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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. Wednesday, March 31, 2004
More springtime.
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago how everything is starting to bloom, and right now is just about the peak for visual overload with the coming on of the dogwood blossoms. This morning I was driving slowly up North Chalkville Road, and was struck by the incredible sight of yellow jasmine growing up a power pole, and the huge clusters of lavender-colored wisteria up in the trees that have just had their bright green leaves bud out, and then the fuscia of scores of redbud trees, and finally the bright specks of white of the dogwoods peeking out through the deep woods. I really like dogwoods the best, although I'm not quite sure why. The peach and pear and cherry trees put on a more showy sort of show, but they never seem to last long enough, and when they're all bloomed out, they just look like big white foam balls on sticks. The dogwoods come out slower, and last longer, and they don't hide their gnarled old branches, and are just more interesting to look at. They remind me of the Herbert Shuptrine painting called "The Patriarch."
Those mean guys!
Today's Lileks Newhouse column, in which he plumbs the depths of the Republican Attack Machine (which, if life was fair, would look like the Deathmobile from Animal House.) [...] Latest example of slime: Dick Cheney accused Kerry, a liberal Dem from Massachusetts, of having a pronounced affinity for raising taxes.
Anyway, the current level of political slap-fighting might give some people the vapors, but those who feel woozy generally have never picked up a history book. Today's breed of soft-pated poltroons who get incensed when John Kerry is "attacked" by replaying his own words, would have been eaten alive in the 19th century. Or at the very least soundly thrashed with a walking stick.
NFL Adopts Penalty for Celebrations
Frankly, I am skeptical that if it's anything short of being forced to swill Jesus juice with Michael Jackson it'll have much impact. Never mind, it's working again. AND DING DERNIT, as I was fiddling with the stupid thing, Chris Muir himself dropped by! And the place is a wreck! I'm going to start having to keep the place better if I keep getting polite people coming by.
Axis of Weevil Member Makes it to the Funny Pages!
Just in case you have been living under one of those painted rocks Jimmy from next door keeps making and you missed out on it, Axis of Weevil Seamstress (and newest citizen of Columbiana, Alabama) Susanna Cornett was featured in Chris Muir's excellent strip, Day by Day, yesterday. Congrats to her! And any of you who might want to tweak Susanna for speaking favorably about the First Citizen of Plains, remember that even a broken clock (i.e. Jimmah) is right twice a day. NOW THEN...how to get myself into a cartoon. Someone get me Frank Cho on the phone!
Circulating
One of the books I'm reading right now has turned out to be pretty interesting--Tilt -- A Skewed History of the Tower of Pisa by Nicholas Shrady. It's an interesting literary jaunt that hits the high points of the warring northern Italian republics, as well as the planning and construction of the campanile itself, and the workings of the seventeen different commissions that have been convened over the past 700 years to figure out how to keep the thing from tumping over. (The foundation was laid in 1173, the first commission was chartered in 1298 when it was still just seven stories high). I'm only about halfway through--it's a breezy book with large type, but I always lie down to read it right before bed and it's hard to get anything finished when you can only read five minutes before falling to sleep--but it's a fun book and reasonably well-written. It doesn't go into a lot of technical or historical detail, but it's good for getting a good basic history. The book's also shaped funny--like a trapezoid. Which will make it mighty hard to shelve. Anyway, if you don't want to have to go buy a hard-to-shelve book, there's plenty of stuff online (of course). Here is the PBS NOVA site from the show that aired in 1999; a pretty good article about the foundation work and restoration from the trade journal Permanent Buildings and Foundations; instructions for creating your own computer model; a very good, comprehensive, technical and photographic site; and best of all, a downloadable paper version from Canon you can use to build your own copy. I visited Pisa back in 1988 as part of a quarter-long "Study Abroad" program when I was in school. The day we were there was gorgeous, mid-May and sunny. We did our walk-around of the tower and cathedral and baptistery, then set about to do some quick sketches. Anytime you sit down to draw in Italy, you also wind up drawing something else--a crowd of people seeing what you are drawing. This was actually true wherever we went, and it was a bit disconcerting at first. Again, this was 1988--evil cowboy imperialist Ronald Reagan was in the White House plotting to annihilate Europe with nukes, and there was that bombing of Libya. Added to this was the slide of the dollar relative to all the then-still-in-use European currencies, and suddenly the only reason Americans had previously been politely tolerated--for their free-wheeling spending habits--had vanished. So, we tried to be on our best behavior and keep a low profile, but the sudden appearance of a large crowd around you was a bit overwhelming at first. You didn't quite know if they were friendly, or were going to start jabbering at you in all those non-English words. By the time we had gotten to Italy, though, most of us had pretty much overcome that initial skittishness, so I sat and scribbled and quickly was beset by a passel of schoolkids. I finished up, and after several gestures (that I took to be complimentary) from the kids around me, it was time for us to start back for the rest of our day's tour. We didn't realize it, but we had come on some sort of Pisan holiday and as we started back toward the bus, a gigantic parade came swirling through, full of music and guys flinging flags while wearing doublets and hose. After doing some quick research just now, I assume that this was part of the festivities surrounding the Regatta of the Maritime Republics, but at the time, it was just pretty boys with flags. (Thankfully, it was also attended by incredibly-hot-looking girls in traditional costume. Rrrrowwwll. If you know what I mean.) ANYwho, we also found out we weren't the only Americans there that day. As we stood there basking in the rich Eye-talian atmosphere, a dumpy fire-plug of a woman clambered up onto a stone bollard with her camera, took a couple of shots, then turned around and in a voice much like that of Estelle Costanza on Seinfeld, screeched out, "IRV!! IRRRRRV!! COME LOOK, IRV!! IRV!! IT'S A PARADE, IRV!!" Sorta ruined the atmosphere.
A Reminder
I have been flooded with bounced e-mails in the past couple of days--none of which I sent, meaning that another worm or virus is on the loose again. I have said it before, I'll say it again--I don't send ANY attachments to ANYONE without first letting you know it's coming. If you get something with my e-mail address and an attachment, DON'T OPEN THE ATTACHMENT. By now, this ought to be pretty obvious, but, you know... Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Why I Hate Tim Blair
Well, not hate so much as violently envy--you see, Tim, being a pro-jo, gets to do fun things like writing about sucking up precious dinosaur juice all around Down Under in cool stuff like Holden Calaisseses. Now even though I have found the magic textbook on how to be a journalist, I still can't seem to get any carmakers to drop off the keys to any hardware for me to play with. That's not really Tim's fault, I suppose, but he's convenient. ANYway, some of you might have some trouble with the technical jargon in Cobber Tim's work, especially the power rating for the Calais which is listed as 235kW. kW is an abbreviation for "kilowatt", an odd metric/Imperial hybrid thing which was designed by some Commie guy to confuse decent people who use real measures like horsepower. It might help to explain it a bit--the kilowatt is named after James Watt, who invented the steam engine and served as Secretary of the Interior under President Ronald Reagan. It is a measure of the work equivalent of 1,000 James Watts lifting one pound of weight one foot in temperature in one second using one finger. It is similar to the BTU, which stands for British Thermal Underwear. It is also similar to the joule, which is French or something, so obviously a sure sign of trouble, and to the erg, which is the sound you make when you move something heavy. When you convert the Bizarro World 235kW to its equivalent Real World measurement (based on the kind and gentle horse), you find that it has a quite respectable number of 315 horsepower, enough to spin Margo Kingston to nearly 10,000 rpm. So, carry on, Tim and I'll study my textbook some more.
Well, now, if that's not an ironic little coincidence.
