Possumblog

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.


Friday, April 30, 2004

And here we are again.

Another Friday, and another weekend ahead jam-packed with excitement. Or what passes for it. As an added twist, Little Cat has a soccer tournament starting with a game tonight at 6. Then she has another one at 7:30. Then one tomorrow morning at 9. ::sigh:: Apparently some of the more go-getting, wound-too-tight sorts decided the little intramural kids should have to wear themselves out just like the older kids. At least there's no entry fee.

This is in addition to Boy's game tomorrow at 2, and Middle Girl's game tomorrow at 3, and then Middle Girl's game Sunday at 2. This is also in addition to the lush undergrowth now covering the backyard. I cut the front two weeks ago, but not the back, so it looks like one of Alabama's many interstate-side Wildflower Management Areas. All it needs is a sign that says DO NOT MOW. Then I would feel better about the messiness.

Of course, part of this overgrowth might be the birds and squirrels being messy eaters--they both have returned in big numbers this year, and we even have some goldfinches, too, which we haven't had before. They sling seed everywhere, and some of it does come up. Maybe I just need a goat.

ANYway, there's all that to do, and the light at the corner of the eaves is STILL hanging by its wires, so that REALLY needs to be fixed. And there is still furniture to be moved and books to be donated and clothes to be washed and several unfinished social studies projects that need to be moved along, and a flat tire that is STILL flat that needs to be fixed. Somehow, I have this feeling one or two of those things are going to go by the wayside.

All of you have a good weekend, and check back in Monday and we'll find out which ones it was!

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!--This just in--Call to Shoot 20,000 Australian Koalas

Mmmm--can any of you say...


Kornalas! Cornbread-battered and deep-fried koala on a stick. Yummy! And they have that great eucalyptus flavor!



Obscure Architectural Term of the Day!

COSMATI WORK. Decorative work in marble with inlays of coloured stones, mosaic, glass, gilding, etc., much employed in Italian Romanesque architecture, especially in and around Rome and Naples, C12-13. Roman marble workers of this period were known collectively as the Cosmati from the name Cosma, which recurs in several families of marble workers.

From the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition

They even had their own magazine called Cosmatipolitan.

(Not really.)



As you are aware...

Possumblog is one of the foremost authorities on biology and deep-frying, probably explaining why we were just visited by someone wondering about: the cause of endangerment for Emperor penguin

Now, some of you probably think that Possumblog Kitchen's hearty and refreshing Corn-guins (cornbread-battered and deep-fried Emperor penguin on a stick) might be contributing to this situation. We want you all to know we love and care about all Antarctic fauna, and that the Emperor penguins we use are NOT drawn from stocks of endangered birds. Rather, we raise all of our own penguins at a purpose-built facility in Greenville, Alabama, where the birds live a full and enriching life before being processed and shipped flash-frozen in convenient 12- and 24-packs to your grocer's freezer. We take the utmost care to insure our penguins are happy, because a happy penguin is a tender and flavorful penguin.

So, eat up!

AND--be sure and ask for the NEW LO-CARB VERSION!



I like the CNN Breaking News e-mail alerts--but you know, I think the fact that Michael Jackson just pleaded 'not guilty' is not really newsworthy. Pleading guilty...now THAT would have been news!



Good grief, has it been two years already?!

[...] While it may be tempting to get melancholy or overly dramatic about this blogiversary, I'm just grateful for the chance to write and in particular for the friends that I have made on the Web. I don't know how or when this will end up, but as long as I have something to say and it continues to be enjoyable, I'll keep posting. Not that that is much different than how most other bloggers feel, but I felt like saying it.

Congratulations to Marc Velazquez, and as always, a thank you to him for his good humor, insight, and decency.

And thanks, too, for all the support Marc has given me over the past years. Some of you may not realize it, but the reason Possumblog comes to you without a banner ad across the top is due to Marc's kind generosity to me.





YEEEAAAGGGGHHHH!!!

Dean preps for talkshow

Josef Adalian, STAFF

Dr. Phil could soon be sharing the Paramount lot with another doc: Howard Dean

While everything's still in the early talking stages, the former Democratic presidential candidate is mulling the idea of hosting his own syndicated gabfest. He's hooked up with ex-Big Ticket TV topper Larry Lyttle ("Judge Judy") and longtime political consultant Gerald Rafshoon, who would likely serve as exec producers of a pilot for any such project.

Dean is in Hollywood this week, and he's taking meetings with execs at Viacom-owned Paramount Domestic Television. Lyttle is still based on the Par lot, and he's helping Dean make the connection with the studio. [...]

First guest--MENUDO!! Yay!



Sign of the Apocalypse #5,678--Teen Band Menudo Being Revived



Juvenile Delinquency

I am a bad father.

Took Rebecca to soccer practice last night, and it lasted only about an hour before the bottom dropped out and the storms rolled through. When the first drops started falling, I went and got back in the car, and when it really started coming down, their coach ran them all up to the concession stand to see if it was going to clear up anytime soon.

Obviously, not.

I drove on up to the upper lot, and found them all stacked up on the porch with everybody else's team all jabbering and milling about. He talked to them for a little while, still waiting for the rain to stop, and then finally gave up and sent them home.

I ran and unlocked the door and a minute later Rebecca came running around and got in, and we headed back toward the house. The rain had slacked a bit to a nice gentle sprinkle, and as we approached the left turn onto the street leading out of the park, I saw that there were no cars coming in any direction. SO, I impulsively edged the gear selector up a notch to Neutral, grabbed the handbrake, lifted it up smartly, and cranked in a quarter-turn of steering wheel. The Focus's rear end neatly pirouetted to the right, I released the brake, popped it back into D, and rolled on down the street. Back when I was a young man, I learned to perform this little bit of excitement in a 1972 Chevy Monte Carlo, which weighed about a thousand pounds more. You've not really driven until you've done a nice 180 in a 4,000 pound car with a column shifter and a foot operated parking brake on bias-ply tires. The Focus was simple in comparison.

"What're you doing, Daddy?!"

"That's called a handbrake turn--if you go all the way around, it's called a bootlegger turn!"

"Why'd you do that?"

"Ohhh, I don't know--just being silly."

Let's see--I demonstrate to my impressionable young daughter a driving maneuver that can lead to a collision, on a residential street, in the dark, in the rain, IN HER MOTHER'S CAR!

We drove a short bit on down the street and got to Highway 11. "Uhmm, Sugar, do me a favor and let's not let Mommy know we were playing with her car. Okay?"

"Aww, I wanted to tell her!"

"Well, she might not like that, and she would probably give me a bad spanking."

"Hee-hee -- oookaaaay."

I am going to need a LOT of churching-up come Sunday.



April 30, 1789

[...] No people can be bound to acknowledge and adore the Invisible Hand which conducts the affairs of men more than those of the United States. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of an independent nation seems to have been distinguished by some token of providential agency; and in the important revolution just accomplished in the system of their united government the tranquil deliberations and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities from which the event has resulted can not be compared with the means by which most governments have been established without some return of pious gratitude, along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past seem to presage. These reflections, arising out of the present crisis, have forced themselves too strongly on my mind to be suppressed. You will join with me, I trust, in thinking that there are none under the influence of which the proceedings of a new and free government can more auspiciously commence. [...]

From George Washington's First Inaugural Address. Poor George Washington--born too early to have a somberly-narrated Frontline special devoted to examining exactly why he thinks this Invisible Hand dude is so important.



You know...

...work sure does get in the way of productive blogging. Still have tons to do today, but maybe we'll have more today than yesterday in the way of interesting stuff to see.


Thursday, April 29, 2004

I have been muchly busy.

Explaining the dearth of pithiness hereabouts today, and in addition, I have been remiss--Miss Janis sent me this article about the demise of Oldsmobile, and I have yet to comment on it.

Well, it's just darned sad, that's all. But it's just part of a pervasive sad-sackness that has left GM gasping the past few years trying to compete in an aggressive, high-quality, world marketplace. Oldsmobile wasn't really even Oldsmobile anymore--it was the Oldsmobile "brand," yet another in the sack of crap management matrix that sounded wonderful when spouted off by people who sell potato chips and soap, but never translated down to the consumer, who tend to view their cars not as a snack food or toiletry, but an expression and extension of themselves.

It seems the rot became noticeable when it was no longer fashionable to have an Olds, and the geniuses in advertising started touting it as not something your dad would drive. Sadly, the corporate miasma built into the things guaranteed that you wouldn't want one, either. Once they started getting further away from gutsy, swank cars--442s, 88s, Toronados--and started up with the Firenza, and Ciera, and Aurora, and Bravada, it was just all a bunch of rolling turdsas. (In fairness, the Aurora was a good car. Not quite as good as it was put forth as being, however.)

