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Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.) Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu. This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things. Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Okay!
I have to go now! Time to take myself and Tiny Terror over to see the dentist, so I need to head home. IN addition, you will also be seeing very little of new Possumblog tomorrow morning due to the intrusion of work into our happy little corner of nonwork. Oh well, it pays the bills. Mostly. Anyway, see you all later on tomorrow sometime.
Cool!
Many thanks to Ed Flinn over at Monkey Watch for the following tip down in the comments. I was having trouble getting Greek to show up with Blogger, and didn't realize there was a trick for this: Blogger will work fine with Unicode numeric codes, though, which you can generate easily here, and obtain stuff like Αταλαντα. It's so easy even aThanks again, Ed!
The Workaround.
Well, right off the bat, here, let me just say I realize this doesn’t really rank very high up there on the death/pestilence/disaster/mayhem scale. It is a complaint born of a soft modernity; a trivial thing in a trivial time where something so minor as a scrap of cardstock can be the subject of discussion. Now then, having dispensed with all of that: business cards. When I first came here, oh so many years ago, I ordered up some business cards. We have our own print shop down in the basement that prints up such things as well as envelopes and letterhead and directories and ballots and fire department giveaway calendars and other such bureaucratic chaff. It’s a pretty cool place, by the way--full of big pounding machinery and ink. Anyway, after a few months, my cards arrived (it IS a bureaucracy, after all) and they looked fine--a plain buff-colored, uncoated paper with a faintly inked official seal, name, title, department, phone, fax, address. Plain, but of that Joe Friday, ‘just the facts, ma’am’ plainness that says you’re a serious and conscientious keeper of the public trust. I used them happily for several years, until about three years ago when a small white box showed up on my desk. Hmm. How odd. I wasn’t out of my old ones, and I hadn’t ordered new ones. I opened the box--bright white, slick, and wrong. First off, my name. I use my middle name--yes, it creates all kinds of confusion with the uncreative amongst us who think that it’s illegal to use your middle name, but that’s the way it’s always been. My first business cards had it exactly right. These? First name, middle initial. Grr. Second? Well, my other cards had my actual telephone number on them, while these--due to a command decision made at the highest levels of power--were saddled with the telephone number of the front desk. In order to appear as though we’re so hotsy-totsy that we can’t answer our own stinkin’ phone (like Sgt. Friday had to do) it was thought that all calls MUST be directed to the appropriate party by the secretary. What this resulted in (after I finally finished using up all my good OLD cards) was the necessity of inking over my first name, writing my REAL name on the card in lieu of the middle initial, and scratching out the outer office phone number and writing in my direct line number. Yep, that’s real professional-looking, alright. The telephone thing is the worst--it wouldn’t be so bad to ring the outer office, if we had a dedicated receptionist, but the two secretaries we have are burdened with doing everything else, and answering the phones on top of all that makes them just that much more inefficient. And then there is the whole issue of personality. You know, when you call someplace, you kinda hope to get someone who can operate a telephone with a minimum of fuss. A calm, pleasant voice; one untainted by not-so-latent instability. But you see, unless you SPECIFICALLY hire for that, you’re really rolling the dice when you let just anyone pick up that handset. And since I’m going to all the trouble to write about it, you pretty much have to figure that the reason is, that when our turn came to roll the dice, we crapped out. I MUST make sure that I don’t let people call the front desk. I can say no more than that--I realize that truth is a defense to a claim of libel, but I dare not risk such a thing. Let’s just say, I feel COMPELLED to consistently, without fail, write in my own direct line. But, let’s face it--having to do all that marking out is a bit silly. I would be better served by just getting some cards with the correct information. Right? Yeah, right. BUT THEN, I walked into my boss’s office last week, and noticed on his file cabinet a box of business cards. I was waiting for him to finish a call, so I absent-mindedly pulled one out of the box and WHOA! An even MORE updated format than the bright slick white cards I had. The general info was all placed above the middle, with the address and junk over to the right, and the name below a line. Spiffy. But even more intriguing was the fact that the cards bore my boss’s direct line. AND they had his e-mail address at the bottom! Wow! It was all so--so Late 20th Century! After he got off the phone, I inquired how he managed to get his cards done that way. A long, roundabout story ensued. See, the format is set from on high, as I mentioned, so when he reordered his cards, he asked the secretary in the ordering-stuff division to let him know when the order went to the print shop. When the word came, he sneaked down and had a little friendly chat with the guy printing them, and told him he had a correction to make on the phone number, and, oh, by the way, could you put the e-mail address on there. So, when the cards showed up, nice, correct, cards! And a ROYALLY peeved supervisor of the ordering-stuff division. One doesn’t just go and MAKE CORRECTIONS like that--it’s not sanctioned by Holy Writ! All sorts of huffing and puffing and bluster of the sort that comes about in a martinetocracy. Well, fine. As always, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission, so I figured I’d give this a try too, in spite of an almost certain visit from Torquemada over this soon-to-be committed felonious act of nose-thumbing at the RULES. But, best to do a bit of groundwork first. First step was to attempt to make the new order look as though it was something that had already been done before. I didn’t want to just come out and say, “HEY! I want some just like My Boss with the e-mail and all on it!” Some subterfuge need be applied--I took one of his cards, whited-out his name, e-mail, and phone number, and then produced my name, my extension, and my e-mail address on Word, adjusted the font and font size to match the original (easy when they use plain old Arial italic), pasted it place, and ran a copy. It looks just like I had made a copy of a real business card, with my name and other information on there as if it had already been printed like that. This was then taken to the secretary who had given My Boss the head’s up in the first place, with the explanation that I knew it wasn’t exactly policy, but I like the idea that my business card would actually have some useful information on it. (A novel concept, no?) And she was already quite aware of why I wanted my telephone to ring at my desk rather than it being routed through Another Person. I took her aside and conspiratorially whispered, “Now, I know that Ordering-Stuff Boss was all upset with My Boss for doing this the first time, but, you know, could you maybe let me know when this order goes down, too, and maybe I could ask a favor of the print shop like My Boss did?” We’ll see how this turns out. If it doesn’t work out right, I’m just gonna print my own derned cards.
Feta Complis
Which has raised (or lowered) the bar for punnery on Possumblog to heights (or depths) heretofore thought impossible to achieve. Well done, Skinnydan! IN ANY EVENT, the little tray of appetizers went to school yesterday. But not without first being mauled by Oldest. Reba told me that as they were getting ready to leave yesterday, SOMEone thought she should put the tray in one of the still-not-put-away gift bags we still have cluttering the house. Reba told this person that the tray was too big to go in the bag, but since parents are so clueless, an attempt was made to shove the tray into the bag anyway. (By the way, the tray in question was an Hefty brand aluminum foil cake pan with a plastic cover I also got at the grocery store when I got the other stuff.) Anyway, as you can guess, the effort to place the tray in the too-small bag resulted, somehow, in the tray being dropped. Seeing as how the bits of cheese and vegetation were simply placed loosely in the cups and not affixed with epoxy, all of the phylo cups, and all of the contents scattered into the pan. Thank heavens the lid stayed on. Reba fixed them all back as best she could, although since SOMEone got in the car and insisted on holding the tray crooked, the short ride to school resulted in yet more carnage to the contents of the tray. Reba told her just to fix it when she had a place to lay them flat. As for the eating of them, Ashley apparently did a good enough job of warning her classmates that they were a highly sophisticated nosh, and should not be eaten if anyone didn't like peppers or olives or cheese. This must have worked, because only about half of the kids tried them, but the ones who did were universal in their praise of the item. She said a couple of kids even got several. AND there were enough left over for some of the teachers, again all of whom were quite impressed with this slapdash effort. I'm sure the attention and compliments made Oldest feel a twinge of pride at having such a cosmopolitan father/chef. As for the actual presentation, they didn't get to do it yesterday due to the time spent sampling the food that everyone else brought. She managed to get home with two ragged phylo cups more-or-less intact, although with their contents arrayed artfully all over the tray bottom. "Here, Dad--I saved one for you and for Mom." Aww. Since Reba was at school, I went ahead and sampled hers as well, after reassembling the pieces. And the taste? Eh. The phylo was pretty stale by the time it got to me; stale, yet mushy. The cheese and olive and pepper was good, though. But then again, it's hard to go wrong with that. Even if you do use old cheese.
Heard on the radio this morning--
"There is a Christmas tree in the right lane of I-65 southbound at I-459." A nice, festive, change from the more usual garnish of a ladder or bag of cement. Or tractor-trailer engulfed in flames.
Obscure Architectural Term of the Day! ENFILADE. The French system of aligning internal doors in a sequence so that a vista is obtained through a series of rooms when all the doors are open. They are usually placed close to the windows. The arrangement was introduced c. 1650 and became a feature of Baroque palace planning.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Groceries and all.