Just after I posted that last link to the punctuation article, I leapt from my desk to go out for lunch and as I stepped into the stair vestibule, I noticed a book on the floor by the door. We usually don't get many stairwell books, so I reached down to pick it up and was fascinated to see it was a copy of the Seventh Edition of Reporting for the Media. It's had some use, as there are some pen scribbles on the preface page, and some minor scribbling on toward the middle, including on page 133 the scrawled self-admonition, "be consise" [sic]. I looked for a name of an owner of the book, but there is none. So, I'm going to keep it here at my desk for safekeeping until someone steps forward to claim it. I figure I might do some of the exercises in it and learn all about being a reporter.
Obscure Architectural Term of the Day! BUCRANE (or BUCRANIUM). In classical architecture, a sculptured ox-skull, usually garlanded, often found in the metopes of a Doric frieze. A similar relief of a ram's or goat's head or skuill is called an aegricane.
48 out of 50
Yet another fine showing by Alabama in a nationwide survey--Legal climate: Is Alabama still the 'sue me' state? Tom Bassing
As someone who has had to sit on two different civil juries, I can vouch for the part about the poor perception regarding scientific and technical evidence, juries' predictability, and juries' fairness. Due to past high dollar successes, there seems to be a widespread belief among the population that a tort case is like our own little version of the lottery. The idea that big dollar verdicts are good for victims seems prevalent, despite the fact that most awards enrich the attorneys much more than the actual plaintiffs--witness the recent $600 million Solutia settlement, or the multi-billion dollar Exxon settlement. Despite this, the juries I've sat on have had an almost animalistic desire to wring some money out of a corporate fatcat or two, even if there's no evidence to support such an award. I suppose the answer is better education--once we get some of that high-stakes bingo money flowing in, all our problems will be solved!
Greg Hlatky critiques the USS Jimmy Carter.
One also hopes that it has an effective anti-rabbit defense system.
Another gentleman passes--Legendary Broadcaster Alistair Cooke Dies [...] Born Alfred Cooke in Salford in northern England in 1908, he earned an honors degree in English from Cambridge University. In 1932 he came to the United States to study at Yale University, and he journeyed across the country by car.
How could I forget?!
Usually I am quick to recount minutely frustrating run-ins with poor customer service, because, well, you know, my comfort and convenience is the most important thing in the entire world (not really--it's really probably only the third or fourth most important), and I feel the need to burden you all with all the imagined insults to my honor. (Yes, I realize if the best I have to complain about is getting ignored at a store, I have it pretty good.) ANYWAY, Saturday when we were coming back from Boy's game, we decided to stop by Target to pick up a birthday cake for Oldest, as well as a few other small items. Mainly because it was on the way. I have become rather less than enamored of the Target in our little burg--when it first opened, it had the thing Target is famous for (aside from higher prices for "designer"-inspired crap) and that was customer service and cleanliness. They had their red-shirted and khaki-pantsed team members all over the place helping out with their wireless headsets, and a whole crew of guys with tennis balls on sticks wiping up scuff marks on the pristine white vinyl tile floors. You kinda understood that you might pay more for some of this junk, but they took care of you nicely, and it was a pleasant place to shop. Well, something seems to have happened in the intervening year. The store has never been quite as busy as the Wal-Mart, but worse is that the resulting lack of profitability seems to have been made up for by cutting back on the one thing that made people (or me, at least) stop there in the first place--customer service and cleanliness. I walked in Saturday and after making a quick trip to the (not quite clean) restroom, I walked back to the bakery section. There was one big lady in the deli, lounging over the top of the case flirting with some guy in a chef's hat who was handing out pizza samples. I excused myself as I went between them (not that they noticed) and found a nice white cake ready to be written on with frosting. There was nobody in the bakery, so I looked around and finally found an employee who was slowly putting things in a case. I explained I needed someone to write "Happy Birthday" on this cake I had in my hand, and was instructed to go see the woman who was making the love connection over the top of the Smithfield hams. I walked over--"Hello, pardon me--I was wondering if you could write 'Ha..." "Sheainthere." "Pardon?" "The bakery woman gone to lunch." "And there's no one else who can..." "Naw. She might be back in fifteen, twenty minutes." I just stood there for a moment as she resumed chatting with Pizza Man, then turned around, took the cake back and set it down, and walked out without getting the other items I needed. Went on down to Winn-Dixie, where there were TWO workers in the bakery, who got me taken care of in five minutes. And the cake was less expensive, too. EPISODE TWO occurred last night--I had decided Saturday Target could choke on their merchandise, but Oldest and I had decided to go out and see if we could find her a suitable television stand for her room, and had made the Grand Tour of Trussville--K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Lowe's, Pier One, and as our last resort, Target. It was about 8, and we walked in to a store so deserted you would expect to see tumbleweeds blowing about. There were several team members wandering around, some chatting on their cell phones to friends, but quite obviously none whose job it was to clean the place up. There was a white plastic fork and wads of paper on the floor where you enter, and I noticed the carpeted area was full of spots and stains, and the floors looked as though they hadn't seen a tennis-ball-on-a-stick in ages. Walked back to the home decor section, and noticed the merchandise falling off shelves, and clothes half hung up, and yet more flotsam and jetsam littering the floors. Didn't find the style of furniture we needed, but that's okay. If I want to shop in a dirty store with crappy customer service, I'll go to K-Mart. At least the prices are lower. (Actually, the K-Mart is cleaner, too.) Monday, March 29, 2004
Weekend?