It makes sense, I'm sure, from a business point of view to axe Olds (although it could just as easily have been Buick, another "brand" that has suffered from years of managerial abuse)--there's simply not enough room in the market for whatever it was Olds claimed to be in its final few years. What I never understood was why it had to be a four-year long death, and why in the world anyone would have kept buying them after it was announced that it was going to be an orphan nameplate.

Anyway, Olds now shuffles off to commiserate with Plymouth, and Imperial, and Edsel, and DeSoto, and Hupmobile, and Oakland.

Linda Vaughn says goodbye.



One little tip.

Don't ever stay up past midnight typing up an English composition for your oldest daughter (who swears she has been working diligently on it for the past three days) then get up and take your kids to school, then turn around and go back to the house and take a nap with the Today show on.

Shooo-whee. I don't know whether it was the lack of sleep, or the junk food I ate before finally turning in last night, or something askew with my medicines, or an imbalance of phlegmatic humours brought on by a visitation by a succubus, but whatever it was, it produced some of the most vivid hallucinatory dreams I've ever had.

All morning I felt terribly sleepy and groggy (more so than normal) and getting showered and dressed didn't help wake me up any. Got the kids away, came back, posted "The Trey", set the clock for 9:45 (giving me plenty of time to go back and get Boy), and then smoothed the bedsheets down and neatly lowered myself onto them, making sure not to wrinkle my work clothes and placing my giant melon head just-so back onto the pillows in order to keep from giving myself bedhead. And, as mentioned, I left the television on.

Oh my. Then it started. There was the cryptic e-mail I got from Meryl Yourish that I couldn't figure out, nor reply to. There was Catherine and I walking down the middle of an interstate overpass, where we were joined by a man with a towel and in swim trunks, walking with his three little girls, also all in swimsuits. We were all going to the motel across the way to go swimming, you see. Until one of the girls kicked a soccer ball, and it rolled down the embankment, and Catherine decided to fly down and get it. You know, because she can fly. There was an interview with The Black Eyed Peas, except it was not them, but two ditzy girls, and instead of an interview, they were playing the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right. Then there was a visit from Jessica Simpson, and she was very naughty.

Then the telephone rang--for real. Which made me shoot straight up out of the bed. Wrong number.

By this time, Matt Lauer was interviewing Harriette "Dolly" Kelton. the 97 year old lady from Dallas who got arrested for an outstanding motor vehicle violation. Matt asked sometime in there if the arrest was embarrassing to her. She paused, and with charming incredulity said, "Well, of course!" Left unsaid was her calling Lauer a damned fool. But she was too nice for that. As it wrapped up, he thanked her for being on, and she said she enjoyed it, and he was much nicer than she thought he would be. Heh.

Then I collapsed again. Right back into the half-awake dream state. I was back in the small Athens hotel room where I stayed in '86, and then I was back in my own bed, but someone was walking through the room--slowly, like one of the kids does when they wake up at night.

Creeeeeeak.

Squeek.

Creeeeeeak.

Crick.

Creeeeeeak.

I tried to call out to whoever it was, but I couldn't talk. Then I tried to open my eyes, and they wouldn't. I tried to move, and couldn't. I heard the person move around to the left side of the bed, and finally managed to croak out Rebecca's name, and finally was able to roust myself back awake again. Ewww. I just hate that sleep paralysis with hypnagogic and hypnopompic hallucinations stuff.

After I was awake again, I put my shoes back on and straightened up my tie and went and got Boy for his hardware.

All very efficiently handled, and he got the added benefit of sitting in the chair of the 6ft tall blonde technician who looks like Nancy O'Dell. Hmm. Maybe I need braces, too. Anyway, he was a real champ and did just fine--four posts on his front teeth, and two bands in the back for his headgear. And I am much poorer. ::sigh:: Then back to school (and yes, I DID remember to get his excuse before leaving the orthodontist's office) and as we walked across the drive, I held his hand in case I had to yank him out of the way of a car. When we got to the big set of steps leading from the lower parking lot to the upper, he took away his hand. And wouldn't hold on again.

"SON! Have you done outgrown holding hands with your po' ol' pappy?!"

"Nooo, Dad--I just need to hold the handrail."

Not with both hands, he didn't.

"SON! I think you is! You is done too growed up fo' me! OHHH! OH, OH, OH! OHHHHH, NO!" Much putting on of emotion followed.

"DAAAAaaaddy! Stop it! I have to hold on!"

We walked in and I signed him back in, and before I could even attempt to give him a hug, he was already hop-skipping back to class with his check-in slip. He'll be 10 in a couple of weeks. I suppose he thinks he is getting a little too old to hold hands with his Daddy.

He's not, though.



NOW THEN--seeing as how this morning I have to take Jonathan to the orthodontist to get his braces installed, some of you might think that I would have better things to do that post the FABULOUS FOURTH INSTALLMENT of the Axis of Weevil’s justly-famed Thursday Three.

Well, you’d be WRONG!

So important is this task that I actually wrote up this silly mess ahead of time so that I would be sure and get it done AND be able to get Boy his mouthwires at the same time.

As you all no doubt recall, in the past three weeks we have discussed Southern food, famous folks, and fantastical fun -- er...hmm, ahhhh -- places. (Live by the alliteration, die by the alliteration, I suppose.) In the past, each of our questions required those of you playing along to come up with three answers. Last week, I promised that this week’s T3 (as we snappy, in-the-know sorts call it) would not require such triphilia, mainly because sometimes it’s very hard to think of three things.

So, there you go.

This week’s Thursday Three involves around the notoriously volatile subject of how the South is presented in popular culture. For every figurative punch in the nose in literature or film--in which the South is stereotyped as being full of fat crooked sheriffs, Klansmen, smoldering harlots, ignorance, poverty, cleft palates, and fried chicken--there are the countering representations that movingly show it as a place blessed with poor Klansmen, crooked harlots, fat ignorant sheriffs, grinding poverty, smoldering chicken, and rickets.

(Not that I harbor any sort of inferiority complex or anything.)

Anyway, given all that we see and hear in books and on television and in the movies, surely there is something that comes through as being more true to the spirit of the South than others. And some that just strike out without even swinging.

In that vein, then:

1) What one popular movie, show, book, drama, scene, or other such thing, does the best job of capturing an honest portrayal of the South?

2) What one popular movie, show, etc. etc., does the worst job of honestly portraying the South?

3) Knowing that you will eventually get around to writing your novel or screenplay (which will, of course, be set in the South), could you go ahead and give us a plotline and the first paragraph?

NOW REMEMBER--just because you don't live here, or in fact don’t even live in the U.S., DOES NOT MEAN YOU CAN’T PLAY ALONG! Just go and make something up if you have to! But when you do, leave a link below so others can go see what you put down and fuss with you about it.

Okay, for my answers, for Number One I think the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird is still one of the best things I have watched. The book is obviously a masterpiece, also, but the movie was--is--still something I could watch over and over. Things are different in Alabama now, and better--whether some would have you believe that or not. Still, there is that nagging sense of doubt mixed with hope that never seems to change and which is such a part of the novel and the movie.

Number Two, the worst depiction is hard to pick--there’s just so many to choose from. The one that seems to fulfill everyone’s worst suspicions is probably Deliverance, followed closely by Easy Rider. Both are something to watch, but there is a certain class of ostensibly open-minded, free-thinking sorts of morons who think of them as documentaries, like the doofs whose only ideas of Viet Nam come from watching Apocalypse Now. Man. Also, I detest anyone who tries to fake a Southern accent--one tip I have posted before, but when your local dinner theater tags you to play Brick or Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, please, PLEASE don’t say “big DADDY.” It’s “BIG daddy.” Accent on the first word, not the second.

The last question has fascinated me for a long time--I keep trying to figure out if there is a way to write something about the South that has none of the expected stuff. Which pretty much means I’m looking at sometime before 1492, and no one in it will be wearing seersucker. Of course, it’ll still be hot and have mosquitoes and cottonmouths, so I might be running in circles. Might as well try something contemporary--
It was an odd feeling. Every once in a while, it was if he could look at a person and in only a moment, know his story. It had just happened again, just then as he was walking down the sidewalk. A young woman came out of the revolving door of the bank, walked over to the bench, slumped down and lit a cigarette. Something about her…. When he saw her, it was as if she were suddenly transparent, like a computer generated wire-frame model being drawn on a sheet of paper. In an instant, she was drawn and colored fully again, but now he knew everything about her--her name, where she grew up, why she was so angry, what she liked to wear to bed. Everything. Then he did something he had never done. He stopped and spoke to her. “Your name is Tammy Norris, and you were born in Mobile, and your father never believed you about the paper plates, and you enjoy the feel of warm lather.” The young woman, her short mahogany hair pulled back in a ponytail, her hand still resting on her purse where she had removed her pack of cigarettes, stared at the man before her, not knowing quite what to do. “Hello,” she said, as Doug felt the hot sting of pepper spray fill his eyes and nose. […]
Doug Elbert, a kind young man who sells remanufactured office equipment across the entire North Central Alabama sales territory, eventually goes on to save the world, and gets the girl. But not the one who sprayed him.

