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Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.) Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu. This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things. Tuesday, February 17, 2004
More Ear Looking-At
More harried today than yesterday since I have to ONCE MORE drive across town and grab Youngest from school and schlep her back to town to the ear-nose-throat guy this afternoon. SO, I have to leave early, so I have to finish my work. Blech. One day, some bright young soul will figure out a way to make a good living for himself and his family by wasting time, but until then I need to close the door to my room and get this mess off my desk. I wonder if this is how Sisyphus got his start?
...Stunned silence from the crowd. Then a trickle of tepid applause amid a buzz of dismay. How dare a unknown owner-handled dog win!...
HAH! Take THAT all you snooty Westminster sorts! And many congrats to Mr. Hlatky and Field Marshal Montgomery and The Girls for taking home all sorts of doggy prizes--a glass of Kaopectate raised in toast to you all!
OOOH! I just got some more junk handed to me to do--be back after while to play.
UPDATE: And I also had a meeting to attend that I had conveniently managed to put out of my mind until I was rudely reminded of it by one of my co-workers. After now having sat through this hour-and-a-half Feast of the Jabberwock, I pine for simpler days, such as those found in old Looney Tunes cartoons, in which anvils would fall from the clear blue sky onto people who were bothering you. That would be nice.
A nice story...
From the Athens [Georgia] Banner-Herald about my old reenacting group, The Georgia Refugees, and their presence at the 225th anniversary of the Battle of Kettle Creek near Washington, Georgia. A good bunch of guys they are, and some of the best researchers around. Although I was one of the original members and ran our old website, I had to drop out a year or so ago due to not having any free time to go off and sleep in the dirt and in the cold. They have a new website now, but the old one still exists somewhere out there in the ether, and if you look in just the right place, you can find out what my friend Charlie and I look like all dressed up and ready to give the Tories what for.
Who needs electronic message boards!?
Our new-fangled eeeee-lectronical interstate signs are still being tested. I assume. They still only display the same little four-bulb dot in the lower right hand corner. However, they, or more correctly, their structural framework, does still offer some wonderful utility in passing along information. Just this morning, I passed underneath the one on I-59 in Roebuck and noticed that some intrepid soul named Dickie had managed to clamber up the framework and tied a big white banner to the right of the message board reading "Dickie [picture of a red heart]'s Trixie" in wistfully romantic-looking brushstroke script. Now despite the fact that adding an apostrophe and an S after the heart was both ungrammatical and unnecessary, you still have to give old Dickie an awful lot of credit for his scheme to convert state property to serve a more useful purpose. I know Trixie must have gotten a thrill. Monday, February 16, 2004
The Tender Story of a Man and his Marsupial
Speaking of Aardvarks, the one spoken of in the post below sent me this article from the Clark County, Washington Columbian: Opossum passion - Man and his beloved pet set out to change misconceptions This starts out good just reading the headline! Here's the story-- Friday, February 13, 2004
Cue the violins... Delivered by neighbors in a dish towel, the sable runt at first growled at Balzer as ferociously as she could displaying her small, pointy teeth. The Orchards resident soothed this frightened baby by slipping her into his shirt pocket, where she could feel his body warmth, like being in her mother's pouch. For days, weeks, months, Balzer coddled the infant he dubbed Dartyan (pronounced dar-tan-yan), That's because D'Artagnan is pronounced "LARCH."pre-chewing food for her before slipping it into her mouth, letting her nuzzle around his neck, sleep in his bed. I forgot to mention that if you are eating you should stop before you read this paragraph.Bonded by unconditional love, Balzer felt increasingly emboldened about their special man-marsupial relationship. The 35-year-old wanted to share those experiences. So he started taking his pet with him on errands, through Clark County shopping centers and parks and along busy streets. People he encountered haven't always been pleased. He's been called a freak and a fool. He's suffered through several shouting spurts of obscenities and disapproval, but he's also found a few who were curious, a few who were willing to question their perceptions. You know, I see a sit-com in this, sort of a cross between Will and Grace and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Animal Planet. Oh, and Friends.In turn, Balzer has become a possum preacher of sorts, telling and showing that the wild animal might not be the dirty, contagion-carrying aggressor of reputation. 'Might not be...' Ringing sort of endorsement, there. Dartyan, meanwhile, has grown to the size of a household cat. On a recent morning, she still was asleep inside a kidney-shaped denim purse when Balzer grabbed the bag from the back of his living room couch and began his day.
drove to a nearby convenience store. Once awakened, Dartyan slowly crept up Balzer's left arm, until she found a comfortable resting place on his shoulder, against his neck, with her pink nose continually sniff-sniffing. She can see only one inch in front of her during the day, two at night, Balzer remarked, so her senses of scent and touch are the best way to know that she's secure. You know, I've used that excuse, too, but all it gets me is a slap in the face. Causing a scene every time
As the customers gradually gather around to gape, a woman asks, "What's her name?"
Balzer responds, "People think they are disease-ridden. But they are not. They are not diseased at all. They actually are very clean and loving animals. ... They are a very harmless animal, if you don't do something to harm them." Much like alligators, great white sharks, and Komodo dragons.After getting his morning drink, Balzer wants to buy Dartyan a squirrel plush toy. Because, you know, any animal that cannot see more than one inch in front of its face really appreciates the subtle differences between a squirrel plush toy and a sock. Next stop: PetSmart, a big-box retailer where customers routinely bring along dogs and cats.
Shopper Elizabeth Muthandi, who suddenly looks up and discovers herself directly behind Balzer and Dartyan, starts wriggling in disbelief "Wriggling in disbelief"? Every time she doesn't believe something, she wriggles!? Lady, have I got an ex-president who wants to meet YOU! and stays back 10 feet or so, even as Balzer moves forward through the line.
Her 5-year-old son, Muthandi Murururi, responds, "Is that a mouse?"
Unassured, Muthandi waits until Balzer has moved a few feet past the register until she feels comfortable slipping past.
A family's bond to animals
As Balzer feeds Dartyan a hot dog and talks about her other favorite foods, including bananas, Doritos and McDonald's chicken nuggets, a pellet stove maintains the room at 80 degrees to help with his mother's arthritis. Everyone talks above the television noise.
Balzer is highly allergic to anything alcohol-based, including perfumes, he says, a disability that keeps him from holding a job for long. So he considers educating the public about opossums one of his prime purposes in life. I'm highly allergic to work--I wonder if that's the same thing?Hour upon hour daily he spends in his nearby bedroom, looking at information about animals, particularly opossums, on the Internet. If there's a fact, or even general observation, about opossums or their behavior, Balzer probably has read it and worked it into his spiel, which covers legal restrictions, their opposable thumbs, training potential, physiology and purpose in the grand cycle of life, earning the animal the nickname of "nature's little sanitation engineer." They also have more teeth than any other land animal, and they love cars.A recent Northwest arrival
Like any other domesticated animal might, Dartyan is expected to sleep on a pile of blankets at the foot of Balzer's single bed. She has a small, stuffed skunk to keep her company, but Balzer acknowledges that his pet often finds her way under his covers.
Just too derned confusing for me!
Sneaky bunch of aardvarks--going off and changing all the player's names like that! Good thing there's a handy glossary over at What's His Name's place, otherwise we might not figure out WHAT'S going on over at his wife's new shop! In any event, congratulations on the birth of a new blog, and on the handy coincidence that it shares the authoress' birthday! (Well, almost.)
Up early as usual, get everyone else rousted up, watch Weekend Today and see that Campbell Brown is in New Orleans to watch Mardi Gras kick off (even though Mobile’s is older, it gets short shrift, for some reason.)
Breakfast, van, church. The kids run to their classes, and I start making sure all the teachers are there, and find that the husband-and-wife nursery teacher team is absent. For about the third week in a row. And the backup teacher is visiting with friends somewhere else. And I begin to have bad thoughts about a couple of folks who came to me and VOLUNTEERED to teach that class, and whom I put in there, DESPITE my better judgment. You know, it says in Ephesians that it is possible to be angry and yet not sin, although I don’t quite think I managed it yesterday. At least I was able to find a backup-backup, who took it all in stride. Rest of the morning was uneventful, then we went to visit Oldest’s other set of grandparents for lunch (as always, less said the better) then back to the building for the older two girls to do their Bible Bowl practice. While they did that, I took Jonathan and Catherine with me to someplace we had not been in SUCH a long time. Wal-Mart. It had been over twenty-four hours, you know, and that’s just unheard of! Had to pick up a bag of chips and a drink for Ashley to take with her to the youth devotional, and while I was out I picked up an AutoTrader to start the Franklin replacement therapy. It’s going to be an interesting process--Reba seems to have quite a different take on what constitutes small and economical. I hope to convince her that a Ford Focus is more or less just like a BMW 3 series. They do, after all, have four wheels. We’ll see, I suppose. After evening worship, we decided to go eat at the new steak place there in Leeds while Oldest went to do her thing with the young folks. Nice place, Western motif, fast service, sorta pricey but kids under 10 eat free. Had just gotten sat down and ordered when our preacher and his wife popped over the back of the booth--they asked if this was our new replacement for the Ruby Tuesday, and we allowed that it was. Them too. He said they got the same horrible service we did, and decided not to ever go back. And then we saw someone ELSE there from church that used to eat there. And then our waitress came up later and said we looked awfully familiar and asked if we used to eat there. (Small world, you know?) She said she had worked there for a while, but couldn’t stand it. Go figure. Anyway, after the big family reunion it was time to head for home by way of the folks’ house where the youth devotional was being held. Got there at nearly 8:15, Oldest came out and said that she was ready to go because they still hadn’t eaten anything and it didn’t look like they were going to anytime soon. We stopped and got her an Arby’s, which she devoured like a hyena on a gazelle carcass. Home, bed, sleep. And here I am. And yes, the combined effects of constant road trips in dreary weather in a vehicle filled with restless, smart-mouthed children who see every conversation as a competitive event very nearly drove me stark raving mad. Ah well, amor vincit omnia. (Or mentis fugit.)
You know…
When you are a suave, sophisticated, sort like me, you have to be very particular what sorts of pants you wear. Not just any old trousers will do. Which is why we were fortunate to be near the regional shopping giant, the Riverchase Galleria, because there, Pants of a Good Sort may be found. Because there’s a JCPenney right there at the mall! And JCP (as we high-toned types call it) just happens to be about the only place I have found around here that carries Haggar Heritage slacks. This is important. You see, I am built somewhat oddly, something like a pyramid on stumps. This requires an inseam that is not quite in proportion to my waist size (which, in the so-called “normal” population, would require that my inside-leg measurement be approximately 72 inches long) and these particular pants are available in the appropriate size not only for my tiny little waddling legs, but also for my manly girthitude. BUT, that’s not all! Not only are these britches of the proper dimensions, but they are also free of the bane of all husky-sized men, the addition of pleats and cuffs. Good old plain front, no-cuffed slacks. Pleats only add to the horizontal massing of fabric, while cuffs make your stumps look even less lithe. FINALLY, they are constructed of a special polyester fiber that mimics the appearance of natural fibers to such an extent that in a black and white catalog photograph, they are virtually indistinguishable! (Depending on the light, of course.) Now while they might look like the most expensive wool gabardine on the planet (with your eyes closed) they do not require any care beyond an occasional fling in the washing machine and a tumble in the dryer, coming out looking the same as they went in. Except clean. Truly, they are miraculous pants. And they were on SALE! AND REBA HAD A COUPON! So, into the store we traipsed, straight to the Haggar display, where I joyfully picked not one, not two, but THREE pairs! Gray! And navy! And black! But that’s not all…it seems that while I was in pants heaven, Tiny Girl had set her sights on a coat. But not just ANY coat--I walked up to the rest of the crew, and Oldest nearly screamed at me that Cat had found a coat and IT COST $200! A waist-length, black rabbit fur model, with black suede trim. It was really a petite juniors coat, but it actually fit. But, obviously, a no-go. Anyone who can tear up a steel ball with a rubber hammer is just not to be trusted with dead animal pelts. That was, until I was urged to look at the price tag--it was only $35. Trying to get rid of all the winter stuff, I suppose. Or it was only worth $35 to begin with. Either way, it was a nice coat, and she doesn’t have anything for church, and she had already started to hug it, and pat it, and squeeze it, and call it George. So, an early birthday present for her. Onward then, back to the old home place, where it was time to visit K-Mart, where we purchased yet more Useful, Though Quickly Consumable Goods, and managed to find Little Bit yet another coat for $12 (to wear to school--I promise we don’t send her out the door naked, but she didn’t have a big coat with a hood, only a light fleece jacket.) A late supper at the fast junk food place, back home, get our purchases inside, then upstairs, and then… The navy pair of pants was the wrong size. And not too big, which would have been just fine, but too small, which won’t work at all. I tried my best to make SURE I got the right ones, and told myself I had double-checked before we left, but I guess I overlooked it. ::sigh:: No time to exchange them on Sunday, so I got to make yet another trip into the same crappy, drizzly weather that I had started out the day in. I did make sure to call the store at Century Plaza first, though, just to make sure they did have my size, and to ask them to hold out a pair for me. As if. Got there, and the ladies in the department had no idea what I was talking about. Rather than just letting me go on and go find them myself, one girl took it on herself to hold me there while she called he other desk, the hold desk, the desk desk and every other doggone place looking for Mr. O’Gary’s pants. “Oglesby.” “Right--do you have a pair of Haggar pants over there for Mr. Ogigbee? Ogigsby? Umhm. He says about thirty minutes ago he called. Umhm.” She hung up, “They don’t seem to have them, sir.” “Can’t I just go over there to the rack and and look?” Such stunning knowledge and foresight seemed to briefly addle her, but she recovered and allowed me to leave the desk and go hunting. One pair left. Whew. Took them back to the desk and got them swapped out, which only took TEN MINUTES. Them computers is great, you know. Home then by way of the grocery store, where I had to purchase MORE stuff. Baths for the kids, dry their hairs, clean out ears, spank them soundly, and put them to bed. I then put myself to bed alongside Miss Reba, and though I requested it, could not convince my mate to spank me, soundly or otherwise. Next: Endangering my Eternal Soul
Tuscany, Trussville, whatever
As I mentioned last Friday, I had to pick up the gift for Reba that she had been hinting for, and she had to get some mushy cards for her ruggedly handsome husband (that’s me, you know) and we needed Things, and some Stuff, and Articles, as well as some Objects. Thankfully, we managed to get all of that without too much effort, aside from having to pick our way around all the slack-jawed dudes with baggy jeans and backwards hats who were slowly picking their way through the aisles picking out just the right mylar mini-balloon for their chick du jour. (Now, lest any of you think I’m being hypocritical since I was right in there with them, please know that Miss Reba was given a lovely vase of a dozen roses earlier in the day, hand-delivered by her chubby hubby, commemorating the 13th year of our engagement--a gift that never ceases to produce much envy among her coworkers--which is almost like getting a second gift.) Out, into the van, home, to bed. Up early on Saturday. It seems that Miss Reba has been saddled with yet another task at her workplace, entailing having to drive to Columbiana twice a week, in addition to her once-every-other-week trip to Oneonta. SO, we had to go do a pre-run to see where she was supposed to go, which would be combined with a trip to see my mom, a shopping trip for me to buy some pants, and a shopping trip to pick out a couple of birthday presents for a certain Tiny Girl who will be turning seven on Wednesday. Managed to get everyone up and into the van and ready for the journey. But first we had to stop for breakfast. You know, kids sure eat a lot. NOW THEN, on the road, off to the wilds of central Shelby County. Uneventful, gray, drizzling. Took the Calera/Montevallo exit from the interstate, a left on U.S. 31, then a right onto Highway 70. Hard-edged, rough-looking country-- too flat to be scenic, too hilly to plow easy. And not a lot in the seven miles between the traffic light and the office--one little gas station and that was it. It’s a road straight out of a Flannery O’Connor short story and it gave me the creeps. I tried not to let on, but it’s worrisome. Total distance, 48.8 miles from our house. Quite a haul, although she does get mileage. But when added to the other trip to Blount County, it looks like some vehicular rearrangement is going to be in order. Her Honda van, although nice and comfortable, is a very thirsty conveyance and putting an extra 200 miles a week on it is not A Good Thing. Since she’ll be leaving so early that she won’t be dropping the kids at school, we probably need something smaller for those single-purpose type trips as well as our other running around, which means… Goodbye, Franklin. Yep, he’s been a good one, and even though I debated setting him out to pasture at the end of last year and talked myself out of it, it is probably the time now. I will miss him and his exploding exhaust, his reeking stench of raw gasoline and mildew, the scratchy sounds of his cheap $15 radio, and his anvil-like reliability whether he's hauling firewood or crusher run gravel or just me to the hardware store. It is time, though. I will make sure he goes to a good home. Oh, fer cryin’ out loud. It’s just a dumb old truck. Anyway, the replacement will have to be small and reliable and economical and affordable which is rarely the recipe for something with endearing oddball character, but I suppose I will just have to make do. Maybe I’ll dress it up with some chrome dub-deuces (you know, the big 22 inch Conestoga wagon wheels) and an underbody neon kit and a coffee can muffler… Well, that’s still down the road a few weeks, still gotta sell Franklin right now, so if any of you are in the market for a nice, straight ’82 F100 with 256,000 original miles on it, let me know. As for the rest of Saturday, after our trip to the backwoods we turned around and headed over to the ritzy side of the county to see my mom for a bit. Don’t get to do that enough, but it was fun and the kids behaved themselves with admirable restraint. We talked, Oldest read, Reba snored, the younger two played with Lego blocks, and Middle Girl listened intently as my mom related the news. One of my cousins had some copies of some old photos made and had given them to my mom, which was pretty neat. One was of my great-great grandmother--a hand-tinted photo showing her in what was supposed to be an Indian dress (she was Cherokee), although it was hard to tell from the photo exactly what was going on with it. Another is a photo of my great grandfather and his prodigiously-sized family--grim, sitting or standing around stiffly in the broomyard in front of their homestead, with an image of my grandmother Effie over to the far right. I never have seen a good picture of her, and this one was no better. Everyone else could be distinguished, but her face was a blur. The last picture was of my granddad. He was standing in front of a 1950s car with another man, each of them holding a little thin cane and sporting a set of scruffy whiskers. The story is that they were doing this in commemoration of the Town of Cordova 1957 Centennial. I guess beards and canes were what people in 1957 thought of when they imagined people in 1857. It was interesting to look at my Papa Gilbert, as we called him. In his younger days around 1920 or so, he had a photo made with his brothers, and he and I are dead ringers for each other. In the 1957 photo, he was gray, but still full of life, with a glint in his eye that seemed awfully familiar. Be interesting to see how I turn out. It got to be time to go, so we said our goodbyes and headed off for the next stop… PANTS!
Romantic Vittles
I’m sure someone, somewhere was having them. ON the other hand, Miss Reba and I had to partake of our supper with the results of our previous amorous couplings, which tends to be less than romantic. Believe it or not. We went back to the house to pick up Oldest and drop off the spare vehicle and drove toward the lights and glamour of North Chalkville Mountain Road, with its rows of swanky eating establishments such as Applebee’s and Lone Star and Taco Bell and Waffle House and Cracker Barrel and Chevron and BP and Shell. On past those to Ruby Tuesday (non-Leeds version) where we were greeted with absolutely no place to park. No big loss. On up the hill to Bennigan’s, which was actually more convenient to our ultimate destination for later in the evening, Wal-Mart. Seeing as how they have hamstrung themselves with their past reputation for poor service, we were able to park right by the front door and walk in and get seated with no wait. Just a few tables were occupied, which is probably just as well, because if it had really been jumping we would NEVER have gotten our food. Our server was very nice, and was occasionally even attentive to our needs. And despite her niceness and occasional interest in us, the food was still late getting out. At least it was hot. I found that I made both a strategic and a tactical error in requesting something different to dip my chicken strips in--it came with some disreputable-looking honey mustard (I suppose) sauce, and I requested some bleu cheese dressing. She brought me back a thimbleful. I was going to ask for a regular-sized bowl like the honey mustard came in, but she was gone in a flash. (I suppose she had someone in the kitchen to chat with about something more important.) I managed to get her attention one more time and, not getting the hint, she brought out yet another thimbleful. ::sigh:: I should have just asked for the bucket. Then again, had I eaten that much, I might have become even more ill than I became later on in the evening. Whatever she put in those thimbles had some company--probably some kind of virus or germ or other biological contaminant--but whatever it was, it had a very unpleasant effect on my innards. I’m just glad I was at home when it hit and not in Wally World. That would have been bad. We finished up and the girls all took off for the bathroom, leaving Jonathan and me there to ponder life’s mysteries. “Why do they always go to the bathroom together, Daddy?” “Well, you see, Son, back in caveman days, you had to be careful when you went to the bathroom so that you didn’t get eaten by a lion or saber-toothed tiger or bear or mammoth or something while you were sitting there in the woods. Guys don’t take a long time, so there’s not much danger, but girls take so long that they needed some extra help to act as lookouts and to have someone to talk to. It’s just one of those behaviors that gets passed down through the generations.” “Really!?” “Nah. There’s a machine in there that gives away money.” “REALLY!?” “Y…no. I don’t know why, Buddy, they just like to do that. Get used to it.” “Oh.” They finally got back and it was time to head out for our next stop. Let me just say that you have lived but little until you have shopped at the Wal-Mart on Valentine’s Eve. Next: Shoppin’
Brace Yourself
Sadly, not an option, as I happened to find out. Got away from here and made the Trussville run and decided to go ahead and go to the school and pick up the kids. Reba was in meetings all day, and I never quite know when she is going to actually leave on time, so rather than chance it, I went ahead to the school. Afterschool care is in the gym, and when I got there it was just after school had let out, and it was full of screaming kids running around like the Tasmanian Devil. Catherine came running up, and I made her go use the bathroom, not knowing that she had already had an accident in her pants. (Should have known--she had her coat tied around her waist.) Boy was next into the gym, and came trotting over to me to tell me all about his day. At least I think that’s what he was saying--hard to tell with all the noise. About that time Reba came in, with a perplexed look on her face and asked why I was there. “Well, you know, sometimes you get out of those meetings late and, well, you know...” She didn’t. It’s as if all the memories of all the other times this particular sort of thing has happened were completely erased from her mind, and all she was left with was the idea that I was impugning her ability to be somewhere on time. Hey, you don’t stay married as long as I have by doing any of that impugning stuff, so I reassured her that I was just operating as backup in case something went awry, and NO sort of insult to her timely abilities was intended. So, we stood there and waited on Rebecca to get in from her Safety Patrol duties, and after an interminable wait dodging flying balls and feral children, we had our crew together and ready to go out the door. The older two rode with Mom and I got Miss Soggy Pants (who had changed in the restroom while we waited on Bec) and we drove over the hill to the tooth-straightening place. Nice little office with a wonderful view of the vacant lot next door covered in soppy red clay, came in, signed the sheet, sat down, and the kids almost immediately began competition over an X-Box there in the waiting room. Which would not have been so bad had it not been for the presence of members of the general public, none of whom had paid for a wrestling exhibit. I hate it when my kids act like those kids that you say, “Boy, I’m glad those aren’t MY kids or I’d lay into ‘em like nobody’s business!” I started to say that aloud, except everyone saw them come in with me, so it was hard to deny they were mine. The second recourse would have been to into my lunatic redneck act, which is usually equal parts entertaining, embarrassing, and effective. However, it just doesn’t go over as well when I’m wearing a tie and wingtip oxfords. SO, I had to do the next best thing of just making Jonathan go sit with Mom while firmly scolding him in voice that made him sulk, but didn’t quite shut off his urge to be the boss of the video game. Cat and another little kid had grabbed the controller, and Boy was a constant stream of snotty advice--“NO, not like THAT! You’re doing it WRONG!” I finally got him to shut up, but not before having to employ the whispered-in-the-ear threat of intense physical discomfort. He still sulked, though, but at least he was quiet. It was finally his turn, and he perked up a bit. We were ushered back to a bright, cheerful room by a cute little round pregnant blonde girl who had a baby woman voice just like Debra Jo Rupp, the mom on That ‘70s Show. She was very nice, although my aural tastes run more toward the Jessica Rabbit end of the scale. A moment later the wire guy showed up, and seemed to be any awfully happy, though tightly-strung sort of guy. I suppose shoving your hands in peoples’ mouths will do that. Anyway, he chatted with Boy for a bit, found out that his daughter and Boy are in the same grade at school (although Jonathan didn’t know her) and then got on with the exam. He found a pot of gold in there. Luckily, I can pay to have said pot of gold removed in installments, and my insurance will cover part of it. Yippee. He hopped up from his stool and was on to his next patient while Baby-Voice Girl stayed behind to fill us in on all the particulars while I kept thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for Boy’s to keep his wavy little English teeth. Nah, I guess not. Set up the next appointment, which will require a ransom payment, and then we were off for MORE EXCITEMENT! Next: Valentine’s Supper!
