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Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.) Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu. This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things. Monday, May 24, 2004
TV networks won't cover Bush's speeches [...] But it's a difficult decision for the networks, forced to weigh the newsworthiness of the event, when it is left up to them. In that case, the three networks often take their cues from one another.
Maybe if President Bush could come up with something more compelling, say, a celebrity match-up with Ray Romano and Patricia Heaton and Nancy Pelosi, and they all have to eat a whole bucket full of worms while stacked in a naked pyramid and try to decipher coded message, and if they don't finish in time, they're attacked by TIGERS! Now THAT'S TEEVEE! OH, wait--forgot that there's a big ticking LED clock. GOTTA HAVE A CLOCK! Better'n some dumb old thing about that icky Iraq place. I just feel sorry for those poor programming executives who have to make these hard decisions.
So then,
It was time to wash some more clothes and get a quick shower and head back out to the wilds of Branchville for a cookout at the house of one of our elders. Every year we try to have something for our Bible class teachers to let them know we appreciate their hard work. We’ve had dinners at the building, and had dinners at restaurants, and in order to do something a bit different, this year we decided to have a cookout. That was not attended that well at all. Not for lack of announcing it and trying to get people to come. Which, if you are the person hosting it, tends to make you a bit disappointed in certain folks. He had cooked up a ton of ribs and hamburgers and had a big spread of side dishes, and after those of us there had our fill, there looked like almost exactly as much left over as when we started. But at least the ones of us who were there had a good time. And the standing joke was that this time, I managed to get out of cooking. Seems like every time he has a cookout, I wind up getting volunteered to tend grille. But that’s okay, I don’t mind, as long as no one else minds eating stuff I’ve sweated on. Anyway, this year I managed to get away with not having to do that, and must say that the ribs were mighty tasty. We all sat around and talked for a long time and watched the kids make the circuit around and through the house, alternately ignoring and bothering a dachshund puppy one of them had brought. It started getting toward dark, and we were tired, so we took our leave and headed back to the house to get everyone cleaned up for church the next day. Up early, off to church, had a good class period (forgot to mention in last Monday’s recap that when I taught the adult class last week it went very well, and got lots of compliments from the older members, which is always nice) and worship, which I stayed awake for very well. Boy was down for the count almost immediately, and right before the closing song he perked back up. After leaving a big wet drool spot on my left leg. Little rat. Off then for some Chinese food at the Golden House of Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses, which was okay. The hot and sour soup was missing something. I’d rather not think about what, exactly, it was missing. Back to the house, and started trying to make some headway on cleaning up the den, and then Ashley’s other grandparents came to pick her up to spend the week over there, which always leads to a rotten attitude upon her return. ::sigh:: It just goes to show--never mind. After she was away, more stacking and putting and filing and throwing away, the effect of which was barely discernable, and then it was time to head out again for Jonathan’s soccer party. The dad of one of the kids is somehow involved with the new bowling alley/arcade/meeting venue/billiards/ family entertainment/dessert topping/floor wax complex that just opened up last month in our little hometown, and graciously footed the bill for the boys to have their party there. We’d never been there before (it has just opened, after all) and it is a mighty impressive looking--several million bucks will do that. Of course, being what it is, it relies heavily on high schoolers for help, which always has its pitfalls. Looking good in tight jeans only goes so far when someone is expecting you to answer questions with something other than, “Huh?” Just saying. And despite having more room inside than most mid-sized Gothic cathedrals, it was jam-packed with people, none of whom seemed quite sure of what they were supposed to be doing. Could be because 98% of them were kids, all running around, all needing a big dart full of tranquilizers thunked into their haunches. After several long, long minutes of trying to figure out what the plan was (our team mom having not been filled in on this vital bit of information beforehand) it was finally determined the boys would bowl from 2 to 3:15, then have pizza, hand out trophies, and leave. Jonathan went and got some shoes and grabbed a ball. “Son, have you ever bowled before?” “NO! But they showed us in P.E.!” Hmm. That must explain why the ball he chose had a thumb hole the size of a pencil. “Son, can you get your thumb and fingers into those holes?” No. We looked around and finally found him a ten-pounder with big enough holes, and he got with his buddies and started slinging balls. As they did that, I took Catherine and Rebecca back to the arcade to waste some time and money, which I am happy to say we did successfully. By the way, the “Popcorn” game is a danged big rip-off. The idea is to move a little basket back and forth and try to collect ping-pong balls that come blowing up out of the funnel. Get enough, and you get tickets. Yet, despite getting as many as was humanly possible, the game stopped and a certain small child was looking up at a big screen that said “0 POINTS,” and then down at the slot where the tickets come out, which was empty. Such is not the way to endear yourselves to the tiny set. Or their parents. So we went and played Hammerhead, which is a version of Whac a Mole, except with six sharks that pop up. Catherine took the middle row, Rebecca one side and I the other, and pretty soon we had racked up a stunning string of tickets that almost made up for the disappointment of Popcorn. After spending our entire two dollar allotment, we went back out to see how the boys were doing at bowling. Actually, not too bad. The lanes had bumper rails, making gutter balls AWFULLY difficult to manage, and Jonathan managed to do okay. Most of the other boys had played before and were somewhat more skillful in form, but being that none of them have attention spans longer than about four seconds, it was difficult for them to keep their minds in the game. (Gee, just like soccer!) So although Boy didn’t win, he also didn’t come in dead last, either, so he was tickled pink. As they bowled, I sat there in one of the booths so I could people-watch. Saw several young ladies for whom rolling a 16 pound ball down a hardwood lane was the LAST reason they showed up, as well as lots of young guys for whom strength of throw and noise produced was much more important than score. Fascinating. Also saw Phyllis George Mom and her kids and husband there for their baseball party and swapped pleasantries with them. Nice folks. After the boys had slung their arms out of joint, it was time for pizza, so they all ran back to the Blue Room, notable for its glass block mosaic of a giant bowling pin set into the outside wall. Spiffy. It was also notable for its twenty foot ceiling height and ten foot width, giving it the feeling of being in the bottom of a very tall pencil cup. Pizza, trophies, and time to go. To Target! Hooray! Jonathan had gotten a duplicate copy of a book for his birthday, and so we scooted down the hill to Target to return it. “But what if I don’t want to GET a book, Daddy?” Hahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yer gettin’ a book. He has a bad habit of wanting to buy more of those crappy Yu-Gi-Oh! or Pokemon cards whenever he has to make a return. But not today. Got some vitamins and Benadryl and then it was off for evening worship. Which we did, all without benefit of massive doses of caffeine. Not that it sure wouldn’t have hurt to have some. Then it was time for the monthly get together for the younger kids, which includes supper and a devotional, and this time the added benefit of a giant Great Dane in the back yard who pounded up and down the wood-decked patio like an elephant. That is, when she wasn’t joining in with every other dog in the neighborhood to howl at the fire truck when it went past. Our hosts seemed reluctant to say the dog’s name, and then we found out it’s name was Reba. If you think I’m going to say anything remotely related to that particular coincidence, you’re crazier than I am. Finally got finished up at NINE-THIRTY PEE EM! Exhausting sort of weekend. Went home, sent the kids to bed, and collapsed. And then I came here! Whee!
And speaking of breakfast...
Or not, our resident ovumputidaphobia sufferer is also celebrating two entire years of blogging! ::sniff:: They grow up so quick. As for no longer worrying about who all comes by, Marc has the right attitude--I consider it a very fortunate thing that I have something to do that's enjoyable, and that other folks enjoy parts of it is hard to beat, whether it's one or a hundred of you. How many other hobbies have you ever had--golf, philately, gardening, logging--where you ever got a chance to be seen by more than a few folks at a time, much less get complimented on your efforts. In any event, good on you, Marc, and Lucky, too.
Possumblog & Chet the E-Mail Boy Thank Mr. Morse.
STOP Hard to believe it's been 160 years. Seems like only yesterday. (Of course, to Chet, it really IS almost like yesterday.)
Okay, now--it’s time for the ALL ME Show!
Got home Friday and after the normal bit of finding out who all did what to whom, things settled down a bit and I gathered up Boy and we went outside to feed the And thus, my justification for having a large family is validated! YARD HELP! We didn’t cut anything this weekend, but now that soccer practice is over for the next three months, I have something to occupy him. And there’s plenty enough to do. But before that, time to feed the birds. I let him do it all, which he enjoyed, and then as we were hanging the one up by the pine tree in the corner of the yard, I spied something two doors over hanging in our neighbor’s backyard. The lovely yellow top and gently swinging cone-shaped bag that can only mean it’s getting close to Japanese beetle season. After spending the past three years fighting these buggers after they’ve attacked everything, last year I decided to get some of the traps to try and get a head start on them. They start coming out in June, so I suppose it’s probably not too soon to set the traps out--we had a mild winter, and it’s already getting nice and hot outside, so Pappy Possum is predicting an early visit. And anyway, I just wanted something to tinker with. After we had the birdseed put back up, Boy and I went back inside and found the plastic bag full of traps and handy metal rod stands to hang them from, and set to work with the delicate assembly process. I put one together so he could see how to do it, then, being really smart like I am, I opened the flower-scent lure while still in the kitchen. Aaaaaahhhh--just like drowning in a swimming pool of Glade air freshener! “Whoa, Dad--that smells funny.” Thank you, Little Lord Obviousleroy! I didn’t really say that. I just said, “REEEALLY!?” He giggled and we went outside and after a careful survey of possible routes of attack and potential targets, we stuck the stand down sort of close to Catherine’s cherry tree that always gets eaten up. Back inside, then three more stands and three more traps assembled, then back outside to open up the “flower” scent. See? I’m teachable! Sorta. Got them all staked out and we sat down on the stone bench to survey our manliwork. “Think we’ll catch any?” “Don’t know.” “If we do, would you like me to make some Japanese beetle omelets out of them?” “EWWWW, DADDEEEEE! You’re gross.” Well, yeah. Anyway, back in the house, did some laundry, ate some supper, then sent them upstairs to get ready for the next day. Which turned out to be very long. Up early for Catherine’s game, which they lost. She was just glad to be through with it--her coach is almost as bad as the coach I complained about during their tournament, and now that the season’s over and he can’t retaliate against her, the director has just been sent a special message from me about his conduct. I hope something positive will come out of it, although it’s probably a bit much to hope he’ll be tied in a sack and beaten with a shovel. But you know, hope springs eternal. Afterwards, it was back to the library to see about getting the squids signed up for the Summer Reading Program--alas, they don’t start signing kids up until June 1. Which seems to be something they could schedule a bit better--seems like they would make it start when school’s out. Oh well. It promises to be very fun this summer, because there will be two different age groups, and Catherine’s will be called…the PENGUINS! YEA PENGUINS! As you can see from the linked graphic, although penguins may be flightless, it doesn’t impede their ability to ride a unicycle while playing an accordion, a bass drum, and a indistinct sort of brass wind instrument! They truly are one of Nature’s most versatile animals. And they taste great. On back to the house, did some more laundry, then got Jonathan ready for his final game against Mountain Brook. Despite having a reputation for being all a bunch of high-dollar sorts, the concession stand was just a little tiny thing, and it was CLOSED. Hmph. They did have a truck pulled up there selling ices, but still, you’d figure they’d have guys out there with silver trays taking orders from people. And other guys with fans. But no. I must say I am disappointed in my bedollared brothers. Although they do seem to have figured out how to get their kids to score goals. As has so often been the case this season, yet another loss to a team we could have played better against. But didn’t. ::sigh:: Must have been the weather--it started off blazing hot, then it came a cloud (as we say), and then it was blazing hot and humid. Anyway, they finished up, and although Cat didn’t enjoy her season, Jonathan seemed to have. And he really did get a lot better, so I suppose it was okay for him. Off then back toward the house, but on the way out, I decided we’d go up Overton Road and go by our first house. Catherine was just a tiny baby when we moved to our house now, and she was baffled when we pointed it out to her. Looks pretty good--they’ve replaced the porch, and the corkscrew willow that I tended from a mere sprig is now a giant. And they finally fixed the mailbox post. Not long after they moved in, they hit it and knocked it over, and it stayed that way for years afterwards. Hard to describe going back by--I suppose melancholy is the best word. Such wonderful times, but seeing it look different meant that all of those old times don’t really seem as real. And the neighborhood is becoming increasingly locked in by commercial development all around. It’s changing, which is what stuff does, but sometimes you sorta hope things will be familiar, and, well, still homey. It wasn’t. Which is why is was good to get back to our house, even with all the dishes in the sink and the toys strewn all over the floor, and the slow-running drain in the kid’s bathroom, and the backpacks full of school ephemera. Good or bad, clean or dirty, it’s still home. AND, it’s time for lunch. See you all in a bit.
Well, now that you've had breakfast...
From Joanne Jacobs via Steevil (well-known NASA Scientist and Language Guy), a nice quiz question from English English teachers in England about some dudes named Banquet and McSpeare or someone. It is comical to think, however, that should the answer given on the test be deemed acceptable, it indicates the student would be qualified to be...an advice columnist. Which is, you know, like, journalism. Heh.
You know what? I sure would like to go back home and go to bed. Yes, I know, I'm just being a big baby, but I am sleepy and I want my blankie. I suppose I'll have to settle for the next best thing, that is, writing this silliness. SO, in lieu of much-needed shuteye, tune in (in a little while) for zippy tales of suburban thrills of Japanese Beetle Traps, Soccer, The Library, Hoity-Toity Soccer, The Old Homestead, Ribs, Church, Clean Up (Sorta), Bowling for the ADD Set, Target Practice, Church, Great Danes Are Big, and Go to BED!
But first--MONDAY MORNING MEETING MADNESS! Whee. Friday, May 21, 2004
Oh, that's enough!
I'm fixing to pack up and head to the house in about thirty minutes and get the weekend rolling. Two soccer games, one soccer party, one church-related cookout, and digging all the kids' papers and junk out of their backpacks so we can put it all away, and feeding the birds (mistakenly got a 25 pound bag of black oil sunflower seeds, which they have eaten like little flying pigs), and laundry, and stuff like that. SO, all of you have a great weekend, and come back Monday and let's see what else we can tear up.
Study exmaines how schools can ease asthma
Obviously after having given up on getting schools to teach spelling.
The End.
Well, not quite--we do have a couple more games this weekend, but last night was the last night of soccer practice for this season. Rebecca's season ended last week, so she's already feeling at loose ends, and Catherine was supposed to have practice last night, but it got cancelled. Leaving only Little Boy to haul around. Had some other stuff to do first--our local zoning adjustment meeting started at the same time as his practice, so Miss Reba took him and Cat and Rebecca with her to the park (leaving Oldest at the house) while I stopped by City Hall. Good meeting, and it only lasted about thirty minutes and then I was off again. Got there, and it was eerily quiet. Only about three teams were practicing; Jonathan's, then a couple of the older teams on another field. Walked over and sat down with Reba and finally got a chance to catch up on the day. The kids' first day of summer break was yesterday, and they stayed with Reba's mom, which is always fraught with peril. They have a tendency to act like ill-mannered little [You can't call your own kids that! Ed.] persons and can be a chore to deal with. And judging from the After Action Report, the talking-to I gave them when I dropped them off had the effect of producing only a faint, high-pitched, buzzing noise in their ears, which was quickly ignored. ::sigh:: Reba took the girls on home so they could get cleaned up, and I stayed and watched Jonathan and the rest of the guys kick at the ball and exhibit their finely-honed dramatic falling skills. Jonathan had been doing the falling bit Monday night, but in yet another talking-to, I reminded him that when he is on the ground, he can't run, but other people CAN kick him in the head. THAT seemed to sink in, because he was one of the few last night to stay upright the whole time. Sure would be nice if they learned to pass and shoot instead of flopping around. But that's just me. Sat there a bit apart from the other parents and mused. Watched the planes make their east-to-west approaches to the airport. Mostly commercial airliners, but I did see one oddball--actually, heard it before I saw it--small, twin-turboprop high wing monoplane with a radar dish on the back and twin rudders. It was odd because our ANG base flies tankers, and this wasn't one of the big Air Force AWACS type planes. I thought I knew what it might be (because I like planes and stuff) but wasn't sure until I got in today and did a bit of Googling--sure enough, an E2C Hawkeye. They made several long loops far to the west and back around. Not sure why it would be so far from the water, although the crew might be up here for training or something. In any event, hey guys. It started getting dark, and getting time for them to wrap up their practice. Boy was doing pretty good, and having a whale of a time. Since he finally got himself some eye-foot coordination, he's been practicing a lot better. One of his teammates on the opposing scrimmage team got the ball and Jonathan challenged him without hesitation, which he used to never do, and WHAM! Ball, mouth, tears. Last practice, only five minutes left, playing his little heart out, and the one thing I have been dreading finally happens. I just knew all that newly installed mouthwire was going to have cut his lips to shreds. And then the wires would be dangling there asking for money to go get themselves repaired. I walked out and he was in terrible shape--sweat and snot and spit and tears, and a slight tinge of redness arcing across his lower gums. He got his water bottle and the coaches kept fishing out ice chunks with their nasty hands for him to put in his mouth--he tried, but the ice, being slippery and all, just kept popping out. I finally got him to open up and in some sort of Providential gift, saw that everything was still in place. Seems his bottom lip had taken most of the blow, and his lower teeth had brought some blood out, but nothing too serious. He sniffled and snubbed for a bit, and then practice was over. He gathered up his ball out of the net and we started walking toward the van. As we walked, he opened up his water bottle again and started getting ice cubes out, which he would deftly spit out toward me. "BOY! You're not trying to spit ICE on me are you!?" Giggle. "'Cause if you are, I'll have to get you and tickle your ribs!" Giggle. Spit. He asked for it. And got it, too. They heal pretty quick, these kids.
Elmo promotes plan to make kids eat right
Well, I just hope Elmo starts off haranguing that slob Cookie Monster. Sheesh, what a pig. Speaking of which, Miss Piggy could use some lifestyle alterations, too.
From the "Stories That Defy All Attempts at Parody" File, Second Folder:
Shrek Brings Justin And Antonio To Tears Justin Timberlake and Antonio Banderas have been reduced to tears while watching Shrek 2.The pair reportedly cried and held hands while watching an emotional scene at the movie's Cannes premiere.Banderas, who is the voice of Puss-in-Boots in the film, said Justin's girlfriend Cameron Diaz could only watch in amazement as the pair comforted each other.
Justin Timberlake. Hmm. Oh, what the heck--David Hasselhoff and Gary Coleman.
From the "Stories That Defy All Attempts at Parody" File:
Hasselhoff Has Rapping Down To An Ice-T Rap legend Ice-T is risking his massive reputation on his latest recruit - middle-aged former beach bum David Hasselhoff.The original gangsta believes he can turn the ex-Baywatch star into hip hop's next big thing.Ice and Hasselhoff, 51, are neighbours in Los Angeles and have struck up a close friendship.
Say, here's one for Lucy the Blogging Adolescent Parrot:
British company makes DVD for parrots LONDON (AP) -- No more bored birds. No more annoyed avians.
Amazing. As part of World Possum Day, I plan to offer an 80-minute DVD of wild possums preening, feeding and flying through the rainforest, too. It only seems fair.
A great honor indeed.