Oh, yeah. Friday evening, as a special birthday treat for Oldest we went to eat at Palace, the up-market Chinese restaurant in the lovely Trussville Crossings shopping center, which also contains the lovely Wal-Mart. Got there early, so we got a table right away, although it was one by the corridor to the kitchen. I imagine it was because we have children. I really don't mind it when they seat us in the less desirable spots--I sorta understand the idea of keeping the loud stuff together. And the bright spot was that our waiter was not the old guy who looks like Jack Soo from Barney Miller, but the girl who's a dead ringer for Ming-Na Wen. Rrrowwllllll. And she's always been a good waitress, too--always moving around at top speed, yet very patient with little children who will NOT. QUIT. CHANGING. THEIR. DRINK. ORDER. Grr. It was all good--Mongolian beef, mu shu chicken (the leftovers of which I ate today for lunch), sweet and sour shrimp, and chicken with vegetables--and, of course, no trip to a fancy restaurant would be complete without -- eighty-eleven trips to the restroom. Which wouldn't have been so difficult, had the children not plastered themselves into the semicircular booth trying their darndest to sit beside Mom. They looked like BBs stuck on a magnet. And there I sat, on the outer edge of the table in a regular chair, looking like I must be suffering from leprosy or something. Not that I notice their cruel shunning of me. I know they love Mommy more... ::sniff::sniff:: Anyway, so since I was on the outer edge, I got to ferry them back and forth to the restroom. Whee. Finish up, stop to take the tip money out of Catherine's hand and put it back on the table--why she grabbed it, I'll never know--then on to go do some SHOPPING. Aargh. I stayed in the van with the kids. There was NO. WAY. I was going to try to ride herd on them while Mom and Oldest shopped for birthday clothes. It's just much less stressful to stay in the van and have to do guessing games and play I Spy. I Spy wouldn't be so bad if it was the Bill Cosby/Robert Culp version. But it's not. On to home, and to bed, then up again Saturday for lots of fun. Had to get up to the church building for the kids to muddle around and waste time, then afterwards it was time to head to Shelby County for Jonathan's soccer game against Chelsea. Entirely uneventful trip, except--we were in old Moby (seeing as how I still had not checked the tire of the Honda van to make sure it was still holding air properly) and Moby has about 158,000 miles on him. And has been acting somewhat odd in the old transmission department. Everything was fine until we started going up Double Oak Mountain. This part of Highway 280 is steep, and goes forever, and has a long drop-off on the north face that makes drivers skittish. Heck of a view when you get to the top. If you get there. As it was, both lanes were clogged with a clot of slow-moving people dawdling up the highway at about 45 mph. Too slow for high gear, too low for second or third, and so the van started wildly shifting up and down as it tried to keep pace. Thought it might be good to switch off the overdrive, so I punched the button, to no avail. (Only later did I realize that I had hit the foglight switch instead. Probably explains why the person in front of me acted startled. And why the transmission still acted up.) Managed to get over to the other side, but it sounded, and felt, like we wouldn't be able to get back. Just a tip for you drivers out there, but if you're not passing someone--GET OVER TO THE RIGHT, Mr. Magoo! Anywho, Jonathan's game was a repeat of last week's--they lost 4-0 due to a failure to pay attention to anything. Jonathan played pretty good again--he gets so frustrated with his teammates, though. There are a couple of guys who're so wound up in themselves that they will fight with their own teammates to get the ball, which is never good. Obviously. And they wonder why they can't win. Also, they seem to believe that throwing themselves to the ground in a fruitless attempt to block shots is really cool. ::sigh:: On back to the house--up over the shorter side of Double Oak (the elevation change is not near so great on the south side, and the grade is less steep), and thankfully we got all the way home. Where I decided to get out my tire plugging stuff and make sure that whatever was in the Honda van's tire was taken care of. Rolled it forward and backwards, and after about fifteen minutes finally found what looked like the shaft of a nail. Got it all in position by the garage door, got my glue, my sticky strips, my rasp, my hook, my pliers, my compressor and--nothing. The metal bead I found was just that, a bead. About the size of a pin head. So then, more minute examination of the tread surface and surprisingly I never found anything more than a thin sliver of metal and several tiny pebbles. Nothing that would have punctured a tire, and no evidence of tire goo coming out of a hole anywhere. Go figure. So, all the tire junk got put away, and I went and played with the kids in the backyard. That's always fun. More fun than cutting grass, that's for sure. Messed around with them and some cat that wandered over from one of our neighbor's, then did the tour with Miss Reba to reestablish the Honey Do list from last year. Once again decided that I needed to get the ladder out and re-attach the dangling floodlight at the corner of the eave. Thought long and hard about getting a different trellis. The wisteria sure is pretty right now. And the biggie--having to dismantle the swing set. The step on the glider part is broken completely now, and it looks even more ratty and trashy than it did last year. It will break my heart to take it apart and send it to the dump. I think I might just take off the broken parts--the glider and the slide, and leave the swings. I'm doing it for The ChildrenTM, you know. Then it was time to head back up to the building for my teacher's meeting. Grr. FOUR guys showed up. I have a feeling there are going to be questions next Sunday morning, and I have a wicked temptation to throw my hands up and ask, "where were you when we discussed this?!" I won't though. I suppose. Back home, and off with the family to do some more birthday stuff, including staying in the van with a whiney little girl who was inconsolable at not being able to draw a strawberry. I showed here how she could use her reeking Strawberry Shortcake air freshener (that my lovely wife purchased for her, and I'm HOPING she didn't know it stank like some kind of--well, you just never mind what it smelled like--I suppose I should just be glad is wasn't the Darryl Strawberry Shortcake version) and draw an outline and then fill it in. "WHHHHAAAAAAA," she said. Loudly. So then I showed her how to make a heart and a star together that almost looked strawberryish. She seemed to like that one, and climbed into the shotgun seat for more art fun. Fun that went on entirely too long for the occupant of the driver's seat, but hey, at least she was quiet. Home, baths and shampooing and fingernail clipping, bed. Snore. Except for one feverish moment when I woke up thinking the roof was leaking. It was just the sound of my little fountain downstairs, happily splashing along in the middle of the night. Gotta get a timer for that thing. SUNDAY, up bright and early, breakfast, then off to church. Had yet another teacher decide she just couldn't find time in her schedule to teach. Would have been nice to know that a bit earlier than the week before the new quarter. Especially since the schedule has been posted for a YEAR. ::sigh:: And the nursery teacher was twenty minutes late again. ::sigh:: Oh well. Worship was very nice, and I didn't have to contend with Catherine clambering over me to go to the restroom, which was a welcome change. She even sang a little bit, and stayed right on key and right on tempo and right on the same song. That little sweet voice tends to make up for a lot of clambering and fussiness. At least for a few minutes. Time then to go meet Reba's parents for lunch--they took us out to the Olive Garden in Irondale, made notorious by some English cricket-writer poof (yes, yes, abundantly redundant, I know), and redeemed by James Lileks. Got right in and found a big table to wait on the grandparents, and ate loads of salad. And some bread. Sorry, Dr. Smith. But the bread paled in comparison to the plate of canelloni al forno I ordered! MEAT! And STARCH! HAH! We finished up and Grandpapa picked up the tab, which was awfully nice of him. Especially since it was REAL 'spensive. And they even took the younger two back to their house, so Reba and I and the older two could go-- shopping again. I went in with them and briefly sat over in the shoe department, but decided I felt too much like a security guard, so I went over to Books-A-Million and read for an hour. If there was one store I would like to have as my house, it would be Books-A-Million, or Barnes and Noble. Add an indoor firing range and it would be perfect. Gathered up the girls and headed back toward our home, stopped and picked up the little kids, stopped by the house and dropped off leftover Italian food, went on back to the church building, messed around with stuff, had worship, and then visited one of the families who had signed up to host one of the afterworship devotional meetings for the 3rd to 6th grade kids. I am usually pretty antisocial, and this was another one of those things I really didn't want to go to, but after it was over, I actually had a good time. Other than not getting home until after nine p.m. AND SO, that there's your highlight reel of this weekend. This afternoon, the kids were supposed to have soccer practice, but it has started raining and the fields are closed. Good. I may go home and rest. As if.
HOT Amish Beach Action! [...] "This is not the norm," says Atlee Raber, a 56-year-old Amish businessman from Berlin, Ohio. "Not everybody goes to Florida. You are in contact with more of the entrepreneurial part of the Amish community by being down here."
Actually, a nice article that's not too snotty and condescending. Frankly, I'm glad to know that the Amish enjoy coming down this way and have a good time at the beach, although it is sort of an odd image to think about.
No clear remedy as parents decry TV NEW YORK (AP) -- Congress is on the case, and so are federal regulators, but legions of American parents already have reached a verdict — much of what airs on television is not fit for their children.
It's called an on/off switch. If you don't want your children exposed to junk on the teevee--turn it off. Why is this so stinkin' difficult? That's not to say that I wouldn't love to be able to just turn on the television and watch something nice that's not gratuitously offensive for the sake of offensiveness, but if it's a question of whining about it while wringing my hands or just turning the box off, well, it's a darn sight easier just to push the off button.