Was about to make the turn and head back toward the house--I was figuring on making a quick run to Food World at the foot of the hill. “Where’re you going?” “Grocery store?” “We’re going to Sam’s.” “Ah.” Sam’s. With four kids. And a large grocery list. And no grocery bags. “I was thinking--well, you know, they don’t have anything to carry…” Best not to finish that thought, mister. Sam’s, park, unload, enter, grab two buggies (what Northerners quaintly call “shopping carts”), and then go pee. Of course. After the pit stop, on then to go shopping--Boy and I were tasked with finding canned and boxed goods and detergent. That was fine--I like being around Boy, because he’s actually a good helper and doesn’t wander off. And it allows me to show him how to shop like a man--get what’s on the list, and get the cheapest unit price you can find. Don’t agonize over whether the oregano and polished glass shards spaghetti sauce is better than the roasted toenail and pesto--just get some plain old spaghetti sauce and GO! Finished up in about an hour by wrestling the 500 pound box of Gain detergent into the cart, and found the girls charging toward us with a stack of food, mostly of the “wow, that looks like it would be good if it was served in a restaurant” variety, although, thankfully, enough of the ‘just plain old food that requires preparation’ so that we can actually afford to eat some of it. Paid, and then tried to get it in the van without any boxes or bags. This worked about as well as anyone could have predicted. Home, and tried to set up a hand-to-hand brigade with Reba at the van, me at the deep freezer, and the kids arrayed in the middle. This worked about as well as anyone could have predicted. They never did really ever figure out the intent of the line was to facilitate the moving of rapidly-thawing stuff from the back of van to the freezer QUICKLY. There was much dispute about line order--oldest to youngest? Tallest to shortest? A honor roll to A-B honor roll? There were the findings about who got to hand what to whom, and how much each thing weighed, and why hamburgers aren’t made with ham, and gales of laughter when someone exerted her little tiny self a bit too much and popped out a raucous pants-ripping, thunder from down under. ::sigh:: Finally got everything stowed in the freezer, then moved to all the stuff that had been carefully thrown all over the kitchen floor. Pantry well stocked, time for laundry. Launder, launder, launder. And while this went on, I put away some of the stockings, and then thought I might put all the pictures we’d taken with my new digital camera onto the computer. Much easier than I ever thought it would be, which means you can expect to be assaulted with more photographic ephemera of my life--maybe even by tomorrow! I brought my camera with me today, and took some pictures around here and on my way to lunch. It might be good, or not. Baths and hair-washing for everyone, more clothes folding, Oldest finished her report (that I would be responsible for typing) and at some time toward the late evening I collapsed and went to sleep. Sunday, up, breakfast, get all the classbooks and Bibles out to the van, get wife and kids to van, learn that Ashley is also supposed to bring some sort of Greek food product for her presentation today, on to Sunday school, taught the 3rd-6th graders (a pretty good group, two of whom belong to me), preaching, then some sort of indeterminate time afterwards when we didn’t know if we’d be staying or going home to eat, decided to go home after everyone else had left, and made the decision that Reba would stay home and study and I would take Bec to the other side of the county for her Bible Bowl meet. Reba was still quite agitated that she had not studied enough (despite the fact that she allowed herself to become distracted in doing things she could just as easily allowed someone else named Terry to do) so she really needed just to calm down and not worry about going anywhere. Got home and noticed that in our haste to leave in the morning, I had neglected to lower the garage door. We usually park on the driveway facing the house, but with the unloading strategy I had used Saturday, I had backed in for ease of operation. And so, when we left, I blithely drove away, not looking back, and not realizing I had left it up. Sadly, upon our return, none of the junk in the garage or house had been stolen. Between lunch and time to leave with Rebecca, I was informed that someone wanted to know if we had anything with Greek letters on it that someone could copy and use to spell Alpha tau alpha lambda alpha nu tau alpha. [Hey, what can I say--Blogger hates Greek text--I tried to get it to work, but it won't.] Computer to the rescue. I printed that out, and then set in on transcribing the words of the report, judiciously applying some editation to them so they would make sense to someone other than a 14 year old girl. Didn’t get finished, but had to leave to get to my old stomping grounds side of town before 2:00. Hopped in the Focus with Middle Girl, and drove like a madman the 26.4 miles from Trussville to Adamsville in 30 minutes flat. Sadly, none of our teams won this time. Oh well. Back to home at a bit more sedate pace, stopping by to show Rebecca the house I used to live in (long since converted to a lawyer’s office) and the school where I attended (long since sold off to a church). ::sigh:: Home, put stuff away, gathered everyone up and headed back to church, got to lead singing--I had picked out songs that I thought would go with the text, only to find out the text had changed (oh well)--then on home, finished the Atalanta discourse, printed it out and gave it to Ashley to stick on the board, had supper, and then, “MOM! What are you going to fix for me to take tomorrow?” Oh, that was JUST the thing to say. More consternation and put-uponness for Reba, and much ignoring of the tribulation by Oldest, who ran over to the cookbook rack and started poring through a Greek cookbook, coming up with everything under the sun, none of which required anything LESS than two hours to fix. More growling. “Reba, don’t worry. I’ll go to the store and get something.” She had found some spanakopita the other day at Target, but it only served six, and Oldest has thirty people in her class, and it would have to be hot, and it was just a non-starter of an idea to begin with, which I thought would be rather obvious. “Don’t worry about that stuff.” We put away the supper plates and I sent the kids to get ready for bed (it being after 9:00 and all) and had just dumped a sack of trash into the big can in the garage when I turned around and was met by Oldest--“CAN I GO WITH YOU!?” Er. No. “No, sugar, you just need to finish your project and go to bed. It’s late. And you need your sleep. Don’t worry, I’m going to make you some Greek appetizers!” She couldn’t see it, but in my mind, I was making quote marks around “Greek.” On to the store, with the idea in my head of something cheap. Found a block of feta that went out of date today--regularly 5 bucks, it was marked down to 99 cents--some imported-from-Greece calamata olives, some imported-from-Greece Greek peppers, and some little made-in-America precooked phylo cups. Home, sliced peppers into rings, pitted and sliced olives, sliced feta into quarter inch chunks and placed in phylo cups and garnished with pepper ring and olive slice. Just like in Athens! (Athens, Alabama, maybe, but I am not one to quibble over mere geography.) I’ll see when I get home how these went over, although I did tell her to tell the rest of her 14 year old [goofball] class members that these weren’t candy, and if they didn’t like real, grown-up food, and were too immature to eat it without saying anything about the fact that olives are salty, NOT to get any of it. For some reason, I get the image of them throwing it all over the place. Anyway, we’ll see. Anyway, that’s what I did this weekend.
You’ve heard of the Summer of Love?
Well, this past weekend was the Weekend of Intense Anger! Or maybe the Winter of Our Discontent. Or something. Something LOUD. And full of much exasperated sighing! Setting the stage for the weekend was the inexplicable decision of Miss Reba to pick up the kids from her mom’s house, and rather than head home with them, take them with her to Michael’s to find some junk for Oldest to do her school project with. (“The story of which is coming up later,” he said ominously.) I don’t know why she does stuff like this--four kids, each one tired and hyper from being at school all day where they had to sit still and listen, let loose in a crafts store with approximately one hundred million craft items within reach to grabble and insult with their clumsy fingers, or, alternately, about forty different aisles down which they could disappear. All with one lone parent. A parent, who despite being somewhat strict, is much more likely to discipline said child-horde by angry scolding and assorted attempts at provoking guilty feelings. The U.N., as it were. It always leads to terrible stress for her, because they know they can get away with it, which makes Mama angry, and as we all know, if Mama ain’t happy... But I digress. I can go places with them by myself, but then they know that should they get crossways with me, it is only a short, quick, jaunt to the woodshed for a discussion of proper public behavior. It’s just as stressful for me as well as it is for Mom, but at least my way, they do what they’re told and act more or less human around decent folks. In any event, it’s always better if we go together when we go shopping, because we can at least mount a more effective zone defense. Anyway, the trip to Michael’s wasn’t a good one, and it didn’t help any for me to remind the driver that she should’ve come and gotten me so we could all go together, or alternately, so that she and Ashley could have gone by themselves. I should know better by now than to make such helpful suggestions ex post facto, but whadda I know?! Luckily, she was able to get what she needed for the project. A project about the Greek goddess Atalanta, Goddess of Coca-Cola and Stone Mountain. (Not really.) Anyway, Ashley and another girl were supposed to be doing a “group” project about Atalanta and Hippomenes (as an aside, I do wonder if the project had been about Biblical literature, how much of a stink the Establishment Clause folks would have raised) and at first the plan was for the kid to come to our house and for them to work on it on one of our computers. “EEK,” I said. Two reasons: one--our house, sixteen days past Christmas, STILL looks like a Wal-Mart hit by a tornado, and two, the idea of letting loose two 14 year old girls who don’t know how to type onto my machinery is not my idea of a valuable learning experience. Somehow, thankfully, Oldest and Friend decided to work together independently, one on the girl half of the duo, the other on ol’ Hippoman. Apparently there is some kind of an extra point thing here, and students were encouraged to make the presentation interesting. Asking 14 year olds to be creative without offering any guidelines is a bad idea. Let’s just say that the idea of various costumery was put away back into Pandora’s box, and the story was to be told using various artworks (call me crazy, but I don’t think Atalanta looks like she spends much time on the track in this painting) and verbiage printed out and put onto your standard folding cardboard backdrop. In addition, there were also the visual props of some gold-painted apples purchased from Michael’s--your choice for cheesy Greek mythological accouterments. Reba, despite constant protestations that she needed to study for her test tonight, still decided it would be her task to find the various artworks to paste on the board. Since it was computer stuff, though, I felt compelled to show her how to search for images using Google, rather than wandering around all over the place, and she worked on it the rest of Friday evening. That mostly done, Miss Reba got ready for bed and told me she wanted to get up early Saturday, go get some breakfast at Cracker Barrel, and then go get groceries. I have no idea why--Cracker Barrel is so slow you could use Stonehenge to measure the time it takes to get your food, and after the previous trip with all of the kids to Michael’s, a trip to the grocery store seemed very odd indeed. “Okeedoke!” I wasn’t about to question the reasoning. Sleep then, snore loudly, awake to a houseful of kids abusing the peace and quiet with cartoons and loud laughter. Urgh. Tell them to be quiet, drift back off, Reba gets up and takes a shower, kids continue loud cackling and gleeful mayhem, voice tells me that it’s nine o’clock and we need to go. ::sigh:: Up, check to see that kids aren’t ready to go either, issue directives to get dressed so we can go eat at CRACKER BARREL! YEA!, and then go take my shower, get dressed, shave, brush my hairs and my teeth, walk out of the bathroom about 9:30 and see that everyone is in the exact same position and state of dishabille as when I first got up. I summoned up the spirit of Gunny Hartman and in a little while they were ready to go. Restaurant, park, walk in, told there’s a 20 minute wait. Of course. Look at bricabrac, watch Ashley beat Catherine in a game of checkers and then watch her in the process of losing to Rebecca when our name is called. Probably for the best that Rebecca didn’t get to finish the game--the veiled taunting and not-so-veiled screaming response would not be a good thing. Sit down to eat, and Oldest begins process of being a turd--“Let me guess--we’re not going to eat LUNCH today, ARE we?!” At this time, it was approximately 10:45. “Well, I can tell you we’re not going to eat lunch at ELEVEN!” She’s a lot like Reba’s dad, in that she believes she must eat three meals a day, and at the appropriate, proscribed by law mealtimes, or else she will starve to death and blow away. In her mind, to do something like have brunch and supper means we HATE HER and SHE NEVER GETS HER WAY and is a PERSONAL INSULT and other such claptrap. ::it’sonlyaphase::it’sonlyaphase::it’sonlyaphase:: And sure enough, had we already eaten breakfast and had been ordering lunch, it would not have arrived at 11. Or even 11:30. It would have been at noon, like a real lunch. That’s some slow service, even taking into account that it took the indecisive amongst us about TWENTY FLIPPIN’ MINUTES to make up their minds. Not that I’m complaining. Gave me plenty of time for people-watching. Some very interesting people eat at Cracker Barrel. Present company included. Finally finished up, and then it was time to head to the grocery store. ::sigh:: More about that in just a little while!
