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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 27, 2003
Okay now—Friday night was mostly uneventful—I just sat there and watched Boy practice while studiously reading my Old Car Trader to keep from having to talk to the relentlessly peppy guy who plopped down right beside me. Yes. I am antisocial.
Got home and received the Icy Look of Doom for having frittered away precious time by being away from home instead of helping with the laundry. Miss Reba had a long week last week, and came home feeling unappreciated and put-upon, so I was placed on double secret probation for the rest of the evening. It finally got bedtime about eleven, at which time she stationed herself on the edge of the bed, wrapped up in the sheets like a mummy. I leaned over to give her some sugar and propped there on my elbow for a minute afterwards, poised to turn off the television. “Quit staring at me!” Huh? “I wasn’t—I was about to turn off the TV.” I am very intuitive, though. “Reba, what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” See, I know better. I know that means I have been a horrible human being. “I know something must be wrong—you would feel better if you tell me.” I heard Alan Alda say that once, I think. “No.” “Have I done something wrong?” “No.” “Have I NOT done something I should have done? No response. Ahhhh. Finally. “Would you tell me what I didn’t do? “No.” “Would you tell me what I didn’t do if I somehow managed to guess what it was?” “Go to bed.” “You’re not going to tell me?” “No.” Now then. Let me just say right here and right now, I don’t ever want to hear anyone say that the problem with men is their unwillingness to talk about sensitive issues. Or is it listen? Oh well, I can never remember. So I fixed the problem by pinching her repeatedly on the bottom and trying to kiss her on the back of her neck, which provoked her into much slapping at my nether regions and rather-less-than-convincing demands to be left alone. She kept trying to pout after I relented, but I am like what Steve Martin said about banjo music—just like it’s impossible to play a sad song on the banjo, it’s impossible for her to stay mad at me. For very long. Anyway, off to slumber, then up again early Saturday to get ready for Jonathan’s soccer game. As an attempt to damp down any lingering ‘send ‘im to the doghouse’ sentiments, I thought since we were going to be gone all day for that silly game then for our silly festival at church, that it sure would be nice to come home to a big vat of homemade chili for supper. Out with the crock pot, out with the tomato paste, in with the seasoning. We always use Carroll Shelby’s seasoning mix—it’s good enough, and he’s a real character, and when I hit it big I’m going to blow it all on a Cobra. I let that cook while we were gone, then browned up some beef and some Jimmy Dean mild pork sausage when we got back to put in it, along with some onion and some other stuff that I do not care to divulge. But no music fruit—no use tempting fate and setting off the smoke alarm with unregulated methane releases. Everyone else eventually woke up and got ready, then it was off to the far reaches of north Jefferson County to Bradford. Way, WAY up Highway 79, and made even more frustrating by the fact that I had to make a detour. As is usual, we left no earlier than the slowest girl getting dressed, so we had no time to spare. Threw everyone in the van, set out and came to a dead stop going up Chalkville Mountain Road due to some fancy-pants 5k run. The police had the road blocked and instead of letting a car or two burn some rubber between slow-footed runners, they just kept everyone in place. So I turned around and went the LONG way around, killing about fifteen minutes of time, and arriving at the park about fifteen minutes late. ::sigh:: At least we got there. The game was rather pitiful. The other team was not that great, and Boy’s team was actually passing and moving the ball around pretty good. And we STILL managed to lose by 2-0. Oh well, as I say every time, at least he has fun. Back in the car, and onward to the search for breakfast—we had to leave without getting anything fixed, and with our unintended detour we left no time to get anything on the way so everyone was famished, especially Catherine, who has been battling a sinus infection/head cold which makes her alternately grouchy/tired/insane/deaf/intransigent/crabby and/or peevish. And she wanted to go to McDonald’s. And threw a complete and utter fit when we left the drive-through line at the first one. But it looked like it was going to take an hour, and I knew of one just up the road. Which turned out to be non-existent. Which meant we wound up getting all the way back to Trussville before we found one. And it was 10:34, and you know what that means. That’s right—steaming hot tears of grief when we were told they were no longer serving breakfast. “WHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” said Tiny One. I was tempted to tell her it was not that big a loss since it’s nothing but the rendered remains of dead farm animal flesh, but I figured that would be pressing my luck, so we finally got her to calm down and accept a perfectly good alternative from Sonic. Back to the house to let them eat, then some heavy duty cooking of other dead farm animals for my chili, then the derned doorbell rang. A painter, it was. The young couple next door had gotten their house spruced up earlier this month and the guy did a pretty fine job, so I asked him to give me an estimate. He left their job without giving me one, which I attributed to sheer painterliness. Turns out he had given my address to his boss to contact me, but the boss didn’t know my name or phone number. So he decided to drop by. We walked and hunkered and pointed and talked football, as well as actually discussed what all would go on with this here paintin’ deal. Sounded like a great fellow, and one who understood how to do the job the right way. He’d better—it’s gonna cost me $3,900. The front of our house is brick, but all the rest of it is siding, and some of it had to be nailed back, and some of the trim has to be replaced, and the back is two stories high, and there’s having to move the Pretty Plastic Playhouse That is NOT a Storage Building, so I guess there’s probably enough in there to justify the price. I’m going to get another, just to satisfy myself that I shopped around, but I liked this guy. After all, he said he “had all that workman’s comp insurance and was a Better Business member and all that crap.” What more could one ask for? After he left, some strange woman came out of the house and got in a car on the driveway—this turned out to be the mom of one of Rebecca’s friends whom she had invited to go to the fall festival with us. And it was time to leave—we had to get there early to help get stuff ready. Got everyone strapped in and got to the building and started scurrying around trying to look busy. Helped tote some stuff, ate some stuff I wasn’t supposed to eat, and then got to play with the tractor. As you will note in the comments below in this morning’s first post, this is a mid-‘80s model Allis Chalmers (please, no jokes about her being Auburn’s homecoming queen—I’ve already heard them) with a 40 horse diesel that we use to tow a mower deck to cut the grass at our church building. And pull a trailer full of hay and kids all over the yard every October. It looks a bit like this one, except it doesn’t have a roll bar which occasionally gives me palpitations—the church property is mostly nice and flat looking, but does have several moguls that appear out of nowhere and cause you to feel more tippy than is absolutely required. I try to keep an eye out and figure out the best way to jump off to avoid being crushed. Anyway, we got that cranked up about 2:30 or so, and I drove around for the next 2 1/2 hours. The highlights are going under our low-hanging cedar trees and knocking everyone in the head, the death-defying back hillside which is full of large hillocks and dips, and the occasional excursion into the parking lot, where I weave in and out of the covered drop-off and through the rows of cars at a blazing 20 miles per hour. But, such shenanigans are awfully hard on the hearing and the glutes. As I noted earlier, the exhaust pipe exits right at ear level, and it being a diesel means lots of shaky-rattle gets transferred to the operator. I finally got a break along about 5, when I clumbered down to eat a hot dog. Felt like I was still on it. And not in a good way. Finally got through around 6, then it was back to the house with a vanload of sugar-fortified squealers, all blabbering at top volume and velocity. Took our visitor to her house, and then had to wait as Catherine used their bathroom, and then had to wait more while everyone chatted. Finally got back up the street to our house, then scrubbed everyone down and went through the house resetting all the clocks and explaining in vain to curious children why it must be done. I told them it was Ben Franklin’s idea. “OHHhhh.” Two microwaves, one coffee maker, one stove, two alarm clocks, two thermostats, two watches, two vehicle clocks, and two wall clocks later we had successfully gained an entire hour. Which was wasted, along with several more, listening to Auburn get thrashed by those evil Sabanites. Off to bed, then back up Sunday, off to church, started my new class for the college kids (of whom, one is already gone due to a breakup with one of the other students), then on to preaching where I managed to stay very much awake for at least five minutes, then over to Ashley’s other grandparents house for lunch, then an emergency trip home when some sort of liquid-filled squishy toy was busted wide open by Demolition Child, spewing red goo everywhere. ::sigh:: Home, change, back up to the building, couple of meetings, then sit around and shoot the breeze with folks, then evening worship, where I was once again a marvel of stay-awakitude, then off to a new restaurant we haven’t tried yet. I can’t remember the name, but it’s the buffet and sushi place squeezed between the Mexican joint and the Big K-Mart. The sushi bar part really caused a lot of controversy. Oldest: “I THOUGH SUSHI WAS JAPANESE!!” Middle Girl: “It is?” Boy: “SO, this is a Japanese restaurant?” Oldest: “NO! IT’S A CHINESE RESTAURANT, SEE? CHINESE BUFFET!” Tiny Girl: “Is sushi Chinese?” Boy: “Sushi is Japanese.” Oldest: “SUSHI IS JAPANESE!!” Middle Girl: “Why do they have sushi if it’s a Chinese restaurant?” Tiny Girl: “Do they got soup?” Oldest: “THEY HAVE SUSHI!!” You ever hear of “burst communication”? It’s the way submarines send radio messages—they surface, then send a quick, dense burst of encrypted communication to a satellite—all of it compressed down to a few seconds. That’s what it sounded like. Everyone talking at the same time—one at top volume, all at top speed. Daddy: “Can we all please just HUSH and go inside and eat our food in peace and not try to outdo each other with our knowledge of international foodstuffs?” Tiny Girl: “Do they make soup here?” Inside we go, striking no small amount of fear into the staff, although they hid it well. The food was pretty good—I think we were a bit too late in the evening for the really good (i.e. hot beyond room temperature) food, but it was your normal selection of stuff, including the much-talked-about sushi bar, soup, various bits of meaty things with vegetables, as well as a pile of steamed crawdads. Sorry, just not that adventurous at 9 o’clock at night. Not that it helped—last night’s postprandial dreamstate featured a splendid array of the vibrantly terrifying as well as the gloriously absurd. I can’t remember any of it in detail, although I do vaguely recall a frantic telephone call. And being cold. I’ll not do that again. At least until next week. And then I woke up, and I was here. It’s been a long day, and it’s going to be a long evening. Maybe some of that chili would hit the spot.
It's In The K!!
AdAge's Bob Garfield with a dissection (if you can consider using a meat cleaver a dissection) of K-Mart's newest ad campaign. Welcome to the latest installment of Survivor: Troy, Mich., as the new owners of the freshly solvent Kmart try to keep their company alive with a large dose of advertising.Ouch. Probably not worth pointing out that in baseball they use Ks for strikeouts. But, we still shop there some--it's always nice and quiet, and occasionally you can find something there cheaper than you can at Wal-Mart. You would think, though, that with so few customers and so many employees wandering around, that it would be just a little bit cleaner.
Study finds toddlers eat too much fat
So, like, the hot buttered lard balls I fixed the kids for breakfast this morning aren't the right thing?
More over-18s are celebrating Halloween [...] A first-time survey done in recent weeks by the National Retail Federation found that young adults are fueling the trend.For the record, I am 41 years old. I have no desire to hold onto Peter Pan, no matter the length. Just wanted you to know.
