of his stinky stuff and let Rebecca change into her stuff. The combined effects of the ointment and the ankle brace seemed to give her enough confidence to want to make a go of the game. In between her getting dressed and us reloading the van, I got to catch the first quarter of the Auburn—Vanderbilt game. Oh, how pitiful—started off just like every other game this season, with Auburn seeming to self-destruct against a somewhat psyched up opponent. Same miscues on offense, same stupid mistakes. Gonna be a long day, I thought. But, they managed to get things clicking—even if it was against Vanderbilt, it was good to see that they did remember what football was supposed to be like. I had taken my little radio to Rebecca’s game, and supplied a running score to folks who asked—it was deep in the fourth quarter before I began feeling as though they might be beyond royally messing up and losing. It was nice to pull it out, but it’s not THAT comforting when Vandy, of all people, is a must-win game, and you are relieved to have beaten them. Anyway, we got all loaded up and started off for Liberty Park, then decided we had better turn around and go back and get Catherine’s stuff just in case we were late getting back for her game. (Which we were. Of course.) Our girls have been practicing hard all week, and they did a great job against Vestavia, in spite of the heat and having to deal with yet another team who seems to have been coached by someone with, let’s say, different idea of what constitutes sportsmanlike play. Nothing wrong with going for the ball and the occasional collision between two players really trying hard. Quite another when there’s not a ball around. But, as I keep telling Rebecca, the best revenge is winning, which they managed to do by a score of 3-2. Unfortunately, not before Rebecca got the crap kicked out of her sprained ankle. She had played like a champ the entire game, and nearly to the end one of those non-existent balls must have gotten close to her, causing her opponent to take a nice wind-up on her. She stayed out there, and I didn’t realize until after the game how hard she was crying, but the waterworks were going full blast. Got her in the van along with everyone and everything else, and then started out for home for Catherine’s game. Got there after is was already underway and Reba stayed with her and I got the other kids some lunch and some more ice for Bec’s ankle. Cat’s little team played to a 3-3 tie, and she even managed to score a goal! Thankfully, since it was for the other team, they decided not to count it. We finally got home close to five, worn slap out. Kids in the tub, more PT for Middle Girl’s ankle, supper, bed. And then it was Sunday!
Okay, now.
Well, first up, let me just say that somebody, somewhere is living right. Today is one of those absolutely gorgeous early fall Southern days that makes you wish you were in a musical. Especially when you jump up onto a fountain and start singing, and grab a couple of Bright blue sky, with the sun still high enough so that it looks like summertime, but with a nice cool breeze and temperatures right there at optimum—still warm enough for flimsy sleevelessness among the womenfolk, yet not so chilly as to require a sweater. This is the time of year when even Birmingham, if you squint just right, goes from urban to urbane. Just hard to beat. Now then, on to the show. Friday turned out to be one of those days one wishes one could take a do-over on. Reba got home in ill humor, and just plain ill. Bad headache, irritable, moody, angry, perturbed, nauseous, tardy—you name it. So, no getting to see Miss Reba kick the soccer ball. Loaded up Boy and Middle Girl and beat it up to the park and got us all out and sent Rebecca down to the field while I got Jonathan and myself some food. Better this time—got the grilled chicken sandwich, which was actually not too bad and had that great fresh-microwaved flavor. Got down to the lower field and sat down and spilled my drink in my chair, tried to wipe it up an promptly gave up and started watching the girls. The kids didn’t quite get as excited as I figured—they were all seriousness and as the game got going, I have to say I was very surprised at how competitive their mamas became. What started out as a lark pretty soon turned into a real live game, and even the, er…ahem non-anorexic women whom I would have figured would have the slows, managed to play very well. They played for twenty minutes and took a break, during which time the little girls started messing around and one of them began doing cartwheels. Bad move. She slipped and as it turned out from later examination, sprained her wrist. Not that it stopped anything—she just sat out for the rest of the game with her wrist on ice. It got close to the end and I sent Jonathan on back to his field for his practice and folded up my chair and started walking around to the end of the field—by this time the youngsters had gotten to 2-0 and the moms had begun playing dirty to attempt to level the competition—shirt grabbing, lifting up and carrying away, threats of grounding—that sort of thing. Rebecca missed playing against Mom, but she enjoyed getting out and playing, until. Yep, once again, a big wish for a do-over. She was running along and stepped off wrong into one of the many shallow depressions in the field and rolled over on her ankle. ::sigh:: She limped off and I went to see about her, and she was just miserable. After the game was over, she limped all the way back up the steps to the upper field and all the way across it to the concession stand—I helped her a bit, and I wish I could have carried her, but she’s as dense as depleted uranium and I didn’t want to keel over and have to rely on her to carry me. (Not that she couldn’t.) Got her to the concession and iced her ankle down and paced back and forth between her and Jonathan, whose practice was still going on. FINALLY they got done and it was off, not to home but to the drug store to pick up the prescriptions somebody’s wife was too fiercesomely indisposed to pick up (which was fine, because I now had to pick up an ankle brace, too, and horse liniment). Back when I was a youngster, there was only one thing to use on sprains and for smearing into someone’s jock strap—Atomic Balm. Oh, there were others, but this was the thing. (Of course, we also loaded up on salt tablets, too. You know, because we was real smart like.) I was overwhelmed by the choices of hot/cold muscle ache junk available today—including the one alluded to in the tagline up at the very top of the page, which has all the rich goodness of emu oil—Blue-Emu. It has 7% Pure Johnson’s (not J&J, just Johnson) Emu Oil, you know! Hard as it is to argue with the efficaciousness of antipodean flightless bird schmaltz (and the unknown curative power of the color blue), I figured I would save my 20 bucks and just go with another old favorite, Icy Hot. Well, the store brand version, at least, known as Arctic Heat. No fresh squeezed emu, to be sure, but lots of that nice gooey petrolatum, and it only set me back $4. Home then, where Reba has just gotten back from taking Oldest to go to her friend’s house to spend the night—even though Reba was sick, she carted her all the way nearly to Branchville to drop her off. So she was still not in the best of moods. Boy in the tub and I started doing maintenance work on Bec—twenty minutes of warm bubbly water from Mommy’s foot tub, a nice massage with the goop, several test fittings of her ankle brace to figure which way felt best, then the tub and to bed with her. What a long, long Friday. But, then, there was Saturday!
Made it.
But only just barely--and I have a ton of stuff to get done this morning, so you'll have to check back in later to find out all about a weekend full of Injuries, Early Morning Phone Calls, Victories, Replacement Lingerie, The Short Drive to Total Insanity, Boy Waiters, and Other Stuff (Including this morning's Toothbrush Story).
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