DNC chairman candidates focus on South By HARRY R. WEBER
Dean and the other candidates seeking to replace Terry McAuliffe as the face of the Democratic Party spoke before a Southern audience at the first of several regional caucuses to give Democratic Party officials a chance to hear from them. [...]
Also running for the spot are former Texas Rep. Martin Frost, Democratic strategist Donnie Fowler, former Indiana Rep. Tim Roemer, former Ohio state Democratic Party chair David Leland and Simon Rosenberg, head of the New Democrat Network.
Tennessee Gov. Phil Bredesen, a fellow Democrat, told the candidates that the party needs to listen more to local officials. He said he is proof that Democrats know how to win on the statewide level in the South, and that can be translated to the presidential election with a more comprehensive strategy.
CBS Fires 4 Execs Over Bush Guard Memo By DAVID BAUDER, AP Television Writer
Well, now, THIS is cool--Civil War Maps Placed on the Internet By CARL HARTMAN, Associated Press Writer
Neat stuff. By the way, should any of you cartophiles ever get this way, don't miss the Rucker Agee map collection over at the Linn-Henley Library, some of which is cataloged by the University of Alabama geography department on their website. Again, some neat stuff.
Weekend (n.)
"The end of the week, especially the period from Friday evening through Sunday evening." Also notable in the amount of activity crammed into it, and the inversely proportional amount of sleep engaged in. My brain is now 58% mushier! Which should be interesting as I later relate to you tales of fascinating mundanity from Paradise Along the Pinchgut, containing as they do the Saga of Atalanta (Now with Feta Cheese!), Not Cleaning, Grocery Shopping, Cracker Barrel, Bible Bowling, LAUNDRY, and Digital Photograph Transferring Made Simple! Yes, I know, I can hardly wait to read it as well. BUT FIRST, as always, our Monday Staff Meeting awaits, and I need the sleep. I'll be back shortly. Friday, January 07, 2005
I gotta sign off for today, seeing as how I have paying work to do. More walking around outside! Hurray! (Not really.)
All of you have a safe and happy weekend, and come back Monday and let's see what all we can get into. P.S.: Happy blogging anniversary, Mr. Schranck!
"When I first seen it, I pretty near died laughing," he said.
Heaven help us if Chet the E-Mail Boy gets it in his head to try a derned-fool stunt like this.
Amazing how a short walk can clear the mind!
I just got back from lunch, and during my walk back I was struck by a brilliant idea for The Next Big Thing in fashion, after seeing two guys walking toward me: window washer harnesses! They were on their lunch break, too, and apparently didn't want to have to get out of, then back into, their gear, so they were swaggering down the street in their harnesses. Think of it! Ruggedly purposeful, with just a touch of dare-deviltry, it would look right at home for those casual Fridays OR in the boardroom!
Back to School
Subtitled, Not That I Would Ever Complain-- Wednesday was the day the kids went back to school--Rebecca and Jonathan seemed eager enough, but since Ashley is on block schedule, she was beside herself not knowing what stuff she was going to need. As can be guessed, this produced in her a brisk, renewed churlishness and self-centeredness. ::sigh:: Anyway, Wednesday was fine, and Ashley got her supply list and so after church I took Reba’s car to go get gas and get the stuff on the list. Went to Sam’s for good cheap gas--closed. ::sigh:: Went on over to Wal-Mart across the road, which was being thronged by every other high schooler in town looking for junk. It was like concert tickets had just gone on sale to some show that all the kids want to listen to--who’s hot with the young folks now, Duran Duran? MC Hammer? Anyway, exasperated, blue-vested associates were carrying around boxes of paper and folders and pens and glue and the merchandise was getting snapped up before it even got to the shelf. I needed graph paper, filler paper, and a stupid TI-34 calculator to replace the calculator that had belonged to Reba and was loaned to our student, and who then promptly “lost” it on the first day of class back in the fall. ::grr:: (A loss, by the way, blamed by that student, on said student’s parents. ::GRR::) Oh, and you can’t just get a cheapo Casio that does the same stuff--it just HAS to be a TI, or someone might SAY SOMETHING! ::sigh:: Found the calculator, then went back and got three packs of notebook paper, then headed down the aisle clotted with a variety of kids--sk8trzz, Goths, preps, cheerleaders--I picked out the cheerleaders because they had tiny shorts on and deeply tanned legs, right in the middle of winter. Amazing-looking girls in my hometown (as I have related to you on many past entries) but one word of advice, ladies--all of that effort at sexiness sorta evaporates when you’re walking down the front aisle in Wal-Mart in your shorts, and you reach around and pull your thong out of your butt crack. I’m just saying… Back to the paper aisle--there was a Wal-Marter lady standing on a ladder getting stuff off the top shelf, surrounded by a puddle of teens and their parents below jabbering and jostling. I was back a bit behind everyone, and managed to get the ladder lady’s attention and quietly mouthed, “Have any graph paper?” She seemed relieved I wasn’t screaming or angry, and she kinda halfway winked and pulled a three-pack of quadrille pads from out of nowhere, like when Tweety Bird pulls a giant mallet out from behind his back. Got all that stuff, paid, and headed home. Obviously, there was other stuff to be got. Just neglected to tell old Dad, you know. No matter, said I, because there was always Thursday night to go back and get the stuff I didn’t know about. SO, last night, the Quest for Book Covers! See, one of her teachers wanted them to get their books covered. I, being an old fart and all, fondly remember getting brown paper sacks and cutting them up to put covers on my books, but this being a bright shiny modern world of tomorrow sort of time, Reba informed me that there were actually covers you could buy to go on books. “Yes, Terry--they’re cloth and they stretch on.” “You know, back when I was young, you just put brown paper on your schoolbooks and, and-- It was a lot cheaper, and--” I was being met with the Blank Stare of Sudden Violent Death, telling me that despite the fact that paper would be good enough, SOMEONE MIGHT SAY SOMETHING if they books were not safely ensconced in something manufactured in a Taiwanese sweatshop. ::sigh:: I gave up trying to make a point and listened to the rest of the listing, “OH, and she needs a world atlas, and the binder we had last night was only an inch and a half, so she needs a 3 inch.” “AND I NEED SOME PUFF’S PLUS WITH LOTION FOR CLASS!” I asked Oldest why she needed this, when at our house we rely on the handy roll form of paper found conveniently in each bathroom. “::sigh+eyeroll:: DAaaad--because I will get extra credit!” Oh, well, yes--that’s so bleedingly obvious I was a fool for asking. Supper fixed (baked chicken and green beans!), told Boy to get in the tub and get bathed, told Cat to get ready to go to bed--“Eight o’clock tonight, you hear?”--and started getting ready to go back out the door. I hear from upstairs, “WELL! I can’t do ANY more of my homework, because I DON’T have an ATLAS!” ::sigh:: I went to the stairs and looked up at the door to her room, “Ashley, I am about to go GET you an atlas, but it’s not like we don’t already have any. What are you trying to do?” “I HAVE TO DRAW A STUPID MAP OF ANTARCTICA, and IT’S NOT IN MY BOOK and--” “Whoa. Look, just get the A encyclopedia and look under Antarctica. I guarantee you there’ll be a map there you can look at.” This led to much grumbling, because, you know, an encyclopedia is NOT an ATLAS, and SOMEONE MIGHT SAY SOMETHING. I figured I’d be really safe about the whole thing, though, just to tamp down any chance that she might decide the encyclopedia just wouldn’t do, so I got my giant National Geographic world atlas and looked up the map for her. “Hey, Ashley--here’s a great big map you can use.” She came down to the first landing and looked at what I had found. “But I have to draw it on the BOTTOM of my paper, and--“ “Oh, look, here’s a little tiny version down in the corner--I bet that would fit just fine!” She grudgingly took the book and went on upstairs, knowing she was actually going to have to do something and not just sit and blame everyone else for her work not getting done. NOW THEN, back to trying to go get book covers! I went upstairs to find Miss Reba, because I wanted to hear once more, for my own edification and sanity, the absolute final word on these marvelous covers, just to be sure I got the right thing. “Okay, now what am I supposed to be looking for?” Speaking as one does to a small child, she gently explained that they are stretchy fabric covers and they are in the crafts section at Wal-Mart. And they apparently available in a variety of colors, for I was ordered by the book-holder to procure one in red, in gold, and in silver. 7:50, out the door, with a warning to Tiny Terror to be SURE to get in bed by eight. First stop, down to the foot of the hill to Books a Million to find an atlas. Just a plain, small, paperback atlas. Bingo--right where they belong in the reference section, which I found after about ten minutes of looking at other things I wish I had time to read. Paid, and as I was going out the door, I wondered if I should go down the parking lot to Target, just to see if they had some of those book covers. And I could get the Puffs tissue and the three-inch, three-ring binder there, too. Nah. Wal-Mart was told to me, and to Wal-Mart I will go. Got in the car and headed toward the interstate to take the long shortcut up I-59 and looked at my watch--only 8:20--pretty good time. I decided I would use my new emergency-use-only cell-phone I gave myself for Christmas to check in and make sure someone was in the bed. Sure enough, she was still up and ripping around the house, so Daddy sent a special message to get in the bed, which seemed to work. Told Headquarters I would return to base shortly. To Wallyworld for the second time in as many days. Not quite so busy as the night before, but still pretty full of kids picking over the leftovers from the previous night. Found the binder right off, so I snagged that and then strode manfully back to crafts. Looked. Looked. Looked. Hmm. Looked. Looked. Searched. Explored. Hunted. Gazed. Shopped. Every other synonym for this activity. I finally broke down and asked the girl who was cutting fabric where the book covers were. “Oh, they’d be over in stationery.” ::sigh:: Well, at least they had some, right? Walked back to school supplies and repeated my quest. Up and down every aisle. Nope. Believe it or not, the exasperation made me sigh! Yes, hard to believe, I know, but it did! Back again to crafts, repeat the first search pattern. No dice. And then I became one of those people I vowed I would never become. Those people who shop by cell phone. I am doomed. I hated with every fiber having to do it, not only for myself but for Reba, who was trying to study for her final exam Monday night. But, I dialed home again and got Reba on the phone to talk me in for a landing. Let me just say, I picked the wrong week to give up sniffing glue. Likewise, I’ll never forget Macho Grande. Anyway... “Uh, hey, it’s me [duh Ed.], I have