Anyway, all of you go do your thing and let’s see what you come up with, and I am going to go over and lie down and take a nap until it's time to go pick up Boy from school.


Wednesday, April 28, 2004

But WAIT, there's even...uh, no. Sorry, nothing else. EXCEPT...

Dumb old Haloscan AND Sitemeter both seem to be acting up today, so if you are having trouble with the page loading or other odd stuff, just chalk it up to those two things. Any other problems may be addressed to the staff ombudsman.

Now go back to work, some more.



But wait, there's STILL more!

We here at Possumblog pride ourselves on our vast knowledge of popular culture, so we welcome inquiries of this sort--did elvis drown in his chicken noodle soup?

Well, you have to chuckle.

But, surprisingly, this little bit of folklore has been around for years; obviously, however, since Elvis is still alive, it's pretty darned hard to say he drowned in his chicken noodle soup!

Although, one is reminded of Mom's old adage--"starve a cold, feed a fever, drink your Percocet."

Now go back to work, again.



But wait, there's more!

Neanderthals were 'adults by 15'

And oddly enough, homo sapien children become Neanderthals by age 15!

Now go back to work.



Sorry 'bout that.

Had to take a moment to run over to meet Miss Reba at the doctor's office--nothing serious, as it turns out, but you just never know. She's been having more discomfort in her chest the past couple of days, and it seemed to be different from the pain she was having with her hiatal hernia, so she FINALLY called the doctor today and made an appointment. I didn't know she had until she called me--I had just been ready to pick up the phone and call her and see if she wanted to go eat lunch, but when I heard she had an visit scheduled I figured I should high-tail it over and meet her there.

Coincidentally, he's in the same building as Cat's doctor--I'm getting to be quite chummy with the big woman in the parking deck cashier booth. Anyway, I saved my typing I was doing, bid you all a frantic adieu, and headed for the stairs. On the way down, it occurred to me that I couldn't remember what doctor she had said. You know, five minutes earlier. Golly, maybe I should have worn a helmet more often as a child. Whatever--I figured I could find out when I got there. I at least remembered he was on the seventh floor.

Got there, got parked, crosswalk, building directory--Ah-HAA!--THAT'S the GUY!, rode up to seven, got out, found the office and tracked down the lovely Miss Reba, who was sitting around behind the desk in a hidden alcove. Caught up on the backstory, and got filled in on her boss's concern that she be sure and let him know if she was going to be out the rest of the afternoon. Priorities, you know.

Asked if she managed to get the kids to school okay this morning--on these early-meeting days of mine, she has to get them all to school. (I still have to get them up and make sure they get dressed, though. ::sigh::)

Well, there's you another story--seems that she had gotten all their furry little carcasses into the Honda at 6:45, and had just started going down the street when she heard a weird noise. She asked Rebecca what the noise was.

The substory to this was that Rebecca had woken up in a particularly foul mood today--the type of mood that can only be explained by a too-quickly rising tide of female hormones bursting to make a woman of her--and so in response to Mom's inquiry, Middle Girl popped off, "I don't know--it's YOUR stupid van!"

Yes, she is still alive.

Anyway, Reba pulled over at the next street and got out to find that she had a flat tire. The exact same tire that went flat several weeks ago when we were coming home from church one night. SO, she got back in, drove slowly back around the corner to the house, parked it, and loaded up Old Moby with her young'uns. Itself a feat, given that all the books we had boxed up to donate were all stacked in the rear cargo area with the seat scooted all the way forward and the back folded down. Imagine trying to get them all in with their backpacks, then imagine a portion of the seating surfaces constrained with bundlesome heavy things, then imagine you have a barely pre-menarchial child acting like a turd, and I think if you manage to make it through without yanking someone bald-headed, you're on the fast-track to sainthood.

She did get them to school, by the way, with none needing an emergency comb-over.

Back to the waiting room now--we sat there for about thirty minutes before she got called back--I read a fascinating story in TV Guide about someone named The Donald--and get this--it's NOT Donald Duck! Nah, it's just some guy--why would anyone watch that on teevee!?

Got called back, and I went along to be supportive and help her get her clothes off. I am a thoughtful person like that, you know. Always trying to help. The nurse took her vital signs and gave her a large Bounty paper towel to wear, then hooked her up to the EKG for a baseline. That done, time for more waiting. I pawed through the stack of magazines and started reading People--did you know that show Friends is still on the air!? The article said they were going to end the show, and I looked at the date figuring it must be five or six years out of date, but it was from this week! Imagine that.

The doctor came in and after some careful listening to Miss Reba's chestal regions and review of the EKG, came to the conclusion that this was still pains resulting from her gastric problems. A relief it was nothing more serious, but she's still in some hurt from it. He gave her some samples of Prilosec--she had taken some Nexium in the past but lately has reverted to good old Tums. He sent her on down to the lab for some tests, and after carefully watching her as she got her clothes back on, I walked her back downstairs where we said our good-byes and sneaked a smooch.

And now I'm back here, and I got stuff to get done, so all of you are just going to have to come back tomorrow if you want more stuff and junk. INCLUDING the Super-GIGANTIC 4TH INSTALLMENT of the AoW Thursday Three!



Well, I have to leave for a bit, and I haven't even gotten to say hey this morning! So, hey, and with that, one admonition to check Snopes before you start forwarding me e-mail about Pepsi's new can.

Be back after while.


Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Oops

Sorta let work creep up on me unawares. I finished posting that last thing, and realized it was time for our dry-run for our early morning meeting tomorrow, and since our regular slideshow guy is out, I was supposed to break out the laptop and projector and show the slides. SO, I had to rush away to do that, and THEN had to leave and go get Catherine from school once more to see if her earpans were unstuck, and I didn't get to mention that there ain't gonna be no Possumblog tomorrow, since I will be in our twice-monthly meeting of the Good Taste Patrol. Maybe a bit later in the day if I can get some typing done.

AS FOR THE EARS--I figured that because I got to school and back right on time, and found a parking spot right beside the elevator, and got to go right back to the exam room without having to wait that someone was destined to have some discomfort. Doc came in, poked the ear-looker into Tiny Terror's headhole, annnnnnd...


Clear.


After fighting this mess for six months, she is now infection-free--at least in her inner ear. Such a relief.

And you may ask, "Terry," (because you know me so well), "exactly why are you up and blogging at this late hour?"

Well, we had a band concert tonight for Ashley. As usual, it was four songs each from the Beginner, Concert, and Symphonic bands, and in addition there was a round of awards for all the first chair folks, which stretched things out a bit. But that was okay, because a certain clarinet-playing member of our family got a certificate (as well as a medal that will be arriving in a few days). Yeah, I'm proud of her--if for no other reason than I can use it as an example of what she can do if she tries hard and stays with something. But I'm still proud of her even if I DON'T get to use it.

As for the concert, it's amazing the amount of growth kids can do in a year. The symphonic band especially is just pretty darned good. They did a pretty snappy version of Sing! Sing! Sing! that just needed a touch more tempo to really swing.

As usual, the whole experience was made less enjoyable by the fact that there were people in attendance, and you know how THEY can be.

Some requests--guys, I realize it's a just a baseball cap, but still, you ARE an adult and you ought to know to take it off inside. Remember what Coach Bryant said!

Second--turn off your derned cell phones. This is your kid or grandkid, and there is NOTHING you will need to know at 8 o'clock at night that couldn't just as easily wait until tomorrow.

Third--please, if you've been out all day doing landscaping or other manly things, it's probably better to change into something with less of you permeating it. Either that, or sit way over yonder and not in front of me.

Fourth--YOU! Yes, you with the digital video camera! Don't set up a tripod in front of you in the cross aisle. You are blocking the view of people behind you, and proving that you were too cheap to buy something that would zoom the extra 20 feet you are from the back of the auditorium. Where you SHOULD set up.

Fifth--if you have a head with the size, shape, and variations in tone and striations as an uncooked Virginia ham, please don't sit in front of me.

Sixth--WOMEN OF AMERICA!! Do NOT wear capri, pedal-pusher, or clam-digger style pants ANY! MORE! They are unflattering unless you're built like a young Audrey Hepburn, and more so if they are big and baggy in the butt, and especially if you have lower legs like a rhinoceros, and even MORE so when you're trying to wear them as if they are part of a business suit. You may think that women's suits have pants like this--with CARGO POCKETS, no less--but you would be wrong.

Seventh--wow, it's time to go to bed. See all of you sometime tomorrow!



Man, you make one innocent remark in passing…

Earlier speaking of my recent foray into unintended cutlery contact, I noted that my finger seemed to be healing just fine, and wouldn’t look near as scary as my knee surgery scar. Thinking that he might have missed an interesting story, Dr. Smith asked for more details.

Well, sit back and enjoy my personal version of Andy Griffith’s What It Was, Was Football.