I'm typing...
...therefore, I must not be dead. The reflection in the mirror this morning, however, would tend to indicate otherwise. But, here I am, and there you are, which means that either I owe you money, or you're waiting to hear all about the weekend. You'll have to give me a bit of time in either instance, although I can promise you will have one before the other. Sadly, the one that is more readily available cannot be used to purchase breakfast. BUT, what I can give you are ripping yarns of Braces, Eating Out, Wal-Mart D'Amour, Driving to Columbiana, And Back, Seeing Mama'n'em, Buying Pants, Eating Out, Returning Pants, Groceries, Bad Thoughts in Church, Driving Some More, Wal-Mart Again, Where Everyone Started Going Instead of the Ruby Tuesday in Leeds, and I am Completely Insane. Check back in a bit. Friday, February 13, 2004
To the weekend...AND BEYOND!
Well, it's been an interesting week, but it's time to stop all this nonsense and head toward home--not that it's quitting time, 'cause it's not, at least not officially--but I do have to head out to go meet Boy and his sisters and his mommy at the orthodontist to see how much it's going to cost me to insure his grille is nice and shiny and straight. ::sigh:: Oh well, it's only money. But, you know, they have every other thing in the world for doing stuff at home, seems like they would have a home orthodontia kit. They say there's the instructions on how to make a homemade nuke out there on the Internet, yet for some reason, nothing that would help ME. Figures. Maybe I could convince Oldest to be an orthodontist, and she could work on all of her siblings. Of course, that'll take some time, and Boy may have the mouth of Tony Blair by then. I guess we're stuck. Although, I DO have some baling wire... As for Valentine's Day stuff, it's going to be an off-year for swanky dinners and such this weekend due to the amount of other stuff we have to get done. Although there was a secret, surprise delivery of a wad of smelly flowers to Reba's desk at lunch today by a large, rather dim, but good-hearted fellow who likes her very much. You know, even though she's a girl and all. And I promised I would get her Under the Tuscan Sun on DVD, because she really liked it and when she really likes a movie it is usually a positive thing for me, which is why I put up with going to see chick movies. So, I'll be seeing you all again next week. Have a great weekend and a Happy Valentine's Day.
Former Guardsman says Bush served with him in Alabama By ALLEN G. BREED
Not that any of this matters to people who simply hate George Bush because he exists on the same planet with them. Some folks are just that way, and would much rather believe a comfortable untruth that anything in the world. Which is fine, but it doesn't really make you look very intelligent. It's also no way to win an election.
One of the things I missed in the last few days due to stupid old work was the fact that all you folks who have grown to love watching race truck driver Tina Gordon shill for Sticks-N-Stuff (ONLY $299?! WOOOO!) will have to readjust your brain--last week it was announced that she has a new sponsor, Vassarette, a maker of ladies unmentionables.
They had a big media deal down in Daytona last week, and she was there in her race jumpsuit (no NASCAR driver can EVER be seen unless shown in a driving suit, you know) with her vee-hickle and a bra in her hands. Flashbulbs and microphones and television cameras and all that. One of our local guys had an interview with her, and she was noting that a lingerie-maker sponsorship like this makes sense from a marketing perspective since "40% of our fans wear panties and bras." Now, judging by what I hear goes on down in the infield, that 40% figure might be a bit high. 'WOO!', as Tina might say. This really COULD be interesting if she ever actually won a race--you know how drivers keep changing sponsor hats during the post-race interview? Well, changing underwear would be much more interesting.
Miss Janis was just messing with me because I mentioned to her that her menu of vittles for tomorrow sounded awfully good, and that I had never had crayfish pie before. Obviously, I should have written CRAWfish, because even though I pronounce it like that, I wrote it as CRAYfish, and because of that Miss Janis acted like she didn't have no idea what I was talking about.
I can't help it--it's just a part of my educational experience from being down at Auburn, where they spell it that way. One thing's for certain, if I ever do get me some made up into a pie, I'm going to make sure they are some of these blue-and-orange ones! Now, you Sportsman's Paradise dwellers may know how to spell it right, but I bet you ain't got no purple-and-gold crawdads! So there.
You know, there are times when I get flustered at having an uncommon surname. Then I see headlines like this...Commissioner Jockisch arrested on state charge
Little bit of Cruex should clear that right up.
Maybe we'll get to go this time...Olympic soccer women to return DOUG SEGREST
The World Cup teams have played a some exhibitions the past couple of years here, but we haven't gotten to go for one reason or another and the kids have really wanted to. We'll see what happens.
Got Disinfectant?
Thank goodness none of the kids got sick. It reminds me of the time that I had come home from Auburn for the quarter break. Long sort of drive, 2 1/2 hours, and hot, and tiring. I got there while my mother was still at work, and I spied a two liter bottle of Sprite there beside the cabinet. In my haste to get something to drink, and because old drinking-out-of-the-container habits die hard (especially if you know your mom has NO WAY of catching you), I picked it up and took a big long gulping swig of...of...urpUUUrrrr...UHHHHGGGGurp something clear, but definitely not full of Limony fizz. It was horrid, and then I saw on the label in faded blue ballpoint ink, "Plant Food," lightly written in my mother's elegant handwriting. AAAAHHHHH! I DRANK PLANT FOOD! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! After much dramatic heaving and dilution, I realized that I had to let Mom know, even if it meant admitting that I had been drinking out of the bottle. I think, on some level, she kinda enjoyed that.
Halliburton Accused of Wasting Tax Money
Congress in Uproar--Accuse Halliburton of Moving in on Their Turf
For the past two years I have posted a longish essay on each February 14 about a particular woman I know. I don't know if I'm just not creative enough to come up with anything different, or if I just got it right the first time, but after reading it again, I honestly can't figure out anything else to say about her. SO, in the spirit of the season, here it is again, even though February 14 is still a couple day away.
I never really remember meeting my wife. We more or less grew up going to church together, so I’ve sorta always known her. We went to different grade schools and high schools, and we never socialized outside of church, but we always were friends. She is two years older than me, and with my immense adolescent awkwardness and shyness, I never worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date. But she would always save me a seat in Sunday school. And I would always sit with her. Her name is Reba. The first time I ever had one of those pubescent rush-of-hormone moments was because of her. One Sunday when we were waiting for class to start, she was standing at the door talking to her dad. She had on a sleeveless blue dress. Just a plain, A-line, to the knee, homemade, God-fearing polyester church dress. But I couldn’t look away from those soft, pale, naked arms. I can still feel my ears turning red, and trying to make sure my Bible was firmly placed across my lap to cover the embarrassing results of my wandering eyes and the machinations of my limbic system. We grew up together, through junior high and high school, and my mom would pester me to ask her out. I always scoffed and said it would be like dating my sister. Reba went off to college at Jacksonville, and then I graduated a couple of years later and eventually went off to Auburn to study architecture. Whenever we would meet up again in those years, it was always at church. We would talk, although I can’t remember any of our conversations. She would always sit on the pew behind my mother and me. In my third year at Auburn, I got to spend a quarter studying in Europe, and my mom told me that she would ask about me every week. But, I was still in school, and semi-stalking another girl, and well, you know. I finally made it out of Auburn with two degrees and a minor in business, after going to school for five straight years—twenty complete quarters, breaking only for a two week respite in my very first quarter there, due to my father’s death. I moved back home; bone tired and lonesome. I started my first job two weeks after I got back and started the next chunk of my life, which was centered on passing my licensing exam. Not much time for socializing, although some of my well-meaning coworkers would allow their wives to use me as a test case for their unmarried girlfriends. There had to be something better. Since I was back home, I had started going back to our old church again with my mom. My wife-to-be had gotten a job at a local hospital, and wasn’t around a lot. But I had finally decided that I even though I was still awkward and shy, dadgummit, I was going to ask her out. Then I learned why she had not been around much. Seems she had starting dating an acquaintance of mine, and he had asked her to marry him. I went to their wedding, which was held right there at our old church. I have no remembrance of it at all; even watching the video of it I cannot remember anything of it. I guess I was trying hard to forget it. She and her husband left and went on their honeymoon. When they got back, they moved to the other side of the county and moved to another church. A few months later, she was pregnant. I was at work one day when I got a call from my best friend in high school. “Rick died.” I couldn’t say anything except to keep saying ‘no.’ 29 years old. Married six months. Baby due in five months. Dropped dead of a heart attack. The funeral, I do remember. There was a group of us who had all run around together in high school, and Rick had been one of the group. When I got there, all of the rest of the guys were just standing there, silent and somber. Reba sat back behind a curtain with her girlfriends on either side of her. She had a wad of tissue in her hands, which were crossed across her small pregnant belly. I didn’t really know what to say—what came out was something like “This may sound stupid, but no matter how bad you think this is, it will get better.” I reminded her of her family, and the folks at church, and that I would help watch out for her, too. Some time passed, and she started coming back to church at our old place. She grew and grew, and I made a point of finding her every Sunday she was there at church to talk to her. And to flirt. She tells me now that she thought I was crazy for telling her she looked good pregnant. Despite all that had gone on over the years, to me she was still that girl in the blue dress, leaned up against the door of the classroom. And whether I had ever wanted to admit it to myself or not, I was, and had always been, very deeply in love with her. On March 27, 1990 her baby was born. From then on, I had to flirt with both of them. Which I did, rather shamelessly. In December of that year, the moment finally arrived. It was time for my office Christmas party. A couple of weeks before time, I sidled up to Reba at the card rack at church and pretended to be looking for something. I asked her to the party. She said yes. We went, and had wonderful time. A week later, we had a second date, ostensibly to look for a kitchen table for me. After that, we have rarely been apart for longer than a day. 11 years ago today, I asked Reba to be my wife. Since then, we’ve been through a lot. Another wedding. Passing my registration exam. Three more kids. Two houses. Five vehicles. Moved to three different school systems. Three job changes between us. More college for both of us. More deaths in the family, and more births. A couple of wars. Three presidents. We even moved to a different church. 11 years, and it seems like only yesterday. And to this day, I still have to be very careful when I see that she is wearing a sleeveless dress. So Mrs. Oglesby, Happy Valentine’s Day. And thank you for saying yes.
ANOTHER One
Just got here after having to meet on site with our architect for the dumb old canopy deal. At least it wasn't raining. But it was cold. Not that I really have ANY reason to complain about the weather--earlier this week I was corresponding with Toni Albani, Possumblog's Minnesota Correspondent, and the subject turned to the weather. Or not thinking things through. Or something. IN ANY EVENT, seeing as I now have more junk to get done this morning, and that I think that making fun of someone else's misfortune is wrong (yet still entertaining), with Toni's permission I will post the tale she sent me, which fulfills the necessity of entertaining blog content with absolutely no work on my part. Hey I got a story of the dumb and stupid for ya.Oh please don't let it be about me oh please don't let it be about me oh please don't let it... Last night I went to let TinkerWHEW! It's about Toni! Or Tinker. out to do her businessYou know, I think I would find Tinker a business that can be done indoors, like accounting or homeopathy or something. But that's just me. and the sliding patio door was REALLY sticking (I think it's from ice melting into the tracks).As well as a part in the Iron Range Community Theater Three Stooges Revival! Only problem is I can't get it open again enough for me to squeeze through!!!Ummm. Yeah. I think I will stay where everyone swears they're gonna die because it's gotten down to 39 degrees. Thursday, February 12, 2004
ALRIGHT THEN!
Here’s you a ding-derned story! Oh, I'm just joking, it’s not really that bad. As a good bureaucrat, I have become comfortable in the role of mushroom (you know, as in, “keep ‘em in the dark and feed ‘em manure”), so getting a buttload of stuff dumped on me that I have NO idea about, nor any inkling about what decisions have already been made about, nor any clue about to whom I am to report, nor what the schedule is--aside from it being INCREDIBLY URGENT--is not really that big of a deal. You get your tape measure, your clipboard, your pencil, your calculator, and get to work. We’re doing a bit of freshening up on an old storefront canopy project done 25 years ago--at the time, it was probably pretty rad and hip, but time, pigeons, and the elements are not kind to exposed steel framing and translucent plastic panels. [We interrupt this story for something almost entirely unrelated: At the Bad Place where I used to work, one of the other building tenants had made a small sign and put it in the little front patio area. It said, “Do Not Feed The PIGONS!” Every time I saw that sign, all I could think of was, “We must let pigons be pigons.” And it just made me giggle like a madman, even though it’s not that funny.] Anyway, back to what I was doing--we’re going to take off the plastic, sandblast everything in sight, paint, new metal roofing, new lights, and run away. But before that, I had to go and do a rough estimate of how much it’s going to cost, which is ALWAYS fraught with peril--too much, and everyone says to forget it because it’s too ‘spensive, not enough and everyone wonders why you’re such a friggin’ idiot. And I had to get it done NOW. So I did. (One of the benefits of also having a degree in building construction is learning how to do estimating. And how to be creative on writing change orders.) So, I went out and wandered around in the miserable wet cold looking like an awfully gooberish white guy and did some quick measuring and cogitating and hunkering and scribbling, came back and did some figuring, went to the library to look at cost data, came back and figured some more, and typed it all up and slid the finished product into my boss’s chair, being careful not to disturb the body. NOW, it’s time to get the OTHER stuff done I am supposed to do--you know, getting the barn ready for the BIG SHOW!! AND WISH JANIS GORE A HAPPY 47TH BIRTHDAY! (Happy birthday, Miss Janis!) Maybe tomorrow will be a bit less hectic. Wednesday, February 11, 2004
As I feared...
...today is going to be a blog washout. First, a two-hour meeting that resulted in a huge stack of paper to be sorted through, which is added to the circumstance that developed yesterday of being up up Crique D'Ordure between a rock and a hard place without a paddle as alligators chomp at my large furry butt and, with their constant thrashing, fling brown matter into my handy onboard rotating-blade air circulation device. In other words, I have a lot to do, and little time to get it done. SO, check back in later on in the week and see if I get it done, or decide to slag off and just blog and not worry about it. To tide you over until then, I will let you all know that Oldest had a band concert last evening, which was very enjoyable. They did a wonderful job, and played one of my favorites, the title music march from The Great Escape. Gotta love that Steve McQueen! I mean, you know, as an actor. Like that. Nothing else, so you just hush. Anyway, it's always an evocative toe-tapper, just like the whistling march from Bridge on the River Kwai. Even more entertaining than that was the moment I looked around at Catherine during the previous band's performance. She tapped my arm and looked up at me, and I saw that she was flaring her nostrils in time to R.W. Smith's arrangement of "Furioso." You know, that's not something you see every day. Anywho, I got junk to do, so I'll see y'all later. Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Work...
Intrudes once again. Tomorrow is our regularly scheduled regulatory regulation meeting, and then afterwards will be some sort of field trip to the hinterlands north of here to look at something dilapidated. Whee. So, tomorrow will see light to nonexistent blogging here, although every other single person in the entire world will be posting something, so it's not like there's nothing out there for you to go read. (Although I doubt any of it has the same devil-may-care, insouciant, blitheriness as what you see here, which means that you shouldn't stay gone too long.) SO, go check out the blogroll, or if you dare, my
Possumblog's Gopher State Correspondent and Lutefisk Consultant Toni Albani (hi Toni) just sent me a link to a disturbing Fraters Libertas post from yesterday.
I may be mental, but I can safely say I never sing Billy Joel songs in the shower. (Unless, you know, it's something like "Uptown Girl," and then only because Christie Brinkley's in it. The video, not my shower.)
Say what you want...
...but we do have good tap water. I searched for the actual survey over at Men's Health, but couldn't find anything. Then again, I didn't really look that hard, because of all pictures of guys with shiny, hairless bodies. Rather ironic, given the number of hair growth ads on there.
Well, you know it had to come to this!
Jackson Suit Dropped First, it's just a part of her clothes, and now it's EVERYTHING!
Three Wise Men May Have Been Neither Wise Nor Men
Maybe not, but "The Indeterminate Number of Stupid Girls" just doesn't have the same ring to it, now does it?
Barbecue Judging
Mrs. Watson wonders: How, exactly, does one become a "certified barbeque judge"? And where do I send my application? Obviously, since barbecue is the most important thing in the world, it only stands to reason that there are all sorts of standards and stuff with which one must comply in order to be considered a real conoissooee. This site has a nice succinct run-down of what it takes to do a good job as a judge, and what all goes on at a pig-smoking contest, and this one goes into a bit more detail, including some sample quiz questions.Now then, the whole problem as I see it is that while being a judge allows you to eat all kinds of barbecue, it also requires you to be a responsible citizen, and it means having to deal with the inevitable sore losers and jerks, which would seem to take some of the fun out of it. It being such a big deal also makes you wonder if there is someone in Competitive Barbecueing who is the equivalent of Dick Button. I wouldn't think so, given the amount of knives about, but you never know.
Back at it.
Last evening was the official kick-off of the spring soccer season. Catherine’s coach still hasn’t called, but Boy’s did, and Middle Girl has already been practicing off-and-on for a while now. Her practices have been a bit catch-as-catch-can; since they weren’t mandatory, sometimes it would only be one other girl and her and the coach. Last night they were all back and ready to rumble, and it was nice to see them all again. Although a bit strange, too--I am always so antisocial as well as bad with names that it took me a second or two to remember everyone’s mom or dad’s name. Oh well, maybe they’re used to me by now. I set up my folding chair at the top of the hill by the walkway where I could see both his field and Rebecca’s, bundled up as best I could and read my newest issue of Automobile magazine. I didn’t think it was going to be so cold--it was downright temperate when we left the house, but an hour in and it was cold. Thank goodness the wind wasn’t blowing. Jonathan is going to be on the same team he was before, which is rather disappointing seeing that it’s still the same batch of little miscreants. He got awfully excited at first though--they had a skills session for the kids on all the teams in the club, and a little girl he knows from school was there. After that part of practice was over, he came running up the hill, “DAD! DAD! Megan’s gonna be on MY team!” “Huh?! Buddy, are you sure about that? You’re going to have a co-ed team?!” “YEAH! And Megan’s gonna be on MY team!” Then he had to go pee. He got back out and his coach had gotten his team together for the rest of practice, and sadly, I was right. “Bud, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re team is the same as it was--the first part of practice was for kids from all the teams, and Megan was just here for that. She’s not going to be on your team.” “Oh.” Poor little fellow. But he trotted on back down the hill and practiced anyway. I retook my chair and read some more, and once again tried to figure out why Robert Cumberford thinks it necessary for him to talk down to his readers. There was an article about the Detroit Auto Show, in which he offered his short takes on the styling of the various prototypes. One description in particular jumped out when he wrote something like, ‘this design is a “cartoon” (go look up the definition) of a blahblah’ whatever car it was. Now then, Bobster, I know what the definition of “cartoon” is when speaking of art--it’s a full-size rough sketch or model. But you know, I wouldn’t presume that everyone knows that, and so if I were going to go ahead and use the word anyway, I think I would be a bit less snotty about it and just explain in what sense I meant it. And while where on the subject of overweening silliness, I still say the BMW iDrive concept is wonderful as long as the car is stationary. But the idea of having to click through more than one option to turn the radio or heater on while underway is ridiculous. Sometimes, a purpose-built tool is better than something that combines all the functions in one, no matter how cool the interface might look, or how smoothly the knobs turn. A Swiss Army knife is one of those things everyone thinks is just the ultimate in function--I mean, it has a knife, fork and spoon built right in! And they’re so pretty and shiny! But if you’ve ever actually USED one, you quickly realize that you can’t use the knife and fork at the same time. And the handle is too big for comfort. And the metal, while very hard and shiny, is brittle and apt to pop off a blade end or a tine with little provocation. I’m sure there are probably a few of you out there who have a Bimmer with this knob, and probably even one or two of you who just LOVE it--if so, I’d love to hear your experience with it. My own prejudice against such nonsense was the touch screen computer in my mother’s 1986 Riviera that (aside from the car itself being an overall steaming pile of crap) relied on similar menu-searching for climate control and the radio and other such items. Look down, find right icon, touch screen. Look up to keep from rear ending someone. Look down, make sure you pushed right button, look for next one. Look up to keep from, etc. But it’s still easier just to turn on a radio knob. Anyway, enough of that garbage--Boy finished up his practice and got himself a Ring Pop from the concession stand, after having to endure a multitude of good-natured inquiries from the staff about the number of girlfriends he has. He loudly assured everyone that it was HIS Ring Pop, and he was going to eat it all by himself. We went back down and he sat in my chair and we watched Rebecca’s team play, and they finally finished up a bit after 8. Home, homework, baths, to bed. One practice down, a jillion to go.