looked all over for these things, Reba, and I can’t find them anywhere. Exactly where in crafts are they?!” More slow and methodical speech such as one would direct toward a child or other one-celled organism--“They are over by the scrapbook things, Terry.” “Okay, now, I have looked there three times, so hold on a minute…” And I walked there holding my phone, like the great hulking goober I am. “Now, I’m in scrapbooks--” “Go over to where the sheet filler papers are--” “Okay, I’m at the papers--” “Look at the rack of papers, and then behind you there will be little plastic bags, and they will say ‘book covers’--” Hmm. Well, there was a rack of paper in front of me, and a rack behind me, and nothing that looked like book covers. “Reba, there’s paper on both sides--and I don’t see anything that says book covers.” “Oh. Well, did you look over in school supplies? Sometimes they’re over there.” ::sigh:: “Yep, I’ve been through there twice.” “Hmm. I guess they don’t have them then. It’s too late to go by Michael’s [next door to Books a Million--Ed.] so why don’t you go back to Target and get some--they had some the last time we were there.” It being impolite to have a sudden crying jag in the middle of a large discount retailer, I bit my tongue and told my better half I would be home. Eventually. Got my Puffs and put them with my binder, paid, and headed out the door again, BACK to where I could have gone earlier. Driving along, I thought about how nice it would be just to, you know, relive those exciting days of yesteryear, when brown paper bags were to be had just for the asking--no, no. Mustn’t dwell in the past. Target again, now. Walked in to the quiet store and went to the stationery. Looked, etc., etc. Every aisle, twice. Guess what? Target doesn’t have decorative slip-on book covers, either. In one last fit of desperation, I decided that I should go look at Books a Million. I looked a little bit and found various accessories, but no stretchy fabric covers. I thought I should ask, just to make sure. I went to the checkout where the attractive girl with the large nose was working--“Do you have any book covers.” “NO.” I wasn’t quite sure how I would have reacted if they would have had them--probably would have wanted to commit seppuku with a spoon or something. It actually was a relief, in a way, that they didn’t have any either. Although it would have been a pretty good way to make me have those odd, cartoon-like birds fly around my head and hear aa-OO-ga horns blowing out from my ears with the accompaniment of little clouds of steam. I headed back home and got in the house--10 p.m. ::sigh:: I related the details of my vain quest, which brought forth the plaintive screech from Oldest of, “BUT WHAT ABOUT MY BOOKS! I HAVE TO HAVE COVERS ON THEM!” “Well, Ashley, you’re just going to have to wait.” “BUT WE’LL GET COUNTED OFF IF WE DON’T HAVE COVERS!” “Okay, then--do this. Get some plain brown wrapping paper and fix them.” She just stared at my as if I had suddenly sprouted three extra heads. She moped and dawdled around, and had to be shown where the paper was, and generally just acted helpless. I finally told her to just go take her shower and we’d fix them for her. “We.” I’m such a doof, you know? Reba had grabbed up the paper and scissors and tape left over from gift wrapping and took the roll of shiny paper Ashley had picked out and set about to cover them. Fine--keeps me from having to do it. Ashley finally went to the bathroom, and I settled in to listen to the news a bit and catch up on some reading while lying on the bed. Reba struggled and fumed, but I dared not make any suggestions that would intimate that she might need some help. She got one done, and the cover didn’t close when it was finished. She angrily tore the paper off and threw it away, so I very quietly asked if she would like me to try it. “FINE!” I put my magazine down and walked around to the other side of the bed. First thing--I got the brown paper. Some tape, some fancy scissorwork, there. I showed it to Reba, who looked at it. Second book, I used the shiny holographic wrapping paper preferred by 14 year old girls. Harder to manage, but, managed it was. Two books, covered. I laid them outside the bathroom door and put away the paper supplies and had just lain back down when Oldest came out of the bathroom and found her books. “Thanks, Mom!” When Mom said Dad was actually the one who had done it, I have a feeling she probably was perturbed that she couldn’t complain about them, but she did finally thank me before going off to bed. Which I suppose is pretty good.
Something old, something borrowed...
Unscrolling sacred texts GREG GARRISON
Your Tax Dollars At Work--Montevallo sinkhole fixed; official calls it `quite a hole'
It's pretty big, but as the article notes, it's not up there with the Golly Hole.
A Texabama Story--Y'all listen up! By Howard Witt
I've said it before, but it bears repeating--just because a man talks slow doesn't mean he thinks slow. Anyway, a fun little article--from the accompanying glossary, some of the things that aren't exclusive to Texas and can be heard around here include: y'all (obviously), fixing to, might could, mosquito hawk, snap beans, pulleybone, polecat, cold drink, dinner on the ground, and potluck dinner.
I saw this yesterday and meant to comment on it--Stone Surprised by Poor Response to Epic
Oliver Stone Surprised by Poor Response to 'Alexander,' Blames 'Fundamentalism' in U.S. [...] "I was quite taken aback by the controversy and fierceness of the reviews about a character we don't really know too much about," Stone told reporters in London Wednesday before the film's British premiere.
It might not have occurred to Mr. Stone, but people might not have come to see the movie because it's getting pretty easy to spot a stinker. I remember seeing the trailers for it long before I heard any pre-release commentary about it, and I sat there thinking that it looked like an overdone pile of crap. The later reviews only confirmed my suspicion that it was an Ishtar-grade turkey, saving me the price of admission to go see for myself how bad it stank. And since when did anybody ever care whether anyone in the South went and saw a movie?! It's not like they ever say, "Well, we tanked in L.A. and New York, but thank God we hit it big in Meridian!" Silly, vain, man. Thursday, January 06, 2005
You'd think with his past bad experiences with ice...
That a certain college professor would know when he's on the very thinnest of ice with stuff like this-- From: Smith, James
Well, it's obvious we're just going to have to agree to agree that you're WRONG, Jim! Let's face facts--cabbage does not go on barbecue. Have you ever seen a pig wear cabbage?! Of course not. It's against nature. It even says so in the Bible. Cabbage should not be put on barbecue, period, excepting (as has already been stated) only to show how silly it looks. Now then, now that THAT'S settled...
I was just now standing here--
--in the lush, shag-carpeted swankiness that defines the Axis of Weevil World Headquarters building, absentmindedly stroking my marble bust of Bach (Catherine), when suddenly Chet the E-Mail Boy burst through the door. After yelling at him to remove his grease-stained coveralls (he has been in the back pasture trying to figure out how to pull the rear wheel hub off of our Mercury Tracer company vehicle), I inquired as to the purpose for his interruption. Excitedly, he shoved a paper into my hand, the smell of ink from the press still fresh upon it. Oh my. Another one. Poor, poor woman. Here is her story: Found your blog while cruising a Tuscaloosa web site in search of reference materials for my youngest son’s English Composition II class final essay which he is doing on
By the by, Chet mentioned that the original message had all sorts of hearts and smiley faces around the word “Tuscaloosa” and at the end of various paragraphs--symbols that he was hard-pressed to reproduce either in Morse code or hot type. I told him his inadequacy was understandable, although it would be reflected in his performance evaluation. To continue, our applicant has reproduced and responded to the Official Membership Rules for entry into the Yellowhammer Invective Guild: 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;
2) Not ashamed to admit to #1;
Onward, then: 4) Functionally literate
5) Don’t type in ALL CAPS or all e.e. cummings case or MiXeD.
6) Update your blog more than once a month
7) Willing to be made fun of
8) Willing to make fun of yourself
9) Have a framed picture of John Moses Browning
10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever read
12) Your pickup truck must be in good working order--use of ether to get it started is not recommended, but will be allowed on a case-by-case basis
I dismissed Chet to go finish the car, because he’s got a delivery to make! IN KEEPING WITH THE GRAND AND GLORIOUS TRADITION of the assemblage of souls known collectively as the Alabama Tole Painting and Recoil Fanciers Society, and by the power granted to me by Maynard, the evening-shift head cook at the Prattville Waffle House, it is with GREAT PLEASURE that we do hereby induct and install one Lee Ann Leach DiVergigelis (nee Roberson) into the Axis of Weevil, with all of the normal heartache and woe concomitant thereto, having, as she has, more or less successfully filled out her membership application, and in addition, having, as she does, the longest name of any blogger on the whole list, necessitating a complete reworking of the list just to get her name on there. Lee Ann also sent along an additional note, which reads: I also have a web site featuring my concert photography over the years in the music industry as well as some of my published written work for my last magazine INK 19. There are other feature stories from other magazines but, unfortunately they are not on the web and I have not had time to put them on the site since I am in school full time and working full time. The link to my web site is: http://www.shottothebody.com Some folks just have a lot of time on their hands, I suppose.IN ANY EVENT, congratulations--or condolences--Miss Lee Ann on this high honor! As with all new members of the Axis of Weevil, you will be receiving your very own World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing a rack of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo’s sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark’s Outdoor Sports for your pickup truck, a package of Bubba’s Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester’s Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale’s Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale! AND THAT’S NOT ALL! Jimmy (who, as you all should know by now, is not Jimmy from Accounting, but rather Jimmy from next door, who has a condition), has agreed to produce a new line of lovely gift products for all new 2005 inductees! Jimmy has in the past made some lovely handmade artwork as a sort of therapy for his condition (which he says is doing pretty well right now, now that his aunt has quit pestering him about finding the Victoria’s Secret catalog in his pants drawer in October, thank you for asking), tells me that he envisions producing a life-size sculpture of Bear Bryant from the discarded pizza boxes he keeps in the garage, as well as future undertakings using other famous celebrities such as Junior Johnson or Toby Keith. It promises to be quite a spectacle. Anyway, go welcome the newest member of the club. Or warn her.