Rural Studio exhibit opens in D.C. MARY ORNDORFF
Hiding in Plain Sight
Nate McCord wonders about this: Check this out- Google Search: "terry oglesby" There's 24 pages of links to our favorite grey furred marsupial! The reason that I find this of interest is his professed anonymity at the possum burrow. I'm mighty certain the distaff possum is an intelligent and web savvy type person and I know that there is a web connection functioning in the burrow because the more active, minor possums use it for schoolwork.
Although Miss Reba knows how to use a computer, she is NOT Web savvy. She looks at using the Internet sorta like she does getting the car worked on. She knows enough to know when it's working right, but if it's not, she tells me to fix it. Same with the Internet--she doesn't have access to it at work, so her ability to learn all the ins-and-outs of searching for stuff is necessarily limited. When she does need something, it's usually a specific thing like shopping for clothes or something, and she (usually) can navigate to the proper website. Aside from that, though, she doesn't spend any time at all just surfing around looking for bizarre stuff. And since she doesn't know that I write all this mess, and doesn't fully comprehend how easy it is to find someone's name using Google or whatever, I don't think it every occurred to her that she could look up mine, hers, or anybody's name. Just not something she even thinks about. As for the kiddies, being that we have no filter or anything on the computer at home, whenever they use the Internet, I am hanging right there over their shoulder lest they stumble into something they shouldn't. Again, I don't think it has ever occurred to them (yet) to search for mom or dad's name. Why would THEIR names be on the Internet?! But, if any of them ever DO by chance find this, or if anyone else who knows me does, well, hopefully they'll enjoy it. Or at least understand why I act the way I do. As for how this little slice of pixel heaven remains a topic not conversed, it is simple. I have four kids and a wife, and in real life I am exceedingly quiet. Even if I were more talkative, I couldn't get a word in edgewise at my house. And even if I were able to manage to get a word in, the moment I started talking about something I wrote, eyes would glaze over, and I would promptly be ignored. I have a few close friends and former coworkers with whom I can converse, but between our mutually busy schedules, it's difficult to spend much time with them. And given that I work with bureaucrats, most of whom believe sucking at the public teat is some sort of divine right, it makes it hard to have the same sorts of discussions with them that I can have with you folks. In the end, I need some kind of outlet to blabber about stuff. I make no claims of special knowledge or insight--I'm just some guy, and this is just some blog. I talk about what I want to talk about, and sometimes it's politics, and sometimes it's art or food or meat or guns or Catherine Zeta-Jones or penguins or what a steaming pile of dog dung Ted Kennedy is or painting or cars or severe personal injury or people I like or my home town or the Spanish Inquisition. Which is something no one expects. I write not because any of this means Anything Deep, or because I want to become the Most Famous Blogger in America (unless it pays really, REALLY well) or because I'm trying to influence the public debate. It's fun, it gives me a way to vent, and keep some sense of normality (such as it is) in a world that continually seems one second away from chaos. And you meet some interesting folks. Such as Nate. And all the rest of the folks on my blogroll--every single person up there I have corresponded with in some way--they aren't just there to be there. As for the anonymity, well, I guess I'm just more anonymous to some than to others. I don't really go out of my way to get my name out there, but then again, I do use my own name. I'm not quite sure yet if that's good or bad, but it is the way it is. I figure nothing on here is nothing I wouldn't say to you if you were sitting over there in that chair by the door. And as for the 24 pages of Terry Oglesbys out there, it's interesting, but if you put in that name on Google Smackdown along with "Manatee," it comes back with 313,000 pages for the gentle aquatic creature, versus only 330 for me. That in itself tends to damp down any delusions of grandeur. Thursday, May 20, 2004
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!
Managed to get out of there earlier than planned, and rather than do something worthwhile, I figured I would do this. Overall, a pretty good presentation--this was the GIS mapping seminar I talked about yesterday. The system is pretty okay, but it does have some drawbacks--it can do boxes around areas, but the background color can't be changed inside the box; it can do point marks, but they are stars and can't be changed to anything else; there's no good way to do mailing labels without a lot of rigamarole; and the printer output is to a .pdf file and the highest resolution is a stunningly low 150 dpi. Our stand-alone terminals have a much better resolution (and a color printer to go with it) and can do a few more things. They are slow, though, and only one person at a time can look something up. This system is pretty fast since it's online, and it was nice that the instructors did it live so we could get a better idea of how well it worked. They also promise to have a version for public consumption soon, too, which will be nice for folks to be able to look up their own information about zoning and land use and such like. Dr. Smith mentioned in the comments that he hoped if we had snacks that I would be nice and share. Sorry, no snacks, although they did say that they had doughnuts earlier. Which I thought was kinda cruel. The seminar was held down in the Emergency Op Center, aka The Bunker, which is always a fun trip. It never ceases to amuse me when I see the main control center room--big Strangeloveian War Room with a big screen and consoles and tables with telephones. Since there's nothing going on today, the room was empty, but they leave one of the local television stations playing on the screen in case any sort of breaking news comes on. Usually though, it's just a soap opera. I keep imagining the room full of guys with cigars and crew cuts--"DID YOU SEE WHAT MARLENA JUST DID TO HER!?" Anyway, overall it wasn't nearly as unfun as I thought it would be. Now I really am going home. See you all tomorrow!
All right now...
I'm out for the rest of the afternoon to do my computer training. It will be very fun, I'm certain. See you all tomorrow!
A Tip for Media Types
This morning I was sprawled half-awake across the bed half-watching the local morning news-'n'-fluff show when the semi-celebrity girl they have to do traffic reports popped up with a report about the proper protocol for tipping when you go to a restaurant. Just your normal sort of blather about percentages, and who should get a tip, and that a big chunk of waiters' pay comes from tips. Same airy foofery that local stations have always come up with to fill time and train new people how to do interviews and such. They came back from the taped spot and after sharing some banterful cross-talk with the other anchors, the young lady, with no small amount of pride, asked if anyone knew what "tips" meant. Oh boy--I could see this one coming. After a few seconds of baffled bewilderment from her fellow Fourth Estaters, the comely lass stated it stood for, "To Insure Promptness." ::sigh:: It's just a word, and despite the fact that some folks swear it's an acronym, it's not. Well, obviously such silly misinformation isn't quite up there with the reluctance of some outlets to engage on the U.N. Oil for Food scandal, or Tim Russert being a big hypocrite. It was just a silly gaffe in a bit of dandelion fuzz reportage. But, still. I thought it might be good to at least let the young woman know that she might have been mistaken in her assertion. I wrote her a short, cordial e-mail noting the error, with the link to the Snopes article above. Exactly five minutes later a reply came back, thanking me for watching the morning show, and stating that the source of her information was a lady here in town who runs a protocol business, as well as the MANAGER of the restaurant himself! And thanks again for writing. And that's it. Nothing about having read the link and realizing a tiny goof had been made (I imagine because five minutes elapsing between my send and her send didn't leave near enough time to actually read something)--just the nearly blind assumption that simply because a "source" said it, it must be, if not true, then at least close enough to not really worry about. Almost as if to say, 'one source says one thing, one source says the opposite--oh well, we'll use the one that works.' I hope that's not the case. Now this isn't a slam against local news in general, nor this reporter in particular. She's new(ish) and was not chosen for her reportorial skills, and she seems like a very nice person. But you have to wonder if these are the newsroom attitudes she has picked up in such a short time, what else do their editors and producers let get on the tube with a wink and a nod. Just in case any of you folks work for real newspapers and such like, there's a reason people are continuing to find other outlets for accurate information. Your willingness to turn a blind eye to information that doesn't fit the template isn't helping.
Jordana Adams sent me a link last evening to a new site called Memeblog, devoted to gathering together all the various memes floating about the blogosphere at any given time. Of course, the Thursday Three was submitted, and many thanks to them for posting a link.
For those of you who are new to Possumblog, the Editorial Board and the Board of Governors would like to take this opportunity to offer our sincerest apologies for the content and construction of this site, and beg you not to complain to the authorities. Thank you. NOW, the next assignment is to figure out what in the world a meme is. It sounds sorta like what country kids call their grandmothers--"Is MeMe out yonder with you?" "Naw, MeMe is gone into town to the parts place for an alternator!" Anyway...
Is it the end of the BBQ Emporium?!
Or a new beginning? The BBQ Emporium is going out of business. This will be my last post. Cletus has started a new project and will be posting here about once a week. He says he is going to be the Redneck Studs Terkel and will be interviewing the ordinary people he sees everyday and writing about them about once a week. Cletus knows a lot of ordinary people so I guess this could go on for quite a while.
Who knew they could walk!? -- Orcas wander inland in Washington
I just hope they can't make it over the Rockies, or else we'll have yet another vicious animal to worry about when we take the garbage can to the curb.
Say, has Chris Muir gone and got himself syndicated?!
I think it must be--congratulations, Chris! Unless this is some sort of Sopranos-like dream sequence. (In either event, thanks again to Chris for that drawing of Sam. Rrrowl.)
Ladies and Gentlemen--
THE CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK CAPITAL OF KANSAS Peg says: [...] our houseguests/friends love chicken-fried steak and have had it at the Midland and KCs since they have been here. They loved it both times and that is because it's prepared the Explorer way...with fresh meat purchased locally, hand-dipped and breaded, and grilled or pan fried. No pre-breaded, frozen steaks tossed in a deep fat fryer for those folk.
I sure am hungry.
Fun with Referrer Logs!
Sickos. That's all you people are. Just like the Aussie who came here looking for emperor penguin gams. Tim Blair, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Anyway, as you all know, penguins, Emperor or otherwise, have hardly any drumstick meat to speak of, which is why they waddle about so. And anyway, why look at penguin legs when there's Catwoman? Next up, a person who wants to make use of my well-known psychic abilities and says--I want know what in in the box without opening the door of that box in Dubai. Must be a contestant on that wacky new Al Jazeera game show, Let's Make Hadil. Anyway, the best way to know what is in the box, without opening the door of that box in Dubai is to read the label. Unless you're afraid the box might have some sort of rapid uncontrolled expansion, in which case you would be better off to take what's behind Door Number 2. I have it on good authority that it's a new Pontiac Astre! There are more, but some of them aren't fit for publication. Not that such a standard has had any effect on the remainder of the stuff on Possumblog.
Cow Tipping
Remember the cattle truck overtumping I mentioned yesterday? Well, here's the whole story from The Birmingham News. It happened at 3:45 instead of later, as I had thought. They showed some video on the local news and it was interesting to see them trying to round up the loose one. What I was even more fascinated by was the fact that they were able to find actual cowboys, who knew how to actually use a lasso, in such short notice. Another thing the story doesn't mention is that these weren't just plain old moo-cows--I'm not sure what kind of beeves they were, but they were lean and muscular, and the bulls had full horns. And they seemed very perturbed.
Say, kids, what time is it!?
Iiiiiiiit’s Thursday Three time, It’s Thursday Three time. Possumblogger and Chet the E-Mail Boy, too, Say Howdy Do to you! Let’s give a rousing cheer, ‘Cause Thursday Three is here. It’s time to start the show, So kids, let’s GO! What? Why are you looking at me like that? Anyway, it having now been exactly seven days since the last installment of our show, it is once again time to throw the tarpaulin off the old noggin and once more get yourselves all geared up to participate in America’s most favorite funtime activity (if you don’t count Jarts), the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Version SEVEN! But before we get to that, I wish to rectify a mistake in last week’s quiz-- ‘I’ before ‘E,’ except after ‘C.’ That’s all I’m saying about it, and I have since erased the ignominy of my misspelling, but next time, please, someone let me know. It’s like walking around with your zipper down all day. Or, in this case, for a whole week. NOW THEN, as has been the case with past questionarials, we will attempt to cover some topics that will cause you to ponder and pontificate about our mutual love and respect for the South, for no other reason than it’s something to do on a Thursday, and it takes up less time than the Friday Five. So then--Race. There. I said it. Long a topic of intense emotion (and not just in the South, by the way), it is one topic we have not yet explored in this format. Mainly, this has to do with the fact that the Thursday Three is intended to be more in the vein of light humor (or attempts thereat) and as such the does not lend itself easily to topics of a more serious nature. Far be it for us to allow heated controversy to stand in our way, though. Here’s your questions: 1) NASCAR recently sent up a squeal from old-school fans for its decision to move two Nextel Cup (nee Winston Cup) races from Rockingham and Darlington to Texas Motor Speedway and Phoenix International Raceway in Arizona. The move is seen by many as a naked grab for a more mainstream audience and an attempt to walk away from the sport’s redneck past. Is this a good thing? 2) It has been noted by others that the original 26 episodes of Jonny Quest are now available on DVD. The question: Race Bannon--is he or isn’t he? 3) Have you ever participated in any sort of organized footrace--track and field in school, fun runs, marathons, Olympics--and what was your finishing position? (Sprawled on the ground with dry heaves does not count as a position.) As you can see, these topics about race can be touchy, so try to be civil. Based upon continued reader input, you will notice that I have tried to strike a balance between questions that require no thought and those that do. The success of this strategy is debatable, but not as part of the quiz. As has been the case in the past, if you have your own blog, leave a link in the comments below, and if not, leave your answer in the comments. And while this is intended as a series of queries aimed at those of you who live in the South, remember that this can be played by anyone in the ENTIRE WORLD. Just like Jarts. SO THEN, go off and think up some stuff. Here’s my answers-- 1) I know there are some fans that don’t like it, and it is sad to see some of the venerable old venues where the sport was built be cast aside like a shredded tire carcass, but NASCAR is a business, and there’s some more money left yet to be made. So they’re going for it. The problem of alienating old school fans might be eliminated, however, if NASCAR decided to incorporate groups such as the Historic Stock Car Racing Group into its fold. Vintage racing is very popular in sports car circles, and given the love fans have for old stockers, it could be something for NASCAR to explore as a way to keep the older tracks operating, and give those heritage fans something interesting to look at and still be able to get some money out of them. 2) Oh, come on. Of course he is. And don’t try to bring Jezebel Jade into this. 3) Oh, surely you--I mean I--jest. I have run non-competitively before, for P.E. classes in school, but nothing I could ever hope to get a trophy or medal for. I was just happy to not be curled up on the ground with dry heaves. Maybe running a marathon should be my next big goal. Nah. Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Obviously...
I'm still not through shoveling. Dumb ol' work. But tomorrow is Thursday, and you know what that means! (If so, please remind me--all my brain am sore, and it is hard to remember what the schedule is.) I do know tomorrow's blogging will again be work-truncated. I have an inhouse seminar tomorrow afternoon on our new spiffy Geographic Information System that is supposed to be available online. As proof of our immense intelligence, we can't just have it as a desktop application through our shared servers, we have to get on the Internet, then log in to a website, then come back in and access the information. It's like standing there in the den looking into the kitchen, and deciding the best way to get to the refrigerator is to go out the front door and then come back into the kitchen from the door at the carport. Silly computer people. Making it even less useful is that it won't be the full setup that we already have access to (via a single dedicated workstation in each department), but rather some sort of lite version with half the flavor, and twice the gristle. Again, sorta like looking at the kitchen table full of a big barbecue spread with cold iced tea and a big pecan pie for dessert, and then deciding to go out the front door, through the carport, back into the kitchen, to the refrigerator, only to get a box of shredded wheat. The final indignity is that we don't have a color printer. Oh, there's a nice inkjet hooked up to the GIS workstation at the front counter, but no one will listen to me when I mention how nice it would be if we were networked to it so we could print other things in color, too. Yeah, I know, but it never hurts to ask. Most of the time. Anyway, see you all tomorrow.
The public cries out for information.
Just got a visit from a person searching for cattle truck overturned trussville alabama. Strange as this might sound, there really was a truck that tumped over this morning sometime around 5 a.m. or so, right before where I459 North splits off to I59 North and South, just before the Trussville-Highway 11 exit. They had to shut down everything up that way--cows were roaming around everywhere. I decided to go up Chalkville Road and get on I59 to keep from getting hung up in this, but when I drove by, there wasn't much going on. Just some police cars and cows. There is, however, absolutely no truth to the rumor that the cows were observed climbing billboards while carrying buckets of paint. This has been your Possumblog Traffic Update.
Well, now.
Silly meeting with six cases lasted about as long as one of our regular meetings with 15 cases! As noted yesterday, I have a whole row of stables to shovel out this morning, so not much in the way of tasty and wholesome bloggy goodness, EXCEPT-- Figure I might as well take one of the suggestions from below on what you all want to see pictures of. Marc mentioned wanting to see what Franklin (my old green F-100 I recently sold to the nice Yankee fellow who lives up the block) looks like. Again, not being bold enough to take the camera home with me (seeing as how it's not mine) I did the next best thing and took a picture of the pictures on my wall of Franklin. Here is one in which the bed is prominently displayed, hauling a winsome 3-year-old named Catherine. (Original taken July 23, 2000) The second shot taken moments later shows Franklin being used as an imaginary fishing platform by said child. I had an old piece of cane pole in the back that had fallen out of a plant I had been hauling from the store, and she grabbed it and pretended to cast a line over the side. Pretty sophisticated for a three year old, if you ask me. And finally, proof that I am the luckiest man alive. Anyway, there you go--I'll drop back in again this afternoon. Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Tomorrow...
in addition to being another day, is also going to be sans possumy goodness. We are having a supplemental regulatory meeting, in addition to the two we already schedule, to clear up a backlog of cases. SO, no blogging until later in the day tomorrow. Remember to keep offering photo subject suggestions--otherwise, you might have to just keep putting up with boring written stuff. See you tomorrow sometime.
Just in case you didn't get enough humiliation and pain as a child...
Adults finding exercise with dodgeball By ANNE M. PETERSON
Although Finn was crying and dazed, the gym instructor told her to quit being a baby and to shake it off. Upon gaining her feet, Ms. Finn was ridiculed by several of the really cool girls, who said if she'd gotten hit in the chest, the resultant swelling could have meant she could could begin buying real bras instead of training bras. Mr. Thunder was sent to the office and ordered to scrape gum off the bleachers.
Open for suggestions.
Having yesterday breached the visual wall between my world and yours with photographic evidence of my existence (or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof), I am now open for suggestions of other things you would like to see. These suggestions should be limited to stuff I can take pictures of during the day, because I think someone might get upset if I checked the camera out and took it home to play with. Also, although I know you all want to see it, no pictures will be taken of me with less than my full complement of clothing on. Thirdly, given the nature of this enterprise I call Possumblog, the more boring the suggestion, the better it will fit with my oeuvre. Fourth, I can't tell you when I can actually get these posted--it does take actual effort to do, and I am firmly of the position that effort is bad. But I'll do it anyway because you're my friend. So leave a suggestion below.
Seeing as how it's lunchtime,
and seeing as how we had an earlier post about eating cicadas, this might be of interest also. Jim Smith sends along an interesting historical note: I ran into something while reading last night that I thought you might enjoy. I found a book on the everyday life of the Civil War Southern soldier. Given you former hobby, this might be of interest to you, although your eras were different.
Bell Wiley is a good one--The Road to Appomattox is still a good read, even fifty years after it first hit the shelves. (It was first published in 1954.) Anyway, anyone still hungry?
Obscure Architectural Term of the Day! SPERE. A fixed structure which serves as a screen at the lower end of an open (medieval) hall between the hall proper and the SCREENS PASSAGE. It has a wide central opening between posts and short screen walls, and there is often a movable screen in the opening. The top member is often the tie-beam of the roof truss above; screen and truss are then called a spere-truss. Yes, a two-fer, in which we also find out what is a:SCREENS PASSAGE. The space at the service end of a medieval hall between the screen and the buttery, kitchen, and pantry entrances. Mmmmm--buttery!From the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition.