Obscure, Somewhat Naughty-Sounding Architectural Term of the Day
CONURBATION. A term used in town planning to denote a group of towns linked together geographically, and possibly by their function, e.g. the towns of the Black Country or the Potteries. The word was first used by Patrick GEDDES about 1910. From the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition.Darn it all, Dr. Reynolds already used that one yesterday--let's try this one... Powee! Intruder Shot but Furniture OK in Calif. RANCHO CORDOVA, Calif. - A 53-year-old woman who fired nine shots with two handguns to ward off an intruder said she tried to avoid hitting her furniture.
I'd say so, but it might be good to put in a few more hours on the practice range (or get an auto with a high-capacity magazine.)
If it's not barbecue, it's kudzu
Pesky kudzu gains a little medical respect DAVE PARKS
For those of you who like to forage, you might also be interested to know that kudzu can be eaten by just about anything with a mouth, including you. Here's a link to the recipe section of the Blythewood (S.C.) Kudzu Festival. I can't say that I have ever eaten any of this stuff, but it's probably better for you than poke salat, which I have eaten.
Hey, I know that guy!
The barbecue king BARNETT WRIGHT
As I said, I know Mr. Cloud--he works downstairs, and is one of the finest fellows you'll ever meet. And I'm not just angling for some ribs. Monday, February 09, 2004
Lawmaker denies DUI charge after traffic stop
One of the great things about living in Alabama is that we are blessed with conscientious, hard-working lawmakers who value their reputations and the example they set for their constituents. MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- State Rep. Alvin Holmes was stopped for suspected drunken driving last week and was driven home by a law enforcement officer because of a state law that prevents legislators from being arrested for some offenses during sessions.
Food and Tiny West-Central European Principalities? Hey, let's ask the Possumblogger!
You know, when you've been working hard and want to come home and fix something the whole family will enjoy, why not look for some liechtensteinian food recipes! And since Possumblog, named after a tasty North American marsupial, is the only returned result, why not go and see what he has to offer! Well friends, you'll be glad you did, because here is a recipe (via TastyCooking.com) for some yummy Knopfli! Cooking Recipes Ingredients:
MMmmmmm--flour...and EGGS! Man, what WILL those Liechtensteiners think of next!
Auburn Researchers To Study Habits Of 'Suburban' Deer
They'll probably find that they hang around at the mall too much and try to act like the tough urban deer. But they make good grades, so their parents tend to let them get away with it.
Wesley Clark Concedes He's the Underdog
Says Bush Not Fit to Battle Simon bar Sinister; Sweet Polly Purebread Would Never Need to be Rescued Again Under his Watch
Movie Popcorn Pioneer Dies at 85 BOYNTON BEACH, Fla. - Samuel M. Rubin, who helped make popcorn the popular snack at movie theaters, has died. He was 85.
Rubin asked that his ashes be scattered in a theater and swept up by a pimply teenaged kid with a tiny broom and a dustpan on a stick.
I love the smell of napalm in the morning
Steven Taylor has up the latest Toast-O-Meter for the current crop of light and flaky Democratic candidates. Mmmmm. Toast.
Screws
You know, it's gotten to the point where you can't write a headline like that without thinking that it sounds kinda risque. Just be glad I didn't write "sex bolts." Anyway, got the prefurniture home with no drama, unloaded it, and set up shop in the kitchen. There's not enough room to assemble it upstairs, and it was too heavy (132 unwieldy pounds) to fully assemble downstairs and take it up, so I settled on doing some creative prefabbing--assemble the drawers, the runners, the bits, some pieces--and then take the bigger parts upstairs to finish putting it together. Here is a link to the chest--it's made by Sauder, which is sorta like the IKEA of Middle America. They actually make some okay stuff--we have several bookcases and desks from them--it's usually designed well enough, they have never failed to send along enough hardware, and the instructions are always in English As a Native Language. Everything fit together just fine, and there were only a couple of factory-applied scratches, each small enough to cover with a touch-up pen (thoughtfully supplied with the hardware). Catherine was very helpful throughout the entire subassembly process, carefully scattering screws and knobs over the tabletop. I finally was able to get her to stand still and tightly hold one single screw at a time as I put things together and answered her incessant string of questions. --That's an extra battery for the screwdriver. ---That's the battery for the other screwdriver that's dead. --That's sharp, don't touch it. --That's a brass handle. --Brass is an alloy of copper and tin. --Not "ten," "tin," it's another type of metal. --No, don't put that there, it'll break something. --NO, I... --Yes, that's the destruction manual. On and on. Got the major pieces done and taken upstairs, where I proceeded to finish the assembly and begin the maddening process of aligning the drawer fronts. You'd figure that with only one set of holes for everything to fit into that there couldn't be that much tolerance built up when it's finished, but I guess there must be. I finally got them all arranged just so, but only after having to swap drawers around. Finally, it was complete, and looked just like the picture. Rebecca and Reba began putting her piles of undrawered panties and socks and shirts into it, and after a couple of hours had it completely filled, and yet, there were STILL PILES OF CLOTHES EVERYWHERE. I think I should have gotten an industrial trash compacter instead.
Weekend?
Oh yeah, in spades. I don't know if it's winter or the moon or bad mojo or what, but all of the kids were in an incredibly evil mood this weekend. I am having my own little competition to see whether my hair will turn completely white or my brain explodes from their shenanigans. Sunday, Oldest was screeching all over the house before church and came downstairs and started yanking at the kitchen chair to pull it out from the table--"Hey, watch your temper, ma'am." "I! DO! NOT! HAVE! A! TEMPER!" Nice--real nice. I just held out my hands while shrugging my shoulders and asked her what she thought trying to kill an innocent chair and screaming at me indicated, if not an ill-temper. Of course, having to deal with logic always makes her even angrier. I keep getting told that this is just a phase, but I see adults acting the same way. If she doesn't grow out of it, please believe me when I say she was taught better. Saturday was long and frustrating, too. Reba got back early from her jaunt up to the church building with the older two, so I was tasked with going back to Burlington Coat Factory (Not Associated with Burlington Industries) to pick up the chest of drawers we found last week. Get there and park, walk in and go to the furniture department. Wait. Wait. Look around with a look of a person who is looking around for someone to assist him. Wait. Some woman comes by and knocks a shirt box off of a display onto the floor across the aisle. She looks down and gives a diffident little chuckle and WALKS AWAY. (See what I mean about people?) I step over and get it up out of the floor (and from the looks of the store, I am the only person, either customer or staff, who has EVER picked anything up out of the floor) and put it back on the display. I wait some more and some guy comes slowly ambling down the aisle with his oversized Adidas windbreaker and gigantic baggy multi-pocketed blue jeans hanging off of him. He paused at the service counter for a moment and picked up a product binder. He put it away with the others. Ah-HA! This must be an employee, which I should have guessed by his disinterest and lack of attention to a potential customer! "Do you work in this department?" "Hm." "I need to get a chest, please." "Uh-hm." Wow! Indifferent AND a sparkling conversationalist! I took him around to where the sample was. He studied it, then got the tag off the top and wordlessly made his slow way back to the computer. He tapped. Click. Tap. Tap. Click. He got up and mumbled that he had to go upstairs. I gave him a big "Thank you!" He disappeared and I waited some more. Looked at the baby furniture. Watched a couple of folks picking out stuff. "Is there anyone in this department?" "He had to go upstairs for something, but he should be right back." I knew it was a lie. Five minutes, ten. I sat down in the weird cushy chairs that looked like they had been repaired with cast-off spare parts. Finally, I heard the tell-tale squeaking of a pair of hand trucks and he whizzed by without stopping. I jumped up and followed him--gee, for someone who moved so slow before he was rippin' it up now! I finally caught up with him and he shoved the tag at me and said, "Go get in line and giv'em that." Okeedoke, big boy. Found a fast moving line and paid and motioned for my attentive assistant to follow me. Then I had to go get him. And wait until he finished talking to the cashier. Got outside and asked him if he wanted me to pull the van up to the door. "Uh-hm." Be right back, Sparky. Got the van up to the door and popped the hatch and stepped around to help. Finally got a look at the box and noticed that the top edge appeared to have been run over by a herd of bison. Now, having spent a large amount of my life taking back boxes of assemble-it-yourself case goods which were damaged, due to not carefully noting the condition of the container beforehand, I decided that a box in this condition probably needed some further examination before I shoved it in the van and drove all the way back home. "Uhh, I don't mean to hold you up, but would you mind if I opened the end of this box and looked inside? The corner of the box is all bent up--see?--and I don't want to get it home and have to bring it back if it's damaged inside." "Hm. Yeah, whatever." Guy's a real James Earl Jones, that's for sure. He stood there impassively as I flipped open the end of the box and dug the flap out and took off the piece of styrofoam and--yep, sure enough. One corner of the lovely faux cherry finished medium density particle board had proven itself non-bison proof. "Oh, okay, look here--see?--one of the corners is broken. See?" I leaned it over so he could see. He looked. "Mhm." "Well, were there anymore upstairs from where you got this one?" "Yeah." He wheeled around with the box of lumber and rolled back inside, displaying for the first time since we met some emotion other than utter passivity. Unfortunately for the poor fellow, it seemed to be sheer rage. I stood there waiting at the back of the van, vainly trying to stay warm, wind whipping around me. Wait. Create traffic jam. Keep facing doorway so everyone will know I am waiting for someone who will be right back. Wait. Ten minutes pass--I can still see the box inside where he left it beside the service desk. I wonder if I need to go inside. Wait. Get the keys out of the ignition, just in case. Turn on flashers. Wait. Wait. He finally comes back out the door, without a box or hand trucks. "You need to come in here." "Did y'all not have another? Was the other one damaged, too?" I just KNEW I was going to have to either order it or go somewhere else. "Naw." No-bleeding-WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!? He brought me to the service desk--as I had seen, there was the original box. We stood there, and he finally got the lady's attention at the register whom I had the pleasure of meeting about twenty minutes earlier. "Hey. He got this thing here and opened it and it's damaged. Do he have to go back through the line, or what?" The woman just looked at him for a second as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing, then said, "No, baby, just go get him another one!" "He don't have to go through again?" "No, just go get him another one!" "Leave this one here?" "Yes, leave that one here and go get another one." He disappeared again. Another five minutes pass and he brings back another one, this time with the BOTTOM end covered in hoof marks and buffalo dung. I told him I was going to open this one, too, but he wasn't listening to me. The top was fine, but I feared what the bottom would look like. THANK HEAVENS, it had a big hunk of foam on the bottom and the glued-together splinters were in fine shape. Come along, my good fellow, and let us haste to the vehicle! I helped him pick the box up, and I hoisted my side over the sill and placed it down on the floorboard as he ever so gently dropped his end, almost waiting long enough for me to get my fingers out of the way. I thanked him for his kind assistance, but I don't think he heard me because he was already clanging in the door with his hand trucks. Nothing like prompt and courteous customer service, I always say. NEXT: Assembly required.
One of the interesting things...
...about being stuck in traffic, however, was that as I was creeping along I noticed something falling on the windshield. At first, I though just it might be a few big snowflakes, but then I noticed that they were little round balls, about the size of a BB. More started to fall, and I came to the conclusion that it must be blowing styrofoam pellets from a garbage truck or something, because they were light and puffy. Finally I figured out that it was not that, either, but some kind of hail, except not the hard, icy kind, but some kind of hybrid fluffy kind. Never seen THAT before, so I just spent about five seconds looking around on that there Internet thing and found that it's called snow pellets, or even better, soft hail. Soft hail--what'll they think of next!?
Well--
Left the house this morning just a bit after 7:00 after doing my dead-level best to get the three younger kids downstairs and full of something resembling food. Always the most stressful time of the morning--make sure they all are completely dressed, hair more or less combed, backpacks, coats, kiss Mommy, everyone hush and LEAVE, go to the door of the van NOT into the street in front of the speeding brick delivery truck--the moment they're all in and buckled and the engine is turning over is a giant relief. I spend the next 10 minutes on the road to school by trying to get my jaw muscles and the throbbing vein in my neck to calm down, but then there's always the minor flare-up when we get to the sidewalk at school and everyone decides they either a) forgot something for me to sign, b) need money, c) have to kiss all their stuffed animals they snuck out of the house, and/or d) have to tell me about someone in their class who said a bad word that we don't say and they got in trouble and they had t-- "GET OUT OF THE VAN SO DADDY WON'T BE LATE, please. " So they pile out after giving me a hug and a kiss containing the crumbs from breakfast and eventually go inside the building. Afterwards is my me-time, when I can put on the autopilot and let my mind go completely blank and enjoy the nice drive on the friendly and efficient interstate system of our fair city. This morning, thankfully nothing from the Peanut Gallery but a few odd verbal scuffles--they were remarkably subdued, which made the muscles and other viscera less angry. Got them to school, and they got out relatively quickly (although I credit part of this to a well-timed back-burp by Little Boy that seemed to add an extra incentive for everyone to get out) and then I was back out on the road. Aaaaah. Turn up the radio, and hear that there is an accident blocking the inbound interstate lanes between Chalkville Road and I-459 in Trussville, so everyone needed to use Highway 11. Which I just happened to be on. Which just happens to be real busy anyway, without the addition of ever other car from points east trying to get to Birmingham. I had left the school parking lot at about 7:15. I got here at 8:45. Hour and a half for a drive that usually takes 25 minutes, and it just RUINED my me-time. The bright spot is that I did manage to miss our Monday staff meeting.
MAYHEM!
HORRORS! SHTF! CONGESTION! PLAGUES! Details coming shortly. (Amazing how long it can take to get around one single traffic accident...) Friday, February 06, 2004
Looking at the old clock on the wall...
I see that it's about time to start packing up for the wild ride into the weekend. Supposed to get real cold tomorrow, which I think is a real bad idea. I've put in a requisition for sunny and 72 degrees, but from what I hear that's a no-go. In other matters, the storms we had last night--REAL storms, not the dream type, as evidenced by our local television weatherdudes being on for five straight hours--didn't really do much of anything at our house. There was a line of thunderstorms headed straight for us about 8:30 last night that stalled right along the eastern edge of Birmingham. It finally went on through toward Georgia last night sometime, with lots of water, and lots of lightning--as evidenced by the appearance of a tiny girl child in our bed and my being smacked in the crown jewels by her restless leg for five straight hours--but no exterior wind damage. The covers are still on the grilles, and the oak tree is still quite bare of large, late-'60s GM vehicles. My sister came home today for the weekend--she called a bit ago from my mom's house to kvetch about work and the weather and haughty, pretentious, ketchup-money Yankees. (She's a political junkie, too.) Fun time--who'd have ever thunk she would be nice when she grew up?! (She says the same about me.) Anyway, might get to see her this weekend, or not, depending on how the whirlwind of our social calendar blows. ANYWAY, I'll see you all again bright and squirrelly Monday morning. Have a great weekend!
Poor Lost Soul
A tender plea from the comments section from Jordana Adams: I know this is sacrilege, but Mr. Terry, will you please explain the exact difference between Cheese Puffs and Cheese Curls? I've led a deprived life (I'm depraved on account of I'm deprived) and I don't know that I've actually had either one. Well, you know, I thought I had heard it all.
Socializing
Mike Hollihan of Half-Bakered fame left a comment below about yesterday’s lunch post: I'm curious. Is the Social Grill still open? My brother and I used to get lunch there all the time in the mid-Eighties. It was a meat and three, with rolls and tea, cafeteria run by a Greek family. Kinda run down then, but a great bargain and good food. Well, Mike, it is indeed still kicking, as it has been since, well, forever. Here’s a link to a Bhamdining.com review from a couple of years back that might interest all of you out-of-towners here for the Mercedes Marathon.Why do we keep going back to the Social Grill? There are plenty of other meat-and-three places in town, places where the greens taste fresher, the tables match, and the turkey gravy doesn't glow a lurid yellow thanks to food coloring.
Ahhhh. Now THAT’S atmosphere, folks!
Hey! It's my buddy!
Was sitting here minding my own business when the ONE co-worker I always had fun with dropped in to say hey. (She left a few years ago to pursue other interests.) She still works downtown a few days a week, but it's been months since we had lunch together. She's a real pistol ball--she does historic preservation stuff; teaches some college classes; runs all over the state doing research; is a bleeding heart, Clinton-voting feminist liberal; and a dandy conversationalist. I never will forget one day she was sitting over there by the door and I had finished up one of my long-winded, rambling, freely-associative type monologues on something incredibly stupid, and she asked what my point was. It completely floored when I said I didn't have to make a point, that I was satisfied just to ramble incoherently for several minutes. "Not having to make a point frees up your mind to no end, and does away with the bothersome need to remember things," I said to her. It was quite an epiphany for her. Anyway, she just came by and we're supposed to have lunch again in a couple of weeks. [Some of you might be wondering how it is that we get along so famously, being that she is so politically opposite of me. Cheese curls. Long ago, we figured out that there are two types of people in the world, cheese curl eaters and cheese puff eaters. No matter what other philosphies might separate us, there is comfort in knowing the other would never stoop to eating a cheese puff.]
Trouble in Paradise? There was "universal" agreement from the BBQ Emporium crowd that Cletus' latest RFS episoded was plum lame. Elroy even went so far as to say that Cletus should consider re-entering politics because his stories have become as lame as most of the positions taken by the current crop of politicians. [...] I sense a brawl looming...
And now for something compleatly different...
Wedding Guest Cow Wanders Into Bank BERLIN (Reuters) - A Friesian cow took a detour from a wedding where she was meant to be a guest of honor, wandering into a German bank where she was caught on security cameras sidling up to the tellers. Oooo--hot German cow-sidling action!
The cow was supposed to be taking part in a nearby wedding ceremony when it wandered into the bank. When farmers in the rural region marry, the new bride traditionally milks a cow to prove her skills in the homestead economy. "Ja, Lena ist not very pretty, but you should see her skills mit der teats!"The Management wish to apologise for the crudity and senseless mockery of the above entry. Those of you who purchased the Executive Version will receive a ticket for a free showing of "Lady Mabelsbeth's Overwhelming Day." Those who have not yet upgraded to the Executive Version are asked to cover their eyes with a piece of cloth. Thank you.
From Ad Age, the story of an Internet show about nothing...
AMEX Plans Jerry Seinfeld-Meets-Superman Internet Show [...] Seinfeld 'Webisodes'
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!-- Mr. Hayes said American Express has dramatically altered its marketing communications strategies and continues to place ever more emphasis on the emerging technologies, such as the Web, that have changed audience consumption patterns.
I wish them luck--I can just imagine how popular it will be among the l33t set. "hey ck out the new sinefled ad on amercain expres! IT ROX!"
Hey, he's back--Bellesiles Misfires BY KIMBERLEY A. STRASSEL
By now, it should be pretty obvious that Bellesiles is like those poor gits on American Idol who can't sing a note but want to stand there and argue that they are the best singer in the world. Next.
You know, sometimes a monarchy isn't such a bad thing--The Franco-American Alliance On February 6, 1778, France and the fledgling United States of America signed the Treaty of Amity and Commerce and the Treaty of Alliance in Paris, France. The Treaty of Amity and Commerce recognized the United States as an independent nation and promoted trade between France and the United States. The Treaty of Alliance created a military alliance against Great Britain, stipulating American independence as a condition of peace. [...] Thanks, France!Thursday, February 05, 2004
The Triumphant Return of Chet the E-Mail Boy!
