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, April 19, 2004

So anyway, as I noted in the comments below, I failed to heed the the GOYL's advice and take it easy this weekend, and set about the moment I got home to consult with the Oracle of Murray.

For those who are new, each mowing season is a time when I am able to vegetate for a couple of hours while being dragged around behind my lawn mower (a Murray self-propelled). It is during this time that I think deep thoughts (such as, why is it adherents of a certain so-called 'religion of peace' can't seem to find an equivalent to Martin Luther King, Jr. or Gandhi) as well as seek the enlightenment that can only come from inhaling carbon monoxide fumes and listening to a droning Briggs and Stratton; more or less similar to the way them ancient guys did it in Delphi. Well, without the engine noise. And fire ants.

Anyway, it was a very nice afternoon to cut grass--low humidity, moderate temperatures, little chirping birds, and I had decided to only cut the front yard because I didn't want to overtax my pinkie finger's patience. Done in no time, and the mower cranked on the first pull. Which put me in a wonderful mood, spoiled only by the discovery that one of the little juvenile deliquent darlings who use our yard as a shortcut to the street behind seemed to have made off with our sundial. Ha! Those naughty little rapscallions! You just want to give 'em a playful cuff on the noggin!

I suppose I made it too easy for them--it was only sitting on a pedestal, and not attached; and it was sitting right out there in the open, begging to be snatched. I suppose I should be grateful they haven't gotten anything else, considering all the bikes and yard tools I have the temerity to leave unattended in my own yard. And it wasn't really an accurate sundial--the gnomon was at a 45 degree angle, rather than the necessary 33O 38' 09"--so I'm hoping if they decide to use it that they will never be anywhere at the right time. (Actually, I'm hoping the curse that I attached to it will cause them to return it.)

Second problem is fire ants (say "far aints" for that authentic touch)--I have chased these boogers all over the yard (evidenced by about five hulking mounds of parched dirt where I've killed them off) but they just keep on coming back. Found two more live ones, and I'm all out of Amdro right now. Oh well. At least the little red devils never taken any of my lawn ornamentations.

As for the drone-and-unburned hydrocarbon-induced insight, one thing that keeps bothering me is the continual childishness of certain people who regard serious argument and debate to be equivalent of simply being contrary, and specifically being against anything President Bush says. At some point in here, Bush is going to say the sky is blue, and there will be a chorus of people saying he's wrong. (Or, more likely, that he lied.)

As comical as it may be when done by an English comedy troupe, or quite snappy when framed as a show tune, in real life you just come away looking like a snotty adolescent. There are a multitude of things upon which a reasonable person could dispute the Administration, and to not do so in favor of constantly vilifying Bush personally is not going to convince half the population you're right. Doing so only makes you look like a pimply-faced, backwards-hat-wearing schmoo. And my questioning of your tactic does not mean I question your patriotism; only your hold on reality.

But hey, I'm just a voter.

Time to empty the grass catcher and go do laundry. Which I did while Reba and the two older kids went to the story to stock up on stuff for the pantry and for Saturday's soccering festivities and Huntsville road trip.

About which, in just a while.

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