I started playing football in the seventh grade on the junior varsity squad. (And this is actual, honest-to-goodness, real football, not kickball.) That first year we were all pretty pitiful. In the eighth grade, I finally started to pick up some speed, and found a position that suited me--right offensive guard. Since we only had about fourteen guys, I also played defensive tackle, but not nearly so well. Tenth grade I made varsity, which was not like making varsity in a real school where you have five guys for every position. The varsity team only had about twenty-two players, after all. SO they took anyone who signed up.

Not that I wasn’t good enough to play--I was about the same height I am now, and 190 pounds of muscle, Obviously, not big by guard standards of today, but at the time it wasn’t so unheard of, and what I lacked in overall size I managed to make up for. Although I never played dirty (honest), I was effective at my position and got tagged as “Little Conrad,” referring to Conrad Dobler, the dirtiest man in pro football. Nice for the rep, I suppose, but I was as nice a guy then as I am now. It’s just that playing the line is by default a rather inglorious and indelicate matter, and deliberately jumping offside and stepping on your opponent’s fingers is just one of those things that happens. Not a lot, but just every once in a while. Sorta like when you slam your hand over the earhole in someone’s helmet. Or your forearm happens to graze someone’s windpipe. It’s just a game, you know.

Anyway, as in JV, I played the entire game--offense, defense, and special teams. And this was back when high school games were still 60 minutes long, and the science of hydration was to take a handful of salt tablets. We invariably went up against bigger and better teams, but we did manage to win the championship in our first year in a new conference.

Come spring training, I had set out a goal that I was going to make All-County, and practiced with extraordinary intensity. Because, you know, in the back of your mind, even if you’re too small to play college ball, you still kind of think in the back of your mind that you might get a chance if you could get someone to notice you. Especially if you make All-County in your junior AND senior year.

March, 1978. We put on the pads and started full-contact only three days in, which suited me just fine, but was a bone-headed decision for the coach to make seeing as how we weren’t really ready physically for it. We had lined up to practice kick-offs and returns and as we chased down the ball carrier, when he hit the dirt the ball popped out of his hands. I was right there and was about to catch it in mid-bounce when one of my teammates--I’m not sure now whether he was playing offense or defense, came running in from my left and pounced on the ball, then decided to heroically roll across the ground. Except the ground led directly to my left leg, which was firmly planted along with my right. All couple of hundred pounds of him rolled up my leg, which snapped under my weight and laid me neatly over his back.

All I can remember is screaming. Screaming screaming screaming. It was a pain that I cannot adequately describe but I imagine it’s what the fires of Hell feel like. People up inside the gym--a good hundred and fifty feet away--heard me screaming and came outside to see what was going on. And, of course, all that screaming was a real downer for the rest of the guys at practice.

At the time I did not realize it, but he had torn my anterior cruciate and my medial collateral ligaments, and torn a piece of cartilage. At some point in amongst the screaming, I realized I had been laid on my back, and I could feel my coach taking my leg and repositioning it back around to the front. Again, this being the Dark Ages of sports injuries, my coach suggested I try to walk on it.

That hurt, too.

My dad got there from work to pick me up and took me to Carraway, where Dr. Ben Myers, who had been my doctor back when I was a child suffering from Legg-Perthes disease, grabbed my leg and started moving it all willy-nilly and higgledy-piggledy.

That hurt, too.

I had messed myself up real good. And that meant surgery, and not that namby-pamby orthoscopic stuff you kids have nowadays--good old orthopedic butchery where they split your leg open and attempt to sew things back together. The pain upon waking up was worse than the injury. I was quite literally climbing up the pull-up bar in agony--my poor mom and dad tried to get them to give me some more medicine, but were told, quite rightly I’m sure, that I had already had enough. I finally passed out from the pain. Nothing like a big dose of endorphins. It was a very odd feeling--one minute fiery pain, the next, like a shot of morphine. Which is exactly what the nurse gave me when she came in five minutes later--I’m sure she thought I must have been sandbagging because I was obviously not in pain anymore when she came in. She gave me the shot anyway, and I slept for the next 24 hours.

I stayed in the hospital for a week, then was in a cast and on crutches for the next six weeks, then just on crutches for the next two weeks after that. And again, this being the Dark Ages, there was not really much in the way of physical therapy--basically, “you need to keep working your leg back and forth.” A year later, the cartilage that was torn made itself known by continually locking up my knee, meaning that I had to have yet another surgery to remove that. (That operation was blessedly less painful, though.)

What I was left with after all that was a ten-inch-long, Frankenstein-looking zipper down my inside left knee, and a knee that still occasionally slips sideways when I’m walking. It was quite a shock to one day be thinking, way back in the back of your mind, that you might one day play a little college football, and the next not knowing what you were going to do. And I think the worst part must have been walking on those darned crutches--every once in while, even 26 years later, I will still dream that I am having to use them to get around, even though in the dream, my leg is perfectly fine. Weird, huh?

Anyway, as I said, the finger scar is much less of an eyesore when taken into account with my other deformities.



As well-known arbiters of style and seers of the future, we here at the Possumblog Center for Cultural Studies often receive visits from people wondering about the next big thing--such as this Italian-speaking person who wants to know about: future cut hair.

Although some may find it difficult to determine how hairs may be cut in the future, I think given mankind's ability to innovate that we men will all be wearing this sporty, devil-may-care style. Then when all that falls out, you can get some like this.

I can hardly wait!



I am very slow.

It is the only explanation of merit for having just now gotten around to directing you to the One Hundred and Twoth Scourging of Richard Cohen conducted by swingin' '70s hitster Charles Austin.

In this episode, there is much talk of thrusting and parrying, jackboots and lamé. It's okay, though. It's for The ChildrenTM.

And speaking of whom, here is a recent Straight Dope article that makes Mr. Cohen's odd ending reference seem like even more of a non sequitur.



I make no claims to any sort of computer savvy, but I suppose enough has seeped in over the past few years that even I know that if you are trying to send an email to someone, you shouldn't write SPAM in the subject line!

I'm not sure what the poor doof was trying to do, but he sent some photos of his house to one of my co-workers for her to review, and there big as day in the subject was "Spam: 123 Street* Pictures." And she sent them on to me, with no explanation, and so I receive something reading "FWD: Spam: 123 Street Pictures."

Yet another co-worker of mine just strolled in to let me know what was going on, and I asked him if he knew why the original sender wrote "spam." "Oh, I don't know--I guess that's just because we get a lot of spam, or something."

Wha!? I let it go, because I knew better than to ask.

Again, I ain't no whiz, but this reminds me of James Thurber's grandmother who went around making sure all the fixtures had lightbulbs and taping up unused outlets so the electricity wouldn't leak out.

(* Not the real address)



Oh no--I think I may have started something.

Now it seems Big Arm Woman has given digital laceration a whirl--

BURNING QUESTION

So, how long does a cut have to bleed before I go get a stitch in it?

Last evening I mistook my left index finger for an onion, and gave it a mighty CHOP with a serrated knife. That freaking HURT, by the way. I managed to stanch the bloodflow by applying an Elmo tourniquet (a band-aid pulled VERY tightly), but the darn wound just keeps reopening and oozing. Needless to say, typing is not going well.

Oh, and I have to go get a filling replaced this morning as well. Color me cranky. It's probably a good thing that my typing is impaired--no doubt today's blogging would be evil in the extreme. [...]

Condolences and all to you, ma'am--and go ahead and go on to the doctor and let them fix you right.

As for an update on MY finger (because, as you know, it IS all about ME), today is the first day I have not put on my own Elmo tourniquet. When the doctor removed the stitches last week, the edges of my cut seemed to want to open back up a bit, so I kept a bandage on it until now to keep it pressed together. There is now a little raised area at the very edge that feels a bit like a callous, but it seems to be all knitted together now, and doesn't look like it's going to cause a unsightly scar. (Nothing like my knee surgery scar, that's for sure.) Still some pain if I extend it too much--that hit-with-a-hammer feeling that makes you want to say more bad words--but it does seem to be getting some skin sensation back in it. Or maybe I'm just imagining that part.

It is once again useful for all sorts of 'a's and 'q's and 'z's, so things are okay.

Anyway, Miss Big Arm, all of our hopes for a speedy recovery. (And good luck on that potty training, too.)



Little did I know...

...when I commented yesterday that I was going to move to the library that someone already beat me to the idea--

NEW YORK (AP)

A college student who says he spent eight months sleeping in a library basement because he couldn't afford campus housing has been relocated to a free dormitory room, New York University officials said.

Sophomore Steve Stanzak, 20, said he began spending six hours a night in the sub-basement of Bobst Library at the beginning of the academic year after he was unable to pay a $1,000 housing deposit. He slept on library chairs and carried vital belongings — a laptop computer, books, clothes — in his backpack.

University officials eventually discovered an online journal Stanzak kept about his experiences and relocated him to a free dorm room last Tuesday.