It has been a while since Chet's services have been needed here on Possumblog. As I had feared, the comment feature has made the admittedly cumbersome task of receiving e-mail--which Chet converts to Morse Code, then transcribes in longhand, then sets with a Linotype before giving it to me--almost obsolete. Chet, however, being rather advanced in years, has not seemed to notice, aside from an occasional lung-rattling cough that he develops when he is inactive for long periods of time. He has been biding his time with other activities, however, such as tending his collections of oddly shaped cornflakes--he has three different sets: U.S. Presidents (currently needs only twelve to finish the set), Silent Screen Sirens (sadly only two examples, both of which look like Mary Pickford), and The Many Moods of Gordon Lightfoot. (Chet fancies himself a real Bohemian, you know.) Chet has also spent some time in the small patch out back by the dumpster, where he has a cold frame and a couple of nice rows of collards. He has also taken up with a new lady friend, although I will not speak much of her other than to say I heartily disapprove, and firmly believe she is after his Telegrapher's Union pension. In any event, Chet was pleased to see some activity from his telegraph key this afternoon, and just now hobbled in with a message from morphine-crazed Jim Smith up in East Carolina: Could you please blog lunch. It's boring and inane but some of us like it. Well, I have never been one to deliberately disappoint my readership!I gave Chet a dollar or two and sent him away to go change the oil in my van, and reared back in my office chair to contemplate my mid-day repast. As you all know, Birmingham is chock full of good quality restaurants, but on occasion, they fail to live up to my needs and wants. For example, many have nothing at all on the menu for under four dollars, which is the sum total of all that my wallet held today. Feeling the need to free myself from the conspicuous consumption of comestibles, I decided to turn to the always conveniently cheap Sneaky Pete's on Park Place. I walked in and after only the briefest of waits, exchanged pleasantries with the intriguingly handsome-looking lady behind the cash register. I have been trying to think who she reminds me of for a while now, and the best I can come up with is Lauren Hutton. Except with good teeth. Anyway, I fished out the Four Georges and ordered a big plate full of Chili-n-Cheese carb sticks. MMMmmm! A big Styrofoam takeout box, full of crispy, lightly salted shoestring potatoes, covered with a thin spicy meaty red slurry AND brilliantly-hued nacho cheese sauce. Nothing quite hits the spot like salt, fat, and starch! I walked quickly back to my office to enjoy my wonderfully presented composition and noticed with great admiration all of the preparations being made in Linn Park for the upcoming Mercedes Marathon. Just so you all don't think I am a horrid lazy slob, I want you all to know that I will be participating in this event!* So there! In other correspondence, Dr. Smith also sent me a picture of what he describes as an Alabama high-rise. Obviously an error--a true high-rise is one that has been set up on end. ANYway, there you have it, loyal readers. *Disclaimer--Participation in Mercedes Marathon by writer shall be limited to mentioning said event on Possumblog and a general urging on of all the actual competitors. No actual running or movement by the writer is meant to be implied.
I promise, I had NOTHING to do with this...
Dean's latest strategy: Play possum Washington -- Howard Dean, who employed an unconventional campaign strategy to build one of the most formidable grassroots operations in modern American politics, is relying on another unorthodox strategy to salvage his fading presidential aspirations.
Boaz--It's Not Just for Outlet Shopping Anymore!
Suspected meth lab in Boaz explodes, burns, killing one BOAZ, Ala. (AP) -- A suspected methamphetamine lab exploded and burned, killing one man and sending another to the hospital with burns.
Halliburton Talks to Justice on Nigeria Kickbacks By Sue Pleming
Kucinich tells Lacey crowd he won't drop out SCOTT GUTIERREZ THE OLYMPIAN
Kerry to heckler: I never run from fight
Ahhhhhh, someone turned on the drivel spigot again... By RON FOURNIER
Or politically expedient.
DRIVEL PIPE BROKEN!! SEVERAL EXPRESS COMPLETE INDIFFERENCE!
Dumb old computers. For some reason, the big pipe at my desk isn't working right today--one minute, it's up and clicking along normally, then the next, it locks up and it's completely dead. Try to log back on and it starts going through its proxy setting detection routine (even though we don't use proxies) and then, nothing. Five seconds later, or five minutes, try to log on and it's fine. Or not. Must be the wind. In any event, no matter what it is, it is making the task of giving you all the world-reknowned non-content you have come to expect from Possumblog nigh unto impossible. This particular post itself is being entered as I sit in the Third Floor of the Main Branch of the Birmingham Public Library--next to me is a very frightening looking man who looks like a bum or a serial killer. He's checking the stock market. Well, off to lunch for now--maybe things will get back to normal later. Or not.
Oh, so it’s drivel you want…
Well, friends, nothing more drivelous than reading about someone else’s dream from the night before, so here goes. I blame myself. I was thinking yesterday on the way home from work that it has been weeks since I had a really memorable dream. I figured I have just been too tired to think up a good one. And last night didn’t help any--church night, and every single stinkin’ one of the kids had homework, and every single stinkin’ one of them were whining about not being able to figure any of it out, and they all had to get their baths, and the kitchen was a mess from Reba’s good-hearted attempt to heat up a big container of roast and potatoes and carrots and onions in a big saucepan that was just not quite big enough to hold it all which caused little dribbles of soup to blurp over the rim and fall down into the element and give off the wonderful odor of potatoes being scalded with a flamethrower and AAAHHHH! Too much stuff. Anyway, Oldest finally got into bed around the time Dave had finished an episode of Identify the Battered and Fried Object (it was binoculars) and I turned out the lights and hit the bed like a lump of lead. Then the fun began--in all of its fatigued, starch-and-onion-fueled, externally stimulated glory. There’s a strong storm system moving in from the west, and so all yesterday and last night (and today, for that matter), the wind had been howling. At some point in there I was listening to it, and looked up to see that the painters had not put the window screens back on right. Dang it all! I walked all around the driveway, and saw that some of the screens even had little broken tabs, and then a moment later, I looked at them from the inside in the bedroom and saw that they were barely even on! Dumb painters! They were just a-flopping around, and the wind was getting worse and worse and banging and the lights went out. I felt my way around the edge of the room and opened a door and found myself standing outside a tiny, battered, tarpaper shed in the backyard of our old house in Irondale. Everything around was blowing and from the condition of the house and the shed, I knew immediately that I had been trapped in some sort of mad scientist constructed, experimental computer-generated hologram building just like the holodeck on Star Trek, and I had been there for FIFTY YEARS! I figured the storm must have knocked out the power to the shed and killed the holographic illusion I had been living, but more importantly, THERE WAS A TORNADO bearing down on me! Over to the west, a long, low, dark, cloud touching the ground for miles--and then I heard that freight train sound and knew I had to get somewhere safe, so I threw myself into a shallow depression over by the old wooden fence and then… WHOA! Man, what a DREAM! I looked out the window and saw that although I had been dreaming about the whole holographic tarpaper shed deal, we had been on the receiving end of some more sort of storm. The aluminum shed in the back corner of the yard had blown over to a neighbor’s yard three doors down, with bits of it and other debris scattered all over the place, and the lawn mower was sitting there uncovered and the kid’s bicycles and a couple of cars. I stood on the downstairs patio and looked up at the scrubby little oak tree in the opposite corner of the yard from the blown-down shed, and in the very top was a red 1969 Pontiac Bonneville four door that looked to have been completely torn to shreds and WHOA! Dang it ALL! I hate it when I have one of those dreams-within-a-dream. I looked over at the clock but couldn’t tell what time it said, but the wind really was kicking up outside, but I was too tired to turn on the television and see if we were supposed to be downstairs in the laundry room. Dumb old dreams.
Stewart Witness Faneuil Faces Grilling
2 cups packed fresh flat-leaf parsley 2 cups packed fresh cilantro leaves 1 cup fresh mint leaves 3 small cloves garlic, minced 1 small jalapeño pepper, seeds and ribs removed, roughly chopped...
I have junk to get done this morning, so you'll have to check back later for your recommended daily intake of drivel and insensitivity. Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Last week sometime...
I posted a blurb about the Ten Worst Cars article from Forbes, and mentioned in passing American Motors' designer Dick Teague and one of the most interesting cars to ever come out of Kenosha (by way of Italy), the AMX/3. Well, oddly enough, as I was perusing my latest copy of Hemmings, I saw that there was one (out of a total of five ever made) for sale, and not only that, it was Mr. Teague's personal car, and most strange of all, it's right down the road in Montgomery! You can see it here, and if you have the required $175K required to buy it, I would gladly accept it as a gift.
And just this morning, I was going to put some acetone on my organoaluminum compound for breakfast...
Greg Hlatky finds out that the Law of Averages is a stern taskmaster: [...] When I added some acetone to the organoaluminum compound it detonated. It would seem that while the outside of the crystals had decomposed, the inner part had not and was still very reactive.
(And take it from me, injuring your dignity ain't such a terrible thing--I do it every day.)
Road to Hell Paving Department
Ga. lawmakers mull smoking-in-cars law ATLANTA (AP) -- Georgia lawmakers are considering a first-in-the-nation law that would require drivers who smoke to roll down the windows before lighting up with children in the car.
I knew it was leap year, but this is ridiculous.
I just now looked up at my 365 Photos of Italy wall calendar (February is devoted to Florence!) to verify a meeting date, and noticed down at the bottom that it has a Monday the 30th, and a Tuesday the 31st.
Our own little Super Bowl-type scandal...
Auto parts ads too racy for three TV stations 02/04/04
It features a buxom young blonde chick with a genuine Southern accent, extolling the junkyard's virtues with a string of groaningly bad double entendres--"Is that a dipstick in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" "How about THIS pair of headlights?", etc. It was just stupid and not the least bit clever and all I could think to myself is, "Wow, Channel 68's ad rates are so low even a junkyard can buy time." Catherine was sitting there in the floor waiting to go take her bath, and she looked around at Reba and me sort of sitting their with our mouths agape. "This sure is a stupid commercial!" Out of the mouth of babes...
Anti-war activists shout Blair down
Blair, obviously shaken by the episode, bemoaned the absence of Al Franken.
Why would they want to leave the Worker's Paradise!?
Cubans Try to Reach Fla. in Floating Car MIAMI - Two Cubans who tried to sail to Florida in a truck converted to a pontoon boat last year are making another attempt, this time piloting a seagoing 1950s-era Buick with nine other people, including five children, relatives said.
By the way, I think the car, identified in the story only as a 1959 Buick, is a Deuce-and-a-Quarter four door hardtop.
Winless Howard Dean Remains Undaunted
Winless, clueless...whatever. Anyway, what's that old saying about, 'the first sign of madness is to do the same thing over and over while each time expecting a different result'? Well, I'm sure that doesn't apply in this case. Although I am sure there is a certain former VP who is rather chapped at having jumped on the bandwagon so early in the process. UPDATE: The old saying probably doesn't apply in this guy's case, either.
Soccer hooligans banned from tournament
What's this world coming to when poor hooligans are deprived of the right to enjoy a good game of footie?! The Associated Press
Anyway, more alarming is the fact that these known hooligans are reproducing like rabbits, which I find alarming since it's a well-known scientific fact that watching soccer makes you sterile. If the cause of this is not found out, pretty soon the whole world will be filled with known hooligans, and that won't be a good thing.
I always liked Mary Ann better than Ginger.
Dave Helton and I were having a friendly comment bout the other day about the merits of Dawn Wells versus Tina Louise. It took a while, but I finally got Dave worn down to my point of view (although he might have just been trying to get rid of me). NEXT UP: Cheese CURLS versus cheese PUFFS. (Obvious answer is cheese curls, but I do have some people come by who need psychological help, so you never know what people will say.)
Po' Ol' Joe
Joe Lieberman Abandons Presidential Bid By LOLITA C. BALDOR, Associated Press Writer
In the end, Joe became the spork of the political race--too liberal for the conservatives, too conservative for the liberals. Oh well, at least the rest of the circus will go on. And people LOVE circuses!
You CAN hear me now!
Thanks for the kind thoughts and well wishes from you all--Catherine's trip to the doc yesterday went well and was quite interesting. I was already put out that I had to leave an hour earlier than I had planned due to a scheduling snafu--seems they need extra time in cases where they might have to do the earpokery procedure. Sure would have been nice to have known that a bit earlier than 10 am yesterday, but whatever. Anyway, got out of here a bit late and sped out to Trussville on a gas tank full of fumes, stopped by the office and checked her out (with the admonition from the receptionist to get a doctor's excuseblah blah blah--YEAH, YEAH--I get it, I gotta GO!) and sped BACK across town to the doctor's office on even less fumes, decided to go to the parking deck across the street from the office building rather than the big one that requires you to go through a whole maze of corridors and crosswalks to finally get there (but with no cheese reward, drat it all) and managed to get behind some maroon who had either 1) never driven a car before, or 2) had never driven a car before AND had never been to this hospital before. Two miles per hour, slowly weaving in between the pretty yellow lines, carefully reading each sign--GO!GO!GO! I have to GO!. Finally got past her and flew down to the parking deck and found myself behind YET ANOTHER person without a care in the world, and was obviously several hours early for her appointment, causing her to creep up the parking deck floors with the blinding velocity of a slug, except for those instances when the brake lights would suddenly come on indicating that there might be a parking space available--you know, if a car wasn't already occupying it. All the way to the top of the stinking garage--creep, STOP, creep, creep, STOP, crawwwwwwl, STOP. Finally she found a place. SO, she started BACKING UP. Grr. And once more, with feeling. GRRR! Cat said, "Daddy, what's wrong with that girl?!" I quietly explained that sometimes they let people who have had lobotomies drive a bit too soon afterwards, and they aren't quite ready for the challenge. "Oh." She backed, and turned, and pulled up, and turned, and turned, and backed, and pulled up, and turned, and pulled up, and then, decided she couldn't fit in the space. So on she went up another floor and FINALLY found a row of spaces with sufficient maneuvering room to park, and I very politely drove on around her back bumper before punching it and squalling up the final floor of the deck and doing a bootlegger turn into the parking spot right by the elevator. (Not really. It was one space over from the elevator.) We hopped out and got on the elevator and down to the bridge and into the building and right into the office. Only 15 minutes late, but there was no one in the waiting room, and no one behind the desk seemed particularly bothered. Still had to sit down and wait. ::sigh:: Waited long enough to read an old Entertainment Weekly (gonna HAVE to see that much-talked-about Affleck-Lopez film called Gigli. Sounds GREAT!) and then Catherine got called back to the exam room. Well, still stopped up. The doctor went over the procedure, and recommended just draining the gunk and seeing how it did before going ahead and putting in a tube, which was good news. So, he pumped in some anesthetic goo into her ear and we sat for thirty minutes reading books. (I do not like green eggs and ham, by the way.) The nurse patted Cat's head and told her everything would be just fine, and went on out the door. "Is she talking Spanish?" Heh. Actually, she sounds Eastern European, and I told Cat I thought she was from Russia or Ukraine. "Oh. I like her--she's nice." Indeed so. The doc came back in after while and got his big metal earlookascope and a plastic cone and went to work. After a tiny audible pop (eww) he got a thin metal suction tube and proceeded to clear out all the ick (ewwww). It seemed like it went on forEVER, and most of the time Catherine was very still, with just one bit of discomfort when something came out that made a VERY loud noise, which I imagine probably hurt a good bit. In any event, it was over with in about a minute. Some drops, some cotton, and she was ready to go (and come back in two weeks). We made our appointment and walked on out to the corridor. The moment we cleared the door, she pulled the cotton out and grabbed my arm. "I want to hear Clocky!" "Clocky" being my wristwatch, and the standard measure of ear stoppitude. It's a mechanical watch, so it makes a constant ticktick sound rather than the one second ticks of a quartz watch, and it's pretty faint, so if you can hear it, you aren't too badly stopped up. So, she grabbed my arm and held Clocky up to her head, and for the first time in months she heard it loud and clear. She grinned a sweet little grin and looked up at me and with the sincerity and love only a child can have, quietly said, "Can we go to McDonald's?" Seeing as how I had to pay two dollars to get out of the deck, leaving me with only one, and we also needed to get gas, I told her we would get a wonderful snack at the gas station. So, off once more to home, where we stopped at the Chevron and filled up with gas--19.3 gallons, in a tank with a total capacity of 20--and got a pack of cheese curls. She was very happy. OH, and I forgot to get a doctor's excuse. Tuesday, February 03, 2004
You know, it's a shame...
...that today is not Groundhog Day. If it were, the groundhog would not only have seen his shadow, but more importantly, he would have seen the newest episode of "Rednecks in Space"! (I'm not sure what such a thing would bode for the weather outlook.)
Ewww. Gross.
It's time once again to take the Tiny Terror to the ear doctor to see if her ear has gotten any better. If not, it looks like he's going to have to tube her, which is one of those things that just seems so...I don't know, disconcerting, I guess. I mean, you spend an inordinate amount of time telling your kids not to stick things in their ears, and then you have some guy in a white coat who comes in with Mr. Lancet and Ben Zocaine and Mr. Sucky Pipe and Miss O'Ring and does all sorts of horrifying crap to your ear, and then packs it full of cotton. But, then again, you really don't want your kid to go around saying "Huh? Do whut?" all the time. And for any parent who has ever had a kid with a chronic ear infection, it seems to effect their brains so that they chronically behave like chronically angry baboons, which is really much less fun than you would think. Well, maybe they've cleared up and she won't have to worry about all those noisy trains. (Of course, if her ear IS clear, it means she has no excuse for the baboonery.) We'll see what happens.
Incredible
From noted law student and Holmseian nemesis Irene Adler, a link to a stunning Library of Congress exhibition of the colorized photographs of Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii. From the website: In the early 1900s Prokudin-Gorskii formulated an ambitious plan for a photographic survey of the Russian Empire that won the support of Tsar Nicholas II. Between 1909-1912, and again in 1915, he completed surveys of eleven regions, traveling in a specially equipped railroad car provided by the Ministry of Transportation.
Neat stuff. Oh, by the way--here's a link to explain the voodoo digichromatography used to get the images from the plates.
Interesting Old Reading
More plagiarism, today an excerpt from the military dictionary portion of Simes' Military Medley, first printed in 1768 and now available in reprint from King's Arms Press & Bindery. HONOUR, is a virtue particularly incumbent on an Officer to preserve unsullied; consequently, all his actions should be guided by it: a man of true honour would rather exert his patience than his courage, except in defense of his King and country; for he who is guided by principles of religion and justice, establishes his character, and recommends himself to the favour of his Prince, who always rewards the deserving.
Web-surfing on Neb. senate floor gets OK LINCOLN, Neb. (AP) -- State senators will soon be able to surf the Internet on the floor of the legislative chamber.
And Speaking of Doggerel
I had a visitor come by yesterday as the result of a Google search query that absolutely baffled me. (And also managed to return Possumblog as the sole result!) julius caesar the roman geezer squished his face. What in the world was that about? Figuring that there had to be something else to this, I Googled on "roman geezer" and to my surprise found out that this is part of an apparently pretty well-known schoolyard rhyme, at least in some part of the world. The whole thing goes: 'Julius Caesar The Roman geezer Squashed his nose In a lemon squeezer.' Alternate versions have wife instead of nose. There are also a couple that do away with the whole juicer thing and substitute other literate bits in its place. Here's one I found: Julius Caesar, Roman geezer, Came to Britain, wasn't smitten, Back to Gaul, After All And another (that strains a little too hard)-- Noel Coward was a charmer As a writer he was brahmer. Julius Caeser Roman geezer Must have been a pencil squeezer. Einstein can’t be witty-less Frightened everybody That last line kinda falls apart, eh? Anyway, I have no idea why I posted this.
Speaking of Komic Kids
Got started on the morning's Toothbrush Story with Cat--little girl in forest, calling woodland critters to come home and brush teeth, finds Kelly the Bunny and Foxy Loxy (who continually bites and licks the tender parts of Kelly the Bunny to determine which parts would go best with cornbread and coffee) and then, a wall. You see, there needed to be another animal, and I was at a loss for one. I asked for Catherine's suggestions, but she had none. "Well, Cat, what about...a possum?" She looked at me with a puzzled look, "Dad, we don't have no possums at our house." I explained that we had lots of them all over the place, but she still had a look of great consternation (or constipation) on her face. Then the light went on as she remembered what, exactly, a possum is. "OHHH. Wait--a possum is one of them animals that's on the road." "Yes! That's right." "And they're playing dead." "Well, yeah, I uhh..." "And then at night, they gets up and leave." "Ahhhm, well...I don't think they get up and leave." "Okay, I want the other animal to be a hamster." So Kelly the Bunny and Foxy Loxy and Hammie the Hamster all had sparkly teeth.
Timing is Everything
Sat down to eat supper last night and after the usual round of twelve different conversations carried on simultaneously, it had finally quieted down a bit as the various We told her to just get a slice of bread out of the box and toast it, but she balked at that. Jonathan, being the helpful little brother he is, suggested, "Crackers are bread." Without a moment's waste, Catherine, who had been preternaturally quiet all evening, piped up and said, "Violets are blue..." That one got an honest guffaw out of both Mom and Dad. Of course, getting Dad to laugh is like hitting the jackpot with them, so she started trying out more material (which I felt was highly derivative and lacked spontaneity) and I had to give her the quick tutorial about going out on top with your big joke and not spoil it by endlessly repeating it. She'll be appearing at Chuckles & Grins next week at 8 and 10:15 Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Monday, February 02, 2004
If you've never visited A Little Aardvark Never Hurt Anyone, today is a good day.
It's one of those posts that helps you to remember what's important in life. And beyond.
Buckle Up--This Here's a Long Ride.