As H.D. Miller notes, sometimes you CAN get away with bringing a knife to a gunfight. He points us to this blurb in The Sun: OUTNUMBERED British soldiers killed 35 Iraqi attackers in the Army’s first bayonet charge since the Falklands War 22 years ago. The fearless Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stormed rebel positions after being ambushed and pinned down.
Before you try this at home, kids, remember that sometimes it's not the weapon that's important, but rather the man that wields it. Especially when you consider that the current British issue rifles are variants of the Enfield SA-80, a bullpup design (having the trigger mechanism far forward of the magazine and the action integrated into the buttstock) that although handy in close quarters (about the only benefit) is horrible for trying to use a bayonet. The idea of a bayonet is derived from the pike, and to be truly effective as a last-ditch weapon, you really want some length between you, the end of the bayonet, and the other guy. The last British rifle that was really suitable for this was the fine FN-FAL, aka "The Free World's Right Arm," which was long enough and strong enough to work as intended. Again, however, when you are able to succeed in spite of the shortcomings of your circumstances, it says a lot about the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. For some reason, even though we might make light of John Kerry for wearing a daisy on his ski ensemble, I don't think anyone would give these guys grief for their sense of fashion. They've also found a way to make sure no one makes fun of bagpipers.
Just got a CNN Breaking News Alert noting that -- Emmy-winning actor Tony Randall, best known as one of TV's "Odd Couple," dies at 84.
I always thought he was a strange little fellow, but The Odd Couple was one of my favorite shows when I was a kid. The opening montage is still one of the best show lead-ins ever.
Based upon my visceral reaction to this story, I want to state categorically that Possumblog Kitchens will NOT be producing a line of Cornicadas.
For those who believe that past Supreme Court decisions are sacrosanct and inviolable regarding certain issues--such as the decision in Roe v. Wade, it might be good to remember there are other cases out there, such as Plessy v. Ferguson, that many saw as equally important to their rights.
Not really drawing a parallel between the two cases, but rather offering a reminder that wearing the robes of a Supreme Court justice does not convey absolute infallibility. Courts are made up of fellow citizens, and although they may have deeper individual insights or knowledge, they are still bound up by the same human limits that affect us all. Also a reminder that because something is legal, doesn't mean it's good.
Ad Age's Bob Garfield on--Why McDonald's New Ads Are Like the Food. [...] For instance, in the latest pool of 13 spots: "Hangin' with Ronald," a Leo Burnett spot that portrays the kids' icon as a rocker. Pitiful. Next to rockin' Ronald, the Archies are the Velvet Underground.
The talk of commercials does remind me of my mom's reaction a few years back to one of the local McDonald's spots--they were running some kind of Big Mac combo promotion, and the announcer kept pronouncing the prefix "Mc" in McDonald's as "Mick." My mother wondered if they were going to insist on pronouncing it that way, why they didn't call the sandwich a Big Mick instead of a Big Mac. My mom's such a clown.
The Dangers Inherent in Being Inquisitive
I came in this morning, and not thinking I could make it all the way upstairs to use the restroom, I made a stop in the one on the main floor. This is the one the engineers use, and therefore is stuffed with wackiness--there is a toilet seat cover dispenser hung on the wall, and although it is too high to meet handicapped requirements, and although everyone who has some technical skills more than likely knows exactly what it is, whoever hung it up decided to very precisely (pencil guideline and all) letter the outside of the dispenser with 1 inch vinyl letters, "TOILET SEAT COVERS." Thanks, glad to see you're thinking. (Of course, some wiseacre has come along and removed some of the letters so that it reads, "TO LET EAT OVERS.") Another one of the fascinating things is the faucets--you know, since faucet handles are all germy, some bright person decided to eliminate them and install knee-operated controls. COOL! Just like a DOCTOR! Or not--these are a retrofit, and when the sink was installed long ago, it was placed at the very back of the countertop, which means you have to lean over to put your hands under the water. Which is hard to do while simultaneously trying to hold in the knee pad control. Especially if someone has left a puddle of water in the broad expanse of countertop between the edge of the bowl and the countertop. Sure, it's an ergonomic nightmare, but HEY! KNEE CONTROLS! Whatever. Anyway, all of that is just filler to the point of the story. I was standing there at the urinal admiring the beige paint on the wall, and noticed the paper box hung over the partition holding the deodorizer. Having nothing else to do, and being a devotee of reading, I quickly perused the information on the box on how to use it (hang up with hook, do not eat) and then saw the list of ingredients. Just in case any of you want to know, it has: 99.75% Paradichlorobenzene And the other .25%? Well, it's good to see you're just as inquisitive as I am. That other quarter-percent is made up of... Fine Perfumes. Now, this is just me, but I think they probably could bump that .25% up a few percentage points. Monday, May 17, 2004
And then, there was the rest of Saturday.
Reba decided to take the two older girls with her to go do some spending of money, and I took the two littler kids with me back to the house, where I had first intended to get some yardwork done. Silly me. We got there, and I actually did get the gas cans and take us all back down to the gas station to pretend I would actually have time to get something cut. As if. Got back home, put them in the Big Plastic Playhouse That Also Has Room for Lawnmowers, and we went inside and started the bath process. It was already getting late, and since we were going to go out to eat, I knew if we didn't get it done then, it would be midnight before they all got in the bed. Reba finally got home around six, with herself and two more girls who needed baths (one in particular who had not changed from her soccer clothes). Baths, then Jonathan said we had to eat at Palace, so off to the ultra-ritzy Wal-Mart Shopping Center over on the next mountain over for some Chinese food. And even better, we got the waitress who looks like Ming-na Wen. Rrrrwlll. AND the guy who looks like Jack Soo. Eh. Plenty of leftovers, then back to the house, and then... More stuff that I'll have to get to tomorrow. Right now, it's time to go, and we've got two practices, an end of season soccer party, and a party full of 14 year old girls to get everyone to, and all at THE SAME TIME! Whee! See you tomorrow.
Fritz sez... I’ve been wondering about the extent to which the artwork and other display objects in one's office give a hint about the personality of its occupant.
First up, a small token of the frustration of working in a bureaucracy. This is directly in front of my desk. Underneath it is the office chair where I imagine you are sitting as I talk to you. Next, behind the door, artifacts of a day six years ago when Rebecca and Jonathan came to spend the day with me. That coathanger on the doorknob is genuine plastic. Third up, a look at my drawing table. Yes, I still actually draw things with pencils and markers and stuff. (I'm not really part of the high-tech cognoscenti.) Stuff you can see in the shot include some paper, more paper, and some paper. The tall stick-looking thing is a tall stick, which also converts to a wide stick when held sideways. I use it now to push the upper sash of the window closed so I can lock it. It came off the front of the drafting table when I mounted the metal drawing roll on the edge. (The metal tube that keeps paper rolled up and free of creases when you flop your huge belly over the table.) The two things pinned to the wall are a couple of figure-ground studies I did for fun of the downtown area. Yeah, I know, I'm a barrel of fun. Over to the right on the floor are a stack of various park-type design studies. Underneath the table is a sheet of plywood useful for converting the table into a bed. Nextly, the view out said fifth floor window towards the east. The gray lady in the background is the Courthouse, and the park is Linn Park. The dark lines running across the picture are the venetian blinds inside the window. It's a pretty day today. Fifth, the wall just to the left of the whole nerve center of this operation. ON there you see my calendar of purty Eyetalian places, my push-pin clock, photos of kids doing kidly things, cartoons carrying various architectural themes (heavy on Far Side ones), a drawing of Notre Dame du Haut, more paper, some paper, a small stuffed husky dog (under the calendar, next to the stolen harmon/kardon speaker), a stack of paper, and some drawings. On paper. Sixth, some of the really fine artwork I am blessed to view every day. "The Rain Fish" by famous artist, Boy Oglesby, done at the tender age of seven years. One of his earliest works exploring chiarascura and the vibrancy of natural piscine jewel-tones, rendered in a striking proto-realist fashion. Available for acquisition, signed by artist. Offers beginning at $4,000,000. And what would a trip to my office be without a picture of me?! In this one, Boy Oglesby exhibits a stunning sense of proportionlessness, allowing his paint to fill his thoughts and movements with a fury and creativity unbounded by mere draftsmanship. Note the gigantically-sized head, perched atop a body impossibly thin, the right arm beefy and muscular, the left delicate and sensitive--a thrilling composition showing the attributes of incredible intelligence, strength, and tenderness. Truly a masterwork. Not offered for acquistion. Anyway, that there's what it looks like around here. I'll be having more pictures up another time when I can get the camera out of the drawer.
Okay, let's see how much I can get done in the next Meeting to go to, and I haven't gotten to all the rich and meaty chunks of weekend to blab about. SO--Friday, rushed home, grabbed Boy from the loving confines of the house and headed back across town to Homewood. Huge backup at Lakeshore, which meant getting to the park was YET ANOTHER stress-inducing exercise, but we did get there in time to not get a parking place. Absolutely jam-packed. Finally found one at the bottom of the hill, and also found I had snagged a bit of chicken wire underneath the car that was causing a terrible sound. No time to fix that, so we unloaded and hiked back up. Good game against a team from Smithfield. Boy played like he was on fire--lots of actual running, stopped a few players, lots of kicks with some actual heat on them. He said later it was because he had turned 10. Whatever, he played his best game ever. And the boys all played good for a change. No one hogged the ball, they stayed spread out in their positions, they actually PASSED the ball. Good game. Wound up tied at 2. Would like to have tied up the lady I was sitting next to. For some reason, all of our parents sat near one end, and I wanted to be closer to the middle so I could see better. The other team's parents were between our parents and the centerline, and I suppose I could have gone on and sat by myself on the other side of them, but people think I'm antisocial enough, so I became the last person in the row, sitting right next to a big screaming crazy insane woman who insisted on running up and down the field hollering BOOM anytime one of their players got near the ball. When she wasn't doing this, she was standing there in front of me. It was not a fun experience, and I finally had to stand up to be able to see what was going on. Game over, and we decided to go get a bite to eat--I wanted a hamburger, and after pulling into Rally's, Jonathan decided he wanted a taco. ::sigh:: I was going to insist he eat a burger so I wouldn't have to go somewhere else, but then I saw there was no way to drive in the right direction without first driving right by Taco Bell. So we stopped at Taco Bell. He was very happy. On to home, where the girls had gotten back not much earlier after going out and doing his birthday shopping, so at 9 p.m., it was PARTY TIME! I suppose if you're one of those hoity-toity big city dwellers, that sounds awfully early for partying, but for Ma and Pa Kettle, it was just additional exhaustion. Anywho, he got three GameBoy games and a pair of swim trunks, and the aforementioned Dragon Ball Z cake. Again, a very happy time--and he made sure to save a piece of his cake for his teacher. I'm not sure if she will want it today. Boy's father, who is rather sweet on his teacher, insisted on making sure she got a corner piece, then Boy's father proceeded to drop it upside down into the plastic box, then after turning it right-side up, put the lid on it and nearly smushed it flat. It sure looked less high when it went in the box. It certainly was after I got through with it. Maybe she'll be charmed, thinking it was Jonathan who made such a mess out of it. He'll probably tell on me, though. To bed for them all, because the next day was going to be another one of those days. Up early, started rousting kids. Plan was for all of us to go to Cat's game, then separate and let me take Jonathan to Riverchase for his second game as Reba and the girls went to the band cookout, then all meet back up together at Liberty Park for Rebecca's game, then after we got back and got cleaned up, go eat supper with Reba's mom and dad for Boy's birthday. Quite a plan, that. And here I was, actually thinking I would get to cut the grass... Got to the park on time for once, watched Cat's team win their game and see yet more examples of why some people shouldn't be allowed to be around children, then headed out with Jonathan to the next stop. After first having to run back by the house to get something we forgot. And I can't remember what it was now. On to Riverchase, and was gratified to see that their concession stand was actually open for once, bought some sunflower seeds from the expensively dressed-down lady inside and got Boy an ice cream sandwich. The game was pretty good, but they were forgetting all the good stuff they had done the night before. Might have been the heat or something, but they looked like their old selves. Managed to only lose by 1-0, though, so I guess it could have been much worse. We left the huge mess of sunflower shells and headed back up I-459 to Liberty Park to wait on the girls, who brought us some burgers and hot dogs from their cookout. Almost still warm! Mmmmm. Rebecca's game (their last of the season--yea!) was against the Vestavia Steamers, whom they have done well against in the past. Same thing this time--final score 4-2. And a remarkable amount of pushing and shoving in evidence from the opposition. They don't usually play like this, but again, it may have been the effects of the heat and lack of substitutes, but they were getting real ragged and playing poorly and appeared to be trying to make up for it anyway they could. As always, though, the best salve for poor sportsmanship directed at you is to make sure you win. Convincingly. Now then--what comes next? Have to wait a bit--gotta go meet. Mmmmm. Meet!
HEY! May 17 is Norwegian Constitution Day!
Which can only mean one thing...husky blond girls with flags!
From Snopes, the story of Marine Capt. Brian R. Chontosh, recipient of the Navy Cross.
Semper fi, Mac.
Wonder why he was mad at the house?
Man undergoes emergency surgery after shooting at his Ensley home The house must have been armed as well.
Food! Glorious FOOD!
As you all know, not only do I have a dashing sense of style when it comes to clothing, there is also my well-known culinary skills. I suppose this is why I just had a nice person come by looking for information about vegetarian oatmeal patties recipe PETA. Possumblog is right up there at the number 2 search result, so I think it's safe to say my kitchen skills are becoming even better known to a much wider audience. BUT NOW, to the task at hand--here is a great recipe for oatmeal patties that I think is just dandy! OATMEAL PATTIES Chopped fresh basil, 1/4 cup Eggs, 2 whole Flour, 4 Tbsp Cooked, thick, cooled oatmeal (NOT instant) 2 cups Salt Dry breadcrumbs for coating, about 1/2 cup. Blend ingredients well. With damp hands, form the mixture into oval patties. Dredge them in the breadcrumbs. Saute in medium-hot butter until golden on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Allow to cool. Place in paper bag and place several in and around known feeding areas. (Check your local ordinances, as this may constitute hunting over a baited field.) When a deer comes by, shoot deer, gut it, and take it to your local processor. When you get your steaks and sausage back, try Mrs. Graybeard's Sliced Venison with Peppers. 3 venison steaks, sliced into 1 inch thick strips 2 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons cooking oil 3 green peppers, slicked into 1 inch thick strips 1 large onion, diced 1 garlic clove, crushed 1/4 teaspoon of salt 1/4 teaspoon of pepper Combine the butter and oil in a large frypan. Add the green peppers, onion, garlic, salt and pepper. Saute until the peppers and onion are soft. Push the vegetables to the side of the pan, add the venison strips, and quickly brown them on all sides. Stir all the ingredients together in a pan, cook for 5 minutes, and serve immediately. Hot white rice and escalloped apples are a nice accompaniment to this dish. MMMmmm! That's good eatin'!
An admission.
Before we get along to the incredibly banal details of my weekend, I feel I must make a confession. The Gap. This might shock you all, knowing as you do my finely-honed sense of style, but I have never once set foot in a Gap store. Never bought anything from them, never gotten anything as a gift that I had to take back there. The whole place gives me an odd creepy feeling, and it has nothing to do with their ubiquity or a sense that I must hop on the Bash Gap bandwagon--it's just that nothing about the whole concept appeals to me. Except. Except for they know how to do commercials. Especially commercials for tank tops. You know the one--girl on a beach, all windblown and bouncy and lascivious and squishy and tanned, walking toward the camera with that look in her eye, and starts peeling off layers of tank tops. That is a very compelling commercial. Boy came in the room the other day and it was on, and he asked, "How many shirts has she got on!?" Although I was tempted to recite the old Tootsie Pop commercial with the turtle and the owl, I just let it go and said, "A whole bunch." "Well, Dad, why's she keep taking them off?" "They're just trying to show all the colors they have." "Oh." Yep. "Is she gonna take them all off!?" Kid, you're killin' me here. "Nooo, buddy--they can't show that on teevee!" "Well, good! That would be gross!" ::sigh:: A few more years and you won't be saying that, bub. Anyway, I feel better now having unburdened myself about liking their commercials. The Gap--clothes that look better coming off than they do on.
I feel like I've been beat with a ball peen hammer.
Although how this differs in quality from being beaten with any other unyeilding object is beyond me. I guess I just like writing "ball peen." (And just so you know, I DO know what it's like to get hit with a hammer. Twice. In the head. By my own hand.) ANYWAY, I managed to drag my mushy self in here this morning after a weekend filled with unsleepfulness and unrestfulness. You'll get to hear about some of it in a bit, but FIRST--I have to go sit at the big table and attempt to stay awake during our staff meeting. BUT FIRST--Reason #293 To Not Exercise I was coming back down Main Street this morning after letting the kids out, when up ahead I saw one of those icky, sweaty, joggers. Tall guy, bald, grimacing, running along the sidewalk by the cemetery. As I got closer, I also noticed something in the gutter beside a storm drain where he had just passed by. It was a giant tabby cat, sprawled on its back, furry white tummy shining in the morning sun, with all four of its legs up in the air. It had an almost cartoon quality, but not enough of one to make up for its sad, sad demise. But imagine not being insulated from it in a car, but having to actually JOG PAST IT! Eww. Fresh air?! Please. Much healthier just to stay in your car where it's nice and sealed up. SO, off to my meeting. Friday, May 14, 2004
My brain has now turned to a runny paste.
Yet, oddly enough, I feel few ill effects. But boy am I ready to be through with this day. After a marathon session of typing meeting minutes the last two days, I am finally through with them, which leaves me just enough time in the rest of the day to fume about the guy I just had a meeting with. Same guy from a couple of weeks back who just couldn't stay off his cell phone. Today, he just couldn't make it on time. Now before, I noted that I didn't want to get a call every five minutes letting me know he was going to be five minutes late, but I WOULD like to have received at least ONE call to let me know he would be strolling in 20 minutes past time. I also would have appreciated having received a ready-to-be-processed contract from him, too. You know, one sorta like the one I keep saying I HAVE TO HAVE. Yeah, yeah, I know--and if Granny had wheels she'd be a trolley. Whatever that means. And then there's this whole weekend thing--as I mentioned before, Boy has a game tonight at 7 at West Homewood--meaning I go to the house, pick him up, and turn around and come right back from where I started. Then tomorrow, Catherine's game is at 9, his is at 12 in Riverchase, Rebecca's is at 3 at Liberty Park (at the ultra swanky Richard M. Scrushy Football and Soccer Complex--yes, really), and then sometime in there around lunchtime, there is a Band Booster cookout on The Mall in Trussville that Reba has already paid for us to attend. But given that Boy and I will be on the road, we'll miss it. I told Reba to make sure she and the girls eat enough food to make up for our absence. Then Catherine has her team photos Sunday afternoon, and Jonathan has a game at noon Sunday, and I'm supposed to fill in to teach the adult class Sunday morning and I haven't even started my lesson, and sometime in there we have to do some gift getting and giving for the Birthday Boy, and it has now been three weeks since I cut the front yard, and it has rained now several times and is beginning to look like we have a religious aversion to inflicting pain on poor defenseless grasses and wild flora. But it must be clipped, or else. In other words, the usual stuff. See you all back here bright-tailed and bushy-eyed Monday morning. Or something.