Extending Alabama's Cultural Hegemony, One Blog at a Time
What could I have been thinking?! Several months back, I found (via the comments section over at the Aardvark's burrow) someone whose blogging work I enjoyed immensely, and so added her onto my Rolodex. We subsequently struck up a series of correspondences, including one in which my tastes in color was questioned. (I still believe Orange and Blue is perfectly reasonable, otherwise God would not have made the sky blue and the sunset orange, but that is for another time.) ANYway, this person mentioned in passing that she had attended the University of Alabama, yet for some reason--either through my blind rage, my well-known torpor, or more likely, my distraction in completing the coursework for my non compos mentis degree, I neglected to investigate this circumstance more fully and see if this blogger, one Jordana Adams of Curmudgeonry fame, was eligible for the vaunted Axis of Weevil. THEN, just the other day, she mentioned again something about a particular parking lot in Tuscaloosa, and the alarm bell went off in my head that I had not been doing my part in insuring a sufficient number of members within the Cotton States Quilting and Recoil Society to allow an even number of people on the elephant polo team. NOT WISHING TO ALLOW this opportunity to once again go by the wayside, I dashed off a note to Ms. Adams with the Onerous and Burdensome Rules of Admission, summoned Chet the E-Mail from his morning bowl of corn flakes, and tossed it to him so he could get to work tapping it out on his telegraph. To my delight, Jordana wrote back swiftly with her application all filled out. Let's take a look, shall we? 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;Not at all necessary. (We wouldn't want to smudge the crayon, now would we?) 2) Not ashamed to admit to #1;Well, there you go! Although I probably wouldn't put that on my resume. 3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty goodFar be it for me to keep you from using your degree from 'Bama... 6) Update your blog more than once a monthJust be sure to give them your user name and password so they can blog in your stead. 7) Willing to be made fun ofYou know, this is really getting to be a situation--I mean, I keep giving links to this nice picture of Mr. Browning, and you would think by now everyone would have it bookmarked! Anyway, all you need to do is click on it, print it out, put it in a nice frame (the Martha Stewart ones at K-Mart are very cheap right now, yet offer a wonderful sense of style and decor) and place it in a prominent place within your home. 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever readI'll ignore that you even felt you had to make that statement... But what do you want to do with that North Carolinian anyway? :)Because Gomer and Goober were both from Alabama in real life (and both of them have a stretch of road named after them, too!), and doggone it, Andy is just good people, even if he's not strictly from Alabama himself. Mayor Pike can go stuff himself, though. 12) Your pickup truck must be in good working order--use of ether to get it started is not recommended, but will be allowed on a case-by-case basisHmm. Seems like it would be awful hard to haul rocks or firewood just using rubber bands, but I reckon they teach 'em stuff like that at UofA. And as for use of the company vehicle, that will be covered in your information package. You might not want to use it right now anyway, because the rear brake cylinder is leaking and it takes an awfully long time to stop. ANYWAY, it seems that with only the slightest bit of invocation of Calvinball Rules, Jordana is quite suited for membership within the sacred and august assemblage of persons known as the Alabama Online Journal-Writing and Tole Painting Guild, aka The Axis of Weevil. SO THEN, by the powers vested in me by Sonny, who works in the sign shop at the Talledega Correctional Institute, it is with GREAT HONOR that we hereby admit, inculcate, and otherwise abduct one JORDANA ADAMS into the fearsome assemblage known far and wide as the Axis of Weevil, with all the honors, powers, group discounts, and dressing room privileges due her. Amen. Now, as you are all aware, new members each receive the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing: a slab of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for your teeny little rubber-band powered pickup truck, a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale! These are being loaded right now into Junior's car, which is what we're having to use while the Pinto's brakes are dodgy. His car is very nice and actually doesn't smell so bad when he remembers to get the orange-scented air freshener. He should be there sometime within the next couple of days or so, so you might want to go ahead and put out a cookie sheet or plastic drop cloth so he won't leak oil in your driveway. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! Some of you have been so kind to ask about Jimmy (from next door, not from Accounting) and how his condition is doing. He seems to be somewhat better this month, especially after his mother let him have his space in the garage back. He is still upset about her taking away his magazines, but she said they were pure trash and she wasn't going to let them stay in her house OR garage, and that sorta made him upset. It didn't really aggravate his condtion any though, aside from that dizzy spell last Thursday, which he attributed to the dead squirrel he found under the tire. ANYWAY, as you all know, Jimmy has an artistic streak that the lady at the center said was good for him to utilize, and in the past, he has made it a tradition of sorts to provide our new members with customized artwork for their office or trailer. Jimmy is quite excited about his newest artistic outlet, which consists of creating a lifesize, three-dimensional sculpture of the person's likeness entirely out of Chick-O-Sticks. He made a test one of Mama Cass, but the ants ate it, so he has taken to soaking the sticks in Raid before putting them together, so you can't eat it when you get it. But it will probably help his condition greatly. He was very excited to hear that Jordana is going to be his first real project in this medium, but hasn't gotten started yet. SO, all of you go welcome Jordana into the organization. Jordana, the supply cabinet key is under the desk, and you can park anywhere except in the space beside the dumpster, or in the space that's marked for the Employee of the Month (unless you are), and don't leave sandwiches in the refrigerator for very long or Tammi gets all mad and throws them out. Other than that, you're pretty much on your on.
A valid question
I realize I haven't begun to bore you yet with the mind-numbing recitation of my weekend, but things keep coming up that must be addressed. Such as this inquiry I just received from a visitor to Possumblog: what to do when people make fun of your southern accent. Yes, it is a particularly bothersome thing about having a Southern accent--people who pride themselves on their inclusiveness and tolerance and multiculturality and benevolence and intelligence and ability to make large papier mache puppets and sensitivity also seem to take great pride in demeaning those of us who might speak a bit more slowly and drop our 'g's. Personally, I have not been the victim of these people--since I have to use the telephone and occasionally talk to folks across the country about stuff, I have developed a phone voice that adds some of those 'g's back in and uses complete sentences and things. This allows me, for short durations at least, to converse with outsiders (i.e., my betters) without bringing out their horrid tendencies toward mockery and ridicule. But, obviously, not everyone is able to avoid the reproach and indignity that can be heaped upon you, sometimes for saying something so simple as the word "tump." The hurt and shame burn white hot, yet you somehow feel powerless to react. First, let me just say that your first inclination to punch the person in the mouth is WRONG. Punching someone in the face means you're off-balance, and you can break your hand if you punch the person in the jaw, and the other person usually can see it coming and dodge or duck. Much better is to punch the person in the stomach, right below the sternum. It's nice and soft there, and quite incapacitating, and you are better able to keep both feet firmly planted to maintain your balance. Second, be sure to apologize, because you always want people to think of the South as a friendly and courteous place where manners still count for something. We here at Possumblog hope this helps you in your quest to be better accepted by others, as well as provide you an effective means of dealing with those whose ignorance is getting on you. [LEGAL DISCLAIMER: Possumblog reminds you that in some municipalities and jurisdictions these recommendations might be illegal. Be sure to check your local ordinances.]
Long and wearisome...
Details to follow. (Not trying to be mysterious or nothin'. It's just that I have our staff meeting to attend, and no time to type.) UPDATE: Chet the E-Mail Boy just handed me this note from Steevil, noted NASA smart guy and evil twin brother of Dr. Weevil: Terry,
Friday, March 26, 2004
WEEEE-kend!