"When students who have needs and concerns get in touch with the university, we have ways to help," NYU spokesman John Beckman told the campus newspaper, Washington Square News, this week. "The last thing students should do is assume nothing can be done."

Scores of students read about Stanzak's daily adventures on his Web journal, www.homelessatnyu.com, and he became something of a campus celebrity.

"I thank everyone who helps me get through the day, and makes me realize that although I'm poor and live in a library ... that I'm learning a lot about life, and that I will make it through this," reads an entry dated April 15.

Stanzak, who dubbed himself "Bobst Boy" on the Web site, says he washed in the library's bathroom and took occasional showers at friends' apartments and dorm rooms.

Although he works four jobs and has several student loans, Stanzak said he received no financial assistance from his family and had only enough money to cover tuition, about $31,000 a year for full-time undergraduates.

I wonder if his major is library science?

Anyway, although I admire his desire to get a degree and his willingness to work FOUR jobs to do it, I think there are probably universities that offer better value for the money.


Monday, April 26, 2004

I suppose you have to give them credit for being optimistic...

When I went out for lunch, I noticed something I had not seen before--one of our city's fine parking enforcement personnel had pulled his three-wheeled Cushman scooter (sorta like this NYPD version) up behind a misparked miscreant, and I spied the model name of the scooter proudly painted across the rear bumper--Interceptor.

Now I've seen Honda Interceptors, and Jensen Interceptors, and a Galaxie with a 428 Police Interceptor, and somehow I just don't see a Cushman being able to keep up with that crowd.



Well, now--

Seeing as one of our administrative professionals is on an indeterminate leave to take care of some health-related issues (that I dare not speak about for fear of being labeled as cruelly insensitive toward those who not only march to the beat of a different drummer, but do so on an entirely different planet) it seems that it is my turn to cover the telephones for an hour, so that our other secretary can go eat lunch.

SO, no blogging and, in fact, no surfing for an entire hour.

Yammer and twaddlefy amongst yourselves.





Many readers who are named Jim Smith and live in East Carolina have all been asking the same thing--

I want to know where you and "your friend Jeff" ate lunch. Was it another manly place of ferns, polished wood and eclectic rubbish--sorry, furniture? And the food, small portions, tall in design and all with the latest of creamy fennel pesto and raspberry dipping sauces? Last month's place was so trendy it made me almost want to grab some Birkenstocks and head on down--almost.

Friday's lunch was another excursion to Homewood's famed meat 'n' three Anchorage Restaurant. For some reason, the crowd was way off--I even managed to park right at the front door. Jeff got the baked codfish, and I got a cheeseburger (yes, it had a bun, and no, I shouldn't have had that much bread, but at least I ate less bread than french fries.) The food is pretty good, as these types of places go--the hamburger patty tastes like meat loaf, and it's big and misshapen as a handmade burger should be--but the atmosphere is definitely on the non-trendy side. (Despite being in the very center of the most cloyingly twee strip of boutiques and stores within at least two miles around.) And I still have trouble figuring out why they go to all the trouble of having a nautical theme, and yet have so few recipes that have anything to do with fish. My suggestion would be to keep the tattered, frozen-in-1968 maritime atmosphere, and go all out with fresh seafood similar to what you find at the Original Oyster House down in Mobile. And don't serve canned Diet Cokes--buy yourself a derned fountain.



As we say...

I am way yonder tired.

BUT we only had one soccer game this weekend--Jonathan's game out in Gardendale got cancelled SATURDAY MORNING due to the park being used for some festival of some sort. Which was fine--I really didn't want to have to load everyone up for another road trip, but it sort of made me mad because had I known we would have had some extra time, I would have gotten tickets to go see the US women beat Brazil. Oh well.

As for the early game, it was the usual chore of getting up early with Rebecca and getting her to Shelby County at near daybreak. Played the team from Mountain Brook and although the girls played well, it was a 3-1 loss. Too slow and not able to finish. And the referee was crappy, although for once, it was to our advantage. Just not quite enough to our advantage, though.

Back home, and then it was time for the thing that took up the entire rest of the day--reshelving books and boxing up some to donate. This was the second phase of the big furniture move of last weekend, and entailed redistributing all the kids' books into the bookcases from where they had been--mostly on the floor of the upstairs hall, and under various other pieces of furniture.

Books with names written in them were sorted into piles. Those which were considered baby books were then culled from those to be placed in long term storage. The remainder were each placed into their respective owner's bookcases. Then the giant pile of unmarked books were again sorted through, removing the baby books, and then divvied up as best as could be determined by content. Got finished at 7 p.m. Boxed up seven copier-paper boxes of books to be donated, and still have a billion or so.

As we were going through them, it occurred to me that it would be interesting to know how many books we actually do have. I could count them, but that would hurt my mind, so I decided to just do running footage:

Art and Architecture--12 ft
Biography--9 ft
Craftwork--10 ft
Geography--9 ft
General, Fiction--18 ft
General, Non-fiction--20 ft
History, General--9 ft
History, Military--12.5 ft
Juvenile--22.5 ft
Older Youth--10 ft
Reference/Textbooks--20 ft
Religious--9 ft

Total-- 161 ft

One of these days, I plan to read at least an inch or two of those. Anyway, that was very tiring, and the kids were only marginally helpful. They spent more time reading than separating. And more time fussing with each other than reading. ::sigh::

Then yesterday was the normal Lord's Day activities of worship and watching stock car racing. Overall, a pretty good race, despite it ending under caution, and despite the lineup including Tony Stewart (who in my estimation wouldn't act the way he does -- for very long, at least -- if he had been racing back in the day with A.J. Foyt). The throwing of garbage onto the track pretty much took the cake for sheer low-class, though. Morons.

On back to church for evening services, then a late-night get together for the younger kids, and finally back home sometime after 9, feeling like I had been beat to pieces.

Not the normal 3,000-worder today, I realize, but I am just wiped out.

But, despite that, check back in a bit for more twaddle and yammering.


Friday, April 23, 2004

Well, now.

Not much in the way of posting today, eh? Well, that whole thing this morning just threw EVERYthing off kilter, so maybe we can get going right again on Monday. For now, it's almost quitting time, and time to start weekending.

Tonight, I hope to do some cleaning out and moving of furniture in Boy's bedroom, then tomorrow it's going to be up bright and early for soccer. Bec's game is up and over south of Double Oak Mountain again--I'm going to take the Focus this time and pray it gets there without dropping all sorts of metal bits out of the tranny. Then there's going to be more stuff to do, then Jonathan has a game over on the north side of the county in Gardendale, at a field located near an intersection with one of the more oddly-named roads you are likely ever to find. Then, more stuff to do.

I have a LOT of stuff to do.

Anyway, all of you have a good weekend and I'll see you again come Monday.



And if you think THAT was a high honor--

I just got this little gem:

FROM: partnership@[not so fast, there, Bub].net

Hello,

Would you be interested in exchanging links between our sites?

I noticed that your site is the type of quality web-site containing travel information or services that we would be interested in linking to.

If you are interested, please reply to this email and I will be happy to discuss our link exchange requirements.

Wishing you a great day and hope to hear from you soon.

Steve

http://www.[sorry, no linky love for you!].com/

Wow, that Steve is sure a nice guy! Here's what I wrote back:
CONGRATULATIONS, STEVE!! You will be ELATED to know that although I have had my new Google G-Mail account for two whole days, YOU are the FIRST SPAMMER TO FIND ME!!

It is obvious that YOU are a hard working spammer with WHAT IT TAKES to do business over the Internet!!

HOWEVER, although my site is the HIGHEST QUALITY SITE on the ENTIRE Internet containing travel information or services, I am not quite sure you really want to link to it. I mean, after that 400,000 word essay I did about how people should never travel from home, or use great big boats (especially if they have to share it with Kathy Lee Gifford) or airplanes, I don't think many people will want to book any cruises to Aruba or Baghdad or wherever. Then again, I could be wrong. My "Walk Across Pinchgut Creek" tours seem to always be booked, so you never know. Am I rambling? Sorry. It's just that when ever anyone sends me mail, I get like this.

AS FOR BUSINESS--right now, I am working on a deal with Dr. Peter Eolo, the Executive Co-President of the Nigerian Federal Petroleum Exchange Partnership and Economic Development Council, and I expect that will be bringing in a pretty penny once completed, so maybe then I will be able to actually pay someone, SOMEONE LIKE YOU, STEVE, to link to ME! Won't that be GRAND!! Oh, wait. I remember I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that deal. I hope this doesn't ruin any of the modalities of the transfer.

TELL YOU WHAT!! When I get all my money from Dr. Eolo, I will write you back. BE ON THE LOOKOUT!
Only TWO dadgummed days...

::sigh::

UPDATE!! Didn't expect to see THIS in the Inbox:

Wow! This is the funniest email I have ever got, don't worry I have no list and never send anyone an email twice.