Dad, aren't you forgetting something?
A small boy had appeared beside the bed this morning as I was putting on my shoes and loading my pockets with man junk. "Hey, buddy. Uhhhhm, I love you?" "No." "Have you brushed your hair?" "Yes, but that's not what you're supposed to say." "Hmmm. Well, you do look very different today--could that be because...it's your...DAY TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH?!" "DAAaaaaddddy!" "Not it, huh? Well, then, maybe it's your BIRTHDAY!" And much singing ensued. Yep--Little Boy is now a whole decade old. We went downstairs and lined him up against the doorframe of the utility room to mark his vertical progress--he was very relieved to see that he was just as tall as Rebecca was at ten. He had been lagging behind her a bit, and it was bugging him. But he's caught up now, and he felt better. I noticed we had forgotten to mark Catherine's name when she turned 7 back in February, so I got her up against the door and -- holy moley -- she's as tall as Ashley was at 10! (Ashley was always very small until she hit puberty, then she shot up.) And she has grown a full six inches since her sixth birthday. Despite the fact that it has become nearly impossible to hold any of them in my lap, that hasn't damped their desire (or at least that of the younger three) to try to clamber up on me and snuggle. Or suffocate me. But who could complain? As for Jonathan's festivities, we got him a Dragon Ball Z decorated cake--if you don't understand the allure, don't try. I gave up a long time ago. He also has a tournament game tonight, so he's going to have to wait until later after the game to have some of it, but I don't think he'll mind. And, poor thing, we still have to go shopping for his presents--one of the by-products of having to spend perfectly good shopping time schlepping him around town for soccer, but he's a good sport about it. The way it works out, our neglectfulness in party planning means the celebration drags on for days in bits and spurts, rather than just blowing itself out in a mad couple of hours. And he seems to kinda like that. Anyway, Happy Birthday, Buddy Bear. And now, I have a boatload of work to get done and little time to do it in. Posting will once again be on the lightish side today because of that. Thursday, May 13, 2004
Reader Mail
Chet the E-Mail Boy was so excited to receive this morning's mail--it contained a missive from a foreign country-- Anyway, here you go: Good Morning, Why, thank you!While I was eating breakfast this morning, the local TV news had their "Fortune Financial Report" segment. Amazingly, most of the segment focused on a single news item. Well, it IS local TV news...It seems that Brad Pitt has decided that the latest fashion trend will be ... men wearing skirts. As I said, the hard-hitting world of local TV news just begs for stories like this to receive full and complete attention.A quick Googling of "Brad Pitt" and "skirts" turned up some interesting links. You mean, like this? As H.D. Miller notes,This just seems like a topic designed for your sense of humor. ;-) Thanks! I think. Or not.Thanks for the great blog!
Eric Z. Zzzzzzzzt
Anyway, back to Pittly mandresses. The whole idea reminds me of a fellow who I see occasionally walking around downtown Birmingham. He looks a lot like Howard Stern, but he wears blousy women's dresses. And heels. And a purse. And a bra hugely overstuffed stuffed with paper or something. And again, he looks like Howard Stern, especially around the hair. Except it's not his own long, black, tangled mass of curls, but rather, a wig. He proudly flounces around, and I'm sure on some level he probably feels pretty, but here's the deal. He ain't. Men have enough trouble dressing in men clothes not to have to deal with trying to find something else to look like a slob in. Oh, sure, it's simpler to go to the john, and cooler in hot weather, and the new styles for summer are really cute, but obviously, God had a reason for inventing pants. Let's just leave well enough along and be thankful for the status quo.
Hey dude, DOUSE THAT BUTT!
GOOD MORNING AGAIN! As I noted in the first post, I have been out this morning doing Proud Papa duty. A certain professor (who shall remain nameless) asked if this meant that I got to play slugabed this morning and sleep in. NO. I had to get up at the normal time and get the kids up and ready to go as usual and get them to school. Little Boy had a choir presentation this morning at 8 a.m. (so he said) so I figured I might as well get them there and wait. [Some of you may be wondering how it is that I posted the Thursday Three at 8:00 this morning, when I just said I was doing all this other junk. Due to my association with the high-tech cognoscenti, I cheated and actually posted it last night, and used Blogger's handy Change Date and Time feature to make it appear to have been posted today. I hope you can see clear to forgive me this egregious abuse of your trust. Or not.] Out the door right at 7 or so, shoved all four in the van and headed off down the hill, intending to stop at the post office on Watterson and buy some stamps so I could mail my rubber checks to the various people to whom I owe money. Drove right past it. Got all the way over the bridge to the traffic light before realizing it, so I made the loop back up South Chalkville and back around to the PO. Which sorta describes my mood. Parked, admonished the children to be COMPLETELY SILENT to avoid the inevitable arguments that would ensue at the instant any one of them uttered a syllable, and made my way to the stamp machine in the box lobby. Still too early for the counter staff to be working, and apparently the vending machines are on the same schedule. There was one of the school lunchroom ladies in front of me trying to buy some, and it didn't work for her. She turned and fussed and walked on out. Like a slot machine addict, the obvious lack of a jackpot of the player ahead of me meant that my odds were MUCH better for a payoff, so I went ahead and tried my hand. Crapped out. For some reason, it could only give $5 in change. If I could have figured out a way to make it give five bucks in lieu of the 14 cents I was due, I would have stayed there and played all day, but there was no time for that. I fussed and walked back out to the van, where it was remarkably quiet. And now I was running behind schedule, which is never good. On to the middle school to drop off Oldest, whom I have taken to saying goodbye to and kissing on the cheek while we are still on the other side of the driveway from where I let her off. I figure not letting her friends see that she actually has anything to do with me is going to be about the only way I can still give her a nice smooch and tell her I love her without her being SO! EMBARRASSED! Let her out, then circled back out to the main drag and was off to the elementary school. Let the kids out at the gym, then went and parked in the front, and congratulated myself for still having about fifteen minutes to spare before the program started. Walked in, signed the visitor sheet, went to the gym, which was empty except for teachers in the process of setting things up and the custodial staff sweeping and cleaning. It seems the program was supposed to start at 8:30, not 8 as my sweet son had told me. WOW! I was SUPER early! That NEVER happens! After they got the bleachers unfolded, I went and made myself uncomfortable on the back row, which had the benefit of the wall, where I could lean and rest my back. A few more parents filtered in, and then the kids started coming in, and by 8:30 it was a happy madhouse of chatter. The assistant principal quieted everyone down, pledge, and then the performance. The presentation was about all the types of musical concepts the children had learned during the year--tempo, pitch, notes, harmony--stuff like that, all set to simple songs. And the addition of two special visitors. A couple of the teachers dressed themselves up as a couple of high-fashion redneck chicks, and they interjected various silly comments throughout, and sang a rousing version of Elvira. It was kinda funny, I suppose, and the kids thought it was a hoot, but I would have preferred just letting the kids sing and play their instruments. But I'm just not a very humor-oriented sort of guy. They finished up at 9, and I went down and snapped a couple of shots of Jonathan with his buddies, and then figured out what to do until it was time for the next program, Rebecca's D.A.R.E. graduation. It started at 10:30, so I had some time to kill, and rather than hang around leering at the teachers, I figured I would go try to buy stamps again, and get some gas in the van, and remind my boss that I was going to be out this morning. Sometimes, he forgets. Off back toward town, making a quick detour to the library so I could check my e-mail and send a message to my boss that I was going to be in at lunch. I mentioned it in the super fun Monday Morning Meeting, but I don't think he was in attendance, and I didn't want him to think I had just up and quit. Checked on the blog and the multitude of other e-mail accounts I have, and read the story about Rummy visiting Baghdad. Fat Teddy's reaction was predictable, saying it just didn't matter, and Secretary Rumsfeld should have gone and seen to this when the allegations were first made. But when I listened to the report on the radio on the way to work, the reaction of the troops when they saw him was tumultuous and grateful. Said reaction, oddly enough, not mentioned at all in the article, and something that shouldn't be discounted. Fat Teddy might be right, but it would be hard to make that case based upon the reaction of the soldiers who greeted the Secretary of Defense. That type of reaction is something those wishing for nothing more than an opportunity to embarrass the President might want to ponder before playing the contrarian. On then into town to the post office, where the counter was now open and staffed by the clerk who looks somewhat like Candice Bergen, circa 1980, at least around the hair. Stamps, drop the letters, and off to fill up on some of that wonderful gasoline. You know, everyone complains about the cost of gasoline, and it is pretty high, although not when you factor in inflation. But when you consider that I paid $27.95 for an H-P 28mL black ink cartridge at Wal-Mart the other night, it's a downright BARGAIN--one gallon of ink is the equivalent of 3785.41 mL. At $0.998 per mL, that ink costs a whopping $3,777.84 per gallon! The heck with war for oil, I want someone to find out where they pump that ink out of the ground and go take THAT over! The gas cost a buck-eighty, which is about five cents higher than the RaceTrac down by the interstate, but I just didn't want to have to drive that far. I DID, however, want to smack the slack-jawed loser who pulled up on the other side of the pump, who got out and pumped gas while HOLDING A LIT CIGARETTE in his teeth. MORON! I never know whether to say something to boneheads like this or not, but one of these days, I believe I will be compelled to repeat the title of this post. It'll probably get me knifed, but that's better than getting blowed up real good. ON back to the school, park, and head to the amphitheater, and sit in the back so I could get a good view. Six classes of fifth graders went through the program, about 160 kids or so, and out of each class, one representative was voted on by their classmates to read his or her essay about the program. And guess who one of the ones was who got to read her essay? So, yes, I was very proud of Middle Girl. She got up there and did a very good job, a fact I'm sure will provide hours of gossip to the girls on her soccer team when they found out that not only does she talk, she did so in front of a room full of nearly 200 people! (There were two of her teammates there, so word is bound to get out.) I know there is a lot of talk about the D.A.R.E. program being ineffective at reducing drug abuse, and there might be a more cost-efficient way of getting better results, including the idea that parents might do more in the home to discourage abuse, rather than farming it out to the schools, but I still think the concept of getting kids to think of the police as advocates rather than adversaries is good. (And it certainly beats teaching them that it's perfectly fine to experiment.) Anyway, that's what all has been going on. Now back on the tractor.
Never being ones to allow work to interfere with important things, we are proud to announce the latest and greatest entertainment enterprise within a four-county area, the Super Exciting Stupendous Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Volume VI! After receiving myriad entreaties from all across the far reaches of the prolate spheroid of Bloglandia--“PLEASE! Give us questions that do not require us to think hard thinks!”--the Three-Question Production Staff have worked diligently in order to provide you with the least thought-provoking questions ever seen! You’re welcome!
SEEING AS HOW our beloved South is known to some for its engaging, bucolic rusticity, we would like to know: 1) Have you ever used an outhouse? And we’re not talking portapotty, but a real, live, honest to goodness, wood-plank-over-a-hole, crescent-moon-door-cutout, infested-with-dirt-daubers privy. Please describe the experience. 2) Have you ever called livestock for feeding? If so, please describe the type of animal, and a general approximation of the call used. 3) Have you ever driven a tractor upon a public street? Again, if so, please describe any backstory you deem necessary to allow our less well-rounded readers to fully appreciate the experience. Now, as always, even though these questions are intended to be Southocentric, anyone is welcome to answer and play along, no matter whether you live in Malta, or Tasmania, or even Minnesota. If you have a blog of your own, leave a link in the comments below, and if you don’t have a blog, get one and make this your first post, or if that’s too much effort, just leave a comment. As for my answers--outhouse? Oh, my, yes. I was a small child, and all I remember about it is hoping I didn’t fall in. I cannot remember where we were, or why we were having to use it, but it was a regular old one-holer made of wood. It did have a roll of real toilet paper, though, which was comforting. Livestock calling--again, when I was little and we went to visit my uncle and aunt, who had a few cows. Their preferred method of calling was to say, “YOO! COW!” and rattle a bucket. Tractor driving? Not quite. I have driven a contraption when I worked one summer at a steel fabricating shop, that was a jury-rigged self-propelled boom loader, built on a Hyster chassis. Every once in a while, we would have to move stuff from one end of the shop or yard to the other, and most of the time the most convenient way was to use the street beside the shop. (It is located in the heavy industrial area a few blocks east of downtown Birmingham, and the street was a regular through street with cars and trucks and everything else coming down it.) Anyway, this particular beast was about 25 years old 25 years ago, and the way it was fixed, you were in effect having to drive it backwards--the gas and clutch pedals were slightly underneath where you sit, and had to be operated with your heels. And the steering was sorta like that on a skid loader--or more like a boat, actually, with a tiller of sorts. Except when you pushed it to the right, the thing turned left. And the tiller was somewhat behind you, too. And it steered the “rear” wheels. Compounding the degree of difficulty was that it had big, squishy pneumatic tires that bounded around in complete disregard of steering input or the laws of physics. And it had a 20 foot boom sticking out toward the “front,” with a big dangling iron hook on the end, all of which sat alongside of the operator, more or less blocking the view of anything on that side. I had never driven it before, but it looked relatively easy, because I was 17 and full of all kinds of mechanical knowledge. We needed to move it, and since it didn’t have a load, I figured I could help out and get it moved around to where it needed to be. Cranked it up, blipped the throttle with my left heel, let out the clutch with my right heel, and WHOAAAA! It bucked and bounced down the street, veering across the centerline as I tried to figure out the double-inverse steering movements, and then I swung it in a looping right arc toward the big open door in the metal building as I tried to simultaneously halt it with the handbrake (forgot about that bit of arcana) and figure out how to get it to straighten up. Again, the tiller confused me, and I managed to bring it to a shaky halt with the end of the boom only six inches away from the back window of the precious truck belonging to one of the old-timers. It just happened to be parked right by the door. His name was Cat, and the truck was a mid-60s GMC pickup, primer gray, with the pickup box removed and a custom flat bed installed that was made of various scraps of steel plate he had collected over the years. He was very proud of his truck, and had I busted out the back window, he would have been very, VERY angry. Angry in that Sand Mountain sort of way. Luckily, I don’t think he was looking. I gingerly backed up, got in the door, and never tried to drive the Hyster again. NOW THEN--having dispensed with that, I must warn you that your normal deluge of Possumania is going to be really limited today. I have a thing to do with the kids at school this morning, so I won't be able to play on here until much later on in the day. SO, go amuse yourselves in the archives or in the blogroll, and I'll see you all in a bit. Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Another one of THOSE days...
No, not one of those, one of those days--SKY/WX--PTSUNNY, TMP--83, DP--65, RH--54, WIND--SE10G17, PRES--30.15F--in short, absolutely wonderful for walking down the street at lunch to meet Miss Reba. I can't get enough days like this--it's warm, but not yet as oppressively dank and hot as Satan's armpit, like it will be in August; there's a nice fresh breeze that's not so hard that it messes up my fur, but merely tousles it; bits of sunshine and shade; girls in their summer dresses (thanks, Irwin!); the Trust Jesus guy holding up his sign and waving to folks; Wheelchair Guy hawking his fresh peanuts from the Peanut Depot; and, of course, getting to meet Miss Reba for lunch down at the Sabor Mazatlan--located on the ground floor of this grand old pile. It is a day when Birmingham, the world's biggest small town, feels much more like the world's smallest big city. One thing, though. I do have to ask that if you consider yourself a jaded, cosmopolitan, man-o-the-world type fellow, would you please not try to demonstrate that sensibility by walking against traffic? I don't know WHAT it is, but there are certain folks who seem to want everyone to know they're too big-city to have to stop and wait on a walk signal--which is fine when there's nothing coming. But when you have four lanes of traffic coming straight at you, stepping off the curb and assuming they're going to stop doesn't really make you look very bright. Yes, I jaywalk occasionally, and cross on red sometimes, but at least I have sense enough to know I should RUN LIKE THE WIND so as to avoid unecessarily detaining the nice people rolling toward me in two tons of barely brakeable steel. And it probably goes without saying (but that has never stopped me) that on those occasions when you DO have the light, it doesn't necessarily mean you can just splud on out there--it might be good to make sure that dumptruck load of gravel stops first. Just saying. Anyway, meeting this morning went off with nary a hitch, although it seemed to drag on a bit too much--first case went nearly twenty-five minutes. Got finished after an hour and a half, packed up my junk, headed in to the office, and then spent the next few hours typing madly trying to make some headway on the minutes. Which I wasn't able to do, so I thought I would do this instead! Not that this is worth slagging off for, but it does break up the monotony a bit. At least for me. But, sadly, such shenanigans must not take up too much of my time--I need to get back to the paying gig BUT BEFORE I DO THAT-- Reading the mail last night I came across one of the myriad newletters I get from Alabama Polytechnic Institute and was just about to pitch it in the round file when I spied an interesting blurb on the back. Seems as though the old alma mater has gone and got all electronic on us, in the form of a fascinating website known as the Auburn University Digital Library. What caught my eye in the article was that as part of their collections, they have gone and digitized old copies of the yearbook, the Glomerata, as well as over 300 old postcards of Alabama. I spent hours last night looking through this stuff and it is absolutely incredible. I have a thing for old postcards anyway, especially ones from around here. (In fairness, I also must point you to another nice collection of old Alabama postcards from those people in Tuscaloosa.) A sampling of the stuff I found include: from the "Beauties" section of the 1924 Glom, the smolderingly naked-shouldered Miss Sarah Bullock, and the raven-haired Miss Katherine Thorington seen demonstrating the efficacy of the Ag Extension Program at growing dogwood blossoms in earwax. From the 1910 edition, a Senior Class history a la the book of Exodus. From the 1897 edition, a whole page of zippy cheers for bolstering the fighting spirit of the Plainsmen-- Preck-a-ge-ges! Preck-a-ge-ges! Who-wah! who-wah! Sis boom Hellabaloo! Auburn. Uh, well, okay. Anyway, there's tons of stuff in the old yearbooks, and then there's the POSTCARDS! Get a load of one of the architecture rooms from 1910. I don't feel so bad about my office now. This is the building where the shot was taken, an interesting bit of bricks-n-sticks that later gave way to this hi-style edifice (which still houses the Art and Industrial Design folks). This is the latest architecture building, Dudley Hall. Eww. (Should I ever begin writing a news column on architectural criticism, my pen name will be Dudley Hall.) Other nifty cards are this one of the dusty Highland Avenue in Birmingham about 1912, the grand old Thomas Jefferson (still standing, but in severe disrepair), the Boll Weevil Monument in Enterprise, and really hot beach chicks in Gulf Shores. Hours of time wasting potential in all of these, and I haven't even gotten to the non-postcard, regular old photographs--like this one of a mock battle by the cadets. Sheesh, college boys--nicely turned set of gams, and they're all off running the other way. Except for the old slyboots in the straw boater and the dapper fellow in knickerbockers. So, go look around all that stuff, and I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Back to typing now. Tuesday, May 11, 2004
As happens every so often...
I will be suffering from bloggus interruptus tomorrow morning due to that silly thing I call "my job." It promises to be full of wonderful fun. Not really. Anyway, see all of you later on in the day sometime.
Gore encourages people to see 'Tomorrow' WASHINGTON (AP) -- Former Vice President Al Gore says people should see the upcoming movie "The Day After Tomorrow," in which global warming suddenly creates a new ice age that freezes entire cities.