Going to be a long one. Although that's no big news. Going to take us all out tonight for Oldest's birthday dinner and shopping--she's going to be turning 14 tomorrow. Hard to believe. We let her choose the place, so we'll be dining at the ultra-spiffy Palace Chinese Restaurant high atop Chalkville Mountain. Or, rather, what's left of it after they cut it down to put in the Wal-Mart. I'm not sure where we'll go shopping, but I imagine it will be a most wonderfully fun experience with the three younger ones all wanting to get in on the act. (Gotta remember to make sure Reba has some Rolaids with her.) Then tomorrow there is more youth stuff at church that we won't have to stay long for, because Boy has a soccer game down in Shelby County. Then we come back and I have a meeting at church with next quarter's teachers, most of whom are probably going to be out of town for Spring Break. But I'm a'going to have a meeting anyway. They can just breathe a prayer of thanks that I'm not gonna use PowerPoint. And there's finally some yardwork to start doing. The dandelions are coming up pretty quick, and I'm trying to fend off the mass infestation that has covered our neighbor's yard two doors up. His entire yard is a carpet of yellow dandelions. Someone suggested that a crack commando team be despatched one night to saturate the area with Round-Up, but that's probably not a real good option. Yet. Anyway, I have my own weeds to contend with. As well as a wife who decided that the white van did such an exceptional job of rock hauling that it could be used to haul even MORE rocks to extend our existing flower beds on either side of the house. "You always have such a hard time cutting up against the house with the lawn mower, you know." Gee, thanks, sugar, but somehow, I think I could manage to do just fine as long as I am not forced to make the job easier by working like a chain-gang convict to correct this rather minor deficiency. (That was said in my head, not out loud.) I sorta grunted, which is my version of the Japanese word hai, which can mean lots of things, occasionally even "yes." Or not. SO, all of you have a good weekend and I'll see you again Monday.
Noo Joisey to Clumbianner
Good to see Susanna Cornett is all bedded down in her new home down in the county seat.
Kerry promises to create 10 million jobs
In addition, JFKLitetm promises: 1) A free lifetime supply of Heinz ketchup in handy single-serve pouches for every American. 2) To capture Osama bin Laden, try him, convict him, and send him to a nice halfway house in Boston where he can talk to other maniacal nihilists and convince them of the error of their ways. 3) To repeal gravity so Secret Service agents will quit falling on him as he skis, thus insuring he will not be forced to use Executive Potty Mouth Privilege. 4) To finally admit that he indeed did serve in Viet Nam. 5) To fight to insure that all Americans have a butler. And an AMERICAN butler, too! None of those offshore, outsourced ones! 6) To once more make the world love America, just like it did...well, never, but that's beside the point. We'll be the most popular kids in school! Germany and France will be clamoring to dance with us at the party, and all those weird swarthy kids will quit calling us names! It'll be kewl! 7) To be gracious in defeat should he lose in November. (Yeah, I know--that's obviously made up.)
If you haven't read H.D. Miller's work over at Travelling Shoes...
You should. In fact, there are several folks up there in the blogroll who have been putting out tremendously informative writing that you just don't see in what passes as mainstream journalism. I think the biggest thing I have come to understand in the past three years or so is that what makes that mainstream so maddening is not the addle-pated inability of the professionals to admit even the teensiest bit of bias; nor is it the astounding lack of general, everyday knowledge, coupled with an almost psychotic level of self-importance. What most annoys me is the conceit that journalistic "balance" demands that all events be treated as if they were the same. Like a bowling ball and a feather falling at the same velocity in a vacuum, I keep finding examples where two mightily disparate events or characters are treated as if they were two sides of a fair coin. In the vacuum of journalism, even the most bizarre, obscure, theory, if it is contradictory to someone else's view, is taken as being equivalent. For every story about an abundant good being done, the press seems hell-bent to find a counter-poise that refutes it. Regardless of how inane, or superficial, or ill-reasoned, or partisan, or idiotic it might be. In a vacuum, they both fall at the same rate. Thus, what gets pushed off onto the newsracks and satellite feed is a legitimization of the marginal, as well as a deligitimization of common sense. It seems that for every story about the value of a democratic Middle East, we must be given a reminder that George Washington was a slave-holder. For every story about the use of military power, we must paralyze it with references to Viet Nam. For every reference to Semtex-clad teenagers, we must remember the Crusades. In the vacuum-free real world, we may know that under some circumstances such comparisons make sense, but we also know we would rather stand under a falling feather than a falling bowling ball. Obviously, this isn't a startlingly original revelation, but it is one of the reasons why I put so little stock in what the Fourth Establishment pumps out. Maybe they've trained me a little too well--although I realize that the vast majority of people who work in the newsgathering business are smart and serious about their work, I counter that with the images of folks like the dissembling Jayson Blair and the vainglorious Howell Raines. In the vacuum, the good and the bad fall at the same rate. As for the folks you read who cogitate and commentate online, at least you can tell the bowling balls from the feathers.
Chet the E-Mail Boy Gets a Thorough Lashing
Yesterday afternoon, Nate McCord sent me a very interesting .pdf presentation of an account (with photographic documentation) of a low-speed ground collision between two fully armed F-16s on a taxiway at Al Udeid Airbase in Qatar. The planes weren't really torn up too badly, but the collision did spark a fire on an AIM9 missile on one plane that could have produced a Charlie Foxtrot of spectacular proportions. Thanks to the efforts of alert groundcrew, the fire was brought under control and a calamity averted. HOWEVER, another calamity befell us here at the swanky and plush Editorial Office of Possumblog. I came in this morning and saw that the Editorial E-Mail Account at Yahoo! was at 120% of its 6Mb capacity. The culprit being the 1.614Mb .pdf file Nate had sent. Meaning that if any of you tried to contact the Editorial Office electronically between about 4 CST and now, your e-mail probably bounced back to you. OBVIOUSLY, had Chet the E-Mail Boy been paying attention to his appointed tasks, this particular missive could have been shunted over to one of the many secretive, anonymous Yahoo accounts that we keep for just such exigencies. I brought him in just now and read him the riot act. While it is uncomfortable to see a grown man cry, especially an elderly one, Chet the E-Mail Boy does see the error of his actions and kindly asks that anyone who got a bounced message to please resend them where they will processed and delivered with the utmost speed and efficiency.
Well, first of all...