If you ask me...
...going around wearing something like this is just begging to be knocked to the ground in a melee.
Hey, lay off!! She's just trying to do her job!!--Worley defends SUV purchase while laying off five employees 10/27/03Gee, what's everyone complaining about?! I mean, it's not like she got the Paint Protection Package--everyone knows that's a scam. State Finance Director Drayton Nabers, who had twice turned down Worley's request for an expensive vehicle, according to Riley's press secretary, approved the purchase on Sept. 23, records show.Third time's the charm, eh? Worley said her budget was cut $258,000 for the 2003-04 fiscal year, an amount she had to absorb by firing employees. So far, she's laid off five people.Yep, but it might have saved yours if you had thought just a few more seconds before slapping the ol' Jane Hancock on the papers. No matter who or what $19,000 could or could not have purchased, with the state in a budget-cutting mode, this is extraordinarily ill-timed and ill-advised, if for no other reason than the appearance of callous disregard for employees and taxpayers. Worley, a Democrat, was elected in 2002 and succeeded two-term Secretary of State Jim Bennett. He drove a full-size Crown Victoria that Worley's office inherited.See!? It's not even if she even likes it--it's really a burden, you know. And the financial decision is surely backed up by a cost-benefit analysis--some kind of statistical proof, right? Something that shows that whatever method of transport Pre-Expedition, it was vastly more expensive and cumbersome than a nice cush Eddie Bauer, right? Worley said no other acceptable vehicle was on the Huntsville Ford dealer's lot the day she looked. "I waited so late to start looking for a vehicle I had to buy what was on the lot," she said.Oh. So she just had to buy whatever they had. Man, that is so tragic. Imagine the pain. The suffering. "Well, Madame Secretary, we have this luxurious Taurus wagon, and this lush Windstar minivan, and this luxo Explorer; but I know you, in your selfless dedication to serving the taxpayers of the State of Alabama, would not want to cloak yourself in one of those terrible, luxurious, vehicles, but would rather want to make the ultimate sacrifice of having to drive around in this large, truck-like Expedition, with all of those horrible Eddie Bauer accouterments that make public service so difficult." She meant that she started late in the 2002-03 fiscal year to look for a vehicle that had been accounted for in her office budget for the fiscal year that ended Sept. 30.Yes, the horror. The horror. I think I speak for all of your fellow citizens by saying thanks for staving off this loss. Remember, tax money belongs to YOU, not to taxpayers--if you got too much, then by all means, go out and by gold-plated turd scrapers if you have to, but whatever you do, DON'T LOSE IT!! State agencies have to return unspent money at the end of the fiscal year, which encourages them to spend it all because they don't automatically get the unspent money in the following year's budget.Well, we'd just go waste it on food or rent or something.
Well, now--Boy lost, Auburn lost, but I made a big pot of chili, so things aren't all bad. AND, I got that handy extra hour this weekend which I wastefully squandered by snoring through it.
Longish sort of weekend, the mindlessly boring details of which will be coming to you in a just a bit, once I get through with our Monday staff meeting and get through typing it all up--it will be full of Chili Fixins, Stupid Runners, Long Way to Drive, Searching for Breakfast, The Painter Comes By, My Date With the Ravishing Allis Chalmers (and Wow! Does My Butt Vibrate!), Antichronometricism, Staying Awake--Parts I & II, Never Eat Tepid Chinese Food Late at Night, and Junk Like That. So, stay tuned. Friday, October 24, 2003
Time to go do something
Namely, go home. Then turn around and head back up the soccer park to watch Boy practice. Was up there last night, too—it was one of those jam-packed Thursdays with Oldest having to play at the football game, and Middle and Youngest having practice. And having practice at two separate places. And to top it off, I had to schlep someone else’s kid to the park with me. You know, I really didn’t mind doing it, but I think if it was a choice of asking someone else to chauffeur my kid or just asking the coach if my little darling could leave a bit earlier than normal, well, I would just get my own kid and drive him myself. Anyway, Catherine got finished waddling around, and we packed her and Bec and our other passenger aboard and headed over to the regular soccer park, where I sent Middle girl on to her group and ordered the Tiny Tot and me some food. We sat there and finished it, then she wanted to go play on the playground. I threw away all the litter and grabbed my folding chair and we started walking down the sidewalk. She was happily humming along and skipping, and then started singing a song. I wish I could remember what it was now, but I was dumbfounded at the time because a) it was on key, b) it was on tempo, and c) it was a well-known classic rock song. I was just flabbergasted. I looked down, I guess with amazement, and she looked and grinned sheepishly. “That sure is a pretty song, Catherine. Where did you learn it?” “Ooooo, I don’t knowwww.” Weird. We don’t listen to any radio stations that play old rock, and even though I have an extensive collection of the finest 1970s 8-tracks, albums, and cassettes, I tend not to listen to them much. I guess she must have heard the song somewhere and liked it enough to learn it. I wish she would listen to me that well. Anyway, Bec got finished late—they had a quick 15-minute scrimmage against the boys, which they won handily 2-0, then back home. Finally got to bed at midnight. This weekend we have only a single game, for Jonathan, then it’s off to our fall festival at church where, if things go as they did last year, I will get to drive the tractor for the hay ride. Very relaxing. Nothing like sitting on a belching diesel Belarus to work out the cobwebs. (Although, I must confess I would feel better if it had a rollover bar.) I also have that flat of pansies we bought two weeks ago to put out, and a pumpkin to carve, and probably a ton of other stuff to avoid doing. I’ll tell you all about it Monday, and until then, have yourselves a great weekend.
You know, that hurt
I usually am a big strong boy, but today's bleeding at the hand of the barber was a bit much to take. And it took forever, too. Filled out the normal set of a billion questions, then sat down to be poked upon by the same lady who was nice to me yesterday. She was still nice, but her first attempt, using a needle the diameter of sewer pipe, swung wide of my vein and just sort of gouged around in my muscle. Ouchie. Do not squeal. Do not squeal. Do not squeal. "I'm so sorry, sugar, I missed it--it was deeper than I thought. Are you okay?" Mmhm. "And that's the first one I missed all day--but I guess that doesn't matter if it's YOUR arm!" "OH, it's okay. Not bad." Bad. Not okay. But what could I say--she was just too nice. She pulled the pipe out and jabbed me again, this time striking a gusher. Or so I thought. After what seemed like FOREVER, one of the other ladies came around and noted that the bag didn't seem to be filling up very fast. So she jiggered the conduit some more, which only hurt like having a large diameter metal rod moved around in your sensitive spots can hurt. Do not shriek. Do not shriek. Do not shriek. I finally willed enough fluid out of my body to finish filling my receptacle, so I was dutifully unplugged and bandaged and sent on my way. Thank goodness they had
Ready for some hot Tiger-on-Tiger action?!
Sounds like some of the spam I get, but in this case it can only mean that the Just Plain Old Regular Tigers of beloved Auburn University are set to be pounced upon by the BENGAL Tigers of Louisiana State University down in Death Valley. As has been the case for 3 out of the past four weeks, Auburn will be taking on a Top Ten team, and 9th ranked, 6-1, LSU will be trying to make good on last year’s 31-7 drubbing at the hands of the OTHER Tigers. Auburn leads in the SEC West right now, with a 4-0 record, while LSU comes in with only one conference loss, to Florida. The Plainsmen came out of last week’s game against MSU without anyone seriously injured, and with a ground game that seems unstoppable. Which is usually when someone gets all clever and finds a way to stop it. One of the bright spots is that although Carnell Williams has been a workhorse for the team, there is sufficient depth in the backfield, especially with players such as Brandon Jacobs who run just as well, that even if Williams is shut down, there is still an offense. (Jacobs actually rushed for more yardage last week than Williams, and his favorite food is gumbo.) LSU does have Tiger Stadium going for it, a perennial pit of perdition for visiting teams. Intimidating as few other venues can be but, as when Auburn came to Neyland Stadium, it’s not something that the Real Tigers haven’t faced before. One thing that they HAVEN’T had to face this year is the personality cult of the very stylish and pretty Nick Saban. I realize I am a hopeless throwback, but I find it hard to stomach a coach with his own website, especially when it drips with so much adulatory maundering. It’s just a little too…too, you know? What then will decide this great contest? Obviously, only one thing. LSU’s cheerleading squad balances well against Auburn’s, and each share a common weakness of entirely too many guys on the squad. Where LSU DOES take a lead is in their Tiger Girls, which, though similar in name and function to Auburn’s Tiger Paws, have gone the extra mile with individual photographs! SO, then, we now crank up the generator to the Possumblog Sports Center to find out what is our famously hotheaded Chief Sports Statistician Ipsa Dixie predicts as the outcome of this contest. Last week she did really good, coming in right around the mark. I attribute this to several things, although I would not be so bold as to take any credit. Especially since she made that comment about my brake lines. I just dropped by her office and managed to get her to stop reading John Derbyshire’s second National Review Online article detailing his trip to Alabama just long enough to for her to consult her charts and tables and statistical analysis programs to come up with her scientific prognostication. (Well, actually, she didn’t stop reading—I just placed a note on her desk.) Anyway, she just now sent back a package of information packed into a length of steel tubing, which landed handily right beside my head, stating her belief that the final score would be… Auburn 21 – LSU 17. So there you have it. For those of you with cable, the game will be on ESPN at 6:45 CT. The rest of you can listen to it with me on the radio.
It being close to Halloween...
What better way to celebrate the season than by going and allowing some lab-coated, blood-sucking fiend to drain my vital essences into a plastic bag? Going up to the Red Cross to donate some good ol' Possum Sweet Heavy Crude--I went yesterday during my lunch hour, but was a few minutes late for my appointment and the place was absolutely swarmed with folks donating. I waited as long as I could, but told them I would have to come back another day. So, today was it. The girl at the desk called back to the collection suite and one of the venipuncturists came out and told me it was going to be another fifteen minutes or so. She was very sweet, and told me if I couldn't wait, I could call and have them redo the appointment. We were standing right there at the reception desk, and I asked if they couldn't just do it there. Seemed reasonable. I thought she would ask the receptionist to call for me, but she just got the number and made the call herself. And got bounced around about six times. And put on hold. She made a little punching motion at the receiver and slyly looked at me--"You didn't see me do that!" Oh yes I did, too! (Which is one of the reasons I didn't want to have to call.) Anyway, I expect an extra Fig Newton for keeping quiet about it! See you in a bit.
And speaking of lacrosse... [...] La Crosse [Wisconsin] Mayor John Medinger said Friday he was not aware of the new slang usage in Quebec until the Tribune provided him with online stories that Canadian newspapers published Thursday.Ah, yes, "the French game". Another useful new synonym, and as it turns out, highly accurate when used in the context of France's recent political machinations.
Air conditioner fire temporarily halts incinerator use
Mercy me, we can't have fire around the incinerator! Especially on the thing that make the air cold!