"It's an emergency that seems to be unfolding in slow motion, but it actually is occurring very swiftly — not as swiftly as the move portrays, but swiftly in the context of human history," Gore said Tuesday in a conference call organized by the liberal advocacy group MoveOn.org. Al Gore seems to be an emergency unfolding in slow-motion, but actually it's occuring very swiftly--not as swiftly as it should, but swiftly in political terms.Gore and MoveOn.org are promoting a leafletting campaign, where volunteers will distribute fliers when the film opens on Memorial Day weekend. Gore said he has read the script and seen the trailer and anticipates seeing an advance screening of the film. O, the HUMANITY! Think of all the trees that were murdered for all those leaflets. PAPER IS MURDER!The fliers describe the weather crisis in the movie as "over the top," but say global warming is real and that President Bush is doing nothing to stop it. I would certainly breathe a sigh of relief if he could do something to stop Hollywood from producing overwrought pot-boilers. They're much worse for the environment.Republican National Committee spokesman Christine Iverson said given that Gore chose Howard Dean to win the Democratic primary race, "it's doubtful that the American people will be willing to rely on him as a movie critic." All together now--"HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY PATRIOTISM!"
For those of you who like to leave comments...
Stupid, STUPID Haloscan still seems to be having difficulties this week. If it's not working when you try to comment, either reload the page or wait a bit and try again. Sorry.
Study: Students suffer in unruly classes [...] education colleges don't prepare teachers to deal with rowdy students; children in special education are treated too lightly even when their misbehavior has nothing to do with their disabilities; schools back down from discipline when parents threaten lawsuits.
Now, there are probably some people who would jokingly pout about not having adult Happy Meals, but the sad thing is there really is a sizeable group of folks out there who are genuinely miffed at being adults and being denied childish frippery. The problem is that, despite their adolescent tendencies, we screwed up and gave them high-paying jobs so they can hire lawyers and sue someone when Little Jimmy gets in trouble for beating down a teacher. Sadly, it's not one-sided, though. Not only did we give them jobs in the private sector, they also managed to sneak into the field of education, too, which explains a lot of the absolutely ridiculous zero-tolerance silliness being foisted on students by pin-headed administrators in the name of security. Sometimes (and I can't believe I'm saying this) it IS a good idea to grab a mouthpiece and start raising some sand. I suppose it's too much to wish for a little common sense on both sides.
Traditional Media Strategic Advantage #3,678
Professionals who are able to produce headlines like this: Dead Panhandle hostage-taker's mom accused him of attacking her.
Questions from the Audience
Jim Smith asks: Just a quick architect question, since we haven't had one for what seems like weeks. That is, if you would share your special knowledge with us.Man, it sure is tough being one of the high-tech cognoscenti. Anyway, the seeming weeks-long span of time without architectural content is due to the fact that it has been weeks. Back to the question-- Do real, passed the test and everything, architects resent the term "landscape architect". I know that the landscape guys have degree programs and such but does it still stick in the craw, as it were?Not really--given the malleability of the term “architect,” and the way it gets thrown about to describe any sort of vaguely buildy sort of concept, the fact that someone uses it in a sense other than the way I use it doesn’t really matter so much to me. It does make a difference to me if persons put themselves forward as licensed or qualified to provide services that are regulated by statute. In Alabama, the use of the titles “architect” and “landscape architect” is strictly regulated by law, as are the practices of both architecture and landscape architecture. In Alabama, the practice of architecture is defined as: When an individual holds himself out as able to render or when he does render any service by consultations, investigations, evaluations, preliminary studies, plans, specifications, contract documents and a coordination of all factors concerning the design and observation of construction of buildings or any other service in connection with the design, observation or construction of buildings located within the boundaries of the state, regardless of whether such services are performed in connection with one or all of these duties, or whether they are performed in person or as the directing head of an office or organization performing them. And “building” is pretty comprehensively defined as “a structure consisting of foundation, walls or supports and roof, with or without other parts.” In general, this would include just about anything you could build, but there are exemptions for certain types of buildings that do not require the services of an architect.Anyone who either calls himself an architect, or provides the services above, must meet certain educational and work requirements, pass a registration examination, be licensed by the state, and accumulate a minumum of 12 hours of continuing education credit per annum. Alabama has adopted the standards of the National Council of Architecture Registration Boards (NCARB), and under those standards, an applicant for registration must have completed at least five years of study at a National Architectural Accrediting Board (NAAB) accredited school of architecture, fulfilled the requirements of the NCARB Intern Development Program after graduation (generally, this is equivalent to three years of office practice), and successfully complete the Architect Registration Exam. OLD COOT ALERT... BACK IN MY DAY, the A.R.E. was a paper test comprised of nine parts covering mechanical systems, structures, site design, history, construction documents, materials and methods, and building design, all administered over four days. The tests were sort of like SATs, with a list of multiple-choice questions ranging from 50 to over a hundred, and you were given a set amount of time to finish. The last part was the building design test, which was given the last day, and lasted eight full hours, in which you were given a program, site, and general information and told to design a complete building. And it was only given twice a year. Nowadays, you can go to Sylvan Learning Centers and take the multi-choice thing on computer, and you only have to answer enough questions to insure that you have a grasp of the material--if you do well enough on the first couple of dozen, you pass. Danged bunch of meddling kids. Oughta have to do it the way I did! The building design is on computer, now, too, which means that after eight hours, you are no longer covered from head to waist with graphite. Buncha crybabies. Getting back to the question, in Alabama, landscape architecture has some similar definitions and such to tell what the practice is. Since the practice is much more limited, the scope is defined in a bit more detail-- The performance of professional services such a consultation, investigation, research, planning, design, preparation of drawings and specifications and responsible supervision in connection with the development of land areas where, and to the extent that the dominant purpose of such services is the preservation, enhancement or determination of proper land uses, natural land features, planting, naturalistic and aesthetic values, the settings and approaches to structures or other improvements, the setting of grades and determining drainage and providing for standard drainage structures, and recordation. Nothing contained herein shall preclude a duly licensed landscape architect from performing any of the services described in the first sentence of this subsection in connection with the settings, approaches or environment for buildings, structures, or facilities. Nothing contained in this chapter shall be construed as authorizing a landscape architect to engage in the practice of architecture, engineering or land surveying as these terms are defined in Section 34-17-27. Landscape architects also have educational and work requirements, have to sit for an exam, and once licensed have to do continuing education as well, although in most instances, their experience is necessarily limited to those things that define their practice, and is thus not quite so comprehensive as that of architects.But it doesn't bother me that there is a title called "landscape architect." (Don't get me started on interior designers.)
Say, it's not just for plumbers!
The elevator over in the annex has been inoperable since last week, but they just got around to getting someone in here yesterday to fix it. Which prompted two fire alarms yesterday afternoon, and Anyway, as I was walking down the corridor last evening on the way out to the parking deck, I met a co-worker heading the opposite way, and as he passed, he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder--"Look out." I rounded the corner and was met by a giant chasm--not only were the annex elevator doors open, there was a trusty mechanic kneeling on the floor looking over the sill into the bottom of the shaft, giving all who passed by nice look at his vertical smile. I guess plumbers aren't the only ones afflicted with plumber's butt.
Uhh...sure, whatever.
An AP story describing Blooger's update that I mentioned yesterday--Google's Blog Feature Made Easier. Of course, it being mainstream media, it was necessary to explain what all this was about: [...] The revisions to Google's Blogger.com are designed to make it easier for computer neophytes to create and update their own personal journals for free.
Now, pardon me while I go stoke the boiler. Monday, May 10, 2004
Happy Mother's Day!
I forgot to mention that due to the amount of stuff we've had going on, Reba's Mother's Day gift was limited to cards and the promise of a gift to be named later. Poor Mom. But it's telling about our schedule when you consider that the half-day at the spa we got her for her birthday still has not been redeemed. But the kids still love her very much, and made sure she got her cards, and gave her big sloppy kisses. We had arranged to meet my mama at the Shoney's (my mother's words were, "whatever is cheap") over on Montgomery Highway in Hoover after church, so we headed that way. Only to find the restaurant had closed, and had been closed for a while judging by the looks of it. My mom was parked there out front, so we wheeled up and I said I thought we wouldn't have any trouble getting a table, but it might be a while before we were waited on. Next suggestion, hop down the sidestreet to the place that apparently took all of Shoney's business, the Golden Corral. Or, as I like to call it, Hell's Own Feedlot. I don't like going there, because even on slow days it seems jam-packed with slow, sweaty, messy people just milling around dropping stuff and breathing on you. Well, Sunday was the same, only bumped up with even less elbow room in order to squeeze in as many mamas as possible. Many of whom could rival Mama Cass for both size and consumptive ability. I think they would do better just to take out the tables and put in a trough. The food isn't really so bad, I don't guess, and it gets vacuumed into everyone's gullet so quick that it probably doesn't have a whole lot of time for the e. coli to bloom. And it did meet my mother's requirement of value-pricing. Finished up our food and exchanged some more kisses and hugs, and then Reba and the kids and I drove around a bit, did a bit of exploring, and headed back to the house so Boy could work on his book report poster, and I could help him work on his Alabama history project. Again, another instance of Extreme Parental Overkill, but he promises to help do SOMEthing before it's completely finished. On back to church for evening worship, after a brief meltdown that required a certain Youngest Girl to have to completely change all of her clothes, which would usually have been an inconvenience but was doubly so this time because she had to change right as we were about to leave, and we had to leave on time because I was supposed to lead singing when I got there, and I like to have a minute or two to make sure everyone else remembers if they have opening or closing prayer, and a minute or two to make sure I still have my little piece of paper with the hymn numbers on it. BUT, why worry about that! Just as long as my blood vessels were nice and bulging, everything would be jusssssst fine! Got there with exactly two minutes to spare, had to find a closing prayer guy, found my little piece of paper, and then started up a'wavin' my hand around. And for once, nary a bobble. Got all through, got home, helped fix the kids some supper (the effects of the Feedlot still fresh on my gut, I decided to bypass the evening meal), sent the Youngest and Middle Girls to bed, sent Boy to his room to finish his poster, and heard a screech from Oldest. Because, you know... Seems she had this assignment, that was assigned Thursday, which is when I went to school and got her, and she HAD! JUST! RE! MEM! BERED! IT! Yeah, sure, whatever. Spent all that time, studiously forgetting it until 9:30 Sunday night. "I HAVE TO GET ON THE INTERNET!!" She blew past me as is her wont. "Whoa. Why?" "BECAUSE IT SAYS TO!" I looked at the paper, "Using sources you have at your house, such as the Internet, write a story about..." The assignment was to research a planet and write a comic-book style story in eight panels that uses various characters to tell something about the planet. "Look, you don't need to look on the Internet, there's a bookcase full of encyclopedias right there--choose a planet, find it in there, and get the information." "I! CAN'T! DO THIS!" Whatever. She whined and pouted and complained and moaned and cried and whined until 1 a.m., at which time she was still not finished, but was intending to finish it in study hall. I just now got off the phone with Reba as she was going home, and she says Ashley called her to let her know she had gotten home okay. When asked if Oldest had turned in her work, come to find out, she somehow dropped her books. And somehow her drawings got lost. And now she'll have to redo them. And she was mad, because the TEACHER was going to take 20 POINTS off for it being a day late! Why, the nerve! (Obviously, that teacher just has it in for her!) Speaking of nerve, this weekend a certain child has managed to get on my very last one. I'm just glad I don't let it show. In any event, I am thinking the time is nigh for a come-to-Jesus meeting, which you will not get to see recited herein. Just be glad it ain't you. Now then, time to head to the park! Wheee!
And THEN!
Got to the park just in time to see Reba and the rest of the brood ambling to the car. (She had to get them there for Cat's game at 9:30 and Boy's team pictures at 11.) I wheeled into the parking lot and beeped the horn, which brought a very excited Tiny Girl to the window screaming at me that she won her game. 7-1 it was, and she even got to KICK THE BALL! Boy's photos went fine, but he had to wait another couple of hours before the start of his next game, so they were all going to head back to the house. Catherine decided she wanted to ride with me in the car, until I received permission from Miss Reba to take a small amount of time to go get the prodigious pile of wool trimmed from my head. Once Cat heard I was going to the hair cutting place, she bailed, as did Oldest. I think I have finally found a way to have more Me Time! I really should do a better job of keeping my hair trimmed, you know. Off I went and stopped at the Head Start down by Winn-Dixie, where, sadly, the girl who looks like Mandy Moore was not in attendance, but rather the woman who looks more like Roger Moore. Oh well. 15 minutes of furious scissor action, and I was 20 pounds lighter. (It's been a couple of months.) Over to the Express Oil Change to have the oil expressly changed in Reba's car and be handed the usual line of BS about my trans fluid being dark. The sampling method consisted of dabbing some fresh ATF on the side of a filthy used oil bottle, then rubbing some trans fluid off of the dipstick beside the spot of fresh. This is then held up to the light, just-so, and knowing eyes are squinted and the vital fluids compared and contrasted. Only slightly less scientific than reading goat entrails. Luckily, they aren't real hard sell about it--if you refuse, they go on about their business, but I wonder how many times people are told they need their fluid changed needlessly. As long as you follow the manufacturer's recommendations, you shouldn't have a problem. That done, back to the house, where I happened upon the entire family attempting to make a getaway without me. They had books to return to the library, it turns out, and needed some more. I am amazed, given my efforts of three weeks ago, why we would EVER have to go to the library, but, there you go. It Must Be Done. So, park one vehicle, jump in the other, and go bother the quiet people. Hop out, go inside, children scatter. One I am able to track by the shrill nervous laughter--Oldest had found two girls from her class there, and they immediately all began acting like they were in their own rooms. Again, another pet peeve is people who treat the library like it's a hog-calling competition. I realize this is fast becoming a sign that I am just an old fart, but still. Come ON, folks! I tend to give a pass to other kids, because I figure their parents just haven't taught them well enough to know they shouldn't act like troglodytes. But ding-dernit all, MINE know better--although you'd never know it sometimes. So, YET ANOTHER lecture, given through clenched teeth, to PIPE DOWN. Receive Look of Hate, etc., etc. Finally got them all satisfied with books--Catherine found one that I remember from when Captain Kangaroo read it on his show--The Story of Ferdinand. It was a read-along book with a tape, which she greatly enjoyed listening to. After she tired of listening to the tape, she read it herself, charmingly pronouncing Ferdinand to be a "bool." ON to the park for the last game of the day. Jonathan's team was playing Chelsea, who had come from way, WAY down south on Highway 280 in Shelby County. Due to the fact that it was 190O, the rest of us bravely decided to stay in the van and watch from the hillside parking spot. ::sigh:: What to say? They played like they always do, with two boys in particular doing their dead-level best to steal the ball from their own teammates. Final score was something like 5-0 or 6-0. Jonathan did really well again, despite the heat, although he did take a hard shot in the wrist and then the ribs as he blocked a shot. And he really ran hard this time--not the odd little jumpskip he sometimes does. Obviously, though, one kid trying to play like a team doesn't go over real well. Back to the house, where I noted that the front yard needed to be mown. TO which, Miss Reba replied that she thought she would run to Lowe's and go buy plants. TO which, I responded that maybe we could first set out some of the pile of stuff we already have percolating in various pots and bowls and stuff, and, you know, maybe save a bit of money. TO which, there was much silence and no small amount of poutiness. ::sigh:: She managed to overcome that and dragged me to the backyard to discuss where I was going to put the existing stuff out. I looked around and around, trying to find a way to say again how much the front yard needed to be cut, but finding no easy way to say it, I said, "I think the corner right her by this tree would be good for the rose bush, but the crape myrtles might need more room." Moving, touching--I know the emotions you must be feeling right now, but control yourself. At this point, Catherine came out of the house in a bright tie-die colored swimsuit that fit her like shrink-wrap. "I WANNA PLAY IN THE WATER THING!" No. More pouting. Reba and I decided it might be good to repot the ton of small crape myrtle cuttings she has amassed from her mom's house, so we set about to clean out some old flower pots and dig the old roots out of them. Cat continued to run and beg for the hose to be turned on her, and then Jonathan came running outside with his swim trunks on. Good grief. Still, no. No soppy wet kids. I sat on the stone bench by the little pond I had made, and decided I really needed to fix the frog spitter. I had come to the conclusion it was leaking since after turning the pump off, no water drained out of the liner. Grabbed it, and found that the tube on the back was loose enough to pull off. Well, that explains that. Clamped it back on, powered it up, and once again a happy spitting frog. Yay. Went back to repotting plants, with some help from Rebecca, who enjoyed getting black dirt under her fingernails. For some reason. Finally got it all redone, and got the spray wand to clean the porch off. And spray the kids. I kept telling them to back up, but they wouldn't, so I had to let 'em have it. Nothing like being a kid in the water in the sun. I sprayed them and slung water on them and turned the hose off and back on again right in their face (it's a big shower head sprayer, so it didn't hurt them) and put it under their legs and on their heads and under their armpits and in a few minutes they were thoroughly saturated. And begging for more. I suppose I can cut the grass Tuesday night when I get home. SO, more water. Then Rebecca came out all dressed in her swimsuit and so I had to get her soppy wet, and then Ashley came down and got in the act. I went back inside to see what Reba was doing, and found her stacking up the books we had culled last week and putting them in boxes, so I helped with that a while until I heard the inevitable shriek of agony from outside. ::sigh:: Always happens. Not content to have fun, someone has to turn the whole exercise into a contest. Downstairs, turn off the water, roll up the hose, pass around recriminations and towels, and send everyone inside to go bathe. Suppertime, then bedtime, then churchtime. Sunday morning, two teachers call in. Beginning to get rather tiresome, you know? As is trying to get everyone to wake up and get dressed. I think I'm going to have to start getting them all up at 5 just to get out of the house on time. Of course, that's AWFULLY hard on me, so maybe not. Don't suggest alarm clocks--they all have them, and they all sleep right through them. Again, about the only thing that gets sure results is to do the Gunny Hartman route of beating on a garbage can with a swagger stick. (I don't really do that. However tempting it may be.) Finally got everyone going more-or-less toward the door, at about ten minutes later than usual. Which is fine--I mean, you know, the ol' blood pressure had dropped back down to normal during the night, and we can't have it hanging around not doing anything. Sunday school, then church, and then time to go meet my mom for lunch! About which, later--right now, I have a MEETING to go to! Yea, meetings!
But before I get to that--
I have been looking around the new Blooger interface (included the vaunted "Dashboard") and I notice that since December 20, 2001, I have made 3,901 posts. I think that's a whole bunch. All the new changes are detailed here. (Except for who came up with "Dashboard" as a name.)
So I get to the house Friday night and load up the family to go to Rebecca's game. I wish they would play with some consistency--this week they looked like they were trying to run in molasses. No energy at all, and we even had more substitutes this time than the other team. They did pretty well defensively, even though they did allow 3 goals--the bigger problem was offense. We only got one score, and it was due more luck than skill. Even Rebecca, who usually has a good game no matter what was off--she let a multitude of players get past her, and it looked like she wasn't paying attention. I guess it's hard to concentrate after having been in school all day.