I spend a lot of time finding sites and just use copy/paste and don't always look who they are going to. I am just one guy trying to make it on the internet, it is not always easy competing with big companies who have far more resources than I.

Anyway, I would really be interested in getting in on the Nigerian deal with you if possible. :)

I am truly sorry if I caused you any trouble and will slow my efforts down a bit.

Sorry again

Well, I'll be doggone! Steve made me feel guilty, so I wrote him back and let him know how much I appreciated his good humor at being mocked, and for what it might be worth, here's a link to the site Steve was promoting--www.cruisetaker.com. Now remember, caveat emptor and all that, but I'll tell you, it sure was nice to meet someone who's willing to allow himself a bit of childish chiding!



Okay, now I wonder what this is all about?!

Just got the most curious e-mail:


Date: Fri, 23 Apr 2004 15:26:54 -0400
To: terryoglesby@yahoo.com
Subject: Library of Congress Permission Request 82982 POST
From: minerva@loc.gov

To Whom It May Concern:

The United States Library of Congress builds and preserves a universal collection of knowledge for Congress and the American people. The Library's traditional functions, acquiring, cataloging, preserving and serving collections of historical importance to foster education and scholarship, extend to digital materials, including Web sites. The Library selected your site for collection, inclusion and preservation in the historic collection of Election 2002 Internet materials. The Library attempted to contact your Web site during the collection period of July 1 to December 1, 2002, but was not able to verify whether you received your notice. The Library wishes to make the Election 2002 collection of archived Web sites available to offsite researchers by hosting the collection on the Library's public access Web site. The Library hopes that you share our vision of preserving the historical record of the Election 2002 presence on the Web and that you will agree to include your archived site among the collection that will be available to researchers from across the world.

URL collected between July 1 and December 1, 2002

:
possumblog.blogspot.com

If you agree to permit the Library to provide offsite access to your materials through the Library's Web site, please click on the following link [...]

Well, obviously I couldn't let that go, so I clicked over, and the best I can tell this is not a spoof or anything (seeing as how I wasn't asked for my bank account number or any nekkid pictures.)

There was a short form asking for name and title, which I filled out and submitted, but it still seems awfully odd that I would be chosen out of the vasty blog sea for inclusion. Further, it seems that someone who is going to try to find out anything is going to have to do some digging, seeing as how the link is only to the main page, and not to anything about the 2002 Election in particular. And how exactly did they try to contact me before? Was Chet the G-Mail Boy out sick that day? Baffling.

And think of all those poor people--wanting to find out something, and the U.S. Government sends 'em here.

Figures.



::tap::tap:: whuufwhuuf ::tap::tap::

Hello? This thing on?

Oh, hi there, culture lovers! What a steenkin' morning. Got in right on time and turned on the lifeline to the outside world, and got an odd, bluescreen DOS message of some sort saying something about corruption and depair and system administrators and turn-it-off, turn-it-back-on-again. So I clicked the power strip back off, then back on, and the normal Windows NT procedure started, with its wonderfully wacky Ctrl-Alt-Del sign-in routine, and...whoa! Another dialogue box, this time telling me I couldn't be logged on to the network, and then another that my personal preferences couldn't be loaded, all because something on my machine was possibly corrupted and making all the other pixels nervous and edgy. No word exactly what the problem was, so I went ahead and did the best I could and got my own station turned on. No e-mail, no access to my documents on the network. Hmm. This is Not a Good Thing.

Did the start up routine again. (Hey, it's Microsoft.)

Same deal.

Decided to run the limited bit of antivirus software that we have local control over, and after thirty minutes of running, it found no viruses. However, three files were quarantined that were deemed suspicious. Those were taken outside and shot, and after cleaning up the mess, I restarted the box again.

Ahhhhh--no dialogue boxes. Grr--still no network access. Someone, like, say, ME, is going to have to call the computer guy and tell him something is fried. Which means that I am going to have to get rid of some of the temp files and cookies and such that signal much-too-much time spent avoiding work. So I did some dumping and cleaning, and managed to find out that although my intranetwork connection was down, I could ease sideways a bit and get on the Internet, thus explaining the ability to post a few things earlier. Deleted the history of that, and then called up the computer guy.

Told him my problem--"Have you tried to reboot it?" (Hey, it's Microsoft.) I allowed that I had, numerous times, and he said he would be right on it.

AN hour later, he made it up to my little slice of heaven and after a few minutes of jiggering and poking at buttons, he had me back in business. Almost.

Whatever took hold of my machine had set all my preferenced back to default, which meant that stupid, STUPID Clippy was back, and my Word document margins were at 1.25 inches, and all my toolbars were back to the stupid way, and all of my bookmarks in IE had disappeared (actually, they were still in a backup folder on the worknet).

So I had to fix that mess, and then I had to go eat lunch with My Friend JeffTM, whom I am now full of terrible envy toward, due to his wife having saved up enough money from her freelance work to send him to a one-day outing at the Porsche Driving Experience at the Barber Motorsports Park for his birthday. He got to drive a Carrera and a Boxster, as well as a turn or two in a Cayenne. I hate him very much, indeed. I console myself only by remembering that he was stuck in a group with a monied father-and-son duo from Rhode Island who wore sweaters tied around their shoulders. And he did give me the latest Car and Driver, so I don't guess I really hate him. Much.

Anyway, that's what's been happening at the ranch this morning--sorry to have been so uncommunicative.



My computer is on the blink (more than likely due to another one of those popup spyware sites) so no blogging for now, and possibly for the rest of the day.


Thursday, April 22, 2004

Boy, am I gettin' old.

This morning, it was a struggle to get the kids up, since we had Bible study at church last night and then had to come home and dunk them in the tub before they went to bed. Especially so for Catherine, who padded into our room sometime between 1:30 and 5 saying she had a bad dream and needed to get in bed with us. Never good for true rest, although she gave it a very game try with much loud snoring on her part.

Anyway, she was harder to get up than usual, but the lure of a Toothbrush Story seemed to rouse her from her torpor. Clothes on, socks, shoes, then to the bathroom. She got her toothbrush and the toothpaste as I took my place on the Magical Watery Storytelling Throne of Mystery, where I began to hold forth:

"ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a small cat named--"

She turned to me and held up her finger, "Put it on pause, please, Daddy--I needs to go get somethin'."

"On Pause," like I'm some kind of DVD player or something.

::sigh::



Obscure Architectural Term of the Day!

TRACING HOUSE. The house or room in which the medieval mason drew or scratched details of mouldings and other details as instructions to those working under him (super moldas in trasura). The tracing could also be done on sand n the floor of the room.

From The Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition.



Get you some culturing up.

Well, the big white tents appearing in the park below can mean only one thing (well, actually several, but in this context, only one)--it's time once again for The Magic City Art Connection!

21 years of local artists displaying their stuff for sale and for jurying, and it's always an interesting sort of thing to attend. There are a couple of hundred artists from across the country (I work with this guy, and I see this lady in the elevator all the time) and an odd cross section of the population meandering through the exhibits. There is more than art, too, with delicate food as well as real food, and some music, too.

And despite there being many young ladies in shorts and tank tops, only a few will also be attending this weekend's Aaron's 499 at Talladega. Then again, probably won't be many who will also attend the USA Women's Olympic Team v. Brazil soccer friendly at Legion Field on Saturday, either. I'm just happy there's enough to go around.

Anyway, there's yer culture.



MMMmmm--That's Good Bass!

BASS PRO SHOPS Outdoors megastore makes splash

WILLIAM THORNTON and MICHAEL TOMBERLIN
News staff writers


Leeds has landed the big one - a massive Bass Pro Shops outdoors store that is part of a development that includes a 250-room hotel and as many as four restaurants.

The project, which will be announced today, will turn a nondescript Interstate 20 interchange into a major destination for shoppers and accelerate the development of 3,000 nearby acres owned by USS Real Estate, Jefferson County's largest landowner. The 165,000-square-foot store - bigger than three large supermarkets - will open in 2006.

Bass Pro's development plans will be revealed at a press conference today at the Barber Motorsports Park, located a few miles away off the same I-20 exit. Gov. Bob Riley and Johnny Morris, founder of Bass Pro Shops, are among those scheduled to attend.

The retailer, which sells items ranging from bait to boats for fishermen and boots to bullets for hunters, will employ an estimated 300 people. Leeds officials figure the store could have $75 million to $100 million in annual sales. [...]

$100M. You know, that a lot of Almost Steamin'TM Deer Peak-rut Estrus Doe Lure.



And then, there's this--Florida Woman Survives Alligator Attack

SANIBEL, Fla. — A 74-year-old woman survived an attack by a nearly 10-foot-long alligator that bit her on the leg and arm and dragged her into a lake.

Jane C. Keefer was stable and in good condition at HealthPark Medical Center early Thursday, hospital officials said.

Police said Keefer was attacked at about 8 p.m. Wednesday as she was gardening near the bank behind her home.