Commuter Woes
Okay, now I realize that riding your bicycle is a healthful activity. Really, I admire your 5% body fat, and your willingness to exercise out in the lovely sylvan countryside. But. Mr. “I Just Bought a Bike and All This Bright, Shiny Spandex Crap So I Could Look Just Like Lance Armstrong (Excepting for Having Both Stones Intact)” was out this morning, pedaling his little heart out going toward Springville on Highway 11. As I’ve mentioned before, this is one of your old-timey, two lane, unlimited access U.S. highways built back in the long ago. The shoulders are narrow and uneven, and there is no such thing as an emergency lane—there is pavement, and forest. Or a giant mailbox. Or a tractor-trailer. And the speed limit is 55 mph. In other words, not quite the safest environment for someone on a pile of metal soda straws. I had passed him as I was taking the kids to school, and on the way back down toward town, here he came, laboring along, BEING OVERTAKEN BY A SCHOOL BUS. Which decided that it would be better not to hit Mr. Bikey, BUT TO PULL OVER INTO MY LANE. A busload of schoolkids, on the wrong side of the road. All for an—I’m sure a very nice, robust, monetarily secure—IDIOT who can’t quite figure out that with all the other streets and roadways in the area, there HAS to be a better place to ride at 7 in the morning. If there’s not, maybe it would behoove you to go earlier, or later, but rush hour ain’t the time. ::sigh:: On then to go fill up the van. Pulled into the Racetrac station (where they do not lac for snacs, and when the guy bends over to get a sac, you can see his crac), filled up and went inside to pay. I had to get my breakfast, you know—Diet Coke and pig-flavored air—so I picked up those, and decided to also get a copy of Old Car Trader for something to look at when I went to the soccer park tonight. Plopped all that on the counter, and as the guy rang it up, I felt someone walk up to my right rear. “What you in the market for?” I turned to see a youngish guy had moved up beside me—short, scraggly, ball cap, checkered shirt unbuttoned all the way down, white wife-beater underneath, with a nice patch of lichen crawling up out of the neck hole. “Aw, nothin’. Just lookin’ at the pictures.” I’m sure he was just being friendly. Friendly in that way of those guys who want to talk to you while you’re standing at the urinal. One of the Man Rules is that you don’t talk at the urinal—stand close, stare straight ahead, flush, go. Talking once you get to the sink is okay. Marginally. If you’re like really good friends. Otherwise, that’s out, too. The same thing goes, or should go, for standing in line to buy stuff. Normal guys just don’t scan your purchases and then try to strike up a conversation about them. “You like trucks?” Aw, gee whiz—I am TRYING TO LEAVE, little creepy crazy dude. “Ah, well, yeah, I guess.” He got me all befuddled, and I handed the cashier my debit card instead of my credit card, which meant I had to stand there more precious seconds, and he kept mumbling something. “’Cause if you want a truck, you know, I got all kinds. I got every decade model of Shivolay back to 1935, you know. That’s what I do, you know.” “Ahh.” He kept right on halfway mumbling to me, to himself, to the line of people behind me. Finally got the receipt and grabbed my bag of loot and headed on out to the van, half expecting him to follow along, but thankfully he didn’t. I did notice he drove off in an ancient Nissan Maxima. Go figure.
So, what’s with this book thing?
Oh, you know, as I said, sometimes I think odd things. I don’t think there’s anyone who writes a weblog who doesn’t have some idea in their mind that they could make the leap to ink on paper. I’ve thought about such silliness before, and then the other morning as I was driving along to work after dropping the kids off at school, I got to thinking about the Toothbrush Stories. I’ve obliquely mentioned these before, but the whole story is that Catherine has to be wrenched out of bed each morning and is usually in a foul mood. I shove some pants and a shirt on her, some socks (which usually match) and her shoes (which always stink) and brush her tangle of curls—all of which conspire to make her even more bothered. Then it’s time to go brush teeth, which, given all the past moments of disputation, is not always as easy as it should be. I shovel her toward the bathroom, and remind her that Dr. Nancy doesn’t want all of her teeth to get holes in them, so she has to brush them really, REALLY good. With which she occasionally does not wish to comply. So, one day I offered to tell her the story of Catherine and the Three Cavity-Prone Bears (which included a side plot of head trauma caused by leaping out of a window, as well as a thrilling epilogue of being eaten by bears). She listened intently as she vigorously scrubbed her teeth. So was born the idea of an ongoing series of improbable tales along the lines of Fractured Fairy Tales, mixed with a large dollop of Burying the Cat, swirled in a cup of good, hot joe, and raging fear of dental equipment. The stories, after all, are usually centered on a protagonist who has either very poor, or very fastidious, oral hygiene. They usually have some contemporary popular culture elements, like the time Britney Spears was devoured by a wolf (which was okay, because he brushed afterwards). They are improvisational, and I make no effort to explain various excursions into obscurity, such as who Rita Hayworth is, and why she keeps turning up in the stories; nor what a Van de Graaff generator is, and what use it would have to a magic frog. It doesn’t seem to matter one bit, though—she will mockingly protest, “That’s not the way the story goes!” when all the king’s men go to the barracks and wash their hands after touching the filthy, salmonella-laden Humpty-Dumpty—but in the end, she does get her teeth brushed, and winds up in a decent mood. The question is, is there a way to condense all that down into something that anyone would actually WANT in their house, much less as something to read to their children? Hence the questions yesterday about anyone who has done any of that book stuff. It’s just an idea right now, and I have zero knowledge of what all actually goes on, other than you get an $8 million advance. And thanks to those of you who had something to say—yes, Vachon, I do incorporate persons I know into stories. Heh. BWUHHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!! Ahem—pardon me. Jim Smith, nope, not a “great book” in the normal sense of “great,” which according to my MSWord thesaurus is synonymous with huge, immense, enormous, vast, large, big, grand. I see it being easily carried by no more than two persons using a hydraulic lift. As for the religious aspect, we might have a story or two about Moses playing in the sink, parting the water with his toothbrush. Maybe one about Rahab the harlot, who kept a pretty big supply of spare toothbrushes. One of my favorites is the story of Jael, who spiked Sisera’s head to the floor with a tent peg, although that one’s hard to work into a kid’s story about brushing your teeth. And many thanks to Dave Helton, who left a comment as well as sent me a very nice e-mail, which contained lots of helpful advice AND positive reinforcement. I live for constant positive reinforcement, you know. Anyway, that’s what that was all about. Thursday, October 23, 2003
Every once in a while…
I get a wild hair and think odd thoughts (believe it or not), and I have a question for you, the mighty legion of Possumblog readers: Have any of you ever published a book? Now, I’m not talking about your thesis or such like, but a real, live book that has a publisher and you got (or were supposed to be) paid for doing. I know there are several folks up in the blogroll above who have written books, and I imagine there has to be at least a couple of you readers out there who have done one. If so, leave a comment or send me an e-mail, and tell what made you decide to write. How did you find a publisher? How long did it take before your manuscript was picked up? All that kind of stuff. Hmm? Why do I ask? Just wondering, that’s all.
A symphony of tiny violins...X10 Files for Bankruptcy Protection SEATTLE - X10 Wireless Technology, known for ubiquitous Internet ads showing scantily clad women as seen from miniature wireless cameras, has filed for protection in a Chapter 11 bankruptcy petition.A business model geared toward angering potential customers with pop-up ads probably didn't help much.
Good post yesterday from Rehoboth's most famous denizen, Fritz Schranck, on highway designs, and why driving 55 miles per hour on the Big I leaves you with an odd sensation. (And I'm not talking about Sammy Hagar.)
Anyway, Mr. Schranck correctly notes: [...] Most of the dual (4-lane) highways built since WWII used design speeds on their curves that went well beyond the 55 mph limit. In Delaware, for example, the expressways such as I-95, I-495, and the tolled portions of State Route 1 were built with 70 mph design speeds. [...]Something which few Fearful-Americans seem to understand, besides the fact that the design speeds of interstates are relatively high, is that these design speeds were based on your average heavy, tall, narrow, skinny bias-ply tired, tiny drum-braked car designs of the day. They don't build cars like that anymore, which is probably a good thing, as today's vehicles (even evil SUVs) are blessed with stability and safety at speeds well in excess of the original roadway design limits. An exit ramp curve designed for a safe 45 mile per hour speed in one of those old behemoths feels terribly slow in a modern car, simply because modern cars are so much better. Don't drive in excess of posted limits, because it's illegal; but should your speed momentarily go over by a mile or two per hour, don't worry that you'll be fried to cinders by the horrible effects of velocity. Remember, speed doesn't kill. Sudden deceleration, on the other hand, can be very unpleasant.
It must be Adventures in Headline Writing DAY!-- Zoo hopes to put gorilla back on display
Seems like a shame to waste the front like that. And from the back you won't know if it's a gorilla or just Robin Williams without a shirt on.
Hostility Seen Harmful to Long-Term Health NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - Beware, angry young men: you may grow up to be unhealthy middle-aged men, according to new research.Maybe taking up a fun sport would help--like lacrosse, maybe.
You probably don't want to know...
Was just checking the old referrer logs and found a visitor has stopped by looking for islam la-reba. Trust me here, folks--the last thing you want to hear is my wife's take on Islam. That whole 72 virgins thing goes right out, just for starters, as well as that, "'I divorce thee,' said thrice" business. And another thing you don't really want to know--recipe for remoulade from ruby tuesday. Now, I like Ruby Tuesday--we eat there a lot. And they do have something called remoulade, and it's okay. But there's remoulade, and then there's remoulade. Just order some. If you're real hard headed and just have to do it yourself, you can always fix up a batch of Galatoire's Remoulade Sauce 1 bunch shallots (green onions) 1 stalk celery 2 cloves garlic 1 sprig parsley 5 tablespoons Creole (hot) mustard 2 tablespoons paprika Salt and pepper 1/3 cup vinegar 2/3 cup olive oil Grind or mince very fine the onions, celery, garlic and parsley. Add mustard, paprika, salt and pepper. Add vinegar and mix thoroughly, then gradually add olive oil. Refrigerate. Marinate boiled, peeled shrimp in this sauce and serve on shredded lettuce with a garnish of tomato wedges. Makes 1 quart. (Tastes great on manatee, by the way.) Anyway, whatever you do, forget about remoulade from national chain restaurants named for a
Virgin Mary appears in New Jersey tree
Passaic Fire Department refuses send unit to coax Virgin down, recommends placing bowl of food on ground.