As usual, up early Saturday after a late evening of really hot and exciting laundry, and decided to see if we could get the grandparents to keep the children for a couple of hours to see if we could go look for furniture again. I figure if I play my cards right, I can put off buying a sofa until I get my $27,000,000 (TWENTY SEVEN MILLION US DOLLARS) from Mrs. Abacha. Which is probably a more likely occurrence than finding something I can actually stand to look at. Anyway, Reba’s mom’n’dad agreed to watch the little darlings for a while--we got there and the pest control guy was there in his bright yellow New Beetle, which the kids though was very clever for a bug guy to drive. They charged inside and immediately began their “we were raised in the forest by wolves” act while the poor guy was sitting at the kitchen table with my father-in-law. He didn’t quite know what to make of them. I suggested soup, then quickly shooed them into the den and told them to be quiet so Grandpapa could talk to the bug man. Reba and I made our escape and proceeded to head out for a couple of furniture places specializing in kid’s furniture, hoping to find a chest of drawers for Rebecca. Stopped by the Kids ‘R’ Us in Hoover that is going out of business. Nothing quite so depressing as a run-down kids store, that’s for sure. Nothing there. Aside from a crumbling building. Went back up the street to Parnell’s. Nothing. Then on to Burlington Coat Factory (“Not Associated with Burlington Industries”--you know, if I had a company that I had to spend an inordinate amount of time telling everyone was not associated someone else, I think I would change the name.) Anyway, they had one very inexpensive chest in dark faux imitation cherrylike color, which has been the closest thing we’ve seen so far. Still didn’t get it, though. Gotta look some more. Then back toward home to a furniture place that I swore Reba said was in Springville, but that turned out to be on Springville Road. On the opposite end of said road from Springville. Reba is actually a very good navigator when she has a map. Without one, there is a tendency for the person driving her to go all the way to Springville before finally deciphering her instructions. Oh, well. At least it was a pretty day. And the trip down Deerfoot Parkway did give us a chance to look for Jonathan’s orthodontist’s office again. She and the other kids had looked last week after school to no avail. She got on the Internet and tried to get a map but was repeatedly messed up by the fact that the particular street is not yet in any of the online databases, as well as the fact that the ZIP Code for the office covers part of Center Point AND part of Clay. She worked herself into quite a tizzy, going back and forth between two different areas with no actual streets that showed up. SO, at least we had a street name, and I figured it couldn’t be TOO hard to find, and we could always stop and ask. So, we drove the length of Springville Road in the Clay area and found absolutely no such thing as Murray Drive. (Named after Gavin MacLeod’s character Murray Slaughter on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. Not really.) I even stopped at the fancy BP station right there at the intersection of Deerfoot and Springville Road and asked the nice woman with the Marlboro lungs if she knew where Murray Drive was. “Naw. Don’t know where no Murray Street is. D’you?” she asked the burly bearded fellow behind me. He looked at her with his tiny little eyes, allowing the frothy cappuccino to dangle on his mustache hairs as he contemplated. He thought. Long. And hard. “Nope.” Oh well, maybe another time. I said thanks and went back out to the van so we could continue our search for the baby furniture store that is NOT in Springville. All the way back at the Winn-Dixie at the intersection of Chalkville Mountain Road, and there it was in a small outparcel building. The pole sign out front was bigger than the store. Nothing there. ::sigh:: On back to the inlaw’s to pick up the kiddies, then home for more laundry fun, and then off to take Bec to soccer practice. While she did that, I took Reba’s van and got gas and got it washed, then stopped by the library to see what all was going on in the world and answer some e-mail, then back to the park just in time to pick Bec back up. Such timing! On home once more, where we set in to get them all bathed and ready to go for the get-together at church. They really detested the part about having to get ready--after all, it was DAYTIME, and no one EVER takes a bath during the day. While they got ready, I flipped on the television and started folding clothes. I absentmindedly clicked all the way to the UPN station way down at channel 68 on the UHF dial, and OOOOoohhhhhh! Bad Disaster Movie Day! This one looked like a real stinker--I sat transfixed, folding socks and looking at a dreary potboiler that could have only been made in the late-‘70s. I didn’t know what the name of it was until IMDb’ed it this morning. It was none other than Meteor ! I don’t remember this one from when it came out in 1979, but it has all the required, essential elements of the Disaster Movie Genre--huge cast of Well Known Stars, Impending Disaster in Which Thousands of Innocents Will Die, Guys at Computer Consoles, Speaker Phones, Polyester Clothing the Color of Dirt, Countdown Clock, No Discernable Knowledge of Basic Physics or the Way Buildings are Constructed, Muttonchop Sideburns, Thudding, Ponderous Music, and RUSSKIES!! Cool. The synopsis from IMDb pretty much says it all: After a collision with a comet, a nearly 8km wide piece of the asteroid "Orpheus" is heading towards Earth. If it will hit it will cause a incredible catastrophe that will probably extinguish mankind. To stop the meteor NASA wants to use the illegal nuclear weapon satellite "Hercules" but discovers soon that it doesn't have enough fire power. Their only chance to save the world is to join forces with the USSR who have also launched such an illegal satellite. But will both governments agree? Oh, I forgot another fixture--The Metric System! Anyway, I hate to spoil it for you, but them darn Commies do eventually agree to work with us and blow up the asteroid. But not before chunks obliterate several city-type places. And cause people to wear ugly clothes.It does have your Requisite All-Star Cast, including a wooden Sean Connery as a guy wearing a leather coat and giving terse instructions; Karl Malden as an excitable, scenery-chewing NASA guy; Brian Keith as a humble, grandfatherly Red scientist forced to speak Russian the entire film; Henry Fonda as “The President” (he was much better in Fail Safe, although that probably goes without saying); Martin Landau, Trevor Howard, Richard A. Dysart, and Joseph Campanella--all playing the parts of “Gruff Men Who Needed a Job or Would Be Forced to Do Television Commercials or Appear as Guest Celebrities on the Gong Show”; and an appearance by Sybil Danning as “Swiss Girl Skier” (following up her stunning portrayal of “Amy” in The Concorde: Airport ‘79). The only thing that made the thing worth watching was that it also had Natalie Wood in it, portraying a Russian translator. Frumpy clothes and stupid accent or not, Natalie Wood was still a right handsome women back in the day. Just not in this film. The movie finally got over with in a stunningly bad array of muddy people and nucular ‘splosions and bad Russian, and then another movie came on that was made the exact same year. And it was one I had never seen before, but kinda knew about by reputation after seeing the sequel. It was Mad Max, of all things. What an odd movie. But still kinda neat to watch, even with all the missing stuff cut out so the local stations can sell more aluminum siding and fat-burner pills. It made The Road Warrior sequel almost understandable by providing the backstory. Nothing quite explains Beyond Thunderdome, but that’s a whole ‘nother thing. Anyway, part Generic Outlaw Biker Gang movie, part Walking Tall, part Clockwork Orange, part Vanishing Point, part Smokey and the Bandit, and part just plain odd, it’s a weirdly cool movie, if for no other reason that the presence of all the hi-po Aussie machinery. (Although I have to say that whoever thought you could switch a GMC 8-71 blower off and on with a red button had been out in the sun too long. Be sure to check out the Aussie Coupes website for the real versions of these things.) The meal at church was very nice, although it lasted way too long. Left late, and was coming up the road into our subdivision when I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a cat in front of me, then figured it was a possum, then a dog, and “HEY! KIDS! Look, it’s a fox!” I stopped and it trotted on over to the shoulder of the road and just stood there for a bit, a little gray fox. We get all kinds of varmints around our house, but I hadn’t seen a fox until then. The kids thought it was pretty darned cool, and they all got out their booklights and started shining them out the window to see it better. Which I think frightened it, because it took off into the woods. But Catherine was much pleased--one, she actually got to see it, and two, she was lonesome for a new woodland friend after not seeing Kelly the Bunny for months now. “Daddy, is Kelly the Bunny ever going to come back?” Awww. I told her Kelly probably moved to another house. She was sad, but now that there’s Foxy Loxy in town, she seems much better. I just hope Foxy Loxy did not eat Kelly the Bunny--boy, that would be BAD. Anyway, that was all Saturday--EXCEPT. Reba looked in the Yellow Pages, and found that our orthodontist has a WEBSITE (which I had not been able to find even with an extreme bout of Googling both of the partners' names and every conceivable form of address), a website with information and games and with MAPS!. Turns out that their office is right behind the BP station we had stopped at. Whaddya know. Anyway, we dumped ourselves into bed and promptly started snoring, which is just wonderful when you have a sore throat. Thanks to all of you who have commiserated with my pitiable condition, but it’s just the way life is. It’s only a flesh wound, you know. Sunday, up bright and early and dense-headed, to church, then lunch with the Chinese people, then home where I actually got to read the entire newspaper, then back to church for meetings and worship, and then back home to watch the remaining portion of the SUPER BO…oh. No. No. Can’t do that. You see, in my attempt to evade losing good television-watching nights for the kid’s TV Turn Off project, I had made the strategic error of choosing Sunday as our night to not watch the boob tube. Normally a day spent away from home and with the teevee off, it never occurred to me that there might be something really exciting to watch on a Sunday night. You know, like the Super Bowl. Oh well. It probably wasn’t a close game or anything. It’s always a blow-out. And the halftime show was probably pretty tame, too. Anyway, in lieu of that, I went to the grocery store at the foot of the hill and got the kids their snacks for school. On the way out, I noticed that the Sonic had FINALLY replaced the lamp in the end of their big cone-shaped canopy support! Now THAT, my friends, is EXCITEMENT that you JUST CAN’T GET ON TV! And now I’m back here today.
From the Lofty Heights
of verdant Talledega Hill, overlooking the mighty and swift Pinchgut Creek, I bid yet another weekend goodbye, and a hearty good morning to you all! Stay tuned for spectacular and incredible yarns of suburban life, including Furniture Shopping; Searching for the Orthodontist's Office; 1970s Disaster Movie Reviews; Foxy Loxy; Petard, Hoisted by Own; and the Sonic Has Its Cone Light Replaced!! Stay tuned--I have to go to staff meeting right now. Blech. Friday, January 30, 2004
Friday Afternoon
And it's just about time to get out of here for the usual weekend jam-packed full of fun and high explosives. And the Super Bowl, not that I really care. Despite liking football pretty well, and yammering about it like an idiot during the college season, watching pro ball is sorta low on my list of things to do. And anyway, after seeing Franco Harris' Immaculate Reception--watched on a fuzzy-pictured television set, sitting around with my dad and my uncle and a few cousins in my uncle's country store one cold December night in 1972--it's all been sorta downhill anyway. Oh well, at least there's the commercials. Other things on tap for the weekend include the usual pounding of clothes on rocks, taking Middle Girl to soccer practice, another meal at the church building tomorrow evening, remembering pi to the 247th place, and trying to get rid of this cold. The one thing I have steadfastly refused to mention all week--I mean, who DOESN'T have a cold?! This one came on real sneaky like, disguised as a hoarseness I attributed to driving around with the window of the van down doing my Screamin' Dean impression. By yesterday evening, it had made itself known right well, as it filled my upper head parts with a particularly tenacious snotcrete material. This, along with a general malaise and swirly-headedness, has made both sleeping and staying awake a rather carksome process. Of course, it's not like having a collapsed lung, so I figure I can tough it out. Anywho, all of you have a wonderful weekend and we'll crank this silly mess back up bright and early Monday.
Happy Anniversary to J. Bowen, writer of No Watermelons Allowed, Axis of Weevil Minister of Nucularity, and number one referrer of traffic to Possumblog!
Hm. Y'learn something new every day.
I was just now typing up another in my long series of fascinating meeting minutes, and instead of typing "...a dark terra cotta color...," I typed "a cark terra cotta color." I went back to change it and noticed that it didn't have the squiggelly line under it to indicate it was misspelled. I tried to click on it to get a synonym to no avail, then went off to the online dictionary and found a whole new word to abuse! cark
Gastronomy
Just got a hit from someone with this inquiry--I need a light and fluffy hushpuppy. Rather defeats the purpose, doesn't it? I mean, it's about like asking for a light and fluffy hammer. Hushpuppies, another one of the wonderifermous uses for grease and corn meal, are by their very nature intended to be substantial and somewhat dense. Like me. Obviously, they shouldn't be rock hard, but a proper hushpuppy has a firm, crunchy outside crust, with a heavy, moist interior. They are the bread equivalent of an anchor, keeping all the other foods on the plate calm and securely moored. Lightness and fluffiness would be an insult. Biscuits, on the other hand...
And great was the fall thereof.
Dr. Smith’s detailing of his antigravity experiments just reminded me of my own attempt at cheating Earth’s pull. The exact date was Wednesday, October 2, 1996, at our old house in Irondale. I remember the date because I am looking at the account of it I wrote for the stupid newsletter I used to send to all the people who had quit The Bad Place where I used to work. Here goes... [insert dreamy music and hold your head into an aquarium so everything looks all watery and dreamy-like] After a quick breakfast with my daughter Ashley, we bundled our things together to head downstairs for the truck. I thought how nice it was to be leaving the house early for once. Ashley thought little kid thoughts. I opened the door to the basement stairs, and Ashley stepped down. It was a cloudy, dark morning, and the basement was a lightless chasm. So, Ashley turned on the lights. With the way now sufficiently illuminated to keep me from falling headlong down the stairs, I stepped down and reached back to close the door. As my heel narrowly missed the front edge of the second step, I began my headlong fall down the steps. Oh, I had slipped on the carpeted steps before, and had even missed an entire step, but this was a new and entirely unpleasant thing. I felt my upper torso sail forward, then WHHHUMMMP!OOOF! my shoulder hit the stairs, my feet neatly arced over my head then WHHHHUUUMMMMP!OOF! the cycle repeated itself for two more times WHHHUMMMP!OOF!, WHHHUUUUMMMP!OOF! until I lay in a mushy heap on the bottom landing, my tumble brought to an end by the concrete block basement wall. I looked around from my new vantage point, realizing thankfully that I could still see, and ever-so-slowly sat up. Ashley was transfixed in terror at the top of the stairs, and in my most confident Daddy voice I told her, “Don’t worry, stuntmen do this all the time.” Reba had leapt out of bed at the first WHHUUUMMMP! and came running to the door to make sure Ashley was okay. I told her that Ashley was fine, just a little scared. I collected my papers and my Thermos and got my lunch bag out from underneath my rather sore butt. I stood and found that I had not broken my neck, back, legs, or any other bony protuberance. My shirt was not torn, my pants were still in their unsoiled polyester glory. I had survived. I looked around, noticing the two wood 2x4 studs that I had installed several months earlier to close off one side of the landing--they were now ripped from their nailings and shoved almost out of the opening. The momentum of a multi-hundred-pound oaf rolling downhill will do that, I suppose. Ouch, I thought. That must have hurt. I heard Jonathan and Rebecca crying upstairs because of the bad loud noise someone had made. And lest you think ill of her, Reba did ask about my health, and I assured her that I was okay. “Stuntmen do this all the time.” I told Ashley that we needed to go, or we would be late. I remember thinking on the way down the steps that it seemed to be taking an awfully long time to get to the bottom, and that it sure was loud, and that I couldn’t stop falling, and that it sure was a lot of hurt. But as I walked gingerly out to the truck, I couldn’t help but think what a great story this was going to make.
It’s been a while since I posted any lengthy quotations out of old books I have--I finally plumbed Everyone’s Writing Desk Book for all it had in it aside from the synonyms-antonyms-homonyms section. SO, I figured I would rummage through my other stuff and see what I could find.
I have a modern reprint here of a book entitled, Plain Concise, Practical Remarks on the Treatment of Wounds and Fractures, by John Jones, MD. I purchased this from a wonderful place called the King’s Arms Press and Bindery, who specialize in reprints of 18th century publications and ephemera, with a particular focus on military and political treatises of the Revolutionary War period. According to their website, the book I have is a copy of a “rare work of 113 pages printed in New York in 1776 and contains much detailed information of the treatment of wounds and fractures as well as hints on the design and use of military hospitals. Among the chapters included are, Penetrating Wounds of the Thorax and Abdomen, Of Simple Fractures, Of Compound Fractures, On Amputation, Of Gun-shot Wounds, &c.” Believe it or not, it really is interesting (even with the chore of reading something full of “long esses” and ligatures). The discourse seems vigorously scientific on one hand, but the outcome of that supposed scientific knowledge points to a profound ignorance of the nature of disease--some of the treatments had not changed since Galen. Lots of bleedings and purgatives and minute observations of humourous imbalances, and biting upon rolled up cloths to alleviate pain during the more uncomfortable procedures. Oftentimes, our modern stereotype of doctors during this time is that they were cruel men not far removed from pure quacks, but despite describing some rather grisly treatments, the overall tone of Dr. Jones’ book is nonetheless one of great kindness and compassion toward the suffering patient. In the Introduction, Dr. Jones delves into his opinion of what becomes a good Surgeon-- […] instead of attempting an idle panegyric upon the most useful of arts, permit me to point out to you some of the most essential duties and qualifications of a good Surgeon; the proper requisites of which respectable character, are only to be found in a liberal education, furthering every means of acquiring knowledge, which must be ripened by experience, and graced by the constant practice of attention, tenderness, and humanity. A judicious surgeon will always find his powers and abilities of assisting the wretched, proportionable to the time he has spent, and the pains he has bestowed in acquiring the proper knowledge of his profession. […]
Jim Smith empirically works out the equation for the coefficient of friction of ice: what I have learned since I last blogged, on Tuesday
In any event, Jim, so sorry to hear about your debilitation and all our best wishes and prayers for a speedy recovery. Thursday, January 29, 2004
Study: Sedentary life starts in toddlers
I know my kids were derned lazy babies who wouldn't get out and mow the yard for nothing in the world!
Kerry raises $500,000 online in two days
GREETINGS!
The Least Surprising Headline of the Week: Hezbollah: Group May Kidnap More Israelis
Religion of peace, doncha know. Just like those nice Quakers.
Enormous
E-N-O-U-R-M-O-U-S. She managed to make it through six other words--bolt, groom, blockhead, swindler, pleased, and smattering--before getting stymied. Oh well, such is life. Or so you would think. They had all the parents and visitors of the eight kids competing in a room together away from the library, and we watched the contest on closed circuit. The moment Oldest was told she was wrong, she let out an audible and rather snotty "Oh, CRAP!" then a few minutes later showed up upstairs clutching her gut and melodramatically stage-whispering to Reba and me that SHE! FELT! SICK! I told her to shhh and whispered to her to go to the restroom, and she furiously hissed that SHE! FELT! LIKE! HER! STOM! ACH! WAS! ON! FIRE! Reba and I both told her to pipe down and I told Reba to take her out to the restroom now. ::sigh:: They came back in a little bit, and she was quieted down some, but she kept mumbling to herself and agitatedly spelling everyone else's words on the television. It'sonlyaphase,it'sonlyaphase,it'sonlyaphase... The final two kids went through seven more rounds before one got hung up on ubiquitous--e-u-b-i-q-u-i-t-i-o-u-s. The other girl, whose name I believe was Courtney Moss of Clay-Chalkville, spelled it correctly and then finished up with serendipitous for the win. As for the rest of the competition, the television we had wasn't quite plugged into the CATV outlet all the way, so until the custodian came and fixed it, it was like trying to watch and listen to scrambled Cinemax. Not that I know what that's like. You could hear the kids barely, but the pronouncer was inaudible until it was fixed. At least this year the pronouncer didn't have such a thick Southern accent as the woman did last year, although she and the judges both seemed to have lived a rather sheltered life. She stopped at one point and asked that the judges pronounce vigilante. As the kids say, WTF!?! You don't know how to pronounce THAT?! So, the judges pronounced it, something like "vij-a-LAHWN-tay'." Huh!? You TOO!? Stuff like that is why I get so miffed at being constantly hectored by the teacher's union sorts about how smart they all are. Yes, I'm sure you think you are, but when an 8th grader mocks you for not knowing a common word, it kinda hurts your argument. In other observances, there was one cute little smiling girl who asked for a definition for EVERY word. Including words such as log. It was obvious she had been coached in the fine art of stalling for time. She was eliminated toward the end, too. Then there was a lady there who seemed very intent on making sure all the other parents knew that you could protest a call. She said something even before it began about wanting to make sure she could hear the television in case she needed to make a protest. A kid misspelled embargo as embarigol because of the stilted way the pronouncer said it, which the kid repeated. The lady leaned over to the grieving parents and confidently said, "You know, I would protest that." Hey, no kiddin', sister. All in all, an interesting break during the middle of the day. And there were refreshments afterwards!
Okay...
Off now to Arndale (which is how us'ns say Irondale) for the contest. Wish me...er, I mean, Ashley, good luck. Be back in a bit to let you know how it turns out.
Comics' 'Cathy' getting married? KANSAS CITY, Missouri (AP) -- For 27 years, funny page fans in more than 1,400 newspapers have read along as "Cathy," of the same-named strip, navigated her life as a single career woman.
Speaking of the funnies, Berke Breathed's new "Opus" strip has been out for almost three months now. 10 strips, each panel beautifully drawn, but I have yet to crack a smile. Maybe it's me, I don't know, but I am growing impatient.
'Nother one bites the dust.
KB Toys closing Century Plaza store Same mall I mentioned earlier this month that's losing one of its anchor stores, Rich's. If they keep losing stores, it'll wind up looking just like Eastwood Mall.
Zephyr
Well, it's that time again. Oldest has her district spelling competition today to see if she gets to go on to the Jefferson County spelling bee like she did last year. I imagine she'll do okay again, but thankfully she's not all cranked up about it like she was last year. Lots less stress on all of us. So, I will be out later on this afternoon cheering her on and The title of this post is blatantly ripped off from Miss Janis, who seems to harbor no small amount of pent-up ill will towards contests of this sort; ill will which always seems to come back to that one word--zephyr. Miss Janis, if it would help any, when I think of zephyr, I always think of the 1937 Lincoln Zephyr V-12 coupe. (Although, for some reason, I hardly ever think of a 1978 Mercury Zephyr.) Or the 1934 Burlington Zephyr. Or a 1999 Kawasaki Zephyr ZRX1100. Or, best of all, the fearsome Washoe Zephyr.
Who?
We had our normal midweek Bible study at church last night--this quarter I'm teaching a class of about fourteen 7th-9th graders. As part of our study of spiritual beings, we were studying the nature of Jesus, and I noted that no matter whether or not people believed Jesus was the Messiah, God Incarnate, or some nice guy with special spiritual insight, or a widely-travelled wise man, or a carpenter's son who took one too many licks to the head from falling hammers, or a carnival freak, it was pretty difficult to say that Jesus as a living, breathing, person did not exist. I told the kids that the amount of information written about him, even if you discount the Bible accounts, is sufficient to establish his physical presence as much as any other historical figure, such as, oh, say, Julius Caesar. "Who's that?" asked one 8th grade girl. ::sigh::
Monkeys Show Males Think Hard About Sex - Really
No word about the desire to throw poop at spectators. Wednesday, January 28, 2004
"Funny" strange, or "funny" ha-ha?