Bitten first on the leg, Keefer was able to fight the alligator off, Sanibel Police Chief Bill Tomlinson said.

The reptile lunged at her a second time, biting her arm and dragging her into the water, before her husband, William, was able to help her get away, said Lar Gregory, an investigator with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.

Authorities captured the alligator at 10:45 p.m. behind Keefer's home. It will be destroyed.

"This is the kind of gator that will kill you," said trapper John French.

Unless you're a 74 year old Florida woman, in which case you get some nice shoes and a handbag out of the deal.

And MMMmmm--Cornigators! Cornbread-battered and deep fried reptile on a stick!

(Thanks to our morning caller for this one.)



From Steevil, Official Possumblog Irony Correspondent--Prominent Dutch euthanasia advocate dies at 87; natural causes suspected

Steevil also gets a prize for being the first official user of the new GMail account! I just happen to have an old Queen album around here somewhere...



Doing the mailout...

...so not much in the way of posting this morning until that is done.

But after that, buddy boy, all sorts of interesting stuff.

Or not.



Oh, you know how much you've been waiting for it!

The anticipation building with each passing moment, seven whole days of pent up emotion--that can only be released with the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Ver. 3.0!

Yes, I realize that I said this was going to get posted late today after I got into the office, but I figured since I was already still awake typing up stuff for work as well as fascinating information on Richard Trevithick (the inventor of the steam locomotive), for a certain daughter of mine, I might as well go ahead and get this done, too.

So then, being that the South is known for the great and varied beauty of its landscape (as well as the physical ugliness of some parts that would make a scabby knee look good), we ask you to ponder and respond to these three treble-themed questions:

1) What three (3) Southern places, towns, or regions (aside from your own, if you currently reside in the South) do you think you would enjoy living in?

2) What 3 (three) Southern places, towns, or regions (aside from, &c., &c.) have you ever visited and would never want to set foot in again? (I make the special note that you must have actually visited there, mainly because some people have irrational negative opinions about places based entirely upon what they have heard from others. Nothing like first-hand experience.)

3) Finally, what are the three most distinctly Southern tourist traps you have ever visited?

Now then, go off and answer those, and leave a link down in the comments to your blog if you care to. Remember, Haloscan will let you insert hyperlinks using the normal pointy-brackets-and-"a href=" protocol if you want folks to be able to click over.

AS FOR ME and #1 -- I think all the time about how much I would like to live on Dauphin Island. Nothing to do but sit there and vegetate in the sun. And occasionally get blown away by hurricanes. I think Nashville, Tennessee is really a pretty town, especially out in the rural suburbs. And I also like Asheville, North Carolina a whole bunch, but that might stem from having gone there on my honeymoon.

For #2, the first choice would have to be Macon, Georgia. You have never seen a more depressing sight than to roll through circa 1982 Macon on a Greyhound bus on a miserably rainy winter day. Macon may actually be a nifty place, but that one experience sorta ruined it for me. The next place was one I visited with one of my friends from grade school, long ago. I'm not sure why, but he asked me to go with him and the rest of his family to visit one of his aunts and her husband, who lived in a trailer in the middle of nowhere in Mississippi. Nothing around but flat grassy nothingness. Spent the night there, playing Go Fish and reading a tattered copy of Grit. Never going to go back, let me tell you. The last place would have to be any place in rabid chipmunk Roger Bedford's State Senate district. Fine people all, I'm sure, and some nice towns, but any place this venal weasel calls home is no place I would want to live.

Now then, #3, tourist traps! Well, when I was young we went to a real live roadside gator farm in Florida that still gives me bad dreams, and then there is the Strip in Gatlinburg. (Note in the linked article that the first settlers were named Oglesby!) We used to go on vacation there almost every year when I was young, and the chief attraction--at least with my parents--was to park the car near the Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum and 'people watch.' Just sit there and observe the flowing tide of humanity. I think you probably can learn a lot that way. (By the way, don't miss Cooter's Place!) And I am proud to say I have visited the Spanish Castillo de San Marcos while in St. Augustine, Florida. That's not really a tourist trap, though--that honor was held by yet another Ripley's museum--for some reason, we could never take a vacation in any town without a Ripley museum. In any event, this particular Ripley's is where I, as a tender youth of only five, first became aware of my father's flatulent abilities. For the longest time, I never could figure out why my folks kept chuckling and talking about how bad that museum stank. Then they explained it to me. I may have inherited my looks from my mama's side of the family, but I am strictly my father's son when it comes to musicianship.

Anyway, there you go.


Wednesday, April 21, 2004

I got a phooone call! I got a phoooone call!

And it was from another blogger! Fritz Schranck just called the secret Possumline to torment me further about my recent attempt at vigorous digitational excision, and as always it (the telephone conversation) was incredibly enjoyable. One of these days, I intend to return his many kindnesses by inviting myself to stay at Schranck Manor in lovely Rehoboth Beach, along with -- my children.

BWUAHAHAhahahahaha!

We also commiserated about the telephone-call-in-a-meeting dilemma--Fritz's solution to one such instance was to convert another gentleman's phone into a cordless number. Heh.

Anyway, good to hear from you, Mr. Schranck, and as I mentioned to him, I will be going in to see my doctor early tomorrow morning to get the stitches taken out of my po' fanger. MEANING the much-anticipated AoW Thursday Three will, of necessity, be posted later than usual. But it will get posted, so stay tuned.



Other good things that come from space exploration...

From the crew at Snopes.com--Shrimp Ahoy!

Claim: Long John Silver's restaurants will be giving away free Giant Shrimp on 10 May 2004.

Status: True.

Origins: In one of the more unusual promotions in recent memory, the Long John Silver's restaurant chain announced on 16 January 2004 — just before NASA landed the second of two Mars Rovers on the red planet — that they would "give America free Giant Shrimp" if NASA found "conclusive evidence of an ocean on Mars." The stipulation was that NASA must make an official announcement of having found evidence of a Martian ocean by 29 February 2004, where an "ocean" was defined as "as a single body of water, the surface area of which equals or exceeds five million square kilometers." [...]

The entry notes that NASA's announcement was not quite the fulfillment of the mandate, but the good folks at Long John Silver decided to go ahead with the promotion anyway.

[...] On Monday, 10 May 2004, customers can stop by any participating Long John Silver's outlet between the hours of 2 P.M. and 5 P.M. to claim a free Giant Shrimp (one piece per customer). If that sounds like a rather shrimpy deal, consider that Long John Silver's batter-dipped Giant Shrimp are "huge, measuring nearly a half-foot long." [...]

That's not a shrimp, that's a dadgummed LOBSTER!

I don't know, maybe it's just me, but the thought of eating a shrimp that big kinda creeps me out.

Of course, the lure of FREE can overcome a lot of things...



Meeting Tips

Finally got that done. And now, for those of you in the business of business, some helpful pointers from the client side.

First, let me point out that I am a relatively good guy to work for--I have a pretty even temper and a relatively strong tolerance for unintended and unforeseen mishaps or mistakes. I figure as long as you do what you say you're going to do, when you say you're going to do it, you don't need me hanging over your shoulder critiquing what you've done. Be honest, and do your work.

BUT--don't be late for meetings. If something comes up, don't keep calling me every five minutes to say you'll be here in five minutes. It would be better to say up front that you're going to be 45 minutes late due to unforeseen circumstances, then hang up and surprise me by only being 25 minutes late.

Second--I realize your cell phone is your lifeline. But use it on your own time, not mine. There's a thing called voice mail, as well as a thing called an off switch. Do not greet me with a cell phone in your hand as you are talking to someone else. After I have been courteous enough to lead you to my office without the benefit of any sort of proper greeting from you, do not hang up and then immediately answer yet another call while we are trying to discuss something--something that I will be paying you to do for me. Poor form, old chap. Now, as a nice guy, I might smile and say it's not problem, but that's only out of politeness. And don't think that it makes it better if you tell me you're going to turn it off after you've done all that blabbing. 'S too late. So don't push it.

Third--be prepared. After having already discussed with you the work in question on site, and in at least three other previous conversations, you should have in mind a set of criteria and a firm grasp on the scope already, without wasting both our time with a further repeat of it. In other words, do your work.

Fourth--never assume your clients know less about what you're doing than you do. Sometimes, every once in a while, believe it or not, they might know more. And, in fact, may have actually done something similar. Several times.

So there you go.



Do not click here.

(Yes, as you can tell, still no meeting guy.)



(In case you're wondering, the guy I'm supposed to be meeting with is late.)



Excellent post yesterday from Susanna Cornett about Columbine, psychopathy and Michael Moore, in which the premise of Moore's assertions about firearm use (and those who espouse similar views) are refuted by--wait for it--facts.

Yeah, go figure.



Again with the knives?!

I realize I said I wasn't going to be able to post anything until later, but this one is just too me to let wait.