Embarrassed GM to Rename Car With Sexy Overtones MAKUHARI, Japan (Reuters) - General Motors Corp will rename its Buick LaCrosse in Canada because the name for the car is slang for masturbation in Quebec, embarrassed officials with the U.S. automaker said on Thursday.Those poor Martlets and Redmen...always at the mercy of their horny Francophonic self-gratifying neighbors. GM officials in Canada are working on a new name for the car, a sedan that will go on sale next year to replace the Buick Regal.WRONG, but yet another one of those mindless slams against dumb ol' Yank imperialists. The whole Nova=Doesn't Go thing is an urban legend. Via the ever on-top-of-it Snopes.com: [...] Between 1972 and 1978 the Chevrolet Nova was also sold in Mexico and several other Spanish-speaking countries, primarily Venezuela. Shortly afterwards the great "Nova" legend arose, a legend which a little linguistic analysis shows it to be improbable:For any of you who have every heard about the poor-quality reputation of Pemex gasoline, "doesn't go" is probably much more accurate in that case than when appied to a Chevy Nova. Anyway, you can't always believe everything you read in the papers.
Is that a snake in you pocket or are you..AAGGGHHHHH!!!
Man jailed for smuggling snakes in pants SYDNEY, Australia (AP) -- A Swedish tourist who tried to smuggle eight baby snakes into Australia in his trousers to fund a vacation will spend the rest of his visit here behind bars, a court ordered Wednesday.Now, this is just me talking, but really, I think if I were going to attempt to smuggle eight baby endangered snakes into Australia that I would NOT put them in my pants. But that's just me.
Pillsbury named Army commander at Redstone
Gosh, I guess that makes him a Pillsbury Doughboy. (I'm sure no one has ever told him that joke.)
One for the Ichthypundit?--Inmates help fish for mailboxes
Inmates help fish in order to get themselves a mailbox? What do they do for the fish? Why can't the fish help themselves? Why do the inmates need mailboxes? And is the only way to get a mailbox to help a fish--could they help a marine mammal or a crustacean and still get a mailbox? NANCY WILSTACHOooh. Fishing FOR mailboxes. Wonder how they taste? Wednesday, October 22, 2003
I just received an e-mail inquiry from a person, and I must confess to being a bit wary of receiving such unsolicited queries out of the blue, especially when the person’s e-mail address can’t be found using reverse lookup, and there is no subject listed, and their name consists of a last name and a first initial, and the topic could be controversial. The Internet being what it is, I hesitated to give an answer directly to the person, given the ample opportunity for whatever I say being misquoted or misused. Not accusing my correspondent of anything, mind you, just trying to keep my views from being used in a way I do not intend--so, I'll answer here in public.
Anyway, the message was this: Hello-Hmm. Now it’s been a good while since I posted anything about such stuff, so again I enter into this with a bit of trepidation, not truly knowing if this person is really interested in an answer, or just looking for some nice troll fodder. Here goes. The NRA Institute for Legislative Action, the lobbying arm of the National Rifle Association, does maintain a list of individuals and corporations which, according to the NRA-ILA, have “...lent monetary, grassroots or some other type of direct support to anti-gun organizations. In many instances, these organizations lent their name in support of specific campaigns to pass anti-gun legislation such as the March 1995 HCI “Campaign to Protect Sane Gun Laws.” Many of these organizations were listed as “Campaign Partners,” for having pledged to fight any efforts to repeal the Brady Act and the Clinton “assault weapons” ban. All have officially endorsed anti-gun positions.”Reading through the list, I doubt there are any groups or persons on it who would dispute that they fall into the description as it is written, especially those who make public pronouncements of their anti-gun stance. As we all know, though, there’s nothing like pitching a good fit about something, and the ominous scary frightening cloudy dark murky conspiratorial overtones of evil vicious baby-eating scare words like “blacklist” are tailor-made for saintly hissy-fitters. In my mind, this type of listing is no different from any other political action group which maintains lists of prominent organizations and individuals who are in opposition to their agenda. The Million Mom March has a little list of their own-- “The Time Out Chair features people, organizations and corporations who put sensible gun practices on the back burner in favor of the out of touch gun lobby. Mom’s [sic] know who’s been bad and who’s been good and we want to make sure that everyone knows who is in the time out chair and why they [sic] deserve it.”So there! (Interesting that they seem to think John Ashcroft is so bent on destruction that he deserves two spots.) Obviously, MMM would justify creating a list like this because they are pure and good, and their list is nowhere as long as the NRA-ILA’s, but it seems to be the sauce-goose-gander, pot-kettle-black sort of deal. Although we may not like it (should it be our ox getting gored) such informational list-making is legal. Otherwise, instead of some silly online petition to stop it, there would be a lawsuit enjoining the NRA-ILA (or the MMM, for that matter) from maintaining such a list. Let’s remember, though...CIRCUSES ARE FUN!!
Too long, too boring, too painful
But at least it's done. The usual biweekly exercise in regulatory joy just got over with about 15 minutes ago, and now it's time for me to put on my secretarial hat and type madly for the next several hours--as I mentioned yesterday, this means that the supply of fresh Possumosity will be non-existent for a bit while I do unfun things. I promise that there will be something which rises to the high quality you've come to expect within some undetermined time frame, so keep checking back every once in a while to see if I'm telling the truth or just playing a horrible, cruel joke. OR, better yet, a Little Aardvark just told me you would be much better served to run over to the National Review Online and read an article by that nice John Derbyshire fellow on his recent travels through our fine state. (And yes, he does have permission to crack wise and poke gentle fun at the way we talk.) Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Dumb ol' work
Just too much to do today, folks--the best thing to do is go wander around the blogroll up top if you're looking for high quality writing-type stuff, or go through the voluminous Possumblog archives if high quality is just too much trouble. I should be though tomorrow afternoon with all the garbage around here, so I'll talk at you then. If I get through.
Yes, I'm here today
And madly running hither and yon stamping out a small series of fires. Be back after while. Monday, October 20, 2003
Next Episode: Packing, Eating, Uplifting, Playing, Eating, Driving
Up early again—we had to get the van packed up and get checked out, and we needed some breakfast, and to get to church. We found a congregation with a 9 a.m. worship service, which would work out perfect for us, as her last game was going to be at 11. So, I got up and started trying to gently awaken everyone with lots of rattling and beating and falling and screaming and such like. Took my shower, used the blow drier, walked back out and everyone was still sound asleep. We finally got everyone awakened enough to get on some clothes and I went downstairs to get the cart to load everything back on. All gone. None. And this was at 7 in the morning. The staff and I were the only people fully dressed and walking around. “Do you have any bell carts anywhere?” The guy called someone, and said they were all in use. Hmm. I resigned myself to being a pack mule and turned to go back upstairs. I rounded the corner and saw a bellman with a cart—Great! I was going to ask him for it, but then saw he had it loaded down with five copies of the Huntsville Times. Them Sunday papers is real big, you know. I thought about asking for the cart, but just figured I would let him go. He seemed old enough to be part of the furniture, and it was obvious that if I actually made him carry his papers he might forget the routine and mess everything up, and I just couldn’t have that on my conscience. Although it still seems that one of those beverage carts would be a bit easier to manage. Back to the room and loaded up with all the massive amount of impedimenta that always travels with us, back down to the van, back up for more, including the family this time. Back down, stuff in back, then back to the hotel to get some of their famous breakfast. Which wasn’t being served yet. ::sigh:: Off to somewhere else with a groaning table full of cholesterol, Shoney’s. Shoveled down the food and tried to figure out where this church was that we were going to. It was on the north part of Memorial Parkway, but the waitress didn’t know, so she asked her manager, and she didn’t know, and we heard the question travel all around the back. “It’s north of here a ways, but we’re not real sure how far.” Obviously, it’s up yonder. (A piece, to be precise.) Paid up, loaded up, and started up the parkway. Probably about two miles or so, there on the left, big as day. Got there with 30 minutes to spare, which I believe to be some sort of record. Lots of folks, around 350, with a good range of ages, and I think all of them came by to say hey. And we got some old ladies’ seats. I figured we would—we sat toward the back on an end, and those are hot real estate. A sweet little lady came by and looked at us quizzically before offering her hand, “Good morning, ma’am--did we by chance get your seat?” “Yes. Another lady and I always sit there.” “Well, I am SO sorry—I know how it is where we go, everyone has their favorite seat!” There were five rows of empty seats in front of us, by the way. “Yes, but it’s alright, I suppose, it’s not like we have our names on there.” “Well, thank you for letting us sit here!” She sat down in front of us, but I could tell she was a little put out by the whole affair. Probably trying to figure out a way to get a name plate or something. I started to tell her that visitors are God’s way of making members sit closer to the front, but I figured there was no use pressing my luck. The lady she sat with came in and greeted us and didn’t even bat an eye that we had taken her seat, but I apologized anyway. She just laughed. Good sermon, then it was time to head back out. Rebecca had her shorts on under her dress, so changing was a relatively easy chore, even while under way. To the park, wait around for an hour, then playtime. Their last game was for 5th place in the tournament, and they were playing a group of girls that practice down at Sports Blast in Hoover. It was a very hard fought game, and our girls finally looked like they were clicking. Sure enough, we managed not to lose this time! We didn’t win, either. A tie, 0-0. But it was still a very exciting game. And then, to home. But no trip is complete without…A TRIP TO WAL-MART! Even if only to get gas. There was a new Supercenter right where you turn, so we ducked in and filled up on some nice fresh 87 octane. I thought $1.389 was a pretty good price until we got back toward Madison and it was $1.319 at Cowboys. Not that much of a difference—less than a buck, but the very idea irked me that I had not sniffed out the lowest price. Stopped and got some food, then headed back down south. Again, another beautiful day to drive, and a little too handy for napping. I finally had to pull off at the Shell station in Corner to take a break, which prompted others in the van to also feel the need to go in. Never a good idea. Thus emptied, they turned around and wanted to buy more stuff to make them go the restroom. Oh well. Almost home anyway. Forty-five minutes later we pulled up at the Possumplace and proceeded to unload and such like. Bec took a quick bath, and then we were off again for evening worship. Like sleeping in your own bed is better than a hotel, so is going to church. Although sleeping is probably not the thing you’re supposed to do in church. I’m just glad nobody got our seats. Finish our much needed churching-up, then on for some more vittles—we stopped by the old standby Ruby Tuesday up the road (HEY! DID YOU KNOW THEY HAVE THOSE IN HUNTSVILLE!!?) and found out that Jennifer the Perfect Waitress is no more…she has now moved on up to Jennifer the Perfect Kitchen Manager, so hooray for her! Off once more, finally home for a while, baths, beds, sleep, then up again and back at it for another week. I could use a nap.
Next Episode: A Journey!