For the benefit of Mrs. Adams, this is what sort of paper boxer shorts I am required to drape myself in when I visit the quackhouse: the lovely Graham MediShorts. As you can see, they are constructed of a durable nonwoven material which provides comfort with modest coverage, and they have a latex-free sewn elastic waist band to ensure a secure fit. They come in an attractive navy blue color, and offer a fit reminiscent of a pair of 19th Century Zouave pantaloons. They are used by my physician as an alternative to the normal exam gown, or as an alternative to having me wander about the exam room naked. All in all, it was one of my less horrifying exams. For those of you who have come upon Possumblog recently, and haven't had the intestinal fortitude to explore the archives to see what you have missed, my annual physicals and various semi-annual rechecks and drop-ins to the doctor have long formed a base for much blogging merriment, as well as pushing forward the boundaries of medical science. You also got to learn about great art, such as that produced by the Lewitt-Him partnership or by famous wood mosaicist De Groot. My former doctor retired a couple of years ago--he was a very good old-school sort of fellow, thorough, with a wonderful dry wit and a less-than-wonderful gloved hand technique that felt more like he was trying to chop timber. He handed over (no pun intended) part of his patients, including me, to a replacement doctor, who just happens to be very female. Which I really didn't mind at the time--I don't get freaked out by women doctors (my sister's one) and I figured, rightly, that her fingers would be of an exponentially smaller diameter. After having gotten to know her, I can say she knows her stuff and I feel like she's concerned and involved in my care, and also has a wicked sense of humor. Got to the office and saw that there had been some kind of turnover since my last visit--the receptionist was different, and was NOT the crone with the voice box full of gravel, but was a nice-looking young lady in scrubs. I was hoping this was a trend, because the last time I was in for a follow-up visit in November, I was seen by yet another a very burly George Clooney. Oh well. Amazingly, for such a large man, Burly was very light on his feet. We went to the scale, where I found I had lost no weight, but then again, had gained none. "My shoes weigh 15 pounds, you know." Burly almost laughed, raised his eyebrow, and then cheated me a pound or two off. "I have some of those heavy shoes, too," he said. Back to the exam room and it was thankfully one WITHOUT a picture of cast-off wood bits. It had a print of the old Birmingham Terminal Station by local artist Carl Salter. Much nicer. Pulse, BP. Normal on both. Wait. Read oldish copy of USNews and World Report, talking about the powerhouse Howard Dean campaign, and wondering if anyone could stop his momentum. Their best guess was genial game-show host John Edwards, who was set forth as a spoiler. Also noted John Kerry, whom the article noted served in Viet Nam. Who knew?! (I think his campaign needs to let people know that.) Doc came in and we chatted for a while--all my bloodwork was more or less normal, although I think I'm going to have to not sneak anymore steak, egg and cheese breakfast burritos from Sonic. At least for a while. Time then for the fun paper panties, and she turned to step out and let me change. As she reached for the door, I pleaded, "I just need to check and see, but is there any way I can just tell you everything's okay up inside there?" She paused and thoughtfully looked up, "Mmmm...no." ::sigh:: Got nekkid and into my paper, then she came back in. Looked deep into my head holes, listened to my heart and lungs, felt my innards, and then it was time. She stepped to the door and asked Burly to stand in for a minute while she did the final check. It was bad enough the first time there had to be a witness in the room, back when it was her first nurse who looked a bit like a young Lulu Roman. But now, I think I was much less comfortable with said witness being someone whom (I imagined to myself) enjoyed this sort of activity recreationally away from work. Oh well. As Burly came in, Doc allowed that she does have several patients who flatly refuse to be examined, and said that her women patients were worse about it than the men. "Well, I guess I don't mind incredibly much--I mean, you ARE a doctor a..." "No I'm not." Told you she had a wicked sense of humor. Anyway, no untoward lumps or knots or other horrors, and I was ready to go. After I got my clothes on, of course. And, Marc, I was able to walk out of there without doing the Silly Walk. And now you know more than you ever wanted to about me. Thursday, March 25, 2004
Getting close to that time...
I have some work stuff to clear off my desk, and then a bit later today have my appointment to be a finger-puppet for my doctor, as it is ONCE AGAIN time for the bodily humiliation known as my annual physical. WHY, O WHY is it that I can't just tell her I don't have a hernia? Why can't I just tell her I have no swelling in my "special place" there beside the back door? Is it really all that necessary to go grabbing and probing around my naughty bits? And why make it worse with silly paper boxer shorts? The only consolation is that she's probably asking herself why she has to be the one to do it. So, maybe it all evens out. Anyway, see you all tomorrow--I imagine I will have a story or two to relate.
Possumblog--Refuge for the Illiterate
Or, for Those Who Spell Phonetically. Whatever. Anyway, just had a visitor tumble in looking for something about: dukes a hashed "car" Ah, yes...I remember the show well--there was Boh, and al-Uke, and Uncle Jeh'see and, of course, Cousin Dehzeemae.
First it was David Lee Roth, and now this: Frankie Valli joins hit men on 'Sopranos'
Golly, what's next? Fonzie on skis?
Iceberg Off Western Greenland Painted Red By JAN M. OLSEN, Associated Press Writer
Reminds me of the old Stephen Wright line--"I have the world's largest collection of seashells. I keep them scattered on all the beaches of the world."
Mo-ron
Man with stolen check leaves license The Associated Press
What price honesty?
(Or carelessness?) Well, in my case it runs about 84 bucks. The lady whose borrowed truck's taillight I smashed on Saturday called Tuesday and left a message on the machine detailing the prices she had gotten for a Nissan RT-RR taillamp assembly, ranging from $84.24 up to $120-something. Yikes. That sure was an expensive load of rock. Anyway, I forgot all about calling her yesterday until after I got home, so she probably thought I had ditched her, but I left a message on her voice mail yesterday, along with my work number. Just got off the phone with her after figuring out where to send the check. Turns out it was her dad's truck, and he's going to replace the light himself. "I didn't want you to think I was getting prices for installation, too," she said. It would have been okay if she did--it was, after all, my own inattention that made it happen. (Obviously, Litigious-Americans would have found a way to blame ANYone else: the shopping center--for not making the parking lot level; Home Depot--for not having a trained attendant escort to safely guide my purchases to the vehicle; the cart maker--for not having brakes on their trundles, and for building something that was prone to unintended gravitational acceleration; Nissan--for making substandard taillight lenses; and the woman herself--for contributory negligence in parking where she would be most likely to be damaged by gravity.) Anyway, I suppose 84 dollars ain't so bad.
I'm not sure what's worse...
Richard Simmons Cited for Slapping Man PHOENIX - Exercise guru Richard Simmons allegedly slapped a man who made a sarcastic remark about one of his videos, police said.
You sure don't see THAT every day...
...at least around here. Was driving in this morning and had to make a detour up to the main post office to drop off a bill (I drop urgent stuff at the main office because it gets picked up every hour, as opposed to sometimeish) and as I made the turn onto 3rd Avenue from 22nd Street, I noticed a bum standing on the opposite corner outside of the Magic City Dining Room. For some reason, he giving the "crazy guy stare" at the big white Chevy 3500 Crew Cab Dooley making the turn in front of me. Couldn't figure out what could have been so interesting until I pulled up alongside the truck. It had a white fiberglass camper shell on it, and neatly letter on the front corner was "British Broadcasting Corp." with the New York bureau address. Cool! Welcome to town, guys! (Unless you're here to do some sort of hatchet job, in which case you can sod off.) Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Girl dog.
You know, in amongst all the garbage I'm doing today and all the other stuff I have to keep up with, my mind keeps wandering back to one particular subject. Monday, I stopped off at the school to pick up the kids (who aren't in school this week, but are out for spring break, but who still have to go to the school gym for daycare anyway because their parents are trying to save up their vacation time for summer) and as I parked the van I noticed there was a dog beside the building, calmly lying between two shrubs. White and black piebald, short of hair, long of tail, medium-sized, lean almost to the point of being neglected, collarless, with a most elegant head. Long, intelligent, with alert, pointed ears. It stood up as I brought the van to a halt, tilting its head at the odd sound the brakes made. I turned off the engine and walked around, and saw that "it" was a "she," and she stood there beside the van, looking at me as if she had already made my acquaintance. I didn't try to pet her, but made the soft kissing sound you make to dogs. She just looked at me. Went in and got the kids rounded up, and Jonathan was first out and into the van. I had left the door open, and the dog decided to see what all she could smell in there. Probably a lot. She quietly stepped over to the door sill and poked her head in, then walked back to the side of the building. Cat and Rebecca came on out and the dog loped on off down the sidewalk, where she was surrounded by another group of kids and their dad, who were quite agitated about the DOG!!! The dad said he thought the dog was a stray, and was probably part husky. Husky!? Whatever--some people are just real smart, and it's best not to tell them anything. Got in the van and saw the other kids in the rear-view mirror crowded around the dog, who was now down in the passive, ears back, tail tucked, head-and-forelegs down pose that says someone had not been good to her. Poor girl. Of course, this started the conversation in our van, "Dad, when can we get a fence?!" For you see, we can't very well have a dog until we have a fence. So first things first. We've been through this with them before, but they all want a dog so bad they could bust. But, say Mom and Dad, it's REALLY expensive to put up a fence. And who would take care of a dog? Mom and Dad. Who seem to have their plates full of human children. "If we had a fence, we could get a Spitz and call her Wendy!" said Catherine. Wendy was my dog, and she was a Spitz. Lived to be about 14 or so, and never died. I know she did, but I never saw her. The little bratty kid who lived next door to us when we lived in Irondale let her out of the yard, and she ran away, never to be seen again. But we have pictures, and video, and to Catherine, that's almost as good as a real dog. Almost. I dropped the kids off yesterday morning, and for some reason really hoped to see that dog. Sure enough, she came trotting around the fence from over by where the cafeteria is, and quietly padded up the sidewalk to see what was going on. She stood back and watched the kids go inside, looked over at me, and loped on around the driveway. Yesterday afternoon, I figured I would go pick up the kids--I hadn't heard from Reba if she had left Shelby County on time, and if she doesn't call, it usually means she's late, and there's no use leaving the kids over there any longer than necessary. I pulled up to the curb again and went in, not seeing the dog anywhere. Oh well. I peeked in the door of the gym and saw that the kids had already been gotten by Mom, so I turned around to go get in the van. Walked around the back, and there she was. Just looking around. "Hey, girl." She cocked her head a bit, and looked over her shoulder at something, then back. I asked her if she was a stray or if she had anybody to feed her, and she blinked and sniffed the air. I clicked my tongue and bent down to see if she would let me pet her. No. Too much. Head down, ears back, tail tucked firmly, sidled off. I told her 'bye and got in the van and headed home. She was the topic of much dinner conversation--Catherine noting that she did not bite the other children, and Rebecca complaining that all the other kids pester Miss Tanya to feed her scraps, and Jonathan saying that one mean boy keeps trying to get one of the little kids mess with it, and that it probably belongs to someone, or not, and how if we had a fence, we could have a dog, and it could be a Spitz, and its name could be Wendy. Or Kelli. Or Keekee. If we had a fence. I have waited in vain for the past five years hoping that our side neighbors and rear neighbor would put up a fence so we would be spared having to foot the bill for the whole thing. I don't know how much longer I can wait.