I wish I knew. But I notice that within the last two weeks, I have been getting an inordinate amount of traffic from the Google Image Search function. (Yahoo, too, for that matter.) This might be not at all strange if I posted pictures on here, but I only post links to other people's stuff, not the actual picture. But for some reason, people who search for stuff using either of those services can click on some of the pictures and get sent here--the photos I have noticed the most as leading the most people here are one for the Superdome (from when I did a post about Weevil State's football stadium), one of a grass hut (from the same post describing Weevil State's Old Main building), one of the Bay City Rollers (who knew they had so many fans?!), a painting by Maxfield Parrish, a lovely image of Maud Adams (Rrrrowwwlll), and a shot of Miranda Otto (Mmmmmm!). They come from all different ISPs and countries, and I'm sure they are rather angry at winding up here. So, have I missed something at Google? Are they mucking about with their search algorithms again so that not only does the original location of the image get returned as a search result, but also any site that links to that image? Hello to all of you misdirected souls who stop by, though. We're glad you came by, but as always, Possumblog is barren of actual photographic content. So sorry.
Magic Talking Box BAAAAD!
Here's a story from today's Birmingham News about the thing my kids are doing the next couple of months where the television is turned off one night a week--Paine students challenged to turn off TV once a week 01/28/04
Obviously, too much of anything is bad (except Possumblog--Ed.), and television during homework time is an absolute no-dice sort of proposition at our house. But one day a week is not going to make up for six days of bad habits for those kids who watch too much. Now when it comes to interaction, I might be wrong, but as far as I know, they don't like it when you interrupt when the fat lady's yelling at the opera to ask questions. And the last time I read a book, no matter how loudly I asked, it never answered my questions. Dumb ol' book. Simply because an activity requires a person to listen or watch and not read does not mean that it's bad, nor does the ability to ask a question mean the activity is useful--ever seen a political candidate's press conference? Antisocial? Well, I suppose, if you allow it to be, but I know that our oldest uses books just the same way as some kids use television--as a way to tune her parents out, ignore her siblings, and neglect her other family and school responsibilities. As a result, she is, as we say down here, "eat up with book sense"--a commanding ability with raw facts; but she is also lacking in common sense--the ability to apply what she knows in a critically analytical way. Television, like most anything else, can be good or bad, depending on how it is used. It can be a way for families to learn and explore and interact, or not. So much of what's on is pure dreck, but you know, there's usually a little button that turns the power off or changes the channel. As for the school program, I predict great success based upon the following: [...] If Paine students succeed at the challenge and the student body racks up 10,001 nights of television-free activities by March 19, teacher Don Garrett has promised to shave his head during a school assembly. 'Cause you know, the perceived humiliation of an adult authority figure at the hands of his charges is one of the best ways to promote literacy, socialization and family interaction.
Sometimes…
I wonder to myself why I write this silly blog--it’s not like I make any money from it, Condoleeza Rice never leaves comments, Norah O’Donnell has never sent me an autographed picture--I mean, what’s the point? But then, I go to the referrer logs, and I see who all came by this little out of the way backwater of the Web, and I realize that there are people out there searching for answers--answers that apparently only I am able to give. And it gives me a whole new outlook on my value as a person. Just look; someone came by not long ago searching for hippopotamus thingymabob. If there was ever something I know about and can offer my advice on, it’s hippotamus thingymabobs. Now here in Alabama, we don’t see many of them, for obvious reasons. Well, take that back--it may not be that obvious. You see, under the Code of Alabama (1975), they are very difficult to import and you have to have a special license and all that stuff. So there’s not many around. Same goes for the closely-related hippo thingamajigger, hippo whosiewhatsits, hippo gizmos, hippo doohickies, hippo doodads, and hippo flibbertiejibbets. As well as any sort of hippo marital aids. The Possumblog Museum of Oddities and Fine Art (open seven days a week from noon to 5:30 p.m.) has a large collection of all of these (except the marital aids) nicely categorized as to age, type and size, as well as geographical provenance. It has been acclaimed as one of the finest collections of its type within a five-county area (including the northern half of Chilton County) and receives visitors daily who are dumb-struck and spellbound by what they see. Mrs. Li Xiu Goocher of Palmerdale notes in the guest book [edited for length], “It […] is […] terri [fic] and makes me want to pu [t] […] some money […] into […] more […] display[s]!” An anonymous visitor from Yuma, Arizona compares the collection favorably to the display of Gordon Terwilliger’s Curiously Wide Hat Brim he saw in Leadville, Colorado, as well as the Typing Paper Museum in White Plains, New Jersey. Come visit soon! But you know, Possumblog is not just about animal biology--we have a hard-earned reputation of excellence among the quasi-medical profession for dispensing good, solid advice on a variety of health topics. This is probably why someone came by here wondering about meth effects on earwax. As you all know, earwax is awfully annoying, but using cotton-tipped swabs, or bobby pins, or keys, or pencils, or paper clips, or pen caps, or rolled up business cards, or swizzle sticks, or toothpicks, or letter openers, or twigs, or screwdrivers, or teaspoons, or felt tip markers, or machine screws, or doorbell wire, or scissors, or twist ties, or umbrellas, or chicken wing bones, or your finger, or coat hangers to remove wax can cause damage to the delicate little ear-type structures inside your head, leading to a loss of hearing, which is bad. Likewise, methamphetamines, or “meth,” is not a good thing to use for earwax buildup, although rapid combustion associated with exploding chemicals in a meth lab can often raise the ambient temperature within a room to the level where the wax easily melts, and it can then be dabbed clean from the outer ear with a damp washcloth. Now, lest you think that Possumblog is only caught up in science and art to the exclusion of other things, it is obvious that you are mistaken, as witnessed by the person who came by not long ago seeking "handshake instructions". As always, we are happy to oblige any who wish to know the finer points of the social graces. From the Possumblog Manual of Protocol (1979 Edition, page 766): The handshake is recognized as one of the hallmarks of good manners. Improper handshakes can often drive away others and leave them with bad feelings for you. A handshake is a very simple gesture, but can be a determining factor in job interviews and social gatherings.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
The free possum cones will be 27% smaller tomorrow.
My normal semimonthly convocation of the Pretty Police beckons, so I will be incommunibloggo tomorrow for the better part of the day. As always, there are lots of folks up there in the blogroll you can peruse, and there is always (well, usually) some cheese in the refrigerator and maybe even some bread in the breadbox. Make yourself a sandwich and make yourself at home, and I'll see you later on tomorrow sometime.
Another Television Legend Gone--Former 'Tonight Show' Host Jack Paar Dies
He was a little bit before my time, although I have seen some of his "best-of" moments. He seemed to be a deft and personable storyteller, and the list of folks he helped along the way--including folks such as Carol Burnett, Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, and the great Jonathan Winters--is probably unmatched by anyone who came later.
More Crushing of Dissent in Ashcroft's America!
Cowboy Unilateralism! When Morons Attack! Did You See 'Im Oppressing Me?! NOW WE SEE THE VIOLENCE INHERENT IN THE SYSTEM!!--Al Franken Knocks Down Dean Heckler I saw a couple of other links this morning on this, and quite frankenly couldn't believe it: January 27, 2004 -- EXETER, N.H. - Wise-cracking funnyman Al Franken yesterday body-slammed a demonstrator to the ground after the man tried to shout down Gov. Howard Dean.
This is absolutely stunning coming from ANYbody, much less Franken, who puts himself forth as the kind of liberal who's good enough, smart enough, and doggone it people like him. Does this now mean that I have license to start gang tackling protesters at Bush speeches?! (If so, I guarantee you I'd be a darn site better at it than Al, but that's beside the point.) This was assault and battery, pure and simple. Franken deserves whatever New Hampshire law allows. The trouble started when several supporters of fringe presidential candidate Lyndon Larouche began shouting accusations at Dean.
Just be glad you didn't tangle with someone who was on the pistol team. (Of course, I guess we should have seen this coming--Franken doesn't pull any punches in Dads' Weekend show)
Fun with Referrer Logs!
It's been awhile since we posted one of these, but on occasion there is someone who happens by who really needs some information. Such as this earnest young person who inquires about the: legal age for living on uour own without parents. Obviously, this is a complex legal matter, but where better to find answers to complex legal questions than a site called Possumblog?! So then, on to the topic--in most places, the statutory age of majority varies from 18 years old to "old enough to spell 'your' correctly in a search string", although this can be set aside if you find a judge willing to grant you emancipation. Our advice is to spend a few more days in school before deciding to follow this course of action, however.
Clash of the Worlds!
In which two guys and an aardvark take up painting. And eating. And setting the groundwork for running for tri-governors of California by groping a diabetic girl. Corroborating Evidence! From the Man in the Middle, and no, we're NOT speaking of Michael Jackson.
Via Forbes.com, a listing of the Worst Cars of All Time
Consisting of: 1975-1980 AMC Pacer--weird styling from Dick Teague, American Motors' design chief who also gave us some cleanly styled cars like the original two-seat AMX (one of which I owned, having a 390 and an auto) and its sister the Mustang-fighter Javelin. (Check out this link to the Alabama State Trooper Javelins) The Pacer was just too weird, though, although it was a perfect complement to the AMX III-derived "styling" of the later model Matador. Also they drank huge amount of fuel for a car intended to be an economy car. 1970-1974 Chevrolet Vega--A throwback to the days of total-loss oiling. Actually were not bad looking, and after the change to iron cylinder liners, the engine woes were cured. Sorta. And I still think the twin-cam Cosworth Vega is cool. And all of them can hold a V-8. 1970-1972 Citroen SM--Hydraulic wonderland. A concept way beyond the available technology. But they are sleek looking and fast, and they had a Maserati V-6. Fixing stuff was problematic in France, impossible in the US. 1978-1988 Fiat Strada--Not the first car from Turin to be saddled with the "Fix It Again, Tony" tag, but certainly one of the most uninspiring. 1983-1989 Ford Bronco II--A little too tall and tippy for people who had never driven anything tall and tippy before. Hard to build a customer base when they keep getting severe head injuries. Still a clean looking design, though, although I still covet the plug-ugly 1966 version. 1957-1959 Ford Edsel --A not-bad-looking car for the time, even considering the unconventional horse-collar grille, but the quality control on these things was horrible. It could have survived ugliness, but not being way-overpriced crap. The ones that survive do so only because of the extreme love slathered on them by owners. 1971-1980 Ford Pinto--Okay, so the gas tank thing was really, really a bad decision. But compared to the other vehicles in the compact car landscape of the time, the Pinto wasn't so incredibly bad. And, like the Vega, you could shove a V-8 under the hood. 1978 Honda Accord hatchback--I never knew these were so badly thought of. It certainly gives lie to the idea in Detroit that once you make a bad impression, the best thing to do is change the name and hope nobody remembers. The Accord is a very good car now. I think it's unfair that no one took the time to mention the Camry and the Tercel--which defined Japanese crap when they were first introduced, and likewise continued to grow much more refined and reliable over the years. 1971 Mazda RX-2 --Hey, guess what?! Apex seals wear out. FAST. Zippy little car though. When it ran. 1979-1984 Oldsmobile Delta 88--I assume this is due in large part to the horrid diesel offered in these cars. The cars themselves weren't great, either. You want a Delta 88? Get one of these. 1984 Pontiac Fiero--Well, it supposedly started out as a two-seat "commuter" car to sneak it past the bean counters, so maybe it can be forgiven its terminal anemia. They were very nice to look at, but suffered the typical indifferent mid-'80s GM quality control. By the time Pontiac had the thing sorted out into a proper hot little sports car, GM killed it. It will be noted that the Toyota MR-2, its main competition when it debuted, was a dinky little cracker box that looked like it was made from dumpster parts. The Mister Two, however, managed to soldier on to this day as a nicely evolved, very nice fun machine. (This is the last year for it, sadly. Too much desire to sell ugly Scion boxes, I suppose. Good luck on that, Toyota.) 1956-1968 Renault Dauphine--Proof that just because the French make real good wine, cheese, and good looking women doesn't mean they know how to build a car. 1957-1962 Sachsenring Trabant P50--Proof that just because the Germans make real good cars, schnitzel, and lusty blonde beermaidens doesn't mean they can do so with Russian technology. 1981-1991 Yugo GV--Proof that just because the Slovenes and Macedonians and Serbs and Croats and Kosovars and Bosnians and Montenegrins have a long history of blood-thirsty violence and turmoil doesn't mean they aren't averse to sharing the finest of their automotive technology with the rest of the world. And to wrap up where we came in, it's worth noting that their American importer, Malcolm Bricklin, developed his own car back in the mid-'70s, the Bricklin. Bricklin's source for the car's 360 cubic inch V-8 for the 1974 model? Why, none other than good old American Motors, who at the time was ramping up to pump out Pacers as fast as they could. UPDATE: By the way, here is a list from Tom and Ray from back in April of 2000. Lot of the same cars AND it includes the Volare! Whoa-O!
Probably won’t be able to use that one again.
Got home and got supper ready last night and then split up for the various activities. Reba graciously took Cat and Jonathan with her to go get Ashley’s hair cut, and I took Rebecca to the park. Which was completely dark. Seems the black flag was flying, meaning the fields were too wet to use. Or pirates. In either case, no practice. So, back up the road to retrieve the other two kids from Mom so they could go ahead and get the rest of their homework done and scrub the playground off of themselves in the tub. I had a feeling that Catherine would be unwilling to leave, since the hair cutting shop is a wonderland of stuff to get into. I needed some way to convince her to come home with the rest of us that would not create a public spectacle. Hmmm. I reached into my fatherly bag of tricks and decided it might be time to employ the most diabolical means at my disposal. Really, it was overkill, but Cat’s almost seven and she’s never had it employed against her, so I went ahead. Rebecca and I got the Head Start shop and walked in. Some black-tee-shirt-and-black-jeans-clad chick came slowly walking toward the register running her hands up threw her hair as she stretched her arms above her head. I’m almost positive she thought this looked sexy. It didn’t. Anyway, she mumbled something and I pointed to the kids and said, “I’m just here to pick them up.” “Coooool.” You know, no one’s ever said that to me quite that way before. Catherine started immediately balking and saying she wanted to stay. “BUT, if you come home with Daddy, I’ll give you a SURPRISE!” Her abounding avarice overcame her reticence about leaving, so she happily jumped up and headed for the door, asking all the way what kind of surprise it would be. “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, now will it!?” Hard to argue with that. After I had them all safely strapped in and was well underway, I finally revealed my secret weapon. “Daaaaddeeeeee--what kind of surprise? What kinnnnnnnd?” “Cat, if you are REAL good, and get home and get your clothes off and put them in the hamper and take your bath and be REAL good, I will give you…A YANKEE DIME!” They all went nuts, and I know I have used this in the past on the other two, but apparently they forgot about it, because they were just as mystified as Cat and just as excited to see the Yankee dime. They began yammering about it and about how big it was compared to a quarter and all kinds of stuff, all the way to the top of the hill. Catherine nearly split a seam getting herself out of the van and upstairs, dutifully putting away her dirty clothes and getting clean ones and settling into the tub. I did a few chores and was sitting in the bedroom when she came by and stood beside my chair. “I’m ready Daddy!” “For what?” “Daaaaaad, I want that thing you said--the yam…, the yeek…” “Yankee dime?” “THAT!” “Okay then, close your eyes REAAAAL tight, and stand riiiiiiiight here--KEEP THOSE EYES CLOSED!--and hold real still.” I reached up and gave her a soft kiss on each cheek. She opened her eyes with a look of utter and terrible disappointment--”THAT WASN’T NO DIME!!” She threw herself into a small howling pile on the floor, and I began to mockingly cry and wipe away fake tears, “You don’t like my kisses anymore? Oh, BOO-HOO. HOO. HOO. They’re worth more than ANYTHING, and YOU don’t like them--BOOO-HOO-HOO.” Underneath her wild mop of curls she began chortling like a little demon, “Now you’re LAUGHING at your PO’ OL’ DADDY!” The giggle could not be stopped, and when Boy and Middle Girl came running in to see what was going on, she could barely contain herself--“Come here, Jonathan, I wanna give you a Yankee dime!” Mom got home later and Cat had to go through the scenario once again and everyone had to give Mom Yankee dimes for her birthday present. As I said, I don’t know if I’ll be able to use that one again, but it turned out pretty well this time. And as for Catherine’s initial disappointment, she ought to be very glad that it was me who bedimed her, rather than some ancient aunt who dips snuff and smells like camphor. (No, I don’t know why it’s called a Yankee dime.) Monday, January 26, 2004
Virus Warning
Well, once again one of those nasty worms is about--I just got virus spam in my Yahoo! inbox that supposedly came from ME! I've said it before, but it bears repeating--I DO NOT send out attachments to e-mails unless you have requested them. DO NOT open anything that has my address on it AND contains an attachment, unless you specifically requested it, or I specifically told you it would be coming in a later transmission. Finally, DO NOT OPEN ATTACHMENTS if you don't know who or why someone would send it to you.
Speaking of obscure references...
I posted a definition last week sometime from my ratty copy of the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, and it occurred to me that I have another dictionary on my desk that is equally interesting--The Construction Dictionary, published by the Greater Phoenix Chapter of the National Association of Women in Construction. What makes it interesting is the number of slang terms in it, and especially the fact that even in these overly-sensitive times, it even has the culturally derogatory ones. In the preface, this is noted, and it states that in the process of creating the third edition [they're on their ninth now] the compilers produced "a dictionary with over 13,500 definitions of technical and slang terms. These included many that are encountered daily on the jobsite or in the construction office...and some that should not be." Thankfully, they're still in there anyway. A couple that I dare reprint here (due to having some Irish in me) are: Irish confetti--bricks. and Irish fan--a shovel. A couple of others (that I will sanitize for the more delicate among my readers) include: [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] backhoe--a pick. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] crusher--a hammer. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup]-head--any unbroken rock in excess of four inches. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] speed wrench--a pair of pliers. Amazing what construction workers can come up with.
More for the Bored!
Anyway, I had gotten up to Sunday, which, as usual, consists of getting everyone up and out of bed and dressed and in the van and to church before 9. Would have been much easier except Oldest was on one of her all-too-frequent adolescent breaks-with-reality, in which you sit and scream at your siblings inside of minivan, then vow that you never said anything, much less raise your voice. ::sigh:: It'sjustaphase-it'sjustaphase-it'sjustaaaAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH!! Sorry. Got to church, had another good couple lessons, then lunch, then some singing and the last lecture of the day, and then it was time for FURNITURE SHOPPING!! I believe that's what some call "being in a rut." Pshaw! What do they know?! Probably enough not to set out with a vanload of tired, restless, yammering howler monkeys, that's what. We ran by the house to unload leftover food, then back over to Twigs and Tchotckes to take back their seat cushion, then stopped by the gigantic Mazer store over in Homewood--"stopped by" being rather deceptive, being that it's clear on the other side of the county from where we started out, and made even further by the fact that I took the wrong turn on I-459 and went up scenic Highway 280 rather than going on down to I-65. It's another one of those "we set up shop in a dilapidated suburban shopping center that used to house a decrepit K-Mart, AND PASS THE SAVINGS ON TO U!" places, with nice duct tape detailing around the front doors and friendly and helpful sales staff ready to HELP U WITH YOURE CREDIT! Alas, nothing here that we couldn't find anywhere else. I mean, aside from the soggy paper sack full of garbage from Sonic that I managed to run over as I parked. Let me just say, "Eww." On then up the hill a bit to the Baby Superstore, which went out of business many years ago. Yes, it's still out of business. Then back across town to the house--never had I been more glad to be there. I felt like I had a Mr. Coffee Nerves on my back. To make it worse, there was my committment to assist the kinder in the Shut Off the Idiot Box Week competition which meant that I could not relax and let the warm, comforting cathode rays bathe me in luxurious radiation. Life is so unfair, you know. After eating supper, I put Cat to bed--she cried for exactly three seconds and then started snoring--then tried to get the rest of the crew to go read. Rebecca steadfastly refused, wanting to further jangle my tiny little nerve with GAMES!! She looked down beside my bed and saw the one thing we could play together that was sure to help calm me down--EXTREME Jenga! They'reonlyyoungonce, they'reonlyyoungonce, they'reonlyyoungoooAAAAAGGGGHHHH! Sorry. Anyway, it's just the thing after 14 hours of non-stop action. Oddly enough, I won both games, playing with a steady hand and a keen eye. Must have been the Tums and the laudanum kicking in. (Not really--I always buy generic antacid) Anyway, back at it today--tonight begins regular soccer practice for Middle Girl, and Mom is taking Oldest to go get a hair cut, both of which will certainly be very interesting for those of you who are bored.
Restaurant Review Time!
After making a brief stop at the card shop to get birthday cards because I haven’t had any time to get them earlier, time that would have been well spent by taking just a few more minutes to closely examine the one card I purchased that I thought was a birthday card but was, in fact, an anniversary card, I strolled on down Birmingham Green to our appointed date place. It certainly has changed--the old black wainscoted deli/meat-and-three has given way to a restrained, fresh-looking restaurant with tasteful décor, soothing cream-colored walls, and starched white tablecloths. The neoclassical detailing and richly upholstered chairs contrasts nicely with the dark old tiled floor from the building’s original early 20th century construction date, and gives the place a New Orleansish feel, and I hope they keep it so spotless. New restaurants are always so nice, you know, with pretty plates and shiny silverware and clean walls and doorways unpeed upon by winos. The place was busy, but not packed, and I asked the nice lady at the impossible-to-open front door for a table for two. There were about three or so open along the wall. She got a couple of menus and led me to a table for four. I thought maybe the others had been reserved, but no one was ever seated there the entire time. Whatever. Anyway, I sat down to wait on Reba and examined the menu, which is similar to the one in the article I linked to earlier. Reba finally got there and agreed to sit with me, believe it or not, and opened her cards before looking at her menu. She was greatly amused by my choice of cards, especially the anniversary card. As for lunch, after much hemming and hawing, we both decided to have the pecan-encrusted Mississippi catfish, which came served with black-eyed peas, grilled vegetables and rice with a molasses butter sauce. I realize that had I been an actual fancy restaurant reviewer like legendary Birmingham gadabout Dennis Washburn (may he rest in peace), I would have ordered something different from Reba to let you know what it tasted like, too, but the other stuff seemed either too heavy or too spare to make a good lunch. The dishes arrived after only about ten minutes or so, artfully arranged with a sprig of green stuff that I think was probably dill or fennel or dogbane or something, on a small raft of whole thin green beans, vegetables, peas and rice. The fish was nice and clean and the portion was adequately sized, but the molasses sauce was just a little too molassesy. I realize you all think I’m a big rube, which I suppose I am, but the current temptation for trendy chefs to throw in these unusual “rustic” flavors with “rustic” foods is just a bit twee, and it grates on my nerves. Unsophisticated or not, I know that simple is the hardest thing in the world to pull off well. And molasses for the sake of novelty don’t cut it. It wasn’t bad at all--it was entirely edible--but the wrong gesture for the wrong food. Aside from that personal beef, the service was prompt and pleasant, and the glasses and forks didn’t have goop on them. It’s a good place if you want to show someone you’re real classy up during the day, although not the place to go eat lunch everyday.