Fun With Referrer Logs!
My, things are certainly busy today on the Internet, as people far and wide come through the squeaky screen door to Possumblog searching for answers to questions great and even great. Such as this person, who wonders: How does a possum play dead so well? Well, you try getting hit by a car, and I guarantee you you’ll learn to play dead real good, too! Also, lots of study under the Stanislavski system helps. Next up, someone searching for dodecahedron potty. No, I’ve never seen a twelve-sided chamberpot, but then again, I don’t get out much. Neugene akses about a used honder odyssey. Odd, but you would think "Odyssey" would be the thing that was spelt phonetically. And finally, one for the research chefs at Possumblog Kitchens: cooking direction for Jim dandy quick grits. Here you go: Boil water Pour grits in bowl Pour boiling water onto grits in bowl Stir around boiling water and grits until they are the consistency you prefer Butter and salt to taste Eat. EEK! Jordana points out that these instructions are incorrect! They are indeed the directions for instant grits. The actual recipe should read: Boil water in a pot Pour grits slowly into boiling water in quantity called for on the side of the box for the amount of water you happen to be boiling Stir around boiling water and grits and cover pot and cook for five minutes Keep stirring while waiting for five minutes Butter and salt to taste Spoon into bowl Eat. We are sorry for any inconvenience. Thank you.
FINALLY!
Sorry about that, but you know how work can be. All worksome and all, and that’s never very much fun. BE THAT AS IT MAY, it is now time for the First Axis of Weevil Thursday Three of 2005! Developed in deep secrecy in the early part of last year by Possumblog Industries’ scientists working in research laboratories in the Carolinas, the Thursday Three asks of you dear readers to think hard thoughts and answer a series of three incisive and probing questions, and is nothing at all like the Friday Five, in that it comes a day earlier, and is fewer in number. Although we occasionally strive to produce thoughty and philosophical-type questions, for the most part this is intended as a light diversion from the more seriouser aspects of life. Anyone is welcome to play along--either leave your answers in the comments below, or answer them on your blog and leave a link. NOW THEN, given that every new year begins full of promise and dreams of better things, and given that sometimes despite that fullness, those promises and dreams sometimes fail to materialize, let us look back now and find out from you: 1) What are three things you wish you had been able to get done in 2004, but didn’t? 2) What are three things you have always wished to do, but still haven’t done? AND FINALLY, from Larry Anderson up at Kudzu Acres, who sends along this contribution regarding things of true importance-- How about some questions to really bring out the football fans this week?
AS FOR MY answers: 1) I would like to have finished the downstairs toilet room, I wish I would have been able to lose some more flab, and I would like to have read a few more real books rather than magazines. 2) I would like to go back to Europe and take my whole family with me. (Thus proving as few other things could the depths of my mental instability.) I have always wanted to be a pilot. And I’d like to write a book. 3a) 17-16. Ah, the ol’ “Punt, Bama, Punt” game. Well, in 1972, I was the same age my son is now, and as my whole family was, I was a staunch fan of-- ALABAMA. Yes, ‘tis true, but before I went to Alabama Polytechnic Institute, I was raised up as a disciple of the Bear. I don’t actually remember much about the game, other than my sister, who is a more rabid football fan than I, and my dad were awfully upset. But now that my blood runs orange and blue (ick), looking back on the replays and commentary on that game gives me chills like few other things. THAT is what the Iron Bowl was all about. 3b) Don’t cheat and look, but they were James Ralph Jordan (pronounced “Jerd’n,” of course), and Paul William Bryant. 3c) Sorry, no clue on this one. SO, there you go.
CALAMITY! WOE UPON WOE! WORK INTRUDES ON PUBLICATION OF THURSDAY THREE!
Several Express Passing Concern I kinda got sidetracked yesterday afternoon, so I didn't get to finish composing the Bright Shiny New Year's Version of the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, and right now I have my first mailout of the New Year to accomplish this morning, so you good folks are going to have to wait for a little while until I get my real work done and my fake real work done before we can play. ALSO--there might just be a new Weevil in the very near future! Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Well, now, THIS is a first. UPDATED!
I just received an e-mail from a reporter who had written a report for the Ottawa Citizen almost two years ago now. I had reprinted her article in a longish blog post, and it seems that she now wants payment for my having posted the article. I surely believed that I was within my rights under the Fair Use doctrine to quote the article in question for the purpose of offering commentary on it, but I certainly would not want to be placed in a position of seeming to steal the livelihood of anyone. I have therefore removed the quotations from the article in their entirety, amended the original post, and hereby offer my apologies for such a thoughtless oversight on my part. The revised entry may be read here. Well, it just gets better, don't it! I did send a reply to the e-mail: From: Terry Oglesby I suppose this is what I get for thinking, eh? The reply to this? From: Sarah Ruttan Needless to say, this promises to be pretty interesting.
Given my well-known depth and breadth of knowlege about all things under the sun--
Oft times people will seek out Possumblog, having as they do questions of great philosophical for which they can find no answer elsewhere. It is obviously a great burden for me to have to know everything, but it is one that I must shoulder out of my profound sense of noblesse oblige. I have a gift, and I must share it with the world. SO IT IS, that once again, an intrepid traveler upon the crackling and buzzing ethereal information network (that I like to call "the Internet") has come knocking on our door with a query of great importance: The reason for inventing soccer. It is a question as old as soccer itself, and one wrapped in a tangle of false ideas and misinformation. Allow me, your noble host, to enlighten you all. Soccer was invented as a way to give lesser civilizations (i.e. people other than Americans) something they could feel pride in being able to master. God, being really smart, granted Americans the ability and deep mental powers necessary to appreciate and conquer football, but He didn't want His other creatures to feel left out. So, He allowed those other people to come up with a nice, simple game that was suitable for their level of societal sophistication. It obviously has worked very well, as countries where soccer is popular take enormous pleasure in pointing out how popular it is, and how good they are at playing it. Americans, being so much smarter, just nod and smile and act like all the inferior peoples are actually worth listening to, and when they leave, we all laugh at them behind their backs for being so silly. And so, that is why soccer was invented. I am glad to have been of service to you.
The real story is not this: Marine Jailed for Refusing to Pick Up Gun By ESTES THOMPSON, Associated Press Writer
THIS IS MY RIFLE, THIS IS MY GUN, THIS IS FOR FIGHTING, THIS IS FOR FUN. Anyway, I feel sorry for this kid--it's very apparent that he had never heard that the Corps is very big on guns and explodey things. I'm sure that sudden realization would be enough to make just about anyone get religion.
Okay, now, I have an OFF-SITE meeting I have to go tend to.
They tend to break up the day pretty well, although this one promises to be tiresome in that the fellow seems to be quite the "character." You know how some folks are. Speaking of which, here is a picture of Boy and some strange fellow in a red suit. Be back after while--y'all go read some of the other stuff up there in the blogroll for a while or play in the comments section until I get back.
::sigh::
ONCE AGAIN, it appears that there are still some of you out there opening up stuff with e-mail viruses. I just checked my Yahoo! account and found that there were two separate messages from ME at my Gmail account with viruses attached. I have said it before, but I have to say it again now since it's obvious that the computer has been infected of someone who has my e-mail address, but let me say it once more: I DO NOT SEND UNSOLICITED E-MAIL ATTACHMENTS. If you receive something supposedly from me, and it has an attachment, and I didn't TELL YOU that I was sending it, DON'T OPEN IT. The two messages I got had the subject line "Site changes," and "RE: Protected message." The first has two files attached, a .gif and a file named Encrypted.zip. The second has one file, first_part.pif. If you get anything like this, DO. NOT. OPEN. IT. It's NOT from me, and it is a virus. Please, folks--quit opening suspicious attachments. Please keep your antivirus software updated and run it periodically.
55-19
I would have thought, given the praise heaped upon them by everyone, that the Sooners would have put a bit more into it than that. I don't think I can recall a more sound butt-whupping in a big-time bowl game with national championship stakes. I suppose if Auburn has to be ranked #2, there's absolutely no insult to be #2 behind a stellar USC team. Congratulations to them on a tremendous show. Speaking of shows, is it just me, or did the halftime show stink worse than the bilge of a Russian whale processing ship? Aside from the technical difficulties, the idea that Ashleeeee Simpson should actually sing instead of lip synch is just ridiculous. Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Oh, wouldn't you know it.
Getting ready to go, and just got a call from Reba on her cell phone saying a tractor trailer has ONCE AGAIN tumped over coming off of the Red Mountain Expressway onto I-59/20, shutting everything down. She got diverted over onto the southbound RME, and called me trying to get directions back home. She knows one way, one that winds up around Crestwood and out toward Montclair Road, but it's not the short or quick way. I have also found out that it is nearly impossible to give her directions over the telephone because she has such a poor grasp of Birmingham's street grid. It is sorta convoluted, but if she would just take the University Boulevard exit off the Expressway, head west and then turn right on 24th Street, South, go over to 5th Avenue, North and turn right and take that to 31st Street, North, then turn left, she could then get right back on 59/20 past where the Expressway dumps out, and miss all the other traffic. I tried to remind her that 5th is the one that goes through the old tunnel that ran under the long-demolished Terminal Station, but I might as well have been speaking Tagalog. Oh, well.