But not so fast—the packing took a bit of time. Thankfully, we were only going to be staying overnight, so we only had to back about a thousand pounds of stuff. The laundering kept me up until 1 a.m., however. There was one particular pair of pants that needed to be brought with us for Boy, and they didn’t get finished drying until very early Saturday morning. But they did get dry, and I collapsed on the bed and in what seemed to be about two minutes, the clock was going off. The plan was to leave at 7:30, stop and get some fast food breakfast, then head up I-65. Despite my usual misgivings about such planning, we actually managed to leave the house at 7:30. Ish. More like 7:40, with slight shading of 7:45. But close enough. Dropped by our favorite multinational conglomerate and got some of their fresh hot conglomerate, and then we were rolling. The drive up to Larry Anderson country was beautiful—the trees have just started turning, and the sky was bright with just a few puffy clouds, and we only had to make one stop! The one thing that always surprises me about the Huntsville area is the huge number of cotton fields—even ol’ southern me tends to think of cotton being a bit deeper south, but cotton is king up north, too, I suppose. A few of the fields had been picked and some still had a couple of weeks to go—but most were snow white with bolls. And they find a place to plant this stuff everywhere. You can be driving along in a built-up commercial area on an otherwise unremarkable suburban parkway, come to a gap between a strip mall and a Wal-Mart, and in between will be a cotton field. Another surprising thing about the drive up was the Armadillo Line—the furthest north I saw one was between Cullman and Decatur. Hard to believe something so slow can get so far north so fast. (I remember just a few years ago you had to be below Montgomery to see any.) Anyway, I saw six of those, along with four big fat raccoons, several furry things, three coyotes (not a single one with a bowl of birdseed or a tiny “Help Me” sign), and only a single possum. I would think that they had become endangered, but for the fact that one night a couple of weeks ago we came home and one was waddling across our driveway, headed for the neighbor’s house. Anywho, we managed to make it to the swanky Holiday Inn – Research Park in a bit under two hours. It sits on an outparcel of the just-as-swanky Madison Square Mall, and the moment we pulled in, Oldest started jabbering and squealing about going shopping. “OOO!! THEY HAVE A PARISIAN!! AND A MCRAE’S!!” Just like the ones at home. She then started a running inventory of every single business she could see on both sides of the road—restaurants, bookstores, hardware—obviously, she was desperate to try to convince us to do anything other than go watch dumb old soccer. Can’t blame her for trying, I suppose, but it would be nice if it were not quite so loud, and if she would admit defeat when it becomes apparent. Pulled into the hotel lot and went to check and see if by chance our room was ready, because I am deranged like that. Of course, it wasn’t ready, so it was on off to go to the field, Bell Mountain Park, which turned out to be the place where all of our games were. Right off the road to Gate Three of Redstone Arsenal (everything is close to an entrance to Redstone, by the way), it was a very pretty set of real, American, football fields and baseball fields. The soccer boundaries were drawn over the top of the football gridiron, which made it a bit tough on our girls, but that was secondary to the competition. The tournament was put on by the Kicks Soccer Club out of Huntsville, and they had it pretty well sorted out. (If you notice by clicking over to their website, their name is actually the Kicks Futbol Club, but I absolutely refuse to call soccer “football”, not to mention misspell football as “futbol”. Further, if they were really clever, with all that cotton up there, they would call it “futboll” and have a big fluffy cotton boll made to look like a soccer ball. Hmph!) Our first game was against a team from Brentwood, Tennessee, and they ate us up. Final score was something like 8-0. Our girls had only one practice in the last two weeks and it really showed, not to mention that one of our forwards had a huge cast on her arm, which we had to cover in bubble wrap. I really think it was throwing her timing off, but there was enough tentative play to go around. And then Bec got smacked hard in the eyeball with a ball. They stopped and she came out, and I did the dad-march around to the other side of the field. You don’t want to get them any more frightened than necessary, so you try to be calm and upbeat, but you just know she’s lost an eye or she’ll be in a coma by the time you get there. I just keep repeating, “It’s can’t be as bad as a line drive; it can’t be as bad as getting beaned by a fastball…” Doesn’t help any. Got around there and she had a cold cloth on her face. She was all red and sweaty and sniffling, but more scared than really hurt. I played with her ponytail a bit and finally got her calmed down, and then told her I was going to go back and sit down. That sure is a long walk. The game finally got over with, and then it was time to go check in. Maybe. Drove back to The Inn, and was met with the news that our two-double bed room was still not ready. And we had to unpack, and someone needed to change her jersey. I pleaded and wheedled some (a skill learned long before my kids taught me all the new variations) and the best he could do was a smoking room. NOTHING is worse than a smoking room, so I settled for the next best thing, a king with a fold out sofa bed. And a rollaway. You know, it’s really not very easy to get six people in a hotel room. But we did. Got the bell cart and loaded it down with the payload, then we all headed upstairs. “HEY, TEEVEE!!” Yeah, how ‘bout that. Honestly, I promise, they have been places—they do realize that civilization is relatively widespread, but every time they seem fascinated that all the stuff at home exists other places, too. So, anyway, they all pile onto the bed and turned on Nickelodeon and Rebecca’s eye was spontaneously healed. I kept trying to interest someone in lunch, but to no avail, so I threw my head back on the couch and started snoring and drooling until time to head back out for the second game. I did manage to catch just enough of Alabama’s game to see that Auburn had managed to beat those pesky Missippippi Staters, and to see that Ipsa Dixie’s predictive skills have taken a sharp upswing. The final turned out to be 45-13, and your Possumblog Sports Center Staff had predicted 42-14. Pretty fair call, I have to say. It got time to head back out, and with it came the plaintive cries of, “BUT WHAT ABOUT LUNCH?!” Bunch o’ derned little crybabies! I just gave them the Maurice Chevalier-bemused-shrug and pointed to the television. Probably would have worked better if they knew who Maurice Chevalier was, but whatever. Back down Memorial Parkway, where we met up with our Huntsville host team, who were very bad hostesses by resolutely refusing to lose. At least it wasn’t as bad as the first game, this one we only lost 1-0. ::sigh:: Then back for some supper. You know, when you’re in the verdant rolling foothills and wide plain of the Tennessee Valley, nothing hits the spot like seafood, so we made our way back to Red Lobster for some really not bad fish, and then it was back to the hotel to get everyone bathed and bedded down. The rollaway had still not managed to get there, and Catherine was very, VERY concerned about it. “Where’s the other bed?” “It’ll be there when we get back.” “What if it’s not there?” “I’ll call for it.” “On the telephone?” “Uh-huh.” “But what if they don’t ANSWER!” This went on for many minutes, until we got to the hotel. Boy, how I hoped there was a roll-away in our…nope. Here it comes—“DAD!! THERE’S NOT NO ROLL BED IN HERE! THEY DIDN’T BRING IT TO US! WHAT’RE WE GONNA DO!?” Obviously, panic. No other recourse, child. I remember the Great Roll-Away Panic of ’78, when people were selling all they owned to get five minutes on a folding bed of any sort, even if it didn’t have wheels. “I’ll go get it, sugar, just calm down for a minute and go get your bath.” Bathing was not what she wanted to hear about. I went back downstairs to the desk and asked them if they could get our roll-away to our room. Sure, no problem. Except. “You DO know there’s an extra charge?” WHAT!?! What manner of foul evil is this?! “Yes, ma’am, I reserved one when I made my reservation.” The bigger question was if it would actually FIT or not, but she and the bellman both assured me it would. Back upstairs, and out of the tiny utility room came a rolling bed. I figured if it didn’t quite fit, we could always put someone in there with it folded up, like Tennessee Ernie Ford did in that episode of the I Love Lucy show. Catherine was very pleased to see that I had gotten the bed. I carefully lined it up between the sofa and the real bed and found I needed only about six inches or so to make it work. Thankfully, the couch was about eight away from the opposite wall, so I asked Reba if she could scoot it over a bit. Too heavy. I moved around to her side and with a MIGHTY shove, found out that the sofa bed was actually very light and I very nearly rammed it through the wall. I scared the poor floor lamp half to death, though—it was between the sofa and the wall. I moved it out of the way and finished the heavy lifting. Finally got everyone bedded down at a decent hour, but not before much anguish about who would sleep where. Finally got it down to Catherine on the bed with Mommy and Daddy (with Cat on the side closest to the bathroom) then Middle Girl on the folder, then Oldest, then Boy. Then it was time to wake up again. Next Episode: Packing, Eating, Uplifting, Playing, Eating, Driving
Okeedoke—here she comes
For some reason, Friday evening was proclaimed to be a time for family bonding, manifested by going back to the new Kohl’s to see if they had a nice pantsuit for a certain wife of mine. A certain wife who has a closet bulging with what appear to my X-Y chromosomed peepers to be pantsuits. She wanted something nice to wear to church on Sunday that she could also wear to the soccer park since we weren’t going to be able to change, being that we only stayed one night and had to check out early. Got it? Me neither. Anyway, I know all too well it would be like hitting a tiger with a microphone to say, “Why don’t you just take one of those pantsuits you already have?” I also knew my skull would be in danger of being crushed were I to point out that we still needed to finish packing and doing the laundry, so I didn’t say anything about that, either, preferring instead to herd the brood into the van and go on before it got too late. Got there and ran screaming from the lady trying to get us to sign up for a charge card and went on around to the clothes. You know, I really don’t mind shopping. I could stand and shop with Reba all day. I do mind trying to keep up with four yard apes while trying to shop. You want them al-Quaeda guys in Guantanamo to talk? Give’em the choice of singing or two hours shopping with little kids, and they’ll tell you everything. So we stopped at the first of about a billion racks of identically trendy black pants, and the kids immediately went into their feral-children-found-in-the-jungle routine, so I figured I would nip this in the bud and go force them to try on shoes. Both Cat and Rebecca have managed to unstitch their pairs of school sneakers (they wear out shoes faster than a coal miner), and trying on shoes is just as much punishment for them as it is for me. Serves us right, all of us! Grabbed their wiggly arms and marched them over to the fabulous selection of shoes that look to have been designed for people with flippers or hooks for feet. Whatever happened to just plain ol’ white tennis shoes? Found a likely pair for Cat which had the ubiquitous glittery pink unicorn on a purple background—children enjoy being shod with footwear bearing fanciful images of mythical woodland creatures, you know—and tried them on her. “Oooo, these feel good, Daddy. They’s lots of room to grow in ‘em!” I pressed on the toe of the shoe and made it up to the laces before feeling any sort of little girl parts in them. “Sugar, these are too big. What size do you wear?” Well, it sounded like a good question. Every six year old knows stuff like that. Shoulder shrug. The shoes she had on were 2 1/2s. “These are two and a halfs, Cat.” “I need to be measured!” ::sigh:: Oh, boy. The metal torture/foot measuring device. I wandered around—there was one that was for ladies shoes, but surely there was one for kids and gents. Surely. There was one highly disinterested guy with a carpet sweeper making the rounds through the department, “Do you have a measuring thing for shoes?” (These are actually called a Brannock device, but I figured there would be no need in further complicating things.) “A what?” So this is what the sole trade has come to. “You know, one of those flat metal plates you stick your foot on to figure out your shoe size. There’s just one, and it’s for ladies shoes, and we need one for kids.” “Uhhh. Hmm. Ahh. Just a sec.” He looked around. (Much like I had done already—you know, using my eyes and all.) “Uhm. Hold on.” Okay, Sparky. He looked some more, and we followed him as he looked. Look. Look. See Sparky look. Oh, look. Look, look, look. “Uhhh, I don’t know. We should have one somewhere, but I don’t see it anywhere.” “Well, thank you, you have been very helpful.” “Yes, sir! You’re welcome!” That was sarcasm, sonny boy. He walked on off to go sweep some more. Rebecca piped up, “He didn’t help any, Dad. Why did you say he was helpful?” “Oh, you know…just trying to be nice. I’m the nicest man in the whole world, you know.” She grinned widely, “Yes, I KNOW!” Don’t