For the bored among you...
Well, as I mentioned, I had to leave early Friday to get the Tiny Terror. Those drives are always the worst--odds are that it's nothing, but when you're a parent, you feel duty-bound to run through all the worst-case scenarios. 'Hmm. Headache, fever. Could be meningitis, could be SARS, could be flu, consumption, Lyme disease, Legionnaire's...' After a while, you realize that you're just hurting yourself, and you figure you'll just deal with whatever it is and that you REALLY need to loosen your grip on the steering wheel. Thankfully, it seemed to be nothing more than a passing bit of uncomfortability, but to play it safe, she stayed home with Mom and the rest of the rugrats while I went and got lectured-up at church. Our annual lectureship began that evening--like clockwork every year, we either have someone in the house who is sick, or it's freezing cold, or raining buckets. Saturday was okay--no sick, no rain; but Sunday it poured and poured all day. At least I didn't have to cook--I usually get corralled into either getting up at the crack of dawn and grilling chicken Saturday morning, or, like last year, trying to get some catered chicken from KFC. This year, someone else did the birds, which made the logistics a whole lot easier. Anyway, off to the church building for a couple of hour-long discussions, then back home, did some more laundry, finished getting little munchkins into bed, and then hit the hay. Up early again Saturday, did some more laundry, got the kids to put on some clothes, stopped by McDonald's for horrid breakfast stuff, then by Wal-Mart to pick up some side dishes for lunch, got to the building and managed to keep the kids quiet for another couple of hours. Cat was definitely back to her normal fidgety self--which is one of those OTHER guilty feelings you have as an parent--'Why can't you be nice and quiet like when you're SICK!?' Lunch, which was barbecued chicken with what you would expect for trimmings--slaw, beans, tater salad, bread, and a groaning table full of desserts that really looked good. I was very good, though, and only smelled of them--deeply, with great lustiness. Which always weirds people out for some reason. One more lecture and then...FURNITURE SHOPPING!! At least this time we had the good sense to drop the kids at Reba's parents' house, although for some reason we went back and got them later. Anyway, first to Unpainted Furniture, because, well, you just never know when you might find a perfectly good piece of furniture there. Not this time, though. Stopped by Hamburger Heaven for a quick bite--I had only intended to get us a couple of drinks, but then Reba said she wanted one of their mini-cheeseburgers (which are the size of everyone else's regular cheeseburgers--their normal ones are gigantic) and then the thought of a big pile of onions and sauce and meat sorta overwhelmed my earlier vow to be good at the dessert table. Managed to get saucey onions all down my white shirt. Figures. It sure was good, though. Off to the other side of town--we figured we might be able to find a suitable lingerie chest over at the antique store in Riverchase. No such luck. Back home, got the kids, and then went to Sticks and Stuff. You know, if you wanted to name a store in such a way as to make everyone think all you sold was junky crap, you probably couldn't find a better name than Sticks and Stuff. Unless it was Junk and Crap. They actually have some okay mid-price furniture, although their building in Trussville looks like something that might contain a store called Junk and Crap. Did find one sofa that 1) looked not quite so odd, 2) didn't look like the Michelin man, 3) could be ordered with a sleeper unit, and 4) was within our meager budget. Asked the sales guy if we could steal a cushion and see if it would work, which he kindly let us do. Probably not many families of six come in and steal single cushions, I suppose. It looks okayish, but I'm still not convinced, either out of the desire to not spend any money or inertia. Whatever. Home, then, for real this time, and finished scrubbing children and drying hair and folding MORE clothes and time for bed once again. Aaaaah--nothing like hearing rain on the roof. BUT NOW--I have to take a break in this scintillating bit of suburban drama to take Miss Reba out for her birthday luncheon. Going to go to the Cafe Dupont, which used to be out in Springville but has now moved to a newly renovated location where our old favorite, Dyson's Deli, was located. The new place is really swanky and probably has somewhat edible food. We'll see, I suppose. Be back after while.
He's Baaaaack... Dean: Iraqi standard of living worse now
Aside from some obvious pandering in which he allows that Saddam was not a nice boy, Dr. Dean seems to be in full blither mode again. Interesting too, seeing as his next big contest is in New Hampshire, where the license plates all read, "Live Free or Die." Although some may think such sentiments are just so much twaddle, there are actually people in this world who believe it better to be a poor freeman than a wealthy slave. And, at least for now, the people of Iraq have an opportunity to actually have a standard of living, rather than having to exist in a perpetual state of knowing that for one misspoken word against Saddam or his sons, they--or their children--could experience the sights and sounds of a Ba'athist torture chamber. Whatever you might think about the necessity of going to war with Iraq, Dean's supposed critique based upon (unsubstantiated) claims of economic straits suffered by the population is ludicrous and could just have easily been made about post-war Germany and Japan. Iraq has the potential to have a good standard of living for all of its people. That potential only exists now that Saddam is gone.
"Hey, kids..."
"What should we get Mommy for her birthday today?" Quoth the Youngest, "Mama just wants a piece of quiet!" You betcha, especially after this past weekend, details of which will be doled out in dribs and drabs thoughout the morning. BUT FIRST, I must do a tiny bit of work junk. Be back in a bit. Friday, January 23, 2004
Friday Afternoon Meeting--Or Not!
It starts in ten minutes and will consist of our capo and a roomful of all us babbos. It promises to have lots of mindless chattering, probably going on for two hours or more. I am looking forward to this in much the same way as I would look forward to a two-hour cavity search. UPDATE: Entitled--"Be Careful What You Wish For" Got started--blahblahblah--someone's beeper went off and she got up to go out. More blahblah, I sit there wishing I had a beeper that would go off. She came back in, I thought to myself "why?!" More blahblah, then there's a knock at the door--secretary pokes her head in and says there's a call for Terry--"The school called and said your daughter's sick." ::sigh:: Got up and went by the desk on the way to my office, asked if she was still on the phone. Nope, they just told her it was Catherine that was sick, gave their number, and then hung up. Got to my desk to call, the school's line is busy. Grr. I mean, GRRR! Try again. Repeat. Just now got through after numerous phone system redirects--headache and low fever, feeling pitiful. So, off to home a bit early today---I'm sure she'll be okay, but it's still a bad way to get out of a meeting. See you all bright and early Monday, with lots of stories to tell, I'm sure. EVEN MORE UPDATEDER: Got to school and found her quietly sitting on the bench outside the office. Got her stuff, got her brother and sister, headed home, got out the ThermoScan annnnnd--96.3 in one ear, 96.0 in the other. She's downstairs right now fighting with her siblings over a game of Monopoly. In other words, she's fine AND I got out of my meeting with no need to feel guilty! Sweet, as the kids say.
More Sad News--'Captain Kangaroo' Dies January 23, 2004, 2:01 PM EST
Captain Kangaroo was fun and and clever and informative, which I know from first hand experience at having to endure numerous stupid Japanimation Saturday mornings with Pokemon and Digimon and Yu-Gi-Oh and Sailor Moon. […] He was critical of today's TV programs for children, saying they were too full of violence. And he spoke wherever he went about the importance of good parenting.
I think I'm going to eat lunch at Captain D's, too!
Meridian woman surprised with pearl in her oyster po-boy MERIDIAN, Miss. (AP) -- Sacheen Morgan says there's no doubt the seafood sandwich she ordered was the real thing — it contained a pearl.
I'm sure there will be a run on them in the next few days. (It certainly beats finding the normal stuff in your fast food--bugs or bandages or hair.) UPDATE: I am forelorn--I thought that the po-boy was possibly a limited-time offering, like their scrumptious fried crawdads were, but ALAS, and ALACK--the local joint over across from the hospital didn't have a single thing which might conceivably have a semiprecious stone in it. ::sigh::
Well, you get a little bit of sympathy at first-- Atkins widow demands Bloomberg apology NEW YORK (AP) -- The widow of Dr. Robert Atkins went on national television Friday to demand that Mayor Michael Bloomberg apologize for calling the late diet guru "fat."
But then, at the very end, we have this little tidbit from the Widow Atkins-- Atkins' widow said the event's caterer "considered [sic] to be one of the best in the Hamptons." Oh, please. I was kinda rooting for her until that line. It's like half of all Seinfeld episodes--"He's the BEST, Jerry! The BEST!"Well, whatever you might think about either Bloomberg or Atkins, it never ceases to amaze me that politicians are surprised when they get caught badmouthing someone, and then that they feel compelled to follow up with all sorts of lame attempts to offer non-apology-apologies. Hey, by the way, ever eat a pine tree? Many parts are edible.
Mimicry
We were eating supper last night and suddenly Boy started crying--he had bitten the end of his tongue and as a parent, my duty was not to startle him any further by letting on about how HORRIBLE the place on his tongue looked, nor that it was BLEEDING!! So I calmly told him to get a piece of ice out of his cup and hold it between his tongue and his front teeth. Little droplets of tears continued to sporadically spurt out of his eyeholes, so I then took to theatrically dabbing at them with my napkin--"'TOP IH, Dah-ee!! Quih boh-her-en me!" Well, you try to talk and hold an ice cube in your mouth. Anyway, he cheered up a bit, and began doing the silly talk for his own enjoyment, and then remarked that he thought he sounded Australian. "Now, wait a minute there, Hoss!" Seeing as I have a So, I was, like, all talking and stuff, dude, and then delivered a sudden coup de main. In the style of famed thespian and profound political philosopher Sean Penn as Jeff Spicoli I said: "Aloha, Mr. Hand!" Boy thought that was the most HILARIOUS thing he had ever heard. He cackled and the piece of ice flew out of his mouth onto his plate and he fell out of his chair onto the floor laughing and holding his stomach. Fortunately, he did not rebite his tongue.
Driving
Yet another morning of delays. The first was caused by our newly relit electronic interstate message boards all across the state. All the other cool states have these, and I suppose everyone else is used to them by now, but they're new for us and quite a novelty. They were installed last year, then had to be removed and fixed when they didn't work, and now they're back in place. This week has been the first that they had actual words on them, rather than just four bulbs lit up down in the bottom right corner. And therein lies the problem. The ostensible mission of these big boys is to ease traffic congestion and pass along information. What no one seemed to realize is that we seem to have a very high percentage of people who read with their finger under each word and with their lips moving. Which means that on a nice open stretch of interstate, the fact that there's a message up there means at least a few people in every lane slow down to make sure they get the whole message, even if it's "SIGN UNDERGOING TESTING." So, the thing designed to ease crowding and promote better traffic flow creates a long, senseless delay. What I can't figure out is why it is the people who slow down can't keep going just as fast as they're when they're reading the TV Guide or putting on their makeup. After we all got past the sign, the road magically opened up again until I got to Roebuck, where a tractor trailer had t-boned a Nissan pickup at the entrance ramp from Roebuck Parkway. Didn't look too bad, but there were all kind of flashing lights and people standing around looking and three lanes of traffice squished down into 7/10s of a lane. I managed to make up for the delay and get to work on time by driving 152 mph after I got past the wreck. (Not really) Thursday, January 22, 2004
Doctors Remove 175-Pound Tumor from Woman
...Tumor Currently Running Strong Third in New Hampshire Dem Polls
Well, it appears the Gigli is up.
A world without Bennifer J-Fleck--somewhere, there is probably some sad guy dressed up like an Indian with a tear in his eye.
Well, some folks do tend to take it a bit more seriously than others, that's for sure.
(Link sent to me as a peace offering by that wicked Mr. Stewart, who wonders why Earnest T. Bass is not mentioned in the story.)
Lunch Atop the 'Ham
Well, there was a good view. 20th floor of the AmSouth HQ, and a bright shiny day that makes one want to prance down the street singi...oh, wait--let's not start that again. Anyway, visibility 10 miles, which means that had I been a few stories higher I might could have seen my house. (Not really) Walked in, and saw an attractive lady sitting at a reception desk. "Blahblah Merchant's Association meeting?" I asked hopefully. Just as I had gotten that out, another school of pinstriped movers and shakers came in right behind me, and I suppose she thought we were all together. (Despite the fact that I was dressed like a used car salesman from the Dakotas--shirt, tie, and a gigantic black M65 field coat with quilted liner.) The nice lady graciously nodded to me and to the people behind me and mentioned a name, and the guy in the lead nodded his head at her and looked at me, so I figured we must be together, too. Walked behind their group into a small private dining room-within-the-private-dining-room and was met with a table full of bright, shiny, eager, successful people and a couple of empty chairs. I shed my coat and looked around the room trying to find one single person I knew from the business association--who ARE these people? I went around to the other side of the table, and drew back a chair. Something's just NOT right--"Pardon me, folks, but is this the Blahblah Merchant's Association meeting?" No. Just then, Nice Lady came through the door with a stricken look on her face and began aplogizing to everyone, which I took as my cue to go with her. "It sure looks like you have some good food--I hate to leave!" The guy at the head of the table, a dead-ringer for Sen. John Edwards, chuckled and introduced himself and shook hands with me as I was going back out the door. I really don't think he would have minded if I had stayed. People are just like that. But, I had to go to the real place, which was an even nicer room with many, MANY fewer people. Wound up with about twenty souls or so. I usually go to these things as an observer and to field any questions about my own little slice of the gummint machine. Each person was asked to speak, and the conversation went around the table as each variously described a glory day in a dimly remember past in their neighborhood, and/or how the whole neighborhood has just gone to the dogs. All of them with a beef about municipal goverment. As an afterthought, they asked for my input. I noted that I couldn't really speak for any of the other departments, but when everyone sits around talking about how 'The City oughta do this,' and 'The City oughta do that,' they had to remember that THEY were the city. If they didn't like something, they had to do something other than complain and daydream, and they needed to work together as a unified group. I went on for a while, talking about the need to work with the folks who live there, with the schools, with their council person. But not to expect others to do the work for them. (I've given this same advice to this same group for years now.) They all nodded their heads in thoughtful agreement. I had to leave not long after, and by that time they had definitely concluded that maybe in addition to the usual lunch meeting, they could possibly have a couple of breakfast meetings during the year. Maybe. Or maybe an after-work meeting. And that something needed to be done about crime. ::sigh:: Oh well. At least the food was good.
FLASH!! Garland Stewart just forwarded a story he's closely following on CNN: CNN: Riots at Auburn University today
ROLL TIDE ROLL!!! I refuse to dignify this bit of cruel japery at my alma mater's expense with a response, other than to remind everyone that Adam was a Georgia Tech grad.He had to be, because he was eating an apple while sitting next to a naked lady.
But will they like the view?--Dean Says Voters Will See Through Flaws
...To His Core Competency of Lunacy.
Still more work...
I have a lunch meeting to go to that promises to be so incredibly exciting that I might actually stay awake or something. Maybe. Or not. At least it promises to be somewhat fancy--it's being held in the top-floor corporate dining room of one of the local banks down the street. Be good to see what all those ATM fees are going toward.
Poor Susanna!
Susanna Cornett is finally here amongst us, and her take on Birmingham is a delight to read, at least to this old-timer: Notes from Alabama - Wednesday, January 21
I sat in the library and read a Stephen King novel for an hour, my car parked on the street at a meter allowing 10 hours of parking without moving. There's people in NYC who'd pay rent for that space, transferred to their fair city. Heh. Just wait until you try to go back at night to eat supper or something! Parking is turning into a running gun battle due to the growing number of entertainment places and finite number of available spaces. Part of the problem is that everyone wants to park right by the front door of where ever they are going. Part of it is restaurant owners taking over public streets and parking spaces for their customers. Gritty urban drama!Downtown Birmingham has the odd distinction of having parallel streets with the same numbers, only with N or S on them. So you have larger numbers with South on them (8 Street South) going down to First Street South as it moves north, until it hits some street in the midst of it all (I never could find a sign with its name) where the numbers change - now it's all North. So you can travel north and pass Second Street South, First Street South, Unnamed Middle Street, First Street North, Second Street North, etc. Freaky, and nothing I've seen before. But simple. I should do okay. Actually, I did do okay, going to a meeting downtown today. Pretty city, no heavy traffic, empty parking spaces everywhere. I could grow to like this. [...] Ahh, yes. The Grid. It really is simple, I promise. What you have to remember is that 1) the railroad tracks bifurcate the downtown area , 2) streets run N-S, avenues run E-W, 3) stuff north of the tracks are Whatver Address, NORTH and the stuff south is Whatever Address, SOUTH, 4) numerical avenue designations ascend, starting at the railroad tracks and working to the north and the south, i.e. 1st Avenue, North is closer to the tracks than 4th Avenue, North, and 5) the first one or two numbers in a street address designate the particular avenue or street--2114 1st Avenue, North, for example, means that the address is along 1st Avenue, North (north of the railroad tracks) between 21st and 22nd Streets. You can also have something like 108 22nd Street, North--an address that is along 22nd Street, North, between 1st and 2nd Avenues.NOW, this is SUPPOSED to be the way it is. There are, however, clashing and bashing intersecting lines whenever you leave the very center of town as over the years outlying suburbs were annexed. And to make it even more confusing are the two tiny streets hard on the tracks--Morris to the north, and Powell to the south. Each is named for one of the founders of Birmingham, and they intermittently stop and start along their length all the way out to East Lake. (This is what you call your Unnamed Middle Street.) Second, North Birmingham, out beyond the Convention Center, was once its own town and has its own numbering system, as does Ensley, on the west. Ensley especially is confounding due to the use of both numbers AND letters, as well as a wide variety of lettered courts, ways, places and avenues--Avenue B might go to Court B then Avenue C then Court C then Place C then Avenue E. Maddening. Likewise East Lake and Woodlawn, each their own places until the early 'teens with their own illogical grids. And then there are the one-way streets downtown. You'll have to figure those out on your own. Remember, two wrongs don't make a right, but three rights makes a left. Oh well, you'll eventually get it straight. It really is easy to get around downtown, and yes, for all you who might be tempted to think otherwise, it really is a nice looking place.
Y'all get your hip waders on, it's getting deep in here.
Trustee exhumes 'Caesar' as Walker departs Auburn THOMAS SPENCER
Which is what he repeated Wednesday when asked to explain the importance of the passages. "Further I will not go," he said. One can only wish.So it's left to the Auburn family to decide whether Caesar had let power go to his head and whether Brutus was acting treacherously or in the best interest of the Roman republic. But one thing is certain: Beware the ides of March. Ah, yes, March Madness!You know, you think when this story can't get any more bizarre and embarrassing... Wednesday, January 21, 2004
The Toothbrush Story Returns!!
I promised to provide Miss Janis a transcript of this morning's Toothbrush Story. For those of you who are new, these are a series of improbable tales I use on the mornings when Tiny Terror is in a bad mood and doesn't want to brush her teeth. They usually include animals engaged in various activities that they immediately forget about when they are reminded that they need to brush their teeth. It keeps her (Catherine, not Miss Janis) entertained for about four minutes. IN ANY EVENT--this morning's story was about Flip the Cat and Rachel the Snowshoe Hare. I can't actually remember the rabbit's name--but I do remember it was distinctly different from the usual assortment of names based upon the duosyllabic, hard-K-sound variety normally suggested (i.e., KeeKee, KayKay, Kacey, Kimmy, etc., etc., ad nauseum) Also, you have to make up voices for the characters. Imagine I am talking like a cat and a rabbit. CAST: Flip is a big floppy white cat, Rachel is a big floppy white snowshoe hare. Once upon a time (which is how all really good stories begin) there once was a white cat named Flip, who lived in a house with a little girl with very curly curls. Every morning, Flip would squish herself down into the toilet paper holder [Stage cue--stuff cat in between paper roll and holder] and watch her little girl brush her teeth. One day, she thought how much fun it would be to brush her own teeth, but seeing as how she was stuffed into a toilet paper holder, such an outcome was not feasible. Just then, her friend Rachel the Snowshoe Hare hopped into the bathroom and briefly watched the little girl brush her teeth, and then said good-morning to Flip. RACHEL: "Good Morning, Flip!" FLIP: "Hello! Hey, would you do me a favor and help me brush my teeth? I can't really get to it since I'm stuck here with the bumwad, and I don't think I have the necessary dexterity to actually hold a toothbrush." Rachel agreed, but only on the condition that Flip reciprocate the act of kindness on her behalf. Flip agreed, of course (as housecats are wont to do), and Rachel hopped over to the sink and fetched a fresh toothbrush and held it just so betwixt her forepaws and gave Flip's teeth a vigorous scrubbing, and Flip woke up the whole house with much loud spitting and rinsing. [Stage cue--spit sounds] Now with minty fresh breath, Flip held the toothbrush in both of HER forepaws, and gave a sound scouring to Rachel's big rabbity buck teeth, also accompanied by much spitting and rinsing. [Repeat spitting sounds] Afterwards, both Rachel and Flip had the cleanest teeth of allllllll the stuffed animals in the entirety of the little girl's house. [CAST BOWS. EXUENT STAGE RT] (It's much better with voices.)