You see, we were supposed to go in last week on Thursday to get Catherine's ear rechecked to see if it was still clogged up. Got a call Monday or Tuesday that we needed to change it, though, because the doctor and his wife were having their baby, and he was going to take the week off. Not a problem at all--he SHOULD take some time off. So the office manager rescheduled Cat for yesterday.

Now, between the time of the call last week and yesterday, I received a very odd form letter in the mail from the office, saying that they had tried to contact me about my appointment on the 20th. Which was ridiculous--I mean, I had already talked to them to reschedule it, and no one had tried to contact me since then. (Despite the fact that around here our "administrative professionals" are neither, they CAN take pretty good messages, and at home we have an answering machine.)

SO, I just ignored the letter. I had a thought in the back of my mind that maybe I should call anyway, because you never know, but I decided not to. Because, you know, the back of my mind is so smart and all.

Got away yesterday right on time, motored out to the elementary school, got Baby Girl and her backpack, headed back across town to the doctor's office, parked, walked across the crosswalk, took her to the bathroom so she could drain her almond-sized bladder, went back to the door of the office and...locked.

And so I jiggled it, because that's what you're supposed to do. And Catherine jiggled it, because that is what I had done. Knockknockknock. No answer. Hmm. Knockknock. No sound. Grr. KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Finally, a rustling and the door eased open and I saw the office manager and her assistant standing behind it, looking puzzled. "Um, we had an appointment today at 4:30?"

"Did they not contact you? Because they were supposed to call you or send you a letter that we were going to be closed today. Today's the doctor's son's bris and we're closed!"

Oy vey.

So THAT'S what the letter was about. Sure would have been nice if it had been a bit more specific about the circumstances. Both ladies were very apologetic and nice, but I still have to take her back next week to see if she's any better.

I'm beginning to believe the sharp implements of the world have started some sort of conspiracy against me.

Anyway, now on to some paying work for a little while.


Tuesday, April 20, 2004

Stuff to do.

More typing to get done, and then I must hie myself out to Trussville to pick up Tiny Terror for the umpty-jillionth trip back to the ear doctor to see if she's cleared up yet. If not, looks like I'll be scheduling some sick leave, because if she's going to have to get tubes, it'll have to be done in the hospital, not the office. ::sigh::

AND then tomorrow morning will be a bit light on the blogginess--I have an early meeting with a guy, made better by the fact that I am certain the meeting will last much less time than if my boss were in attendance.

SO, I'll see you all later, then.



Well, duh--Wal-Mart a hit with Japanese shoppers

[...] Since the store 60 miles southwest of Tokyo opened April 7, people have been lured by its sheer size.

"If a big store like that opens, it's really convenient for the residents," said Koichi Watanabe, a community leader who oversaw town meetings to discuss the Supercenter. "The aisles are roomy. The whole place is made for easy shopping."

Compared to old-style Japanese stores with a mishmash of merchandise crowding the shelves, the towering aisles here are filled with rows and rows of similar products ? soda, sneakers, frying pans.

The American look is to new to most Japanese. Bold signs that read "shoes" or "toys" hang from above to direct shoppers to the right aisles, and a moving walkway takes shoppers with their giant carts to a rooftop parking lot. A massive single-floor store like the Supercenter is so unusual that benches had to be placed in some spots to accommodate Japanese who complained they needed a rest.

Shoppers like Eri Hiraiwa can't get enough.

"It's great the prices are affordable," the cosmetics company employee said, studying a knit top that sells for 997 yen, the equivalent of $9.24. "This would cost 2,000 yen ($20) in other stores, and I love it that it's cheaper than 1,000 yen ($10)." [...]


I realize some folks don't like Wal-Mart because of its notable impact on small merchants who try to compete solely on price. But it's probably worth remembering that the same indictment was made against mail-order giants Sears, Roebuck and Montgomery Ward before the turn of the century, who were able to use their buying power (and marketing savvy) to supply goods more cheaply than they could be purchased locally. This is probably going to turn out to be true in Japan also, with its notoriously maddening distribution system layered with middlemen and regulation, in turn creating artificially high prices.

One obvious difference is that Japanese consumers have never been accustomed to buying large bulk purchases of food or dry goods (like Americans like me who buy 24 double rolls of toilet paper at a time), having relied on small purchases on an as-needed basis. Part of this is culture, and part simply a matter of smaller living spaces that don't have large areas set aside for storage. Still, taking out several layers of redundancy should make the job of selling the merchandise (in whatever quantities) less of an obstacle. The fact that serious competitors for Wal-Mart have quickly sprung up means even greater pressure on the old system, especially once consumers get used to the idea they don't have to pay double prices for the same goods.



[Homer Simpson] "MMMmmm! DOUGHNUTS!" [/Homer Simpson]




I do have a kinda similar story--back many moons ago when we just had two or three kids, the trek to Olan Mills for photographs was a very regular occurrence. Every few months--time to get the kids all dressed up with the admonition, "Stay clean! We're going to go get your picture made!"

Apparently, in one particular child's mind, the "made" got all smooshed together with the "picture" to make a new noun, the "pitchermade." We didn't realize it until we went to pick up some photos one day, and Rebecca was beside herself to see the pitchermades.

And, obviously, they were taken at the pitchermade store.





And in other Spacey news--today marks the launch date for the Gravity Probe B!

A pretty cool project, intended to make precise measurements any of the predicted warping of space-time that might be caused by the mass of a planet (in this case, Earth), and if space-time gets dragged around by the planets, like a kid making big swirly mess in his plate with his finger. Also cool is that this is another project managed by them smart guys up at Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville. Probably the oddest thing is that this project has been bouncing around NASA since 1959. 45 years seems like an awfully long time for any government project to manage to stay alive, but I guess even before it was launched, it has proved at least one other of Einstein's theories, that of time being relative.



You know, some guys just have the exact right name--Spacey 'sorry' over mugging claim

[...] [Kevin] Spacey, 44, had reportedly been "brutally mugged" as he walked his dog in a London park at 4.30am on Saturday. The star, who won Oscars for The Usual Suspects and American Beauty, then contacted police some hours later and changed his story, according to the Daily Mirror.

To "come clean" and explain the walk-in-the-park incident, Spacey took the unusual step of offering an apology on the Today program.

"I just want to apologise to the police, and any readers and anyone who picks up this story thinking it is actually true," he said.

"I am very well and I am also glad to set the record straight here and also to apologise, because there is no reason that this article would have been written if it hadn't been for me and what I initially said to the police.

"What actually happened is, I fell for a con. And I was, I think, incredibly embarrassed by it. Some sob story about somebody needing to call their mother. It was such a good con, that I actually dialled the number myself and when somebody answered I then finally handed (over) my phone. And this kid took off and I was so upset I ran after him.

"I tripped up over my dog, and I ended up falling on to the street and hitting myself in the head. And now I'm bleeding relatively profusely, I'm extremely upset, I feel like the biggest fool that has ever lived.

"I march over to the police station and I say I got mugged. And I'm thinking they are going to run out and find this kid a block later. Of course, they take me to the hospital, and they were very kind."

The actor said he had returned to the police station later that morning to confess he had lied. [...]

Spacey, indeed.



Mubarak: Arabs Hate U.S. More Than Ever

You know, I don't quite see much difference if someone hates me a lot, or a really big huge lot. Mubarak says:

[...] "At the start some considered the Americans were helping them. There was no hatred of the Americans. After what has happened in Iraq, there is unprecedented hatred and the Americans know it," [...]

No hatred, eh? Then big hatred. Like a big switch on the wall marked "Hate." Having grown up in a time and place where certain people were hated only for the color of their skin, and tolerated only so long as they didn't get too uppity, I find it hard to shed tears for someone else who seems to be eaten up with similar feelings of misplaced anger and rage.

As I have in the past, I am going to link again to a 1998 paper written by Ralph Peters titled Spotting the Losers--Seven Signs of Non-Competitive States. Read the whole thing, obviously, but the meat of it is this:

[...] Traditional indicators of noncompetitive performance still apply: corruption (the most seductive activity humans can consummate while clothed); the absence of sound, equitably enforced laws; civil strife; or government attempts to overmanage a national economy. As change has internationalized and accelerated, however, new predictive tools have emerged. They are as simple as they are fundamental, and they are rooted in culture. The greater the degree to which a state--or an entire civilization--succumbs to these "seven deadly sins" of collective behavior, the more likely that entity is to fail to progress or even to maintain its position in the struggle for a share of the world's wealth and power. Whether analyzing military capabilities, cultural viability, or economic potential, these seven factors offer a quick study of the likely performance of a state, region, or population group in the coming century.

The Seven Factors

These key "failure factors" are:

-Restrictions on the free flow of information.
-The subjugation of women.
-Inability to accept responsibility for individual or collective failure.
-The extended family or clan as the basic unit of social organization.
-Domination by a restrictive religion.
-A low valuation of education.
-Low prestige assigned to work. [...]

Hate all you want, but it won't get you anywhere.



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