be too hard on me—in a couple of years she’ll hate my guts, so I have to get what I can while I can. Well, back to the hunt for smaller shoes. We looked at every single little kid’s sneaker that looked remotely wearable (i.e., not having a four inch platform sole) and couldn’t find a single one in half-sizes. Or anything in a too-short-2, either, for that matter. “Cat, we’re going to have to look somewhere else—they don’t have anything in your size.” Sad eyes, whine, lip pooched out, arms akimbo, whine, blinking hard to see if any tears could be worked to the surface, foot stomp, mumbling under breath. She was angry in the way only six years olds can get angry, but mercifully, she was quiet about it, so I put a lid on her an let her stew, because now it was time to see if we could find anything for Rebecca. She wears a ladies 8 now, so I thought surely she would find something that struck her fancy. In fact, she did. None of which fit. Again, through every shoe that looked vaguely shoelike, but not a thing—the heel’s too high, the toe’s too narrow, the sides’re too hard, the tongue feels gross. ::sigh:: “Come on, kids, let’s go find Mama and Ashley.” Walked back around to the kute klothes, they weren’t there. Kept on walking around and I spied the restroom. My plan was to find a bench somewhere and park on it, or go back out to the van, which meant that I really DID NOT WANT TO HAVE TO COME BACK TO THE RESTROOM, so we stopped in. “I don’t have to go, Daddy!” “Yes you do.” “No I don’t.” “You may not, but you will anyway.” “I can’t!” We all piled into the unisex restroom—some places call these a “family restroom”—which makes taking your whole family in with you seem less weird. Somewhat. Cat got first dibs because the more she protests that she can’t, it usually means she has to go even more. Which she did, as the other two turned around and faced the corner. “See!?” “I needed to go!” Broad grin. “I told you so.” The others took their turns, and Boy and I had to give them an impromptu lesson in Not Touching Things in the Restroom. For some reason, their mom and/or their notoriously germophobic mom’s mom had apparently not showed them these mystical rites. For those of us who, by virtue of being a pointer rather than a setter, have had to go into a men’s room in innumerable backroad gas stations, these things help you sleep better at night. Or at least allow you to eat without making yourself queasy. Cat and Bec had both snatched the flush lever without a second thought, so Boy showed them the Foot Flush Method, and I showed them the Back of Arm Gambit. I prefer the foot, mainly because if the handle’s wet, it doesn’t get anything on you, although occasionally there are the ones mounted way up high on the wall that demand either great limberness and martial arts training, or using your wrist. “Girls, whatever you do, DON’T put your hands on stuff in here. There are tee-tee germs EVERYWHERE!!” Giggles and EEEwwwwws all around. I then showed them to first roll out some paper towels, THEN wash hands, THEN grab the towel, then use it to open the door. Man magic! They seemed to be impressed. Off again then to complete our circuit see if we could find Mom and Oldest anywhere. Nope. So, to the bench in the lobby. I wasn’t even particularly wanting to people-watch, if that tells you how tired I was. We sat there for a while and I finally decided to go be comfortable in the van rather than sit all crammed like sardines on the bench. The two prodigals finally came to the vehicle bearing loads of merchandise. Although not the Holy Pantsuit Grail. “I guess I’ll just wear something out of the closet.” Thank goodness it was 9:30, or she would have wanted to go somewhere else. Although, it being late, and me being tired, why not go on to Wal-Mart!? We needed a bulb for the refrigerator, and something to feed the fish over the weekend, but thankfully, I was allowed to go in and get this without having to move the entire brigade. Then it was to home at nearly ten, and time to pack and do laundry! Wheeeeee!! Next Episode: A Journey!
You win some...
...or not. But even when you lose, sometimes the scenery is real nice. Long old weekend past--as I mentioned Friday, we drove up to Huntsville this weekend for Rebecca's soccer tournament, which was very pleasant, aside from the results of the games. Lots of running hither and yon and stuff, which will be posted here for all of you to ponder in just a bit. I have to type it up first, and I am having a terrible time not falling asleep on the keyboard. But check back in a bit and we'll see what shows up. Friday, October 17, 2003
Fall of the year
Not hardly anything like it. Got home yesterday and gathered up Oldest to head for the stadium and my zoning meeting. Streets were packed with cars, so I drove around the loop in front of the school and let her off at the band room with EXPLICIT instructions to be good. Off then to find a place to park—up to the library, AH! passed one that was hidden by a dumpster back at the Chamber of Commerce, so I turned around in the library lot and came back. And it was still there, surprisingly enough! Put Moby in park and listened to the dour, wilted, humorless screediness of NPR for a few minutes—I still had nearly 45 minutes to wait before my meeting, so it was either that or stand on the sidewalk and scream at passersby. But everyone is SO tired of me doing that… Anyway, saw three red-shirted girls coming across the little treed plaza between the stadium, the middle school, and the Chamber, and for some reason one looked exactly like Ashley. Probably because it was. “WEDON’THAVETOBE AT THE BLACKTOPUNTIL SEVENFIFTEEN INSTEADOF SIXFIFTEENAND THE BANDDIRECTORSAID WECOULDGO ANDWATCHTHE SEVENTHGRADE PLAY!” Everything always at top speed and volume. “Okay. D’you need any money?” “NOWEDON’TNEED MONEYTOGETINTHE GATE!!” “You don’t want any for something to eat?” Head shake no. “How much does it cost to get in…” “WE DON’T HAVE TO PAY, DAD!” “Let me finish—‘to get in for adults’.” Shoulder shrug. Eh. She and her two friends skittered off like nervous squirrels back to the stadium. I still have trouble figuring how they ever found me off across the mall like that. She didn’t know where I had parked. She said later she just guessed. Finally could take no more of the radio, so I went and loitered outside the front door of the building. Neat old place—it served as the commissary and filling station for the old WPA Slagheap Village cooperative , according to the plaque. A tribute to the Australian Naming Rule Convention if there ever was one, really was built from a slag heap. Anyway, stood around listening to the stadium announcer, taking it all in. I have traveled a good bit, and I know there are places out there that by just about any rational measures are “better”, but sometimes, when the light’s right, and it’s chilly, and you can smell wood smoke and popcorn and hamburgers, and you hear excited voices echoing through a neighborhood, it really is hard to beat a small, Southern town on football night. Oldest came running up again—“DAD!! CANIHAVESOME MONEYTOGETSOME HOTCHOCOLATE BECAUSEIT’S COLDANDI’M ABOUT. TO. FREEZE!!” “Please?” “PLEASE!!” I plucked out a few stray singles from my billfold, “Here you go.” She turned to run away again, “Thanks, Dad?” “THANKYOUDADDY!!” Some kid. But, stuff to do. The secretary got there and unlocked the door and let us in and tripped the alarm, to her eternal embarrassment. Luckily, the girl who works for the Chamber during the day lives down the block and heard the siren and came down and turned it off for us. Finished up with the few cases we had in short order, then went on over to the football game. Oldest was playing for the 8th grade squad, who were playing our next-door neighbors, the Cougars from Clay-Chalkville. Got beat like a drum, too. 35-0. And they were playing 8-minute quarters! It was odd to sit there and watch, and see the same things going on that went on when I was in school. Clots of teenagers walking endlessly around the field, huddled together in deep conspiracies. Young girls so pretty they could make you cry, sitting by some goofy kid trying his best to be cool. And, of course, the game. Football, at least to me, was one of those things that was equally repulsive and attractive. We used to play regular 15 minute quarters (Whhhhhyyyy, back in MY day, sonny!), and there was only about 16 of us, and I usually stayed on the field the entire time. In September, you died from the boiling heat. In October, it was tolerable, until that first cold snap, when your fingers were so cold that you couldn’t feel them, except when you smashed your hand on someone’s helmet, then it was like getting shot. And then there was when it was cold AND raining. Feet frozen, covered with cold mud. I remember there were nights when I would have given a thousand dollars to spend a minute with my foot up inside of the old kerosene-fired salamander we had. But. There was still something overpoweringly fun about it all. The one perfect block, the solid hit on the quarterback. Getting beat like a drum, however, happened more often than not. The band played great—they sound good, and they are finally loosening up enough to not sound so strained when they play. Having a good time and playing classical music—you know, “Tequila”, “We Will Rock You”, “We Are the Champions”…some things never change. SO, on to another weekend. Tomorrow we get up early and head up to Huntsville for a weekend of soccer fury in a tournament. Which promises to be another one of those interesting, highly blogworthy escapades. Tune in Monday, and we’ll see what happened. Have a good weekend, and stay safe.
I linked to a story in the news yesterday about a bloc of Arab-American voters saying they were going to oppose the reelection of George Bush by voting for the Democrats. I wondered what they would do if Joe Lieberman was nominated--I guess I got my answer-- Lieberman heckled at Arab American talk
What’s that?!
Why, it can be none other than the Ugly, Stumpy, Smush-faced Dogs of Mississippi State slobbering and panting and licking themselves as they roll into the Loveliest Village on the Plains to take on the finally-playing-like-they-mean-it Auburn Tigers! Good afternoon, sports fans—as you no doubt have reckoned, it’s time once more to bring you the Possumblog Pigskin Prognostication Program from the lushly appointed Possumblog Sports Center! This week’s lineup has a resurgent, 19th ranked Tiger squad (4-2, 4-0 SEC) playing host for the 58th consecutive meeting (out of 76 total) between themselves and the Boys from Starkville (2-4, 1-1 SEC). Kickoff will be at 1:30 Saturday at Jordan-Hare Stadium. After playing good, sound football against its last four opponents, the Plainsmen may be thinking they can put The Cadillac in cruise control and coast along to victory number five, but this being the hypercompetitive Southeastern Conference, State could easily turn around and bite a plug out of them. Former Tide player and current Bulldog head coach Jackie Sherrill, despite the glowing palaver on his web page, has been roundly criticized for losing four games this year before finally getting a victory (over the vicious Vanderbilt team). With not only a shot at the conference title still (mathematically) within his grasp if State wins, but another nail in his coffin if they lose, this becomes a crucial game for him, which has probably been impressed mightily upon the Bell Ringers. But it may not be of any use. The Tigers have finally begun pulling together like a well-plowed muleteam, having gotten back their preseason confidence and a level of poise necessary to compete even when the chips are down. They do come away from Tennessee and Arkansas tired and beat up, but with their depth, playing State may be just the ticket to get some of their younger teammates into the rotation for a few plays. “WHAT ABOUT THE IMPORTANT MEASURES OF SUCCESS,” you may shout by using your Caps Lock key. Well, in this area the Tigers and the Dogs are relatively evenly matched—the Staters bring with them their tough Maroon Squad. Tough, but like every other squad in big-time college football, seriously hampered by an extreme abundance of guys. On the other hand, there IS the Pom Squad, which has a nice selection of big ol’ healthy-looking girls who would look right at home shaking a set of pom-pons OR dressing a deer. The Tigers have still a ways to go to ever compete with the likes of USC, but they continue to slowly add a few more pictures every now and then. AND, the Tiger Paws finally got an updated picture for themselves, too. So, progress is being made in the decisive area of the spirit squads. It remains to be seen if it will be enough to ensure success in the coming weeks. Now then, on to the weekly prediction. As you know, our long-time Possumblog Sports Statistician, the flame-haired, vigorously-muscled Ipsa Dixie has been absent from her workstation, causing me (out of necessity) to rely heavily on various computerized oracle devices available to users of the miraculous Internet. This would not be a problem but for the fact that they have been highly accurate and not the least bit inclined to go on a tire-slashing rampage in the parking lot. I have been led by these facts to question why we even HAVE a Sports Statistician on staff, given her penchant for less than stellar accuracy, as well as having a less than pleasant workplace demeanor. Obviously, though, asking questions is a very bad thing in light of the evidence. (In the form of the large dent in my desk caused by the last hunk of concrete she threw at me.) So once again, I have requested Ipsa grace us with one of her wonderfully well-reasoned and calculated analysis of the various statistics available to her to arrive a prediction for the final score. Ahh, and here is it, wrapped within the latest restraining order—Auburn 42 – Mississippi State 14. There you go.