And then, out to eat. Probably not the best thing to do, since it was edging down towards 8:30, but we hadn't had supper and everyone was hungry. So, we hopped over to Jim 'n Nick's. Hard to beat barbecue, you know. Which doesn't explain why none of us got barbecue. Reba and the two older girls got big salads, Boy got a basket of fried chicken fingers, Cat got a cheeseburger, and I got a catfish po' boy. The barbecue sure smelled good, though. And my sammich was really good, too--sorta salty, but nice and fresh tasting. I think the only reason we went there was because one of Catherine's student teachers also waits tables there, and SOMEone just HAD to go see where she worked. We saw her several times, and after Catherine got finished with her food, she insisted Mom take her to go see Miss Christy (or whatever he name is) so she could say hello. I think Cat and her teacher both enjoyed seeing each other, one as much as the other. Wound up not getting out of there until 10. Eating that late is not a good thing--at least for we non-trendy, provincial sorts whose bedtime is sundown. Home, into bed (or bath in the case of the stinky soccer one), and then up early again Saturday. Since Oldest's solo and ensemble competition was in the early slot, 8:30, I volunteered to take her so Reba could have a few more minutes to wake up and move around. And, well, you know, my blood pressure was feeling low, and I needed something to get it back up to a nice, consistent, cerebral aneurysm level. Woke Ashley up, kept hounding her to get dressed and get ready, then it was time to go and she hadn't even had breakfast yet due to her incessant dawdling. Grr. I grabbed up a couple of muffins out of the refrigerator and gave them to her with a bottle of water, and we headed out the door. Onto Main, left onto Deerfoot, over the river, and fifteen minutes after getting in the car, we were pulling into the street running alongside Clay-Chalkville High. Now, if you read the stuff on the link, you will find that this is a pretty darned big school campus. Which means it can be somewhat confusing if you have never been there before. Or, if your daughter has neglected to find out anything about where to go. As one end of the school building hove into view, I asked, "Okay, now, where are we supposed to go and park?" "I don't know." Said with the slight edge that intimates the anwereror is being put out by having to answer such an obviously stupid question. ::sigh:: There was a line of cars parked on the road (both sides, actually), and I think they might have been there for the soccer games that were going on over at the sports complex, but no matter. I parked and we started walking. After passing several likely entrances, we found the other end of the building and went on inside. Where I expected to find someone checking people in. Or something. "Okay, where to you go sign in?" "I don't know." Yes, you are sensing a theme here. We walked down the corridor, and finally started seeing signs directing us toward the registration area, then saw the director for the Hewitt band in the library with some fusty old dudes whom I took to be the judges. I was about to open the door when a lady with a look of horror on her face quickly walked over and asked if I needed help. Well, yeah. She asked Ashley who her director was, and said we needed to go to the cafeteria where everyone was warming up, and he would be there. Halfway there, one of her bandmates came up a side hall from the outside, and said the director was outside getting everyone signed up, but given the emerging sense that this was turning into a nice little Charlie Foxtrot, I was dubious that she was right. But her mom verified it, so we went out and sure enough, there he was. Sure would have been nice if this undisclosed location had been disclosed AHEAD of time, but hey, that's just me. Stood there behind some other kids, and each one was asked what his or her performance number was. I turned and asked Ashley, "Do you know what your number is?" "No." "Sir." "No, sir." ::sigh:: Luckily, there was a master sheet (which, come to find out later, had been posted in the Band Room the previous day so everyone could find out their number) so we eased over and found her name and her fellow ensemble members and the number. 58 and 66. The director gave her the grade sheets to fill out, judge's music sheet, and instructions. We sat down at one of the concrete tables and she started to fill things out. Well--not quite. "I DON'T have a pencil!" "He has some--go get one." She huffed off and came back and sat down, and after exactly five seconds of constant grunting and more huffing, she groaned, "I don't know HOW to fill this out!" Name, date, etc. Seemed pretty simple to me, but you know, I'm too stupid to even walk around, so what help could I be? "Just fill in what it says." "BUT WHAT DOES NAME OF ENSEMBLE MEAN!?" "Probably it means if your ensemble has a name, you fill that in--why don't you just go ask." Let someone else tell her. She stomped off then came back just as put out--"He told me to read the INSTRUCTIONS!" Imagine that. I had read them in her absence, and they seemed pretty darned clear to me--fill in your information, number the measures of the sheet music for the judge, and go warm up. She finally decided to leave the ensemble name blank. We went back over and the director looked it over, pronounced it filled out right, and told her, "Okay, go back to the warm-up room, find your other members, and just let them know you have already signed them in and you have the information." On to the cafeteria, which was full of noise. I asked Ashley which judge she was supposed to have. "I don't know." I saw the mother of the girl we had first ran into, and asked how they were supposed to know which judge's room to go to. She said she wasn't sure, but her daughter already knew when they got there which room it was. Hmmm. Sounds like someone wasn't paying attention again. I walked over to where Ashley and the flute-playing girl were jabbering. "Excuse me, sugar, but can you tell me how you knew which judge you were supposed to have?" "HUH?!" Grr. NOTHING sets me off like impolite kids who should KNOW BETTER. Her loud, vacant-headed, open-mouthed grunt nearly set me off into R. Lee Ermey mode with the standard speech I give my kids--"My name is NOT 'Huh' or 'What,' and if you do NOT understand me you WILL say 'Sir?' or 'Excuse me?" I honestly had to catch myself, but I did--it's poor form to dress down someone else's kid, especially when I know in the back of my mind that my own does it, too. Anyway, I asked again, and the little dear said it had been on the sheet posted in the band room. "Ashley, do you think maybe that the sheet that had your group's numbers on it might have also had your judge's number on it, too?" "OH, well, Clarinet Girl (not her real name) told me we were supposed to have judge 6 and 7!" "And what time are you supposed to be at each one?" Eye roll, and the heavy sigh that indicates your father is dain bramaged--"NINE-THIRTY, and NINE-FORTY!" "And which one is which--is judge 6 the one for 9:30 or the one for 9:40?" She opened her mouth with something tart to say, but then realized something... "I don't know." Imagine. Back to the director's table, where we found that indeed the judges were listed, along with the time. How 'bout that! Back inside, and I suggested we find the rooms ahead of time just to make sure where they were. "BUT Clarinet Girl and Trumpet Girl and Flute Girl aren't HERE!" I reassured her they would be there eventually, and it wouldn't hurt to see where she was supposed to be. Back up the corridor, found the proper classrooms, and then back to the cafeteria to let her warm up. I told her I had to go find a restroom, and I turned back to go see what I could find. Well, surely there is a boy's room somewhere, but it was nowhere nearby, and I wasn't about to go too far astray. Dad's Patented Sense of Looming Trouble, you know. Which came in handy. I had gone about twenty feet back down the corridor and was coming back toward the cafeteria when here came Oldest stomping down the hallway with Huh!? Girl--"Whoa, where are you goin..." Blew right past. Wrong. Move. Ahhhhhh, but the blood pressure is up nicely! "Ashley...Ashley..." She keeps right on, studiously keeping her head turned away and yammering as loud as she can at Huh!? Girl. Finally, to her eternal credit, Huh!? Girl turns and says, "Ashley, your dad is trying to tell you something." She stopped and I asked where she was going. "NO ONE is here yet, and Mr. Director said I HAVE to go find them and I HAVE to tell them I have their stuff and I HAVE to GO. FIND. THEM!" Short, terse lecture on A) Responsibility--her job was not to go running around, she would be better off to warm up. B) Common Sense--she didn't know where she was going, where anyone would be, or if she would find them, seeing as how they could be following each other around in circles. If they didn't come to the cafeteria first, they would go see Mr. Director, and he would send them on. No use to waste time. Go practice. That went over really well. She gave me her usual I Hate You look and turned around to storm into the cafeteria and saw one of her ensemble members waiting at the door. I resisted the urge to say 'I told you so.' And yes, I DO want a medal. They all ran back inside and started practicing, although they were still short a couple of folks, and it was getting close to time to begin. I gave up on trying to find the john and just leaned up against the corridor wall and watched people. Never having been a bandweeb, this confusion and noise was new to me. I can't for the life of me figure out how they could do any substantive practicing surrounded by everyone else doing their own music, but Miss Reba (a former bandweeb) tells me this is normal. As I stood there, I noticed that Ashley and her half-ensemble were headed full-steam back toward the door. ::sigh:: Not again! Just then, I suppose Ashley caught a glimpse of me through the door, because she stopped dead in her tracks and wheeled around and went back and grabbed her clarinet. Well, whaddya know. Wait some more, more kids pile in, and then about 9:15, another jailbreak is attempted. Oldest comes blowing out the door, again on a mission--"HO--where you going?" Going to go talk to Mr. Director again about the one remaining member who has not yet shown up. I followed along behind just to make sure they went where they said, and caught her as she was coming back--basically, if the other girl didn't show, they would just play without her. Imagine that. Back into the cafeteria, more noise, and I looked down at my watch to see that it was time for them to head out. I stepped to the door and caught Ashley's attention over across the room and tapped on my watch. She said something to the other girls, and they started playing again. Went on over, told the girls the instructions has said they needed to be at the room five minutes early, and they needed to go on. "OHHHHH!" Yes, instructions are your friend. They gathered up their junk and headed toward the door, and then halfway to the room, they found their other member (who was going to play in the second ensemble). Seems she lost her trumpet. The day before. Amazing. I mean, they're so large, you figure it would be hard to LOSE one. Then again, fourteen year olds... The director was telling her she could borrow someone's and then when Ashley and the other girls in her group got finished with their first number, they could get together in the cafeteria and go through it several times. Obviously, he was not aware they were supposed to be playing only 10 minutes apart. Again, Patented Sense of Impending, Etc. Went to the first judging, the girls went in, the girls came out, went well by all accounts. It was now seven minutes until their next performance. They all strolled back down to the cafeteria to find their trumpeteer, who by now had gotten herself someone else's instrument, and they blabbered for a minute before realizing they had to turn around and go right back. They played through their piece once, then took off again for the next judge. He was running behind, so they stood with some of the other girls from school and talked about how stupid everything is. One group came out, and the door locked behind them. Ashley decided this needed to be fixed, so after attempting to break off the handle, she took to pounding on the door. Yes, I realize sometimes I get somewhat hyperbolic in my descriptions, but sadly, not this time. I was standing across the hall and shook my head and mouthed, "STOP IT! He KNOWS you're out here!" but she was not dissuaded. Balled up her fist and WHAMWHAM! Geez. It'sjustaphaseIt'sjustaphaseIt'sjustaphase... The pallid old fellow finally opened the door and let them in, they played, then they came out. Back to collect their stuff, then outside to the courtyard to await the results. Well, how about that--both of her ensemble groups got Superior marks! She was very happy, which is a good thing. Off then to the car, stop at the convenience store for a cold drink and something to snack on, stop and get some gas in Mom's car, then head to the soccer park. About which, next.
Oh, what sort of bothersomeness is this!?
Got logged in to Blogger just now, and the whole interface has gone and changed--it used to be that you could see the posts from earlier, but now there's just an edit screen, and I don't see any way to search old posts. This comes in handy when I find someone who found Possumblog by searching on something with a misspelled word, and I can go back and erase my shame. WHO KNOWS what I'll have to do now?! --OH, wait, found it. Never mind. It does have a blockquote button now, which is nice I suppose--took 'em long enough. And there's something up at the top that you click and it says "Back to Dashboard." I shudder to think what all that entails. Anyway, stupid STUPID Blogger looks to be trying to spiff itself up, so I guess we have to give it some credit for that--and they do seem to have solved the Persistently Disappearing Archives problem, and there haven't been any systemwide crashes in a while. And it's still free, so who am I to complain? ANYway, more blather later, it's time for the MMM! See you in a bit. Friday, May 07, 2004
Well, here we are again.
It's getting close to the time when the foreman pulls the bird's tail and Fred slides down the brontosaurus tail and hops in his car. You know, they seemed to be pretty advanced for cavepeople, what with all sorts of the normal sorts of conveniences like telephones and Ann-Margrock, but I never could figure out why they didn't save their feet a little bit of wear and tear and hook up an animal to the front of their big tree trunk and stone cars. Oh, sure, it might look a little Amish, but still, they could have done better than just running along. I mean, why even have a car if you have to do that?! Where was I? OH YEAH, it's nearly time to go face the weekend. Tonight, soccer game at 7 for Middle Girl, then tomorrow morning we have Oldest having a solo and ensemble competition at 8 bleeding 30 a.m. up the road at Clay-Chalkville High, and Baby Girl has a soccer game at 9, and Boy has pictures at 11 and a game sometime after that, and there's the usual batch of housework that must be ignored, and then Sunday is Mother's Day, and I think we might even get to go see my mom! Speaking of Motherhood, and Middle Girl, and in conjunction with the earlier post about baby names, and in particular, Jordana's comment that I seemed to leave the impression I am less than thrilled to talk about the beauty of new life, I have decided to go ahead and tell you one of my heartwarming stories of the miracle of birth. Rebecca is actually the first of our kids I had any help in producing--as I have mentioned in my Valentine's Day posts for the past couple of years, Ashley was part of the family when I married into it. Anyway, after the normal nine months of waiting and watching Rebecca run laps around the inside of Reba's abdomen, it got to be time for the Big Event. We had gone to eat at the Shoney's in Eastwood to eat at the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, and about halfway through, Reba was obviously in no small amount of discomfort. We still ate our fill, though, before heading to the hospital. About six hours later, Little Rebecca entered the world, a screaming, red, 8 pound-13 ounce picture of robust, vigorous vitality. She was pretty as a peach, even if she looked exactly like me. Lots of pictures, lots of oohs and aahs from the staff, and then possibly the proudest moment of the entire ordeal. The nurse came in from the nursery, and passing by the plastic washtub containing everything else that was NOT Rebecca, she looked down and exclaimed in barely disguised awe, "God, would you look at the size of that placenta!" Kinda gets you right here, doesn't it? Anyway, that's about it for today--all of you stay safe and Lord willing I'll see you Monday.
As you all know...
...no one enjoys fine literature and flatulence more than I, so it was with great joy and noise that I received this link from Steevil (evil scientist brother of Dr. Weevil) regarding the brave stand of some good folks to insure that their children will continue to receive the finest in good books, without the jackboot of Ashcroftian tyranny crushing their hopes and dreams for a better world, a world in which all peoples can freely walk into their local libraries--proudly, with head held high--and read about farting dogs. I raise my pocky right ham and deliver to you good people a thunderous salute!
Speaking of baby names...
I found that "Terry" is currently the 400th most popular name among boys born in 2003, and is not even in the top 1,000 for the years 1990-2003 for girls. 1997 was the last year that "Terri" broke into the top 1,000, with a rank of 998. If you go to the 1,000 most popular list, after about the first 100, you start running into some real corkers--the 119th most popular girl name is Brooklyn--none of the other boroughs are mentioned, although I imagine somewhere, there probably is a child named Bronx. Or Manhattan. Likewise, the 181st most popular girl name is Genesis. No other books of the Pentateuch are mentioned, although, again, there is probably some poor kid getting beat up because his parents named him Deuteronomy. The 199th most popular name for boys is Damien, while oddly enough, the 666th most popular is Ryder. Number 237 is Xander. Buffy is strangely absent from the list. Kobe is the 268th most popular boy name, although I hear that attorneys are attempting to suppress that information. Neither Bush nor Kerry are in the top 1,000, although Clinton is the 737th most popular choice. (See comment about Kobe.) Mercedes is the 333rd most popular girl name, and parked right next to it at 332 is Christine. Odd coincidence since Christine the possessed Plymouth Fury was manufactured by Chrysler, which is now part of the Daimler/Chrysler organization who make Mercedes-Benz and no longer make Plymouth. (Lincoln is at 553 for boys, by the way.) Jesus is number 67, Abraham is 196, Moses is 503, and Mohammed is 605. As a testament to lack of creativity--Baby is the 767th most popular boy name, and the 969th most popular girl name. AND FINALLY, the 1,000th most popular boy and girl names are Zayne and Katy. Bless their hearts.
I realize NASCAR is real popular around here, but...
As I was returning from my noonday constitutional, I noticed a car parked at the curb belonging to one of the fine cadre of Mary Kay cosmetics consultants, and it had the big magnetic pink door sign placed neatly on the hood. Although that's great for when the cameras are on you as you come down out of Turn 2, that particular location does make it a bit hard for pedestrians to see. (Could be why the car wasn't a pink Cadillac, but a white econobox.)
I just went downstairs to purchase a refreshing can of Diet Coke...
...and noticed one of the wire newsracks in the snack bar was full of just-off-the-press Birmingham Weeklies. Or, maybe they were Black and Whites. I'm not real sure, because it occurred to me that I haven't read either one of them since I started Possumblog. Now, Birmingham is probably lucky (at least on some level) to have two independent alt-weeklies to choose from, and I used to be an avid reader of both. But I soon realized that I could get the same content immediately online, without having to wait a week for it, or wade through someone else's turgid writing to find it. (Wading through my own is enough, thanks.) Wacky news of the weird, cartoons, entertainment, opinion, lingerie ads--pretty much anything I could read in a weekly--I can find in just a few seconds on the computer. And despite the imprimatur of professionalism granted by using ink-on-pulp, there are hundreds of writers online who write better as a hobby than many do who write for a living. Occasionally, I will visit a sandwich shop that might have a few scattered around, and pick one up as a diversion, then notice five or six different things I have already commented on or linked to. I ran across this article at the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies' website from last year that did a rundown of the difficulty weeklies have had at maintaining their circulation numbers (and when you consider how poorly dailies have been performing, running in place isn't quite so bad) but the one quote that jumped out was from the publisher of the Chicago Reader, Jane Levine: [...] Still, while the Reader's circulation is down to 133,000 (ABC 12/02) from a peak of 137,000 in the late 1990s, Levine says she's moving "a ton of papers" from 1,400 distribution points in Chicago.
Anyway, I wonder how many of you have had the same experience--you used to read the alternatives, but now do most of your grazing online?
Best. Friends. EVER!