I think I'll go home now.
I have fashion photographs to make, you know. No, not me, silly--if you recall, Oldest has gotten it in her mind to audition for some school pageant of some sort (yes, I think it's a craptacular idea, but I reckon she'll figure it out on her own) and she needs a nice photo to submit, so I'm going to try out the new camera for something arty rather than using it for candid snapshots. And while I'm doing that, I might also get a chance to scan in some of those Santa photos. If you're not naughty. And one of these days I am REALLY going to have to take the decorations down. I don't see it happening tonight, however.
What an odd sort of coincidence.
I was just sitting here enjoying one of my Christmas presents--Bill Monroe & His Bluegrass Boys The Gospel Spirit compilation, and it got to the end track and it was quite a surprise. Way back nearly 20 years or so ago while I was attending Auburn, I went to church one Sunday and we sang a song that I thought was the prettiest and most evocative thing I had ever heard. We'd never sung it before, and I don't recall ever singing it there again later. Or, for that matter, anywhere else since then. For years now that song has bugged me on the occasions when I would recall it, and every time we would get new song books at church here at home I would expend much futile effort trying to figure out what the song was. The problem was that I could only remember the last line, which was "I am just going over home." Back when I first got connected to the Internet, I remember doing a few searches for it, but that was before the great wealth of information poured out and became easily searchable using Google and the like, and I suppose I just haven't thought to look anymore. Anyway, the last track came up on the CD player and it hit me like a hammer--the song's called "Wayfaring Stranger." Monroe's version was recorded in Nashville on March 21, 1958, and based on the version of the lyrics pictured below (from Double Oak Press). 
Maybe it's just me, but--
When I saw this headline--Krispy Kreme Stock Falls After New Filing--I thought it said "filling."
Can't see the forest for th SCREEEEEEECH AARRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!
Fritz Schranck looks at a report from Georgia Tech about us'n's running off the road and hitting stuff. Like trees. I didn't take the time to look, because I am stereotypically lazy, but the fatality results might also have something to do with the average age of vehicles travelling rural roads. Older cars without airbags, or with less sophisticated crash-resisting structures, or with less effective brakes, might be more prevalent in rural areas than they are elsewhere. Might be a nice thing to look at, just for grins. Anyway, just remember, kids--speed doesn't kill--it's that sudden deceleration when you hit something that kills.
From the "Searching for the Real Killers" File: O.J. to cheer for Trojans at Orange Bowl By JOHN NADEL
"I'm fine, the kids are happy, that makes me happy," he said. "They're doing terrific. My daughter's in college now, my son is in school here."
Simpson did not attend any of the Trojans' practices. Two years ago, he dropped by a USC workout before the Orange Bowl against Iowa and was warmly received by players — but the school later was criticized for the appropriateness of the visit. Imagine that.Simpson said he was surprised USC was favored in this game because the Sooners have more experience. Yet he thought a freshman, Oklahoma running back Adrian Peterson, could make a huge difference.
Simpson declined to make a prediction on who will win.
UPDATE: Doc Joyner got up a bit earlier this morning than I did, and has some comments as well.
The Drop of the Other Shoe
'Beaner & Ken' searching for new home Steven Mackay
Best of luck, boys, and here's a link to Beaner's informational letter. (Oh, by the way, it's Ken Heron.)
Of hamburgers and customer service--a cautionary tale.
Sometimes you get to thinking that "Have it Your Way" is almost like asking for stuff like this to happen.
Obscure Architecturally-Related Person of the Day! SUGER, Abbot (1081-1151), was not an architect; neither does he seem to have been responsible, even as an amateur, for any architectural work. But as he was abbot of St. Denis, outside Paris, when the abbey church was partly rebuilt (c. 1135-44), and as this was the building where the Gothic style was to all intents and purposes invented, or where it finally evolved out of the scattered elements already existing in many places, his name must be recorded here. I'm sure he would say, "Thanks, but don't bother, bub." But wait, there's more!He wrote two books on the abbey in which the new building is commented on, but nowhere refers to the designer or indeed explicitly to the innovations incorporated in the building.
Well, because he's actually an interesting sort of character, despite what the paragraphs above might lead you to believe. Here is a website with some excerpts of his writings describing the construction of the chapel, and it is telling that despite the passage of over 850 years, some things about construction are still pretty much the same, no matter what. [...] On a certain day when, with a downpour of rain, a dark opacity had covered the turbid air, those accustomed to assist in the work [of quarrying stone for columns--Ed.] while the carts were coming down to the quarry went off because of the violence of the rain. The ox-drivers complained and protested that they had nothing to do and that the laborers were standing around and losing time. Clamoring, they grew so insistent that some weak and disabled persons together with a few boys seventeen in number and, if I am not mistaken, with a priest present--hastened to the quarry, picked up one of the ropes, fastened it to a column and abandoned another shaft which was lying on the ground; for there was nobody who would undertake to haul this one. [...] Anyone who's ever had to deal with truck drivers or material handlers will recognize the abbot's frustration.Here is another site with some information about the Abbey St. Denis with some photos and such.
Well, now, something more important than football!
Group to open 17 Whataburgers in area ROY L. WILLIAMS
And better customer service? Please. Unless they have some secret plan to hire something other than minimum wage-earning, slack-jawed high schoolers with all of their well-known self-motivation and warm personality, I don't think there's going to be much of a noticeable improvement. The best run fast-food places seem to require an inordinate amount of personal time invested by the owner (not just the manager) to make sure everything is running as it should. Maybe they have something compellingly different in the basic ingredients of ground up cow, cheese, bread, pickles, onions, tomatoes, lettuce and sauce, or maybe the Whataburger employee training regimen is as rigorous as BUD/S, but in order to make an impression around here they are going to have to hit the ground hard and keep after it for more than a couple of months. As that UAB prof notes, there's some awfully loyal eaters around here, as well as joints that ALSO have amazingly similar ground up cow, cheese, onions, etc. I will say that my sister who lives in Mobile (site of the only three franchises in the state), has eaten there and says the food's okay. I think she really just like saying the name over and over, though. She also probably doesn't know that she could get a lovely musical nightlight.
16-13
Well, it's in the history books now--Auburn's first 13-0 season in 108 years. Congratulation to the young men and everyone associated with the program on a terrific achievement. I managed to tear myself away from Antiques Roadshow to watch the game, and I had a stunning realization about the second quarter or so that I had been much too hard on the CBS broadcast team over the past year for being so patently, obviously, passionately anti-Auburn. ABC was much, MUCH worse. The disappointment with the outcome was blatantly open. Whatever. I will say that Bobby Bowden's son Lil' Motormouth (himself the coach one of the few other undefeated teams in school history) was very gracious about his former place of employment--he was done in by some chicanery himself as Tuberville was almost done last year, and he would have every right to sound petty and bitter, but he was very complimentary and balanced in his commentary on both Auburn and Va Tech's skills and gameplay. The rest of the crew was a joke, however. The game itself wasn't pretty. Auburn played well enough to beat the 9th rank team in the country and no better. The Hokies were clearly outgunned, even if they did manage to get themselves some points on the board. Worse, though, they tried to make up for their lack of oomph with what looked to be an awful lot of futile trash talk, pushing and shoving after the ball was down. You can always tell when a team is frustrated with their ability by how much of that crap they engage in--it's one thing to be happy and excited with a good play, or with beating the tar out of the other team with good solid hits--but it's bad form to attempt to make up for your lack of skill by playing dirty. It makes you look like small-timers who don't belong. Kenny Smith has AUBURN, AL (Jan. 3, 2005) - Before the 2004 Auburn Tigers football season began, Carnell Williams spoke about his true reason for playing another year with the Tigers instead of heading for the NFL: "I didn't come back to win a Heisman. I came back to win a championship."
But, no matter, it has been a good year, and a nice way to get beyond the distemper of last year.  Correction to story attribution posted at 2:20 p.m.
Belated Thanks
Miss Indigo over at Indigo's Insights has pointed out a beautiful gift that would be perfect for adorning the lush lawn of swanky Casa de Possum. Although I'm not one to look a gift link in the mouth, this version caught my eye having as it does some small amount of name similarity. Monday, January 03, 2005
Speaking of link-filled!
In case you haven't seen it, Charles Austin's pithy and perceptive New Year's shout-outs to his blogroll. But remember, you need not fear the possum; Dim of wit and slow of gait is he. He sits up in the persimmon tree, To see all there is to see.
I had this whole long, link-filled post about the King Tut exhibit, and the stupid, STUPID Blogger machine ate it.
So, my teeth-clenched recap--It was okay, except the movie stank because it's an IMAX movie and it gave me a headache. And we didn't have nearly enough time to look at junk because we got there so late in the day. Grr.
Annan announces new U.N. chief of staff
First order of business--rearrange deck chairs on the Titanic. Second--blame U.S. for icebergs.
You know you're in a heap of trouble...
...when you have to rely on a CBS "news" story to defend your case-- By JAY REEVES
Cruel stereotype or not...