Meeting Hints
Well, first of all, if you decide you're hungry it's probably better not to stop at Sonic on the way to your meeting and get one of their new Steak, Egg, and Cheese breakfast burritos. Despite the fact that they are hot, and wonderfully tasty, they also contain grilled onions. Grilled onions smell really nice when you catch a whiff of them outside at a ballpark or fairground. HOWEVER, after consumption, and when the consumer is later required to stay in a smallish room with other humans the grilled onion aroma, which now clings to his clothing and hair and especially his inner mouth region, becomes rather offensive, smelling much like a weird locker room odor. And bumming a Hall's cough drop from a co-worker doesn't really help that much. Actually, not any. So, my apologies to anyone who had to be within fifty feet of me. And apologies for smelling like fifty feet. SECOND, if you DO decide life cannot be lived without first stopping at Sonic and loading up on salt, fat, and starch, it might be good to be a less-than-messy eater. Especially if you have on a nice light blue dress shirt. Because gravity, as we all know by now, is a particularly stern taskmaster, notably when it comes to the various liquids, gravies and/or sauces contained within Sonic Steak, Egg, and Cheese breakfast burritos. OH, you might think that having a tie across your middle chest and abdominal region and a light jacket wrapped around you might be a large enough safety net to keep fluidic contamination from soiling your nice light blue dress shirt, but you would be wrong. THIRD, if you still feel somehow compelled to break the above two rules, it would behoove you to first check the condition of your clothing prior to walking around where polite society can see the results of your earlier run-in with the law of gravity. A large, slightly brown, greasy stain just below your right pectoralis major on your nice light blue dress shirt does not tend to make you appear to be a professional person, nor does suddenly realizing you have said stain, and running to the restroom to fruitlessly dash water on it. In such an instance, it is probably better to conceal the stain underneath the lapel of your grilled-onion-stench-infused jacket. LUCKILY FOR ME, even though the small tube of toothpaste I keep in my desk drawer is empty and my oral cavity still smells like Osama's hideout, I at least have a large box of Stanback powdered analgesic. For you see, the best way to remove a grease stain is to place a small amount of absorbent powder, such as talcum, corn starch, or 882mg of aspirin and caffeine, onto the spot and gently rub it until the grease is absorbed, then brush away the powder. Sure, it might look like you spilled cocaine all over your shirt, but that's okay. You know you didn't. Now, having dispensed with all of that, I have some intense typing to do to in order to get ahead a bit on my meeting minutes. I will probably ramble back through this afternoon, though, although I will still smell oniony fresh. You might wish to open a window. Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Parroty Parody
If you decide to take a blogging break and then sneak back off of hiatus, this is the way to do it.
Dumb old work.
I just remembered I was supposed to edit something for someone, and I also have to get ready for our twice-monthly bureaucratic make-busy session tomorrow morning, so I suppose I should put away my toy and get something productive done.
A Day Late and...
Ad Age's Bob Garfield dissects yet another car ad campaign--this time an online film for the Volvo S40: [...] Yes, aged and calcified though we may be, we understand that soon the Internet will rule. We're inclined to think most Internet advertising won't be markedly different than the stuff we now see on TV and magazines. But we begrudge nobody a little experimentation, and if marketers want to play around with various viral forms, good for them.
Be sure to click over and read the horrible, horrible last sentence.
Mom-In-Law Update
Despite the fact that she would be horrified to know she was a frequent subject of posts herein, I am happy to report that my wife's mother did fine on her angiogram yesterday, and is supposed to come back home today sometime. If she knew all of you were out there wishing her well, she would say thank you, and then would tell me to quit embarrassing her with details of her personal life.
Orders of Architecture
Last week, regular contributor and fellow blogger Jim Smith asked what the deal was with all those different types of columns and stuff in Classical architecture. Well, the Greeks, being real smart and all, and having a lot of time on their hand as well as skilled slave labor, really got into the whole decorative post business in a big way. This is a link is to a brochure put out by Timeless Architectural Reproductions, a company in Cumming, Georgia who make modern fiberglass versions of the Greek originals. (Which were not made of fiberglass, but of stone. See? I listened in class.) Anyway, the reason I link to it is because it offers a nice and concise explanation of the various orders of columns, including all their bits and pieces. Although they might all look like a bunch of posts, the Classical orders of architecture were a sophisticated, thoroughly thought-out system of proportion and ornament that were easy to replicate in a wide variety of locations and local materials. The system of orders was a way that the power of the Greek states could physically manifest itself, regardless of what shore it found itself on. In a way, the reliance on a set proportional pattern prefigures modern usage of prefabricated parts, or the use of prototypical building designs by national chain stores. No matter where you go, Wal-Marts all look pretty similar;likewise, Greek architecture was, and is, instantly recognizable. The Greeks were a bit more interested in just building boxes, though. They were incredibly advanced in thinking of a building as sculpture, and as a coherent whole, rather than an assemblage of stuff. If you look at the columns, you note they have a graceful taper. It's not a straight taper, though, but subtly curved inward in a precise mathematically determined ratio called "entasis." Doing this does several things--straight columns tend to look as though the middle is concave, so a gentle curve towards the top counteracts this visual illusion, as well as accentuates the illusion of height. And not only is this curvature found in the shaft, but entire buildings, such as the Parthenon, use a similar scheme so that the columns are not concentric, but lean every so slightly to the center of the building, and the entablature and base both rise upward in the middle with yet another slight curve that keeps the horizontal lines from appearing to sag. Now, what about them there Romans? Well, they were inveterate adapters and innovators, and as with so many of their other cultural particulars, they adopted the Greek methods of building as their own. They did add their own simple version of the Doric order to the vocabulary, known as the Tuscan, and introduced what is known as the Composite order, which is, as it sounds like, a mixture of features from several sources. The one thing that was a true innovation by the Romans was the arch, and its spiffier descendant, the dome, as well as a novel building material--concrete. No longer bound by the short spans necessitated by unreinforced stone beams, buildings could encompass great open spaces with a relatively light weight enclosure. Again, having an easily reproducible system of measurement, proportion, and design allowed Rome to continue the expansion and exportation of visible reminders of its culture, as well as that of its Greek forebear. So, Jim--there you go. (OH, and by the way--my favorite Greek architectural word is xenodochion, which is a hotel room and means literally "a container for strangers." I've stayed in places like that before.)