Wife got off late yesterday, and Rebecca had her team pictures to be done at 6, so we had to rejigger the normal pickup routine--I had her go by the house and pick up duffel bags full of cleats and balls and shin guards, and I would go get the kids from school, and then we'd meet back at the park where I would give her a Small Girl, and get clothing for the Middle Girl and Boy. I did this for a reason--basically, there are fewer people to socialize with at the house than at the school. She goes to pick up the kids, and feels compelled to spend fifteen or twenty minutes chatting with everyone about everything. No time for that yesterday. I got the kids, got to the park, sent Cat to the restroom to pee, and waited. The way I figured it, since we both got off at the same time, and it takes a few minutes less time to get to the house than the school, taking into account the time required to stuff bags with equipment, we should have arrived about the same time. The big hand climbed its way up toward 6 and I was starting to get worried when she finally came putting down the road and pulled in the parking lot--5:53. I shoved Cat into the back seat and gathered up the bags and water bottles, blew everyone a kiss and hustled Rebecca into the restroom to change into her uniform. Boy thankfully only had to put on his shin guards and cleats, so he sat at one of the concession stand tables and made himself at home. Bec popped out in her white-shirted-and-red-shorted glory after a minute or two--I wish I could get all of them to be such quick-change artists--and wandered on to the lower field to where the photographer was set up. Boy FINALLY got finished a few minutes later and we walked down to join her and her squealing teammates. Perfect afternoon for it--the sun was still bright, but it wasn't really hot, and the humidity had not started climbing, and the lower field was nice and shady, and the other teams were running and shouting, and you could hear the p-TINK of aluminum bats from the nearby baseball fields, and there was the whiff of hamburgers grilling, and to top it off, the nearly overpowering sweet smell of honeysuckle in full bloom back up in the woods beside the field. Hard to beat. Three individual poses were proposed by the photographer--kneeling on one knee, sitting with one knee raised, and prone with the soccer ball held coquettishly betwixt upraised feet. NO one wanted to just kneel--way too boring. Bec decided to sit, as did about half of the girls, and the other half thought the ball-tween-the-feet was better. While not engaged in posing, they ran around and bothered each other, alternately hugging and gossiping, or attempting to kill each other as they practiced takeaways. Sure was an expensive camera, just sitting there WAITING to get knocked over, but miraculously, it made it through just fine. Then time for the team picture, and some bright chick decided they needed to do a pyramid. One of Rebecca's teammates, CatCat, I think was the instigator of this--she kept trying to get someone in charge to agree to this deal, and then when no one would answer her, she ran up to me and politely shouted, "HEY! REBECCA'S DAD! DO YOU CARE IF WE DO A PYRAMID LIKE CHEERLEADERS?!" "Catherine, I REALLY don't think it's a good idea." So she went and asked someone else, and after she received several less-than-enthusiastic responses from other parents, the girls wisely decided to ignore the danger and go ahead and clamber on top of each other. They got a bottom layer and a middle done, and were trying to get the lightweight girls to finish it off when the whole mess of them fell over into a giggly pile of ponytails. Knew that was going to happen. So they were stuck with doing the boring pose--five sitting, five kneeling, four standing--then it was time for practice and to complain about not getting to finish their pyramid. While they warmed up, Boy and I went back up to the concession stand and got him some Chex Mix to snack on before his practice and me a Diet Coke, which came in handy later. Came back, and as Jonathan carefully ate his snack with his molars (to keep from hurting his braces, don't you know) I sat on the bench and listened in on CatCat's Mom and KayKay's (whose real name is Kaitlin, or Kaytlyn, or Caitlin, or something) Mom and Robin's Mom talk about how they picked baby names. Being a man, I was more or less invisible in this conversation, which was fine, 'cause if I had to choose one superpower, invisibility would be it. But not to listen to conversations. It got to be 7 and Boy trotted on off to his practice and Amanda's Dad came and set up his folding chair in a bit, and we carried on a much less animated guy conversation. "Hey." "Hey." When you're a guy, that actually means a great deal. Sat there some more as the girls practiced heading, then at the request of KayKay's Mom, I displayed my now mostly-healed little finger. She studied it very carefully and was very impressed. She's real nice like that. Watch the girls, feel the moisture in the air begin to make my head sopping wet, and then WHANG! Felt like one of the kids had kicked a ball hard into the bench--looked around and KayKay's Sister was on the ground with a startled look on her face, and as her mom jumped up, it was as if there were a five second broadcast delay in effect before the tyke (who is my Catherine's age) began wailing and screaming. Seems she had been running along and tripped, and sent her kneecap right into the end of the aluminum bench. No broken skin, but huge rivers of tears, which was made better by much pampering--the ladies all gathered her up and sat down, Amanda's Dad ran and got a Ziplock baggie and I fished out the hunk of crushed ice out of my Coke and dropped it in so she could put in on her rapidly swelling knee. By this time, the team was taking a water break, so all the other girls were soon crowding around offering even more petting and commiseration, and after all of that, she was soon feeling a bit better. On back to practice, which carried on and on, got through with Rebecca's then went across to the other set of bleachers where Jonathan's team had another thirty minutes to go, watched them and kicked the ball to Rebecca some, and then FINALLY it was time to go home. Back to the house, and by the time we got some food on some plates and actually got to kiss Miss Reba, the early local news was already on. There was some story about a teevee show that was going off the air, but it seems I missed it. I figure I didn't miss much. Thursday, May 06, 2004
Gee, I wonder if I need to spiff the place up any?
Blog-Tracking May Gain Ground Among U.S. Intelligence Officials By Doug Tsuruoka
The article goes on with much fervid pixel-chewing about nothing in particular, and then ends up with this little gem of wisdom-- [...] Some point to other dangers in using blogs for intelligence or news. Blogs can be used to spread lies or disinformation.
Anyway, for any of you in the spookish field looking for intelligence on Possumblog, best of luck to you. And all you newspaper folks can rest assured that 100% of everything you see on Possumblog is true. Some things are just more true than others.
New casino games aimed at attracting younger gamblers By LYNDA EDWARDS
Lawmakers in Catfight Over 'Sex Kitten' OTTAWA (Reuters) - Debate in Canada's parliament degenerated into shouts and catcalls on Wednesday when an opposition legislator committed what others saw as the sin of mispronouncing an Italian movie star's name.
First, silly persons, this is REALLY not something to argue about, especially when you're always tut-tutting the vapidity of your neighbors directly to the south. Second, silly persons--all you can think to do is rub shoulders? I suppose that's probably why there's no such thing as aging Canadian sex kittens.
Better nip this in the bud--Plaque stolen from Mayberry statue RALEIGH, N.C. (AP) -- Someone stole the plaque from a park statue commemorating "The Andy Griffith Show," the kind of theft that probably never would have happened in the fictional town of Mayberry.
Is Northern England greatly like the Southern United States? Perusing this site, I think so.
All fourteen pages brought to you by Famous NASA Scientist Steevil, who found it via Famous NASA Scientist Tim Blair. Remember, if you want to modify your vehicle, take it to a pro.
Bit late to be worried about that now--Rembrandts don't want to be 1-hit wonder
At least they can console themselves that they aren't quite as bad off as The Wellingtons.
Cargo Pilots Get Certified to Carry Guns in Cockpit ARTESIA, N.M. — Commercial jet pilots aren’t the only ones getting certified to carry weapons in the cockpit. Now those who command cargo planes are also training to defend themselves against inflight terrorist attacks.
And in all of this, the bigger question is why pilots have been deliberately put through such an onerous and inconvenient training regimen.
SOFT! Whut lite thru yonder winder breaks?
Why, ‘tis Thursday, and time for the Thursday Three! And get this, culture fans--this little bit of fluff has persevered for FIVE whole episodes! Who knew, springing as it did from such humble beginnings, that The Thursday Three would become so acclaimed and sought after as a way of wasting valuable time and energy?! Not me, that’s for sure. I realize it's kinda late, but there was a wreck on I-20/59 this morning just past Tallapoosa, and then when I got in I had my actual job to do, so BACK OFF! Ahem, uh, sorry. ANYway, I have been thinking about what to ask next, and after the usual headaches, phlegminess and rude noises, I have decided to get myself a lamp and make like Diogenes-- KNOWING that there is a certain stereotype of Southern politicians as being corrupt, venal, pin-headed, power-hungry, self-absorbed, crooked, petty, mendacious, avaricious betrayers of the public trust, ::cough::LowellBarron::cough:: I believe that surely there must be some out there who have done, or are doing, good. So then: 1) What one non-federal officeholder from the South, currently holding office, do you believe is doing an honest day’s work? 2) Have you yourself ever been a holder of any appointed or elected authority, board, agency, office, or position? 3) If you awoke one morning to find that you had been made King of the South, what is the first law would you repeal or decree forthwith for the benefit of your people? Well, for #1, I think I would say one of the members of the Jefferson County Commission, Mary M. Buckelew, who is over Technology and Land Development. She has always seemed tough, fair, intelligent, and honest, and those qualities have been recognized in her by others, as well. And even though she has a good many years on me, I think she’s hot. #2--yep, as I’ve mentioned before, I serve on my town’s Board of Zoning Adjustment, which is a position recommended by the mayor and approved by the city council. As I’ve also mentioned, I think serving on boards like this is a good way to contribute to your community in a non-partisan way, and it gives you a much better idea of what it’s like to balance opposing viewpoints while still remaining true to the law. It also makes you wish you had paid better attention in civics class. As King of the South, I would end any sort of retirement pay for former elected office holders, and limit state legislators to no more time in office than that they allow their governor. I think the professional politician class has had a much greater negative impact upon the South than most other parts of the county, mainly because our economic pie has always been a lot smaller. And a lot of that we have allowed to happen--possibly out of some misplaced sense that nothing can be done about it. OH, and I would also strip all public buildings of the names of living legislators. Yes, yes--I’m all for giving flowers to the living so they may enjoy their fragrance while they yet live, but I’d prefer it if these goobs would be satisfied with a nice bouquet from FTD. So there you go. AS ALWAYS, you need not speak with a drawl in order to participate. If you don't live in the South, pretend you do and come up with something--just like our politicians, you do get points for creative prevarication, you know. Leave a link in the comments if you have a blog, or just post your answers (remember there's a thousand character limit, though--so if you get all verbose and thoughty, it might take a couple of posts.) Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Oh, that wasn't so bad at all.
Sometime in there she decided to rack out on the floor, and after a nap and some more reading and a trip together downstairs to the snack bar to get her some T.G.I.Friday's® Potato Skins® and a Yoo-hoo®, I haven't heard a single complaint. (Be sure to get your free Yoo-hoo dreidel!) Anyway, we're about to hit the road in a few minutes, so I'll see you tomorrow. Which is THURSDAY, you know...
Okay, where was I?
Oh yeah, I was about to go get Oldest and bring her back here. hehe. Got to school after making a quick lunch stop at Wendy's. Yikes. The woman at Window Number One looked exactly like Carrot Top. The only thing better would have been for her to put her hair up in puffy pigtails and scream "I'M THE WENDY'S GIRL!!" Poor woman. She probably has people telling her that all the time. Anyway, go to school and told the gaggle of office help girls at the counter who I needed, then waited forever for Ashley to finally get there. The girls amused themselves by doing science homework--did you know that Mercury can get to be 450 degrees!? Celsius! Is that a lot? Well, YEAH! I know who sspspshh likes. But I'm sworn to Double DL secrecy not to tell. Down down low? NO, down down low low! On and on. Well, they may not LOOK like the 8th grade girls I went to school with back in the Dark Ages (since when did 14 year olds start looking like full grown women!?), but they all still act the same. Finally Oldest got there and seemed somewhat perky. I piled her in the van and went around to the other side--"Sure hope you don't mind, but you're going back to work with me. I've got exactly 20 minutes to get back." And here we are. I started my copies for the mailout tomorrow, and she has quietly--aside from a few attempts at guilt induction through assorted Ows and Ouches--reading her book. As I mentioned in the comments in the previous post, this is not quite the best situation in the world to have to have your kid at the office with you, but she has gotten into a pernicious sort of habit of calling saying she's sick, then recovering the moment she hits the door of the house. She hasn't quite gotten the message that it's a rather inconvenient thing for the adults to have to drive across town to tend to her, especially when her symptoms disappear. Just looks suspicious, you know? So, in the interest of making sure that I am able to adequately monitor her condition, perhaps this is for the best. (Although I am sure if only she had her CD player, things would be so much better.) SO, back at Wal-Mart last night, she had narrow her selection down to several 1970s chunky shoe design retreads and a pair of somewhat okay semiflats. You know, I lived through the 1970s, and we thought the clothes were stupid looking even then. Why anyone thinks different now is beyond me. We negotiated a bit, and after putting the platform monstrosities back, she found a nice pair of sandals in red. Had to be red. Or orange. Or yellow. "What is the background of the pants you're wearing?" "White--but not a lot. It's just in places." Oh--THOSE. They have big flowers on a white background. Again, it is my firm belief the 1970s deserved to die thirty years ago, but this is what I'm dealt. "Do you think maybe white would look better?" Much hemming and hawing, and finally she decided to try on a pair of the white in her size. They looked very nice--"And you know, the white tends to make your foot look slimmer." Yes, that was a bit of shameless psychological manipulation, but I've been shoe shopping TOO MANY TIMES with my girls, and the last thing I wanted to do was to stay at Wal-Mart for another six hours looking at Bandladesh-made platform huraches. She walked back and forth and admired them in the mirror, then came back and sat down, took them off, slapped the lid on them, and shoved them in the cart. "Oh--you're going to get them!?" Just enough surprised puzzlement to mask the voice in my head screaming, "GOOD! Now let's get out of here!" She nodded happily, and we finished the list of stuff and headed to the check out. Did that, and as we were about to walk out the door, I remembered the tee-shirt I was supposed to get. Once more--back to the boys' department, grab a shirt, check out, THEN home at last. Sure was a lot of effort just for lunch money.
Went to pick up the young'uns from school yesterday afternoon since Miss Reba had an appointment after work (about which, hopefully more later today) and the very moment I stopped the van on the driveway, Catherine had hopped up and was hanging over my shoulder, "CAN WE SWEEP!!?"
Wow, she's loud. And apparently on the verge of becoming neater. We had been outside Saturday and she decided that there were way too many leaves and too much potting soil scattered all over the patio, so she took it upon herself to go get the broom and start knocking stuff over and hitting the windows with the handle. And occasionally even managing to push a leaf or two out of the way. She didn't get finished before it was time to go in, but the diversion was so entertaining she's been bugging us to sweep the porch ever since. And since none of them had practice yesterday, time to sweep. We unloaded and I lowered the garage door and walked into the kitchen to see she had already dumped her backpack in the middle of the floor and taken off out the back door. Which was conveniently left open. "COME ON, DADDY!! WE HAVE TO SWEEEEEP!" ::sigh:: I walked out and saw that the little fountain was still full of water--it has had a disturbing tendency to run itself dry for some reason, and I figured there must be a hole in the liner or something. Must be the 'or something,' because the level was the same. Hmm. I grabbed the broom handle that was being swung at my head (I don't think she was deliberately trying to kill me) and we began the arduous task of cleaning out from under the bicycles and the overloaded catch-all table and the Welcome mat (yes, we actually have one) and the grille and the scattering of flowerpots. Actually, I did all the hard stuff, and Tiny Terror got off easy by getting to shove everything off into the grass. And then it was time for the feats of athletic skill. Boy and Oldest and Middle Girl had joined us outside with a soccer ball, intent on destruction and mayhem. After the second time an errant ball made the windows rattle, I made them get the beach ball out of the house. Itself a suggestion that created yet more controvesy, for the ball in question is Jonathan's extraspecial Braves Baseball beach ball, and should any harm befall it, or, you know, a girl touch it, it makes for many squalling fits of rage. Which, of course, soon followed as the ball was played with. ::sigh:: Sometime in there Mom got home and filled me in on her day, and suddenly two other little kids were in the yard. Neighbor kids from across the street who moved in recently. You know, I am very self-conscious about the way my kids act in public, but really they aren't so bad. Especially when compared to other kids. Who happened to have invaded my yard. One girl was nine, her sister was five, and the older one immediately, and loudly, asserted control and continued her bossy blabbering at top volume for the entire time they all played together. Blessedly, she somehow managed to hear her mother call for her. "I'LL BE BACK TOMORROW!!" she screamed. The kids told her we would be at church. "I'LL COME BACK THURSDAY!!" she screamed. They told her they all had soccer practice. "YOU JUST COME TO MY HOUSE, THEN!!" she screamed. Not bloody likely. Time for supper, then the Unforeseen Trip To Wal-Mart. We didn't actually need anything from Wal-Mart--I actually just needed cash to send with the kids for their lunch money this week (the lunchrooms have stopped taking checks since it's so close to the end of the year--yeah, I don't understand that either, but whatever), and rather than pay for getting it out of the ATM, I figured I would run down to the foot of the hill and pick up something from Food World and get some big-money change. "But Ashley wanted to go get some sandals tonight." ::sigh:: And then Jonathan piped up--"And I need a white tee-shirt for our school thing." "What school thing?" "Daaaad, you know." Umm. Okay. Best to cover my ignorance by changing the subject. "Well, son, don't you have a whole drawer full of white undershirts you could w..." He was already nodding his head no. "What happened to them!?" "I outgrew them all...remember?" Umm. Okay. This sure is getting to be an expensive lunch money excursion. Especially when you add in toilet paper, and toothpaste, and Phos-Flur Rinse, and deodorant, and yogurt, and bottled water. And sandals and a tee-shirt. Off to Wal-Mart, but just with me and Ashley, the rest having been forced to stay home to keep me from getting more gray hairs. Got there, got parked, got out, nodded to the elderly gent at the shopping carts, then sent Oldest back to do some preliminary looking at the shoes while I explored the health and beauty aids department. Got that done, found her, found she still has terrible taste in footwear. STOP THE PRESSES. ::sigh:: Gonna have to take a break here--just got a call from Oldest saying she is feeling oh so incredibly terrible and bad and terrible and bad. And bad. Against my better judgement, I'm going to go get her and drop her back at the house, where I am almost certain she will experience a wonderfully expeditious recovery. Heh. Wait a minute. I believe I will insist she come back here with me and stay in my office. I am sooooo mean.
Answering the age-old question--
If your neck is red, will your tattoos still show up real good? Again, what a country.
I've said it before, I'll say it again...
But one or the other of you is going to HAVE to change your name!--Protests Swell in Georgia Rebel Region Since the State of Georgia has a population of 8.56 million and is the birthplace of Joanne Woodward, DeForest Kelley, AND Burt Reynolds, and the Republic of Georgia only has 5.02 million people and very few places where you can get good barbecue, I think it's only fair for the one over there to change. It is nice that they have such swell protests, though. Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Proof that children should always wear a batting helmet--Nader upset over baseball uniform ads The Associated Press
The Super Bowl is like, SO three months ago, Ralph. (I guess he would have been much more upset had Janet flashed a T-Mobile nipple shield.) Tim Brosnan, baseball's executive vice president for business, has said he is open to considering additional uniform advertising in the future, but Selig and chief operating officer Bob DuPuy have said it is not under consideration.
Anyway, I don't particularly like uniforms filled up with logos and such--European soccer uniforms spring to mind, as does any race car driver's suit--but you know, this sort of overheated bilge makes it seem like the person saying it took a few too many high hard ones in the brain case.
I speak, and I get ACTION!
As you all no doubt recall, I mentioned (with no small amount of perturbation) my visit last month to the bank to pay my mortgage, and I noted that the sum I am forking over should entitle me to the pampering and attention one would bestow upon the Sultan of Brunei, or possibly even Shields and Yarnell. Well, my friends, the vast power of the Internet seems to have finally been translated into something beneficial. As I walked in, I was met by a team of four attractive young ladies who promptly seated me in a large, luxuriously-upholstered divan, which was floating on a cushion of air like an air hockey puck. Once I was very comfortable, another young lady (a tall, chestnut-haired girl named Bambi, I believe) wheeled out a giant plasma screen television and attached it in front of the divan, and quickly tuned it in to a Three Stooges marathon, then punched up a split screen, the other half filled with the History Channel. At this point, two of the girls had me recline. Removing my shoes, they proceded to rub my feet with a fragrant combination of olive oil, orange blossoms, and peppermint, then struck up a fascinating conversation with me regarding firearms, and then Ludwig von Mises. As we chatted, the president of the bank showed up to see if I was being well-taken care of. She was herself tall and tawny-hued, with a mane of tumbling dark blonde curls and eyes the color of lapis. I told her things had indeed gotten some better since last month, although I was a bit parched. She apologized profusely, and with a snap of her slim, yet strong fingers, an icy cold Diet Coke was brought to me in what appeared to be a Waterford decanter. One of the girls, who could have been a clone of the young Jane Russell, swiftly and efficiently poured a generous serving into a tumbler and held it up so that I could sip it without raising my head from the pillow upon which it rested. "Better?" asked the bank president. "Much," I said, "but I must not take so much of your time--I do have a payment to make, after all." She and the rest of the girls pouted. "Oh, must you? Why don't you just keep your money--we have all we will ever need!" "Yes," I said, "but, it is a matter of honor. I made an agreement, you know." They sagely nodded their respective, perfectly-coiffed heads in unison, and as I produced my check and my payment coupon, a high-cheekboned young redheaded lass appeared at my side and held aloft a silver charger, upon which I gently placed my papers. Like lightning, she flew away to the cashier, and in what seemed like only an instant, she was back again with a receipt and a winsome smile. My socks and my shoes (freshly polished by unseen hands) were placed back upon my feet, and I was lightly lifted from the divan, my clothes were straightened, and my hair was brushed back down, just-so. The bank president took my hand in hers and gave me a firm and businesslike, yet warm and comforting, handshake. She looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Please. Come back again. Soon." Not really. Same old crap, and today they didn't even have the cheap cookies and weak coffee sitting out. Maybe next month.