...but if you are a jolly, portly fellow who can tolerate to be around kids for more than a minute at a time, AND you already have the requisite costume, you are pretty much doomed to dressing up like Santa Claus whenever anybody asks. OH, you might have a legitimate excuse, but if it's one of those things where you are going to be there ANYWAY, and your KIDS are going to be there, well, how can you refuse!? Of course, after everyone figures out that you have an evil streak for inappropriate ad libbing, they tend not to ask again. Heh. SO, anyway, along back in December, our youthful youth minister decided to have a party for the kids and went around volunteering people to help with it. The appointed day was the Saturday after I had started my vacation, so I didn't get a chance to sleep in because I had to get up and get all my stupid stuff together and then I couldn't find my big black overshoes which meant an early trip to K-Mart to get a cheapo pair of galoshes. And gifts for our kids from us to be presented by Mr. Kringle. (Each parent was supposed to bring something for their own kid, which really didn't work out very well considering that one of the other kids picked out and wrapped her own gift. Whatever.) Arrived at the appointed house of the host and hostess several minutes late because of all the OTHER running around we had to do and because they live in a remote part of St. Clair county that can only be reached by mule. Stowed my outfit in a secret spot, the kids played a few games, we ate some stuff, they did some crafts, I disappeared. The appointed room, however, was not secure, and I had to constantly fret that the feral child of the hosts might make an appearance, or any of the other swirling cloud of unminded rug rats running at full tilt through the house. I wound up having to change on a rear stairwell that led from the playroom down into the garage. Thankfully, I was not discovered. Santa's naked butt is probably not the thing children need to see to crank up the holidays. Got everything on and snuck to the door to see if it was time to make my appearance. Being that the costume is 100% nylon, I started roasting the minute I put it on, which also meant, obviously, that it was not yet time to start the Santaction. So, I had to cool it a bit and sit on the couch amongst the litter of broken toys and torn cushions to await my signal. And sweat. The time finally arrived and so I put on my flowing white wig and sweaty beard and ball-festooned hat and clomped to the secret entrance. The kids were all singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" when I stuck my head out, and they all stopped and stared at me there on the open landing above the family room. I thought by their reaction they were either scared or my pants were open, but I went ahead and started HOing it up and clomped downstairs and back into the family room. And then, went into my Psycho Psanta schtick. Lots of inappropriately involved and phlegmy hoholaughter, smart aleck asides under my breath, leering at the moms. And then, a wrinkle no one saw fit to tell me about--rather than just handing out the gifts, I was told to go sit down and let the kids tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas and get their flippin' pictures made sitting on my lap. Ah, fer the-- I love kids, don't get me wrong, but I would rather not have them wallow all over me if they don't belong to me. Especially some of these who were on a sugar high and looked to have been hiding from the washcloths. ::sigh:: Whatever. I sat down and toned down the weirdness for a bit and each kid in turn sat on my knee and described their perfect surprise and got a picture taken. And yes, everyone knew it was me. Except for one little boy who doesn't go to church with us and was visiting. He was probably about two, and had a horrid crust of goo around his mouth. He came over and looked at me and, well, he saw Santa Claus. The real one. He was just in awe, the little stinker. The guys that do this for a living probably get used to that look, but it was a bit of a surprise for me. My own kids had a slightly different reaction--they knew they were supposed to tell me what they wanted, and they did, but Catherine especially seemed perplexed that I would be all dressed up like Santa, when it's obvious I'm not. The few older kids were pretty game about it all, although they seemed a bit sheepish about the whole enterprise, egged on as it was by all the adults. They would have preferred just playing video games. But they had a seat anyway and got their pictures taken. Finally, the last kid got photographed and gifted by Santa with the presents their parents had brought, and I had a few minutes to kill. So, I made some veiled lewd and suggestive comments to Mrs. Oglesby who refused to come sit on my lap (probably for good reason). I did manage to get one of the OTHER moms to have a seat, however. She was kind enough to sit on the arm of the chair, though. Kate Moss, she's not. Anyway, the kids had long since become bored, the activity having lasted for longer than five minutes, so I bid them all Merry Christmas and was about to clomp back upstairs to get changed. And then, the hostess stopped me. "OH, wait--come outside, Terr--SANTA, I want to make your picture in front of the house!" Oh, fer the--Grr. Grr. "WHYYYYY SURE!! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, HO ::ACK::hack::garumph:: HOOOO!" By golly, if she's gonna get me out on her derned front stoop, we're going to make sure EVERYONE knows about it. No sooner had the front door closed behind me than I went into the full Dancin' Santa on Amphetamines mode--hips oscillating from side to side, arms moving mechanically to and fro, and singing "Dashing Through the Snow" at the top of my lungs. She snapped a couple of pictures and looked about somewhat abashedly--"I hope none...I wonder which one of the neighbors is driving by?" "OHHHHhhhhOOOOOO-HO-HO! I don't know, but you know, they don't know who I am, but they sure know who YOU are! AAAAHHHHHH-HOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO-HOooooooooOOOOOO! MERRRRRRY CHRISTMASSSSSS!" And then the picture making was over and I was quickly made to reenter the house, where I clomped back upstairs and put back on my civilian garb. Man, I just love Christmas!
Ritualized Taunting? ME!?
Never. Not when you have a team that is self-taunting. WHAT'S A HOKIE?
Anyway, the Boys from Blacksburg will be giving it all they have down in the Superbowl with a strong arm to try to pry apart the swarming Auburn defense, and a lot of looks on defense as they try to unsettle Al Borges' offensive strategies. Auburn counters with stripes earned this year for a well-balanced attack on both offense and defense, which has been the downfall of their last twelve opponents. The biggest obstacle the Tigers will face is overconfidence, and the combined effects of having so much time between the Bama game and this one and slopping around New Orleans taking in the "atmosphere." It will probably be an okay game to watch tonight--it'll be on at 8/7 Central on ABC. Then again, Antiques Roadshow will be in St. Paul, and they're supposed to have a runabout, an armchair, some rare and valuable pots, and a pocket watch. And I really do need to get the Christmas decorations put away. ::sigh::
I know this man.
Mr. Brasher works in the facilities department at one of the large hospitals here in town. He's a good guy.
Of all the grotesquerie associated with this story--
--possibly the most inapt was to include this sentence: "Yates says she had accumulated several clients through word-of-mouth..." Oh, and by the way--Chet swears by a steady diet of corn flakes as a safe, effective, and economical alternative to the "therapy" mentioned in the story.
Oh, my.
I believe I might have let you all down. Or maybe I'm just a redneck trendsetter. I'm not quite sure what to make of it, but what is a person to think when the traditional Southern New Year's meal is unceremoniously replaced with supper at the Chinese buffet?! It boggles the mind. Then again, maybe it might work--the pot stickers and won tons each had some pork in them so I suppose that makes up for the ham or hog jowls, and the little bits of sushi had a nice green piece of seaweed in or around them so that was kind of like turnip greens. The black-eyed pea substitute is a bit harder to figure out, although several of the dishes had little English peas, although I don't know if that qualifies. And then there's all the stuff that has no corollary I can think of--spring rolls, teriyaki chicken, hot and sour soup, steamed crab legs, tempura shrimp--it is quite a dilemma. Oh well. Them Chinese people has managed to stay around awhile eating this stuff, so I don't suppose it'll hurt anything. Once. Anyway, we were out doing returns Saturday, and just didn't have time to set in to cook. Which was pretty much the theme of the entire weekend, which we spent NOT taking down all the Christmas decorations, scurrying hither and yon and then some, shopping and going to see the King Tut exhibit at the McWane Center and giving myself a headache at the IMAX movie, and sitting around various local malls with two or three antsy children, and finding a 1GB SD chip at Sam's for 70 bucks, and spending six hours in the emergency room with Oldest and her internal pains again last night. Nothing to report on that front--they gave her a shot of painkiller and told us to call her doctor today if it's not any better. I have this odd feeling that it will be better. Just call me a psychic. ::sigh:: ANYway, it's been a very long weekend. And a very long last month, for that matter. So much happened, and I can't remember half of it. I even forgot to tell you about dressing up like Santa Claus for a Christmas party! I suppose once I get settled back into the post-holiday groove, some of this stuff will shake out and be fodder for some interesting blog posts. Or not. OH, and by the way, blogging is now well beyond passe. How do I know? The entire stupid "Opus" comic strip yesterday was devoted to it. One sadly senses that it has now become the equivalent of disco, and will be looked back on with a smirk and an eye-roll. Oh well, at least I'm already used to it. Now then, Monday morning staff meeting! Thursday, December 30, 2004
NOW it's time to go!
Obviously, there are still some things on the 2004 To-Do List, but they'll just have to get rolled forward with all the other To-Do Lists I have dating back to 1978. All of you have a great weekend, and Lord willing I'll see you back here bright and early on the 3rd with all sorts of vim and vigor and junk like that.
I am shocked! SHOCKED!
Councilman used city money to finance tennis lessons MOBILE, Ala. (AP) — City Councilman Thomas Sullivan said Wednesday that his decision to use city money for private tennis lessons should not be deemed a misuse of funds.
In 2001, Sullivan authorized a payment of $2,500 from his discretionary fund to be used for private tennis lessons at Mobile Tennis Center for the children of two family friends who were also campaign workers.
He said he believed he previously contributed discretionary money to city-funded tennis lessons for groups of children in Lyons Park.
"The funding that I vote on goes to the Boys & Girls Clubs, but it does not pay my salary or my wife's salary, so I'm not gaining anything," he said. With one fell swoop, the hoary old cliche about money being fungible is put to rest! Good show, sir!Now then, where do I sign up my kids for some of this largesse?
Hey, look! I DID make it back!
Actually, I've been here for an hour now, but I laid low and stayed away from the carnival rides so I could get the rest of my work done. Which it is! Hooray! Boy is with me also--say hello, Boy: "Hello." His visit went fine. His doctor is always cutting up and shooting the kids a pretty constant line of BS. We were getting up to leave when one wire-toothed girl came in clutching a ratty spiral-bound notebook and a pencil. "What you got there!? Doing schoolwork? Writing a play?" She grinned and told him she was writing an e-mail. He and I both had the same look of perplexity on our faces, but luckily I was able to beat him to the corny punchline. "Yeah, Doc--that's one of those notebook computers." Man, I crack me up. Anyway, Boy got his mouth worked on some and got his wooden token for wearing his frog tee-shirt, and since we got here he has been quietly drawing all over everything in the office. He grabbed the markers and a long skinny piece of foamcore board and drew a broom so he could pretend to be Harry Potter, and is now in the process of drawing a treasure map. How's it going, Bud? "Fine." As for the work on developing some kosher ham and hog jowls for the New Year's feasting, I must confess that this has turned out to be a bit harder than anticipated. Work continues apace. Hey, did I mention that I've been doing this same sort of crap now for over three years? Thursday, December 20, 2001, Possumblog hit the ether and created such a stir and hue and cry and provocation that at least two people actually were agitated enough to yawn. And now, 4,813 posts and 1,368,333 words later (according to Blogger--so take it with a grain of salt), Possumblog soldiers on into its fourth year full of the same inanity and flaccid prose that has been its hallmark lo these many months. Twenty-aught-five promises much of the same for you loyal readers. The disloyal amongst you are on your own.