Us Rat Pack Guys Gotta Stick Together
Many thanks to Doc Joyner over at Outside the Beltway for the beautiful trophy, the big bottle of Welch's Non-Alcoholic Champagne, and for the $50,000 prize money for winning the Caption Contest! (The Arnie's Thumb episode.) (I wish I could enter the latest one, but I could never win.)
Some of you may wonder...
...because you are in need of some sort of serious medication, what exactly has been going on down somewhere south of Fayette at Weevil State University. Well, click here if you dare. (Apparently Jessie thinks the quantity of material has now fallen to match the level of the quality.)
One of the few places in the world Camilla Parker Bowles could stand and manage to come off looking quite fetching.
This morning...
As I was dozing off and on and watching the early news, a story came on about a preliminary hearing for a very public, very volatile military court martial. (I'm not going to mention which one it is, because my following little rant might be taken as detracting from, or making light of, the circumstances of the trial.) Anyway, I woke up enough to see that they were using courtroom artist's drawings, and I was just astounded. There were about three or four images, and every single one looked like it had been drawn by a grade-schooler. They were absolutely the worst courtroom sketches I have ever seen--they looked like they were made for a Saturday Night Live routine. Drawing from life can be hard, and harder still when the subject won't sit still, and harder still when they could get up and leave any moment, and even harder yet when you're surrounded by people watching what you draw--but good courtroom artists are able to capture with a few strokes the mood of a room, as well as accurately capture the likeness of the subject. It can even be a bit abstract and still convey the necessary information. You would think that there would be a sufficient number of illustrators out there who could handle this trial without resorting to someone who couldn't draw the little cartoon deer from the Famous Artists School if his life depended on it.
Adventures in Headline Writing! -- Honda spurns growth in Lincoln
The whole story is about how the Honda plant outside of Talladega is causing a boom in home construction and real estate values. Funny how one little "n" can make such a difference in meaning. And now for something compleatly different... Free online science journal may imperil subscription organs Well, wouldn't you know it!! I just bought a three year subscription for this pancreas from that kid who came by last week, and I still have over a year left on my spleen. I realize that organ is a synonym for a form of communication, but surely there was a better word to use for the headline. Thursday, October 16, 2003
It's that time of day...
...when the heavy lifting really starts. Tonight, I get to take Oldest to the football game for her to play her clarinet. Easy enough, except for having to first drop her off, then go for our zoning board meeting, then go BACK to the game. Luckily, the stadium is across the park from where we have our meetings. (And maybe by the time I actually get there, the guys at the ticket booth will just let me in.) Add to this that Miss Reba is going to have to take Middle Girl to her soccer practice tonight, and will have in tow both Boy and Tiny Girl, who singly are wiggly enough, but once put in close proximity are enough to cause insanity. In all, it's going to be quite an evening of entertainment.
From Reuterland--Adventures in Scare Quotes: Part of mauled magician's skull "removed"
Reuters' odd stylistic use of quotation marks around various words is legendary, and once again in this instance there is nothing ironic or peculiar about the word itself, or what was done to Herr Horn. Doctors actually did remove a portion of his skull to relieve pressure on his brain, in a procedure called a decompressive craniectomy. Anyway, it's good to see Reuters are keeping up the "good" work.
Arab Americans consider backing Democrats
Odd, but the article doesn't say what would happen if Joe Lieberman gets the nomination.
I'm just a caveman, who was frozen in a glacier, then was found and thawed out by your modern scientists, and then went to law school...
Boy, this one seems to have some legs--Prosecutor apologizes for 'cave' remark By ROGER ALFORDSomewhere in Lexington, Franfort, and New York, there are probably several apathetic, uninformed persons raging with anger that he just called them illiterate cave dwellers.
From my good friend Dino, a little quiz for all you kool kats.
Me? I turned out to be Joey. My doctor is wonderful. Once, when I couldn't afford an operation, he touched up the X-rays. Thanks folks, have a good evening and drive safely!
Calling Inspector Renault--Do-not-spam list probably won't work
Say it ain't so! But Wait, There's More!--Addiction to painkillers hard to overcome This is America, dagnabit! If we can put a man on the Moon, we ought to come up with addictions that are easy to overcome!!
Headline Fun-- Caterpillar sues over 'George of Jungle'
Yeah, I know it's the tractor company, but the image of Alice in Wonderland just keeps popping up.
"Could anyone be this stupid? Thank heavens, yes."
Oh, for the days when reality TV meant Perry Mason.
Hey, maybe Caddy's not so dumb after all...--Product Tie-In Advertising Withers For 'Matrix' III [...] GM's Cadillac division had to scotch much of its planned ad campaign around Reloaded because the brand did not have access to film footage. Its CTS and Escalade EXT were prominently featured in the film, but the deal initially had been structured to go beyond product placement to a full-scale integrated TV campaign. That didn't materialize.Blessing in disguise, guys. The ham-fisted product placement of the last one a) distracted greatly from the movie, and b) didn't make ANYONE want to buy a Cadillac. Now if they could just quit pumping out ads trying to be so hip in the, "I'm going through a midlife crisis and this is what I think hip looks like" mode, they might get somewhere.
Wow. That's a shock.--Ousted HealthSouth chief keeps silent at House panel hearing By MARCY GORDONOh, I'm sure there's probably a good reason... Fifteen former HealthSouth employees have reached plea deals with the Justice Department, including all five of the Birmingham, Ala.-based company's former CFOs. Scrushy hasn't been charged with any criminal wrongdoing; his lawyers have said they expect him to be indicted.Yep, that might be why he doesn't want to talk. "You have to rely, you have to trust people," he said during an interview Sunday on the CBS television program "60 Minutes." "I mean, you hire them. You pay them good salaries. You expect them to do the right thing." [...]Sounds like they have decided the right thing to do is cooperate with federal prosecutors.
Iraq resolution getting unanimous support By EDITH M. LEDERERApparently reckless unilateral warmongering cowboy imperialism for oil has a more subtle side.
I am a computer moron.
I freely admit it, without reservation. I vaguely understand the deal with 1s and 0s, and that electricity comes out of the wall into a box, and there's a typewriter thing, and a place to put shiny things that look like the exam mirrors that doctors used to wear on their heads. There's a TV, which is good, but it's small and I can't get my shows on it. I know only enough to make it do what I want, and the rest might as well be, and in fact, is, purest gibberish. I am strongly of the opinion that using one of these things ought to be like using a telephone. I shouldn't have to be Al G. Bell to make the derned thing work right. But. Still. I mean, come ON! I came in this morning, ready to print out my stuff for the Gigantic Fun BiWeekly Mailout. Envelopes, print. Minutes, print. Agenda, print. Cover letter, print. Hmm. The printer is right outside my door, and I can see that nothing is happening. ::sigh:: Go out there and see that someone--ah, wait, my supervisor--has been printing something. Grr. A 25 slide PowerPoint presentation I had done a few months back. Full of photos. And it had stopped because the paper was out. Which meant that he had started printing it last night before he left. Grr. (again) I stuck in some fresh paper and sat back down and just then he came walking in, passing by the printer and my door, "Is this thing printing MORE!?" "Uhh, well, yeah." I knew what was coming. "Exactly how many times did you tell it to print?" "Just once! And it printed out four last night!" ::sigh:: No, you didn't print it just one time. You kept hammering the print button fifty kabillion times. "I think you might have hit print more than once." And since it had all night to transfer however many copies over to the printer, there's no cancelling it from his computer. And since the computer guys have configured the printer so that it requires a password to delete jobs, it's going to just keep on going until kingdom come. It has now printed at least six more times. I just keep feeding the same paper back through to keep from wasting more paper. I may be computer stupid, but this is ridiculous. Wednesday, October 15, 2003
One of the bad things...
...about not having a whole lot of time to watch the teevee is that you miss out completely on hearing about really interesting shows, such as this three-part documentary on Winston Churchill, which will be shown on PBS, beginning tonight (starting at 7 pm on APT). I didn't even realize it was coming on, and we're going to be at church for the first part of it. Looks like someone is going to have to figure out how to use the VCR again. And by the way, if there ever was a person who gave lie to the idea that speeches written for publication do not sound good when presented orally, it is Winston Churchill. From The Churchill Centre, a collection of his greats speeches and quotes. Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar. May 19, 1940, London
Oh. My.
"Sixteen Candles," 16 Years Later By Sarah HallI can think of several right off the bat.