From the Captain Renault File: Powell confesses annoyance with French By BARRY SCHWEID
So, not quite all roses. The wishful thinking on the part of the reporter is probably harmless, though, and seems to be part of a desire that IS as old as this country, that is our seeming pathological desire to be granted appreciative approval by our relatives across the water. But, whether we like it or not, all the cool kids at school still think we're the geeky uncouth freshman from the bad part of town, even if they are occasionally nice to us and don't penny our door shut. As the great thespian Bill Murray said, "We're all very different people. We're not Watusi, we're not Spartans, we're Americans! With a capital "A," huh? And you know what that means? Do you!? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world!"Realistically, given actual circumstances, as well as Mr. Murray's highly nuanced and thoughtful riposte, it might be a bit too much to expect that we'll be loved, no matter how hard we try. Likewise, it's probably best for us to drop the idea that in some magical time past all the cool kids had a crush on us. As for France, any country that gave birth to both Sabine Herold and Sophie Marceau is pretty darned okay by me.
Ahoy, Matie!
Good lunch--I was rather miffed that there were no parking spaces along 20th Street, so I had to park in the back lot. Not that big of a deal except you have to go in through the back door and it's almost like walking throught the kitchen. I don't know, but if you're like me, you really don't want to see what they do to your food. Anyway, for some reason it was a slow day and there were plenty of tables. Jeff already had one and had a big plastic tumbler of sweet tea. I sat down and the nice waitress girl asked if I wanted something, so I asked for a Diet Coke. She came back and plopped a big plastic tumbler down in front of me, half full. In her other hand, she held a 12 ounce can of Diet Coke. For some reason, I really expected a full glass. And from a fizzy hose somewhere. Oh well. Jeff ordered the girly vegetable plate while I, as part of my plan to thumb my nose at both the Grim Reaper and PETA as well as support the American beef and pork industries, ordered the bacon cheeseburger. It's one of those old-timey, hand-squished patties that's about the size of a billiard ball in the center. Pretty good, I suppose. Topics of conversation included new babies; lack of sleep therefrom; getting the Big Snip (or the Lil' Snip, as the case may be); mini-vannin'; house painting; his brother retiring from the Air Force (flying F-15s out of Japan) and going to work for FedEx (which doesn't have very many F-15s); stupid people; pleasant chunky waitresses; and buying a car online. He got a very good deal on his Sienna, after being told by the local Toyota dealers here in town that he would pay list price or not get one, and that he would take whatever color they had on the lot, and then he would have to get down on his knees and shout, "Thank-you, short-sleeved car selling guy, I'll have another!" while being paddled with a custom-embroidered $200 floor mat. Jeff, being a former fraternity boy, was certainly used to such demeaning treatment back when he was in the hands of his Greco-collegiate brothers, but by purchasing online, from a dealer a few miles further out in the hinterlands, he got to get the exact color he and the Missus wanted, with the exact equipment, and saved about 1300 bucks. And the process was painless. Which, or course, is why he's worried. Nothing should be so simple and painless, you know. After I finished my BSE on a bun, we paid and went out to do the ol' tire-kicking routine. Some kinda nice things his Toyota has that our Honda doesn't are a built-in DVD/child pacification-neutralization system, and rear headrests that don't have to be taken off the seat to fold it down. It does have a shifter with recognizable detents for each gear, which after the sloppines in our Honda shifter would be nice--HOWEVER, the shifter is stuck there in the middle of the dashboard, which is just freakish. (Unless it's in an Alfa, and then it's just Italian.) Swapped magazines--he surprised me by giving me FIVE this time, and I won't quibble about the fact that I had already read two of them. I gave him his ten-pound stack of dead tree, and off we went. On the way back downtown, it was easier to see Vulcan on his new perch with the new elevator tower. It's not going to be much longer before the park is open again, which will be nice. He's pretty and shiny now, which is good, but still a bit disconcerting to see. Before he was all spiffed up and restored, he had been painted in a flat, iron oxide red color. This, in addition to the large streaks of rust, was not really very pretty, but it did make the old fellow look like he was made out of iron. The new paint is a high-gloss gray, which is great for weather resistance, but he looks a little too much like a fiberglass Muffler Man. In any event, it's still good to have him back.
FUN!
It's been a while, but today marks the return of Lunch with My Friend Jeff™. I have a foot-high stack of car magazines today (and he will probably have two) BUT I made him promise to bring My Friend Cathy™'s new van so I could play inside of it. (He did make me promise to control my flatulence.) Today's choice of eatery will be The Anchorage in lovely downtown Homewood, an ancient meat 'n' three joint that has been around since the Pleistocene. Almost impossible to get a table during regular lunchtime, which is why I am about to cut out right now. See you in a bit. I would tell him you all said 'hey,' but as with all my local friends and family, he has no idea of anything called a Possumblog.
You know, sometimes I have problems with rolling divergent oscillation, too.
Nate McCord makes note of the first (unintended) flight of the F-16 Fighting Falcon on 20JAN1974. F-16s are cool.
Now THAT dog can HUNT!
Vincent man's dogs hunt bombs, termites, mold MARIE LEECH
I was on the teevee!
I finally got my interview tape yesterday--the report was a couple of minutes long, and my portion of it was a long shot of me patting the conference room table with my palms as if it were a warm skillet, with the reporter doing a voice over; then a closeup of my left hand moving back and forth as if I had lost all motor control as the voice-over continued; and then...MY CLOSEUP, Mr. DeMille! Large, fleshy head, saying one sentence--'It helps us help them quicker, when they are able to do some of the preliminary work themselves,' or some such twadde. One two-second blurb, out of a twenty minute chat. I am SO famous now!
I am the New American Idol
Reba took Ashley to clarinet practice last night, so after supper I turned on American Idol as I was cleaning up the dishes and watched it with the three younger kids. They get the biggest kick out of it, and since they all have reasonable singing voices, even Catherine can pick out the stinkers. I'm just waiting for her to say "bloody awful." Anyway, they were having a good time, and then the guy came on who did his personal interpretation of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Eyes rolled back in his head, lots of arm waving, trills and tremolo and stumbling runs of off-key caterwauling. He finished up and was promptly flayed, and as the commercial was coming on, I launched into the first couple of lines while standing at the dishwasher. Jonathan swiveled his head around with a look of utter surprise--"DAD!! You could be the American Idol!!" I just laughed--"Son, I'm a bit too old for American Idol. Maybe American Geezer." "Well, if you weren't so old, you could be the American Idol for EVERY YEAR THEY HAVE IT!! You're GOOD Daddy!" Man, I live for constant positive reinforcement. You will never find anyone else in the world, other than your kids, who think--who know--you are the bestest singer and brain surgeon and dish washer and trick shot and bug catcher and joke teller and lion tamer in the whole world. That's pretty hard to beat.
More Formatting Questions
Forgive me, but I just can't help messing with this quote box thing, because I want it to be just right. (Or, at least "just right" in the context of Possumblog.) Just pretend you're going to the ophthalmologist--now then, put your chin right here and tell me if This is better--13.5 pixels high, Verdana font or ifThis is better--same size, Century Gothic. Alright then, what aboutThis one--same size in Garamond, which is the same font as the rest of the page. Okay, you can sit back now and we'll poke around on your cornea for a while.
And now, Fun with Innards!
Haggis, Born in The USA By Trevor Datson
Anyway, although the article says that the recipe is a closely guarded trade secret, don’t let them fool you. Direct from Scotland, here is a tasty recipe you’ll be sure to enjoy. I would reprint it here, but I'm feeling rather queasy at the moment.
You've seen them.
They're all over the place--old Captain D's turned into Chinese restaurants, Omelet Shoppes turned into Bottle Stoppes--what in polite circles are known as "adaptive reuse projects" when done nicely, but when done badly in the more gritty parts of town are just simply fodder for website hijinx. SUCH IS THE CASE with a site sent to me by Dr. Weevil's evil brother and NASA employee Steevil--Not Fooling Anybody--subheaded as "a chronicle of bad conversions and storefronts past." Each site has a photo of what it is now, what it was, as well as design commentary. Some good ones include the Gilstrap Chiropractic (formerly a Kentucky Fried Chicken), Master Donut (used to be a Mister), and proving how far the Planet Hollywood franchise can fall, there is Gino's East in Chitown. One wonders if there is a corresponding Gino's West in an equally attractive spot in Cicero or Oak Park. Anyway, many thanks to Steevil, who says he came across the link while NOT surfing a particular website devoted to naughtiness and pictures of women clothed in wet tee shirts or sand or Scotch tape, while he was NOT at work. Tuesday, January 20, 2004
If you are a World War II history buff, you've probably already seen this story about a new website that promises to be incredibly fascinating. By Jeremy Lovell
Aerial reconnaissance is dangerous stuff, especially when all the guns had to be taken out of the plane to make room for the cameras and extra fuel. I mentioned back during Christmas that I had gotten a good book on such stuff--Secret Empire: Eisenhower, the CIA, and the Hidden Story of America's Space Espionage . I'm about 2/3 of the way through it, and it's a remarkable look at the development of the U2, the SR-71, and spy satellites. Some space is given to the story of the Air Force recon crews who risked their lives over the Soviet Union, China, and Cuba but not a whole lot. Over forty aircraft and over two hundred crewmen were lost to hostile fire before the advent of reliable spy satellites, and many of these men's families never knew what actually happened to their loved ones due to the secretive nature of their task.
Monday was interesting.
Well, not like Mars Rover interesting, or American Idol interesting, but interesting from the point of view of the normal allotment of stuff that happens to me. For once Miss Reba didn't feel the necessity of getting up from under the covers and doing housework, so [Good Parts Edited Out] and since the housepainter was supposed to come by and pick up his check at precisely 8 a.m., I figured it was time for us to get up and get going. 8 came and went. I called and left him a message that we were going to the dentist and would be back later, and then got the older three up and ready to go. Down to the foot of the hill, park, nearly freeze into a great big goobsicle between the van and the doorway, while children cavort as if nothing is amiss, go in, get them signed up and sit for a spell to read some hard-hitting news. Came across an old Good Housekeeping with the fresh-scrubbed and airbrushed mug of Katie Couric on the cover. As if root canals weren't painful enough to have in a dentist's office. Anyway, I went ahead and flipped over to the article, because I'm just that way. Picture of Katie in black dress all kittened up on a couch, picture of her hosting the Tonight Show, big graphic quote in the middle of the page, 'I have a newswoman's hair and the heart of a social worker.' Wow. You know, that is just so true. I quietly pondered long and hard about whether or not I could keep from heaving a great sea of foamy bilious chunks onto the magazine. I didn't, I just quietly folded it back up and placed it in the rack, which I really think is to my credit. The kids came and went, and after not long at all they were all finished. And it appears that Boy will need braces. He's got a lower jaw full of crooked little pearls in the front, and a slight underbite. ::sigh:: If it's not one thing, it another that costs LOTS of money. The girls' teeth were fine, thank goodness. Back home, and found that the painter still had not come by. Was told by Miss Reba that we need to get another piece of furniture so that Tiny Girl and Middle Girl would have a place to store their unmentionables, which are strewn hither and yon around their room. I know by now that it is better NOT to suggest that they should use the space they already have and oh, maybe put away some of the stuff that no longer fits--such is the path to much misery. Better to nod affirmatively, and try to prolong purchase process as long as possible. "Well, can we wait until next month to buy it? I mean, we still have to pay for having the house painted and all. We CAN go shopping, though." I figured the shopping part would save me, but Reba was less than enthusiastic about looking but not buying, so she threw out the lure of the 12 months-same-as-cash ploy. And while she was casting about, she brought up the need for a sofa again. Our old one has been thoroughly kidified over the past twelve years, and it really does need to be updated. Whatever--doesn't hurt to go look. Actually, it does. Went out to the Big Three over in Irondale--Haverty's, Marks-Fitzgerald, and La-Z-Boy--three purveyors of moderately-priced stuffed goods right there beside each other to facilitate shopping. No one had any lingerie chests that looked like anything close to the girl's furniture, and no one had any sort of nice, simple, fresh sofas. They were all giant pillowed balloony things that look like some drunk guy's version of swanky. Well, that took up two hours, and then we decided to visit the uptown Marks-Fitz store over by the Galleria. They did have some better looking sofas, but I still managed to get out without purchasing anything--we were hamstrung by having four high-strung rug rats with us who made the quiet, contemplative discussion of a large furniture purchase nearly impossible, what with their near-constant desire to sit on EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF FURNITURE IN THE STORE. Grr. Back across town, empty-handed, with a side-trip to Wal-Mart for toiletries, then home where I finally got a chance to catch up on the work I took home on Friday and see the newest crop of talent on this year's American Idol. There's another person from Birmingham this year on the first rung, but she's no Ruben. If they show her, it will be on tonight's show that has the Atlanta auditions. And that's about it.
Not that the next day...
was too bad. Up early Sunday, did the regular chore of getting everyone up and dressed, made some breakfast, loaded the van with all the Bibles and binders and booklets and other stuff, loaded up the kids, off to church, got there, got parked, Oldest runs around to my door and pounces on me--"TELLMEYOU DID GET. MY. CLASS. BOOK!" 'Cause, you see, there is a certain delusion in her mind that it is my job to make sure she has her books. Although she reserves the right to complain that she is being mistreated when she is reminded to get her books, exemplified by much muttering and eye-rolling, as well as loud reminders of how everyone expects too much of her. "No big deal, Ashley--there are extra ones in the classroom or you can look on with someone else." Her advanced state of righteous indignation was palpable. She stormed off without waiting for anyone else. At least I could get all the way out of the door of the van. Inside with the rest of us, make sure everyone is at his or her post, go to class, go to worship, manage to make it through about 1/3 of the sermon before some small girl in our family decides that her charm and curly locks will make up for boisterous whininess. ::sigh:: Take her out, adjust her attitude, sit in the fellowship hall and listen to the sermon over the speaker, give her further fodder for future sessions with her therapist by insisting that she sit still and keep quiet leading to further thundershowers of tears, and then as the last song was being sung, she became a cute little human once more. Figures. Off then to the other side of the county to eat lunch with Ashley's other grandparents, which, as always, is more than enough information, then back toward home--"MY! BATTERIES! ARE! DEAD!!" Oldest, having another crisis. Pitiful, really. Poor GameBoy completely devoid of energy. Starts three-way screaming match with Rebecca and Jonathan demanding that they give her their batteries or let her play their games. The Howard Dean of the Back-Seat Set. Have to get gas anyway, so I figure I'll go inside and get her some stinkin' batteries and keep her mollified. (Remember, now, she is almost fourteen years old. Which to my mind is a lot older than two years old. Strangely, the behavior is almost identical.) Got gas, went in, not an AA cell in sight. ::sigh:: Get back in the van, go across the highway to the Walgreen's, get Reba some crackers, get a giant bottle of Walgreen's brand antacid, walk out door and remember that I had forgotten the entire reason for stopping in the first place, go back in, get pack of batteries, and finally peace reigns in the Playground of the Rude and Insolent. Back across the county to the church building, evening worship, then a meal afterwards for the youth group which doesn't get over with until 9. You know, when you wake up at 5:30 and have had many of your delicate nerves trampled by your children, 9 o'clock is a bit on the late-ish side. A lot. Home, and after further acrimony about someone having the temerity to touch Oldest on her person as they were disembarking the vehicle, the entire lot was banished to Upstairsistan and told to stay within their borders or risk an immediate, unilateral, and forceful response with the full force and might of Parentlandia. They went on to bed. (Some of you will note that I occasionally compare riding herd on my brood to international relations. It's merely a rhetorical device, I assure you. We're really very nice parents. For all of you who will become parents, just do your best and love your children and everything will eventually work itself out. And remember, never negotiate with terrorists.) And then there was Monday!
Alrighty then--BORING STUFF!! Wheeeeee!
I have no idea what happened Friday. I think the laundry got started, and I think I helped, and I think we had pizza for supper. I think. I do know that Saturday dawned dim and drizzly, and I really hoped that I would be getting a call saying that Middle Girl's soccer practice had gotten cancelled. No such luck. I puttered around and watched some of the Weekend Today show, and got Rebecca up so she could get dressed. The practice was scheduled for 10-12, at least on the marker board, but just to make sure, I figured I would call the coach--last week's was moved to 1:00, you know (or don't). Called--no answer. That settled it, I supposed, so after it got around time to go we loaded her up with her ball and a bottle of Gatorade and took off. Driving down the hill, I asked ONE. MORE. TIME. to see if she had heard ANYthing different from her coach. "Are you SURE you're not going to meet at another time?" Blank look. "I don't know. He said something about 11, or something. I don't know." "What did he say about 11?" "I don't know, I wasn't listening." ::sigh:: "Well, now you know why we tell you it's a good idea to liste..." "I DID! I just couldn't understand what he was SAYING!" No win on this one. Decided to go on to the park, just in case, because you just never know. Got there, and aside from several raindrops, we were totally alone. Turned around and headed back out the drive--"Daddy? Why did we get here so early?" ::Ralph Kramdenesque slow burn:: I tried explaining that she didn't tell me anything about a later time until we were well underway, and further, she didn't seem too confident about that later time, and finally, that since we were already underway and she might have misheard and I couldn't get her coach on the phone, that we really had no choice except to go and see what was going on. Which made for a very sullen child. Bang-ZOOM, Alice. Got back home, looked around the outside of the house a bit to see how it looked. Pretty good, certainly better than it has for the past few years. Once the paint on trimwork starts to go, everything looks tattered really quick. Amazing what a nice coat of paint can do. Helped fold more clothes, went through backpacks and pulled out old papers, and FINALLY, it was time to head back out for the 11 o'clock practice. Loaded Middle Girl back up, ball, Gatorade, drive. Met her coach driving the opposite way, just as he was coming into his neighborhood and we were leaving ours. Flagged him down and got him pulled over--"Hey, what time is practice?!" "One o'clock!" Went through whole story of miscommunication, turned around and went back to the house again. Decided to keep from getting out any more than required by registering the two littler kids for the upcoming season online. But not before tearing the house apart looking for Little Boy's birth certificate. Still couldn't find it, much to the chagrin of my parental counterpart, who seemed to take this news with much ill humor. I was able to abate her sense of my ineptitude by noting that by registering online, we would not have to have a copy of the elusive certificate right then, and could turn it in later. That bought me a few extra points. Which were quickly taken away when it came to pay the online registration fee and we found that there was a $20+ fee for online payment. Well, fergit that! Off to the Academy sporting goods store with Rebecca in tow. The combined effects of laundry and rain had conspired to put everyone in a foul mood, and taking one of the players out of the game seemed the best way to help keep things quiet. Got Cat and Jonathan signed up, and found that I didn't need a birth certificate after all. Whew. Looked around a bit, got a couple of pairs of cheap sweatpants for Rebecca to practice in, and hit the door with too much time to go on to the park, and yet not quite enough time to swing by the house. Finally figured it would be good to check in, so I dropped by the house, walked in, did something I can't remember, then headed out to the park for the third time. Which happened to be the charm, thus proving that old aphorisms are firmly rooted in fact. Dropped her out, and seeing as how I had eaten neither breakfast or lunch, I decided to go visit my friends over at the Country Convenience Store (the factory-made log building housing a convenience store and a pool supply place). Pulled in and parked, and noticed a scrawny, rather countercultural-looking young man wearing a thin tee-shirt and some really kewl tattoos. He was driving a beat up red '64 Falcon four door sedan, and was talking in that loud, high-as-a-kite mode with a big fat blonde girl. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Walked in, grabbed a Diet Coke and some canned meat "food" product and an AutoTrader to look at while I waited. "Would you like a bag for that?" I allowed that I would, if it would be no trouble. "Oh, it won't be no trouble t'all!" She then launched into an absolutely unintelligible ode to her husband (I think) and on what trouble really is and plastic and something and BWWAHAHAHAA! and this and that. "Thanks." I went back out and Jack Spratt and his corpulent companion were still yell-talk-arguing with each other about something as they wandered around the car slamming various doors and the trunk lid. I pulled on out to the road, and noticed they had a Dealer tag on their chariot. These are metal tags that car dealers use temporarily on demo vehicles and stuff they drive regularly. Why this sweet couple of kids had one is probably the basis for an entire shelf full of Southern gothic literature. Or at least two or three Coen Brothers films. Anyway, back to the park, sit, eat, drink, read, listen to the radio, doze, and then take Middle Girl back home after finding out EXACTLY when the next practice would be. The rest of Saturday was blessedly uneventful. But then there's always the next day...
Okay--one more thing before the boring stuff. Alabama Travel Tip #34
You don't have to leave your vehicle in the way of traffic if you have a wreck. If you and the vehicle are both operational, you're supposed to move it to the side of the road to await the arrival of the police. I say this purely for the selfish motive that my normal 22.3 minute morning commute was ruined by two folks who had a minor fender-bender in the left lane, right past the Tallapoosa Street exit. Nice huge flat emergency lane there, but they just stood there, arms akimbo, looking back over two miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic. I know for those of us who had it drummed into us to NOT MOVE YOUR CAR in case of an accident that this sounds like pure heresy, but really, it's okay and is intended to cut down on the congestion and further danger posed by vehicles in the travel lanes. If it can move, move it. And keep me from being late to work.
Okay, but before we start with that, I wanted to try something.
Usually, I use boldface and blockquote to set off a bit of text I’m It looks something like this, or it should, if it doesn’t overload Blogger’s ability to translate all the computer gobbledygook. The only drawback is that it takes much longer to type than simply doing a blockquote, which means I’ll have to keep a copy somewhere and cut-and-paste when I want to use it. Anyway, what do you think? Is this too jarring of a change to the purposely boring layout of Possumblog? Is it akin to theUPDATE: Based upon the comments, I made a couple of changes--I increased the font size to 14--18 would be a bit too big (sorry Larry), and did my best to shield the more delicate members of the reading public from references to Andy Griffith in any format other than the Accepted Version, i.e. Black and White. I apologize for using the analogy I used without any warning, but that is the one I commonly use to describe a horrible, unwarranted, unpleasant change.
Well, I'll be--Part II
Made it through ANOTHER weekend with all limbs intact and without involuntary commitment to a mental institution. Hard to beat, I say. Time for our staff meeting right now, but in a few moments you will be regaled with long, mundane tales of fascinating banality, including Three Trips to the Soccer Park, Rain, Driving, Waiting for Mickie, Dental Work (Now with Orthodontia!), Furniture Shopping, and Other Stuff! See you in a bit.
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