COOL!
Society of Automotive Engineers Establishes New SAE Alabama Section BIRMINGHAM, Ala., May 4 /PRNewswire/ -- The International Sections Board of the Society of Automotive Engineers (SAE) has formally approved the formation of the professional organization's first new section in 12 years -- SAE Alabama Section.
Oh, some of you might think my faux obsession with battered-and-fried-animals-on-a-stick to be disturbing, but that's only because you haven't read this.
Mmmmmmm. Puts me in the mood for fava beans and a nice Chianti.
Well, this is just dumb.
Mondale says Cheney changing role of VP By JEFF BARNARD
Mondale noted in a press conference that he was the first vice president to take a strong role in the executive branch, and said every vice president since has built on that model. Yes, I remember when the world was enthralled by the stunning Vice-Presidential strongman Fritz Mondale. Anyway, as long as he was the first strong veep, and everyone else has built on his ruggedly powerful pioneering efforts, it must be okay, right?Cheney, however, has taken the power of the office to a new level, operating, in effect, with his own National Security Council, Mondale said.
Yeah, I know, silly me. "Carter would never have tolerated me doing that, -- Hmmm. Maybe Mr. Carter is smarter than I ever gave him credit for being.-- and most presidents wouldn't tolerate, because it undermines the capacity of the president to hear it." [...] Hmm. Maybe so, maybe not. But I really doubt Mr. Cheney acts without having the President's approval. Mondale's conspiracy-tinged maunderings don't serve him well, and make him appear more like a jealous kid complaining that the principal is playing favorites.Then again, given this longish article in the Atlantic Monthly from January 1983, you kinda figure it might even be worse than that: [...] Mondale's first run at the presidency came in 1974, and it didn't last long. Like a car trying to start on a cold Minnesota morning, his campaign heaved and jerked and rattled, then expired, motionless. Mondale made his now-famous sheepish apology: "I don't think anyone should be President who is not willing to go through fire," he said. "Basically, I found that I did not have the overwhelming desire to be President which is essential for the kind of campaign that is required." Political professionals were vastly amused by the affair, and wrote Mondale off.
U.S. Accused of Cooking Fla. Panther Data
::sigh:: Yet another example of goverment mismanagement--you DON'T cook data. ON THE OTHER HAND, Possumblog Kitchens urges you to try our newest product, FLORIDA CORNTHERS! Cornbread-battered and deep-fried Florida Panther on a stick--MMmmmm! Bite One Today, Before It Bites YOU! (Available only while supplies last.)
Oh, so that's the euphemism he's using now... Clinton Writing Book Around the Clock-Vanity Fair LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Former President Bill Clinton says he is working round the clock to complete memoirs for which he received a $12 million advance, and friends say he is stuck on what has become his favorite subject: himself, according to a story in Vanity Fair on Monday.
Anson added that Clinton's "exhaustively analyzed marriage" seems healthy, too, despite gossip linking him to a multi-continent harem. Stories also have him intending to divorce Hillary... Nonsense, say friends, who relate witnessing manifold instances of stroking and smooching. [...] I feel rather ill.
Dahling--you look MAHvelous!
Cross-dressers stealing cars for nightclub jaunts, police say BIRMINGHAM, Ala. (AP) -- A group of joyriders has been taking expensive new cars from Alabama dealerships, then driving them to cross-dressing pageants at nightclubs before abandoning them, police said.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Via Marc the Tater Man--Something we all need to know about.
The Redneck Test I made a 29 out of 33, missing #4 (stupid me, I actually knew this at one time, but had forgotten), #14 (never knew that one), #19 (well, I swan--never heard of that), and #27 (I thought of another answer, but it was not the right one). I would like to contest #11, because it covers more than just P.C.
How could I forget?
More about Saturday night--as part of my continuing manliness, after the children were bundled off to bed, and after I had done some more computing work for one of them who needed pictures of stuff that lives on a coral reef, I took my big chair into the bathroom and opened up Salon d'Possum for business. Reba's been bugging me for two weeks now to help her paint her hair, and 11 o'clock on a Saturday night was about the only time I had an open appointment. Usually this doesn't take all that long, but little did I know that she had gotten some of the stuff that also includes a highlighting kit. ::sigh:: Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. So I mixed and squirted and squished and tried my best to keep from leaving Bride of Frankenstein stripes up her hair, more or less successfully. While it sat and cooked, I took off the handy gloves that fit only very tiny hands and sprawled on the bed to watch Saturday Night Live for a bit. Lindsay Lohan was the host. Hmm. She growed up real good. Finally got the hair work done, and to bed, and then back up again Sunday ready to go. Sorta. Got to church and found that I had to sub for the 3rd to 6th grade teacher, but I didn't mind so much since Rebecca and Jonathan are both in there and they tend to keep everyone else from misbehaving too badly. And at that age they all tend to actually listen pretty well and not try to out-smart aleck each other. For the most part. On then to worship, where I managed to stay very awake for some of the time, and then afterwards to the Chinese buffet for some lunch and gastric distress, then off for Riverchase for Rebecca's game against the Hoover Phantoms White '93. This is a sister team to the girls who trounced us in the tournament (Blue '93), and the girls seemed to be determined not to lose again. We got to the park and not only did it start sprinkling, it had also turned off REALLY cold, with a constant wind. I suppose this is blackberry winter, and we still have a bit of it today. Sorta uncomfortable, I suppose, but I also reckon it beats 100 degree heat and 100 percent humidity. What a game. Hoover (again, with a deep bench and around five or six subs to our one) came out and scored two points within the first fifteen minutes--one on a penalty and one on a regular shot on goal. But our girls didn't give up, and spent the next few minutes taking it to them, and had it tied up again by the half. Lots of jostling and hard play on both sides, but nothing too unsportsmanlike. Second half, we jumped out and scored a beautiful goal, and it stayed 3-2 until way in, until Hoover sneaked one between about four of our girls and scored. 3-3, and more hard play until about five minutes left when we managed another breakaway and scored. Almost had it won, but Hoover's girls managed one more good exchange and lofted one up to the top of the net to tie it up one last time. Incredibly good game, with no bad ref calls to speak of and no bad blood. Rebecca played on the right back the entire game without a break, and did a bang up job, saving at least two goals and assisting with a long kick to the forward that set up one of our goals. Poor thing was about spent by the end, though--the first half her goal kicks were going nearly to the midfield line, but by the end of the game she was barely clearing the 18 yard mark. She still gave as good as she got though, and ran her bottom off. And then got in the van and promptly started fussing with Jonathan over her GameBoy. ::sigh:: On back to church where I had a 4:30 meeting, and then to evening worship, where I once more valiantly stayed awake despite the sore tempations of Satan, who kept giving me visions of nice soft fluffy pillows and warm sea breezes. Thankfully, I had Jonathan under my arm, who, by the judicious application of his little needle-sharp elbows applied to my solar plexus as he wallowed on me, managed to keep me sufficiently conscious to the point that I looked pretty lively. Still, I fear I might have given myself away with all the snoring and drooling. Some supper, then home, where one child decided that her coral reef assignment was due today, and that she need to stay up and finish it. And then we had a little person who just recently was fitted with braces, as well as a nighttime headgear that was to be worn last night for the first time for the WHOLE NIGHT. Along about 2:30 this morning, he woke us both up with lots of moaning and groaning. Reba had to get up and smooth down his ruffled feathers, and after about an HOUR of pampering and soothing, he managed to sleep the rest of the night. Poor little buddy wasn't expecting his new tooth hardware to hurt quite so much. ANYway, that all's what happened this weekend. For some reason, I am still somewhat sleepy.
Incredible.
I hope this gets some attention. By DENIS D. GRAY, Associated Press Writer
[...] "We didn't come here to fire a single shot. Our rifles were just part of our equipment and uniforms. But we were prepared to repel an attack," says Col. Hugo Omar Orellana Calidonio, a 27-year army veteran who commands the Cuscatlan Battalion. [...]
Manliness, As Exemplified by Shaking Knees
Oh man, how I hate ladders. And heights. Which are usually only accessible via the former. Of all the things that I absolutely hate about being an architect, it's that annoying problem of having to check a roof. Flat ones are fine, as long as they have a nice high parapet. But then there are the ones that are only about a foot high. Eeeee-yah. And you can't act like you're scared, because the large burly guys who put all the stuff up there in the first place will laugh at you behind your back. But nothing is like a sloped roof. Except for maybe a sloped metal roof. Bleeh--full body shiver every time I think of that stuff. I just don't like heights, and there on the corner of my eave has hung a floodlight that came unmoored (I call it Unthello) sometime between when the house was painted and about a month ago when I first noticed it hanging there. Task--reattach it. Tools--the Amazing, Handy, Yet Too Shaky For Comfort Versa-Ladder; a cordless screwdriver; a somewhat tired chubby guy with an aversion to extra-groundular excursions; and a small boy to hold onto the ladder, and in the event of the law of gravity making itself known, to run inside and tell Mommy to call the ambulance. The ladder is interesting--it's a steel folding ladder that I bought it several years ago. It weighs a ton, and is supposed to be able to be locked into several different configurations--a vee, a double-u, an upside-down U, an ell--all of which, beside being valuable parts of the alphabet, are handy to have if you're trying to get around various shrubs or obstacles. Supposedly, you're even supposed to be able to use it like a scaffold, in the upside-down U mode. It is supposed to be strong enough to support elephants and the like, but you know, I really don't care. It's still a ladder and the way it's made it seems bouncy, and it has those three hinge points that seem to be nice and large and sturdy, but you just never know. I figured I would give it a link anyway today, but doing a bit of Googling, it seems the domain name has been taken over by prOn sites and other unrelated sources. Could be something to do with this Iowa case where one collapsed as a guy was using it so set ROOF TRUSSES. (I emphasize that only because it plays into my other fear of roofs.) Anyway, it appears they are no long made. Which makes me frightened in retrospect. Anywho, hefted and hauled that pup out of the garage, carefully unfolded it and made double sure all the hinge locks were set and then set about to swing it into place. A steel ladder is heavy. An 18ft long steel ladder that has been unfolded is heavy, and unweildy. In the extreme. I managed to stick one end down in the grass so it would hold still and walk it up until it landed on the side of the house, then I ooched the bottom over onto the patio. Went and got my screwdriver, a couple of likely-looking screws, and my small boy. "Son, I need you to stand right here and hold the side of the ladder so that it doesn't fall." "Okay, Daddy!" The idea of a tiny lad being able to arrest the fall of a multi-hundred pound man on the end of a heavy steel stick is laughable, I know, but as I said, I really needed him more as a way to communicate the result to his mother more than render any sort of stability to the enterprise. I took a deep breath and started clambering up until I was even with his bedroom window. Still too low. One more step, then another, with the ladder gently bobbing underneath me, and Boy commenting on the birds in the yard. "JUST HOLD ON, SON!" "Okay, Daddy!" I reached over--much too far for my liking--and saw that not only was the fixture dangling by its wires, one of the bulb holders was also broken off at the base. Well, big deal. I decided I wasn't about to go to the store and get a new one and replace everything--just let it dangle, and when the house burns down, I will be able to change it out while it's on the ground. I carefully took one of my screws from my clenched lips, tucked it into the fixture mounting hole, and ever so carefully got it threaded back into the hole in the soffit. Rzzip-rrzip. Whew. It took. I got the other and similarly got it started, then threaded the wires back into the hole and finished driving the screws home. SUCCESS!! Now to get down. By this time, Jonathan had started to gently tap his foot on the bottom rung, which, due to the particular length and material of the ladder and the load imposed upon it, amplified the tap until it felt like I was jumping rope. Well, that's the way it felt. I told him to please stop, and slowly made my way back down, until I once again felt the nice concrete under my feet. "Whew. That was sorta scary." "It WAS?!" "Yes." "How come?" Who knows? He ran back inside as I took the ladder back down, dropping it accidentally and nearly hitting the gas grill in the process, folded it back up, schlepped it back to the garage and sat down on the bench to rest for a moment. Went in and got something to drink as Reba worked on supper--"Jonathan said you got scared up there." Little loudmouth. Looks like I'm going to have to sit him down again and review the Man Code. Rule #54 distinctly says, "Never blab about another man's fears to his woman." Then again, I did break Rule #2, which is, "Never admit fear," so I suppose it's my own fault. Back outside, and time to get the wildflower meadow cut down. It actually looks kinda pretty, so I went around and snipped off some of the weeds--there was some yellow stuff, and some purple stuff, and some white stuff with yellow centers, and some blue stuff, stuck 'em in a cup of water and showed them to Miss Reba, who was incredibly umoved by them. Got out the bird seed and started filling the feeders--I had just gotten to the first one when I turned around and saw Catherine coming to help, hair unponytailed and looking like a fright wig, dressed in flip-flops, a tee shirt, and panties. (It's all part of my plan to position her as the next big thing after Christina Aguilera's star fades.) "CAT! You need clothes on to be out here!" "My tee shirt is long--see, it looks like a dwess!" It did come to her knees, but the effect was not one of wearing a dress, but rather, one of a small girl with no pants on. ::sigh:: "You wanna help?" Vigorous head shake yes, and she carefully scooped seed and let it run into the feeders, and then took some and made sure the squirrels and voles and shrews and mice and doves had something to eat. "Okay, 'bye!" and off she went back into the house. Cranked up the Murray, and started my rounds. Lots and lots of rounds. I suppose I need to sharpen the blade, because the grass was so long all it did was lay over under the blade instead of being clipped off. So I had to basically cut it all twice. Which took a long time, and made me think dark thoughts. Too much exhaust fumes, I suppose. But I guess it's best to think them there and then suppress them, instead of ranting and raving on here. Although probably less entertaining for you, but hey. All finished, put away the mower, rested a bit more on the bench, and then headed inside to eat supper (stir fry chicken and vegetables, Jim), and then time to get everyone ready for the next day. Next: Sunday, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!
Where was I?
That's not as much of a rhetorical question as it should be. Well, Friday I hurried home--make that the soccer park--to meet Reba and the offspring for Catherine's games. Got there, got a good space and just a few minutes later they all showed up, parked and started spilling out of the Focus like clowns our of a circus car. Boy, I sure do have noisy children. Off down to the field, got started promptly at 6, and prompty stopped when the thunderstorms moved in. I think they only got about half of that game played, but they were ahead 2-0, so we were declared the winner. As usual, we crowded onto the porch with everyone else, a soggy, sweaty, funky bunch if there ever was one, and waited to see if the next game at 7:30 was going to play. ::sigh:: It did. And just like the first one, the kids got out there and began playing, scored a couple of goals, and then had to stop. Home, wash clothes, put kids to bed, got ready for the really big day on Saturday. Up way too early, turned on the television, and promptly dropped back into bed and spooned up with Miss Reba for an hour or so. Every so often, I reminded us that we needed to get up and start getting ready or we'd be late. "Hey, you know, we need to get up and get dressed." "Mm." Yeah, me too. Finally did get up, and I threw on some jeans and my Hewitt Middle School gym shirt (a gift for doing a presentation to Ashley's class several years ago--it makes me feel young and vigorous when I wear it. Not really.) Got Boy and Cat and Middle Girl up and made them put on their uniforms, and started the process of getting Oldest out of her Bed of Righteously Indignant Superiority so she would get dressed. She always throws a fit about having to go with us. She has SOOOO much to do, you know. She was informed that since her usual routine was to pile up in the bed all day and read and act like she hated everyone, she could just as easily do that in the fresh air and sunshine. As you can imagine, that never seems to be very motivational. Whatever. Reba decided she needed to take a shower, and make breakfast, and do things, and stuff, and the clock was ticking away to time for us to leave. As always, that old conundrum of how to convince certain wives of mine that if we have to be somewhere at 8:30, we have to leave the house BEFORE 8:30. And in order to leave before 8:30, we have to be ready to GO before 8:30. And to be ready to go before 8:30, we have to GET READY TO GO before 8:30. Well, no time to explain it. It was time to leave, and no one except Catherine and I were ready to go, so we did and told Mommy she would have to find us later. Water bottle, ball, chair, hat and away. Found our spot on the field, they warmed up and I chatted with the mother of one of the kids on the other team, whose big sister is on Rebecca's team. We came to the conclusion that it was no fun to have to root against each other. Game started, and Cat's team and the other were tied for first place, both having won their rain-shortened games from the previous day. Catherine's team got soundly trounced--I think the final was 7-2 or something. (Reba and the rest of the crew showed up right before halftime, by the way.) Catherine played very well, considering. She sometimes still gets confused about the right side and left side of the field, and she likes to skip instead of run sometimes. All over with, then a short break for some refreshments, then time to crank right back up for the final game at 10:30. Which we also lost. Although by not quite so large a score. But still, Catherine's team came in second and got a trophy and a patch, which they all seemed to enjoy muchly. Time for some lunch, then time to head over to Clay for Jonathan's game against St. Barnabas. I'm not quite sure why it was in Clay, considering neither team is from there. It was available, I guess. Always hate to have to play there--one field, and it slopes noticeably downhill from one sideline to the other, and it has as many hillocks and hummocks as freshly plowed ground. I suppose if you play it all the time, you could figure out how to carom shots off of the various bumps and stuff, but otherwise it's not very entertaining. Especially when your team is getting waxed. Pitiful. I think it wound up being 7 or 8 to zip. There are about five boys who just don't quite seem to understand that if your teammate has the ball, you aren't supposed to run up and try to take it from him. Jonathan managed to play another pretty good game, all things considered--and yes, he was one of those who got the ball taken from him by a teammate. Who himself lost it to another player, who blew by him and scored. ::sigh:: Pack up, and head back to Trussville for the final game of the day versus the Vestavia Steamers. And yes, by this time I was building myself a nice rosy glow across my neck, even though it was cloudy most of the day. Oh well. What a good game it was, though. The girls played a good, hard, clean game, played their positions, and played smart. The Vestavia team is good, too, and had the benefit of several more substitutes--we had some girls out, and only had one sub--but the girls never seemed to slow down any. Final was 2-0 in our favor. Home at last, where I could at last rest for exactly three seconds. Then it was time for Manly Outdoor Yard Work and Home Repair! Details to follow!
Hail, citizen!
Once again your humble scribe has faced down the seething beast known as the weekend and emerged victorious! Sorta. Didn't quite get the furniture moved, and the books are still stuck in the back of the van. As for the rest of it, you'll just have to wait and see--right now, it's time for our exciting staff meeting! Hooray! Back in a bit. 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.
(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
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
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)
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.
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