Bean Soup and Sheer Madness
It’s getting close to being our turn to take food to the family we go to church with—the momwife is still in a rehab facility recovering from near fatal injuries in a car wreck—so we’ve been making sure dadhusband and daughter have been having some regular meals. I got home last night and started fixing OUR supper which, due to the competing needs of getting the kids cleaned up and having to ignore the flats of pansies someone insisted we buy and plant, meant that supper was some thick potato and meat Campbell’s soup and ham sammiches. Fast enough to get everyone fed before they started gnawing on the couch cushions, yet just slow enough for the sun to set and preclude me having to go put on jeans and grab a trowel. Didn’t stop me from having to go to the store, though. As I said, we had a meal to do for our friends for Friday, and rather than waiting we decided to go ahead and knock it out last night…and what was it? Homemade soup. Go figure—we fix better for other folks than for ourselves. Anyway, the plan was to fix this recipe from the good folks at Hurst’s. There’s really nothing like a big pot of their HamBeen Black-Eyed Peas and cornbread on a cold day. Except for maybe that bag of 15 Bean Cajun soup. So, I loaded myself into the van while the kids started their nightly exercise in getting the floor soaking wet. Then I made a detour. I am a sick person. I need help. Monday when I dropped the kids off at the school, I noticed down off in the parking lot of a row of shop buildings along Highway 11 a car. Not just any car, but an old one. And not just any old one, but some sort of ’39 or ’40 coupe. Couldn’t tell quite what it was because I was going too fast and it was too far away and dark colored, but it looked like maybe an Olds or a Buick. And it bugged me. It had the look of a barn car—old, but straight—and my suppressed desire for something to tinker with was bubbling up again. No place to work on something, no spare cash for elusive no-longer-manufactured parts, tiny little brain. But I just had to go see what it was. Old car addiction really is a terrible sickness. So, before I went and got the soup fixings, I just had to go see what it was. I drove down into the darkened parking lot and pulled up alongside, just figuring to shine the old Maglite on it, satisfy my curiosity, and be done. Ah. Buick. Special. Missing upper fender marker lights. Flat tire. Bit of surface rust on the roof. Rubber gone on running board. Chrome weak but all there. Body straight. Glass intact. Oh, what would it hurt to get out? So I did, which is probably a good thing, because the interior looked like it had been home to a pack of wolverines, and it looked like somebody thought they were going to make themselves a hot rod at some point because there was a little set of cheapo gauges hanging under the dash. Both of those drawbacks threw some water on the fire. Still, with a little wo…NO! Bad. Bad bad. Buying someone else’s problems is not good. But, you know, being dain bramaged means that even when I got back in the van and went to the store, and picked up my soup mix and Italian sausage and onion and light bulb for Ashley’s bedroom and big box of detergent and took them all home, I still was on a pondering binge. ‘Cause, you know, I still didn’t know what year it was, and how much they might sell for in good shape, and such like. So, while Miss Reba and Oldest browned the sausage and cut up the onion and mixed all the stuff together in the big stock pot, I disappeared upstairs. Ostensibly, this was to change the lightbulb, and after finishing that task, snuck into the bedroom and started Googling around. Yes, I’m a sicko. Anyway, I figured out pretty quickly it was a 1940 Buick Special business coupe, and then trotted over to Hemmings and eBay Motors and found some similar ones which further dissuaded me from contemplating every getting one, and then figured I had nothing to lose by looking to see what I could find under the GM tent, and found a really interesting Poncho (owned by the proverbial little old lady), and then looked over at the Henrys, because my dad’s first car was a ’41 Ford coupe, and then decided that I needed to cut that mess out before I got caught by my children. How could I ever explain such a disease to them?! Oh, by the way, the whole house smells heavenly.
Declutterfying
Good advice from Larry up there in the Kudzu Patch: [...] I have decided that I will get rid of the things I never use. If it hasn't been touched in a year or so, I probably don't need it. Of course, that doesn't apply to my valuable collection of car magazines, National Geographic, out dated parts sales catalogs or my several musical instruments that I plan to learn to play someday, but the junk my wife saves goes.Larry is the bravest, or most foolhardy, man I know--anyone who would dare throw out junk belonging to his wife... AND, it seems Miss Janis has taken him up on the suggestion. Man, what's this world coming to? I suppose everyone will start tellling me I should get rid of my stick collection.
On to the runoff
Yesterday's election here in town drew a 37% turnout of registered voters and put our current mayor into a runoff with the president pro-tem of the City Council. The mayor got 32% to the councillor's 23%, and he was quick to proclaim that the result was a validation of his administration. Seems that a simple majority would be a much more telling validation, but you really have to put some spin on it to say it's good that 68% of the people who voted wanted anyone other than you. Your friends and supporters don't run against you, so it seems unlikely that a sufficient number of the voters who chose to support any of the other 17 candidates would suddenly swing back. Another annoyance for the current mayor is that the second place finisher has managed to not only gain the endorsement of The Birmingham News, she has also raised substantially more money. Usually, one of the benefits of incumbency is that it leads to more money flowing it, and it is telling that in this year's contest, that one crucial advantage is missing. The results of the race four years ago prove that money is not necessarily the thing that wins elections. In that race, the current mayor upset Richard Arrington's handpicked successor William Bell, who in addition to having a tremendous monetary advantage, was also given the benefit of several months of acting mayorship when Arrington stepped down months prior to the election. With Bell's defeat and the earlier defeats of initiatives to sell the Water Works and to pass a $700 million bond referendum to finance a domed stadium, the machine known as the Jefferson County Citizen's Coalition was brought to its knees as an effective political force. The grassroots effort that led to the ouster of the past administration over frustration about shady deals and personal enrichment and unresponsiveness is like any other group of otherwise disparate people that comes together for a single purpose (such as the one that turned out Gray Davis in California), but for such groups to continue to be a viable force, they must be maintained and nurtured, which has not happened in this election. The wicked witch was killed four years ago, and now the same voters who did it are trying to figure out if anything else worthwhile has been done since then. One thing that might swing things toward the sitting mayor are the voters who did not turn out yesterday. The 37% turnout is about 20% less than the highest turnout of registered voters the really interesting races get, and if they were all just sitting back to see what happens, they might decide to maintain the status quo. Unlikely, though. Opinion polls before the vote yesterday suggested only about a 29-30% preference for the current administration, which is just about the same percentage as he got int the election, so it doesn't seem likely at this time that the ones who didn't vote would be overwhelmingly for the current mayor. The runoff election is in three weeks, which does leave some time for fundraising and politicking. Up to now, the campaign has been low-key all around, but given the history around here, it will turn dirty pretty quick now that the targets are clear. Right now, it looks like the city might be close to electing its first female mayor, but three weeks is a long time and a lot could change. It'll probably be pretty interesting to watch. Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Let’s read my spam, shall we?
Just got this in my inbox. I have that Yahoo! thing that’s supposed to route spam to a big puke bucket, but occasionally some will get through (much to the consternation of Chet the E-Mail Boy, who says ‘Hi’, by the way). Today was something that almost bordered on being notspam, in that it contained actual information that I could cut and paste here before deleting the thing. To whit: Speaking/Presentation TipsUnless you make naughty movies, but I suppose that’s not what they’re talking about. 2. A speech that READS well will sound HORRIBLE. (You must write for the ear, not the eye)Well, I suppose if you can only have one or the other, it’s better for it to sound good, but sounding good and reading good are not mutually exclusive. 3. Don’t use a TelePrompTer unless you are willing to spend at least an entire day rehearsing. (If you don’t rehearse, you will sound like a boring, glassy-eyed, drone)I wonder how glassy-eyed people sound? I guess they mean you will sound and LOOK like the Algorenator. 4. Only use humor if it makes a point.And thus was Possumblog destroyed. Actually, this is a good point. Very few people are really, REALLY funny, especially when it comes to off-the-cuff remarks, which is what gets a lot of politicians in so much trouble. Speaking in public means that no matter how you might have intended it, there is always the distinct possibility that you will be misquoted or misunderstood. TV/Media TipsSorry, but to me, anyone who keeps talking the same message points over and over, whether it’s in just one, or in many different interviews, is just a derned crank. 8. Don’t say "no comment," unless you want this to appear as your sound bite/quote.Because “no comment” means “I’m guilty as the day is long.” Crisis Communications TipThat almost seems as obvious as “This Drycleaning Bag Is Not A Toy”, but you see folks try to do it every day. 10. If the subject matter is something you’d rather not talk about, you still need to call back reporters. Otherwise you can be made to look worse and will have no influence on the story.Surely they aren’t suggesting that journalists have biases?! Nah. Anyway, my bigger question is, “Is it wrong to plagiarize spam?”
Poor little things...
Someone just stumbled through the screen door searching for scottish terrier boxer shorts. It's not enough that Scotties have to put up with the indignities of...well, being a Scotty, and now someone want to go and put boxer shorts on one.
The heck with Martha Stewart--Smith & Wesson Sets Sights on Clothes, Home Decor CHICAGO (Reuters) - Looking for just the right duvet cover to match your .38 Super?I like it for no other reason than it will drive some people absolutely nuts with rage.
Los Alamos Lab Envisions Space 'Elevator'
Well, that's just FINE! I suppose this means they aren't even going to talk to me about my space escalator, or my space moving sidewalk, or my space steam locomotive. Dumb ol' scientists.
Fun with Referrer Logs!
Just got this in here this morning from someone using the Italian search engine Libero: He's so persuasive, and I'm his lady. Awwwww. And they for some reason came to Possumblog! Yes, I'll admit to being highly persuasive--I don't know if it's the prehensile tail, the opposable toe thumbs, the soft fur, the beady eyes, or the tiny walnut-sized brain, but no matter. I must confess my heart belongs only to Miss Reba. Whether she likes it or not.
I'm just an unfrozen caveman lawyer...
...your modern ways frighten me. Lawyer calls jurors 'cave dwellers' A little lesson on thinking first, talking second: The Associated PressTechnically, probably accurate--he wasn't saying that the good citizens of Pikeville ARE cave dwellers, just that due to the high level of publicity, the only way somebody could not know about the defendant and his crime is if they could not read and were cut off from all outside communication. Of course, nothing like a good witch hunt (almost as much fun as CIRCUSES!) Residents of the mountain region have long been sensitive to anything that smacks of the old hillbilly stereotype. And the furor that erupted last year over the planned CBS reality series "The Real Beverly Hillbillies" has made some even more vigilant.Yep--it was probably an inapt choice of words, but now it seems us redneck cracker hillbillies have now done clumb aboard the Victim of Vicious Verbal Discrimination Bandwagon, so that any poorly drawn analogy or stupid turn of phrase automatically rises to the level of Intentional Stereotyping of an Oppressed People, or even the dreaded Hate Speech. Eek. And it's interesting to note that nowadays it's not enough to simply call someone down for making such a remark, but we have to throw in a little class consciousness in there, too--the little crack about "buddies at the country club" fairly well smacks of the same stereotyping, and if you twist your panties enough, I think you could say that it's a slap in the face of Pikeville. How dare the Center for Rural Strategies intimate that THEY can't belong to a country club! Yes, the lawyer used a dumb analogy, but that's it. Get over it.
Is it just me...
Or has someone in the Chinese space agency been watching a few too many Star Trek bootlegs?
I might be getting a new boss--Birmingham chooses mayor today
For there to be a field that seems almost as crowded as the California governer's race (18 candidates, 4 of whom sit on the City Council), it has been relatively quiet, with not nearly so much dirty tricks and mud slinging as in past election cycles. The crowded field probably indicates some dissatisfaction with the current administration, who in a recent opinion poll only had about a 28% draw, about 10% higher than the next candidate, Councillor Smitherman. From what the fellows down at the barber shop are saying to my supervisor, it will probably turn out to be the current mayor and Smitherman in a run-off. Then, of course, there will be the mad scramble to garner support from the other candidates who didn't make the run-off, but going into the run-off with only about a 28% voter preference doesn't look particularly promising for the sitting mayor. Be interesting to see what happens. 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.
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