The Republicans have their John McCain...
and the Democrats have Zell Miller--Miller slams Kerry, renews offer to Bush Georgia Democrat says he’s willing to help ‘any way I can’ Sen. Zell Miller (D-Ga.), who has been his party’s most loyal supporter of President Bush in the Senate, has delivered a blistering critique of Sen. John Kerry’s leadership while renewing his offer to campaign for Bush in the South in “any way that I can help him.”
[...] Miller has not always been so dismissive of Kerry. At the Georgia Democratic Party’s Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner in 2001, he introduced Kerry as “one of this nation’s authentic heroes, one of this party’s best-known and greatest leaders — and a good friend.”
"Essayons!"
A nice article in this morning's Birmingham News about the Alabama National Guard's 877th Engineer Battalion work in Mosul, rebuilding a former Iraqi army headquarters facility into a new training area. [...] Members of the 877th Engineer Battalion spent about five months working at "the Castle," which is about 30 miles west of the 877th's main camp in the city of Mosul. Earlier this month, there was a ribbon-cutting ceremony at which the Iraqi flag was raised, the Iraqi anthem played and the Iraqi military formally took control of the renovated building. [...]
Well, hello!
I had to get my blood drawn this morning in anticipation of my physical Thursday, which explains why I'm running a bit late with this morning's Official First Post of the Day. Which, as it turns out, is this one. Got to the office a few minutes too early, preceeded by only one tiny elderly lady. We were soon joined by a string of other elderly folks who became quite restless as the clock made its way on around to 8. The lab worker came by in a hurry to open her office, but we still had to wait to sign in at the adjacent room, which was still firmly locked. A big old gent in a cool khaki Members Only jacket decided to take matters into his own hands, and at precisely 7:55, he bravely stepped across the hall and pounded on the door with his big ham fist. BAM. BAM. BAM. That'll show 'em, chief. The lab lady stuck her head out of her doorway--"Sir, they're having a staff meeting right now--they'll open in just a moment." "WELL, they have US now. THEY shouldn't have those things when they told us to show up NOW." The lab lady apologized and asked him to be patient, and the door was unlocked at 8 on the dot. Now, I may be just making this up, but I am almost certain that their appointments were for the same time mine was--8:30. The office doesn't make appointments before 8:30. I also noted that when we got in, the four seniorly folks who jumped ahead of me to sign in jotted down 8:30 in the slot where it asked arrival time. Including Mr. Impatient. I felt better when I got to go ahead of him to the lab. Monday, March 22, 2004
Sunday--up early, watched Campbell Brown (who is just not as fun as Jodi Applegate), turned the shower on so I could make my topsy-turvy bedhead hair behave, got the kids up and helped Tiny Girl get dressed, made us all some breakfast, checked the fountain to make sure the storm from the night before had not damaged any of the components, then got us all in the van to hit the road for the church building.
Once more, the nursery teacher was a no-show (actually, just an incredibly-late-show). Grr. Where's that fire and brimstone when you need it?! Imposed on the same young lady I did last week to watch the class, then did some figuring for next quarter's teachers and classes. I make up a whole year's schedule at a time, and yet I still get folks coming up a week before the new quarter starts, wanting to complain. Oh well. Classes over, then time for worship, then time to go visit Grandmama again to see how she's doing. Same procedure as on Friday--elevator, crosswalk, pee, elevator, etc.--, and despite having now touched every single thing within the hospital, the kids still feel an odd compulsion to repeat that process, too. Piled in on top of Granny, and Grandpop's sister and her husband, lots of fidgeting by various ones, then a plea from me to see if food will calm them down again. Reba agreed and wanted to go to the cafeteria. I wanted real food from some place that didn't look like a bus station. I lost. On downstairs, first to get money from the ATM, then back to the cafeteria, which was chock full of... nothing. Oh, they had sandwich fixings, and some weak-looking salad stuff. But no hot food line open. ::sigh:: For some reason, Reba wanted to stay, so we stayed and after trying to herd four kids through a salad bar and sandwich line that didn't have any tray rails, we finally sat down. Thankfully, they all sat at their own table. They seem to do better when they aren't trying to compete with each other for our attention. They sat over there nice and quiet and polite, and I kept wondering why they can't be like that around ME!! (Because, it's all about me, you know.) We finished up and went back upstairs to bother Grandmom some more. Managed to stay for about thirty minutes before the level of misbehavior reached its previous peak, so in utter disgust I rounded everyone up and we headed home. Stopped by the store to get some groceries I forgot to get Saturday, then on back up to the church building to drop Oldest off for one of her activities, then to WAL-MART!! HOORAY! Church shoes for Cat and Middle Girl, some pants for Boy, some other stuff and things we don't need, and back to the church building for evening service. Managed to stay almost entirely awake, then cleaned up a bit and went and had supper at the Western-themed place, and didn't get a single drop of beverage spilled upon us, then headed on toward home. We had just gotten past the last service station when Rebecca said she needed to stop for nature's call. ::sigh:: I am a bad father, so I just told her to wait until we got home. It was only going to be another fifteen minutes or so. Made the turn onto White's Chapel Parkway, headed down the mountain before the Cahaba Bridge and heard the telltale BRDBRDBRDBRDBRDBRDBRDBRDBRDBRD of a tire going flat. ::sigh again, heavily:: Tried to find a place to pull off in the pitch black and after what seemed like forever found a driveway. Now then. A car full of kids and stuff from Wal-Mart. A van with a space-saver spare tire in the middle of the passenger compartment--the tire that comes off has to go in the space filled with Wal-Mart stuff. And it's dark. Thankfully, I remembered that I had put a small 12 volt compressor in the back sometime a go, so I figured I would see if I could get things pumped up enough to make it to civilization. Ten minutes later, it was slowly coming up, and then I remembered I also had a can of pressurized tire goo. Undid the compressor, screwed on the tire goo, and managed to get the thing all the way back to a roundish condition once again. On to home, where the kids all piled out and ran inside to make use of the indoor plumbing while I unloaded all the sacks of stuff. Closed the van, locked it, and was glad we had a backup vehicle to use until I could get the tire fixed. Walked in, closed the garage door, put away some stuff, and decided to see my little fountain. I walked out the back door and heard a strange buzzing sound. I looked and--AAARRRGGHHHH!! The fountain was nearly dry and the pump motor was buzzing along sucking air. AARRGGGHHHH! I jumped over the stuff and unplugged the cord, and...yep, you guessed it--::sigh:: ON to bed. No use doing anything else for this evening. Got up this morning and I think the problem was that the frog got bumped by one of the neigborhood critters or something and started spitting water outside the confines of the liner, swiftly and efficiently draining it. I filled it back up and let it start running again. I'll be interested to see how much it has in it when I get home. Which is where I am going right now. Soccer practice for Tiny Terror and Boy tonight, and since Reba was going to swing by the hospital, I was going to leave a bit early and take them on to practice. SO, I'll see you all tomorrow.
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