Okay.
Time to break communications here for a while and go do other things for a bit. If I don't get back to the screen by this afternoon, I will be on holiday again tomorrow, so let me take this time to say all of you please have a fun and safe time ringing in the New Year. Remember, do not shoot live rounds up into the air--they come back down really fast and can go through people, including you if you're a particularly accurate shooter. Likewise, remember that all of your various artillery pieces should be thoroughly wormed and spunged after firing and before reloading, and the rammer should always be handled with an underhand grip on the shaft. As for food, I know this will pain Skinnydan, but New Year's around here just isn't the same without a big mess of greens cooked with a little hog jowl and some pepper sauce, cornbread, black-eyed peas, a big Virginia ham, and sweet tea. But never fear--Possumblog Kitchens staff are hard at work on a kosher version of the above. If I DO manage to get back here after the orthodontist visit, disregard the above admonitions until later on, around 5:00 p.m. or so.
My goodness.
What a couple! I mean, I don't have any trouble saying she's beautiful, but doggone it all, that's one good-looking fellow, too. Happy Anniversary, kids!
Did I mention that the high temperature Saturday is supposed to be 72 degrees?
Well, it is winter, after all.
Uh-oh.
Passengers stuck on plane ready to riot SEATTLE (AP) — Some of the 300 passengers stuck on an international flight that was delayed 18 hours by fog, regulations and mechanical glitches said the passengers were almost ready to riot as the wait dragged on.
At one point it seemed like we would have a riot towards the end," Wallis said.
Mechanical problems delayed the relief crew's flight, but even after it arrived, more bad weather forced Flight 33 to wait again.
Pizza and soda were eventually brought on board and the toilets were repaired. One hopes the toilets were repaired first before accepting delivery of the pizza and sodas.Stanik apologized for the problems and said passengers would receive a gift pack that included phone cards and vouchers for a free ticket anywhere Northwest flies in the United States and Canada. Because, you know, the odds of something like this happening again are, like, probably pretty low. Maybe.Customs spokesman Mike Milne said the passengers were kept on board to ensure security and follow the law. "We're not doing it to be mean," he said. Nope, it's just a happy coincidence.
OH!
Almost forgot. Another gift that I have long been wanting are some great big yellow rubber garden clogs. I occasionally feel the need to wear something other than black or brown wingtips to work, you know.
I think I could get used to a two-day work week.
Of course, it's not that economical for taxpayers, and it is terrible for building readership of furry old Possumblog, but it sure does leave you lots of time to do other things. Assuming that you use those two days to actually DO SOME WORK. I have to take a moment here and do just that, because not only is this a two-day work week, it is an ABBREVIATED two-day work week. I have to take Jonathan to the orthodontist this afternoon, so I have to get this clot of icky work done or else it will just spill over to Monday. And we CANNOT let that happen. I will be posting semi-periodically up until around 2:00, then out to the picket-fence perfection of Trussville for an hour or so, then possibly back again this afternoon after dumping Boy back at Grandma's house. Or I might just go on home. Depends on IF I GET MY STINKIN' WORK DONE. Which I need to do now. Really. Okay, gonna start...NOW. Well, when I finish clicking the POST button. Which is right NOW.
It’s the “Interstitial Holiday Version” of the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three!
IT IS NOW THE TIME when all of the gifts have been unwrapped and tried on for size, and there are the slim few days of renewed non-holiday activities before everything grinds to a halt again to celebrate the New Year and watch the Sugar Bowl. It is in this fraction of post-pre festivities that we take this opportunity to once again urge you to put on your bright red and fuzzy white thinking caps and cogitate a moment on the recent past gifting season and (in a series of questions inspired by one Jim Smith) tell everyone: 1) What was the best gift you got (or gave) this year? 2) What was the worst gift you got (or gave) this year? 3) What gift are you going to have to go back and get for yourself because someone forgot to read your list to Santa? As with all previous exercises, this little shindig is open to folks of all your various holiday traditions, whether you celebrate Saturnalia or not. The only requirement is whether or not you got or gave somebody something that could be construed as giftish. Of course, that really isn't really a hard-and-fast rule, either, because you can always pretend you got a black ’67 Sting Ray roadster delivered to you by a diaphanous-robed Salma Hayek... Hmm? Oh, sorry. My mind wandered off there for a minute. Anyway, leave your answers in the comments below, or leave a link to your blog with your answers. AS FOR my answers: #1--As for the best thing I got, I would have to say it was either the digital camera or the car-portable DVD player that we got for the van. Probably the latter, since it will anesthetize the children on long trips. The best gift I gave would have to be the cell phone we bought to let Rebecca give to Ashley. I have been resisting giving her one for ages now--she thinks because all the other kids have them that she HAS to have one, but with band and choir and other stuff, there are times when she does need a phone. And it’s one of the prepaid variety, and she is strictly limited to ten minutes a month. Not much you can do to get in trouble with that. I hope. But she was overjoyed and tackled Rebecca in thanking her. #2--Well, there was the whole key case debacle handled separately yesterday, but I also have to add in the two dress shirts I got from my in-laws. I have very specific standards for dress shirts, the most notable of which is that they have to be 100% cotton. The cotton/poly blends shrink so quick that they are useless within a couple of months, whereas the all cotton (assuming a nice, dense, thread count) wear like iron and take repeated boilings and bashings on rocks down by the creek. Reba and I have been married for thirteen years, and this rule has never changed. You figure folks would catch on. So, this year, again, crisp white oxford cloth dress shirts from Grandmom that are 55/45 cotton/poly. ::sigh:: Those get returned tonight. #3--I didn’t really ask for it, so it’s not fair to blame anyone for not getting it for me, but I would like to get myself a CD/DVD burner. And I think I might get one of those cheap no-contract cell phones like we got Oldest, mainly because I think they are so kewl. So, there you go. Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Sounds of the Season
As has been the practice in the past, Mrs. Claus was very generous this year with the audio CDs. They selections included: The Wit and Wisdom of Andy Griffith--this includes "What it Was, Was Football," which I think is a hoot--The Essential Bill Monroe And The Monroe Brothers; All-Time Greatest Hits--The Stanley Brothers; and Alison Krauss Live. I actually got that last one last year, but had already unwrapped it and played some tracks before I realized it. Oh, well, she's so darned cute that I suppose having two copies is okay.
"Car," you say?!
Oh, and HOW! Brand new black Lexus SC430 coupe. Now you might wonder how I can afford such a thing. Well, you see, I have a loving son and when he saw the 1:10 scale R/C version at Wal-Mart, he just knew his daddy would love it. Or, if Dad didn't, he sure would. So, I now have a Dub City ricer. It really is funny, because although both he and Mommy know Daddy likes cars, they seem to know much less of the types of cars I like. (Such as this, or this, or this, or this.) So, this one has gigantic Conestoga-wagon-like chrome spinner rims and low-profile tires, little blue lights behind the wheels that light up, big coffee can exhaust tips, and a package shelf full of amplifiers that light up. It would be quite the phat ride to park outside my crib so all of my sick homies could peep it. Which I suppose it what makes it so ridiculously fun to play with. I can be an old fart and still have my toe in the hip automotive youth culture. Just call me Bling Crosby. Anyway, it has been great fun, and if Boy thought he was going to get it away from me anytime soon, he has another think coming.
First stop--Going Postal
Hopped in the van to make the run to the main post office to mail three letters for church stuff. (I would have preferred just to walk, but it's a bit too far through a few blocks that are a bit too inhospitable.) Since I am a bold, innovative, Twenty-first Century sort of guy, I figured I would bypass the short line at the counter and use the spiffy new Automated Postal Center that only took six months to install in the lobby. Most of this time was spent with a large piece of plastic sheeting covering a giant hole in the sheetrock wall. I quickly scanned the instruction screen, pressed an imaginary button to say I wanted to mail a letter, pressed an imaginary button to say what size of envelope it was in, flopped the envelope onto the scale, pressed an imaginary button to say that I agreed the thing weighed 2.48 Ozes, pressed more imaginary buttons to select the mode of delivery (First Class), waited, pressed more imaginary buttons to enter the ZIP Code, and-- "Sorry. We are unable to process your request." ::sigh:: You know, some sort of sign on the thing might have been helpful to let us early-adopters know the stupid thing was taking a coffee break. Went in and waited in line the 19th Century way, and was promptly and courteously served. Left and went toward the courthouse, hoping for a parking spot nearby. None being available, I just went ahead and parked in our parking deck and walked across the park. Beautiful day today, and it being a holiday sort of week, no bums. Or squirrels, either, which is rather odd. Anyway, got to the entrance and checked myself through security. The couple in front of me--a woman dressed normally, with a giant handbag on her arm, and her husband, who I am certain has friends who think of him as "a character," who was wearing a too-tight University of Alabama sweatshirt emblazoned on the back with the record from the year they went 13-0 (sources tell me this was 1992--that's one old sweatshirt!) and a pair of red sweatpants--started through the magnetometer. Of course, since the woman had neglected to take off her purse, she set the thing off. The husband, "Oh, yeah--I figured you wouldn't be able to take that through--here, give it to him and let him put it on the x-ray machine!" Again, prior notice would have been nice of him to give her, but hey. Next, it was his turn. Walked through, set it off. The security guard gave him a plastic tub to put his belongings in, "Keys, pens, change--" "OH, well, I suppose so!" He propped his tennis shoe clad foot up on the conveyor and proceded to dig about in his left sock. "Alrighty, keys." I noticed as he stood there in his sweat-panted glory that tucked neatly into the rear of his waistband was his property tax notice. Eww. Talk about a tax protest. Anyway, he put his left foot down and then stuck his RIGHT foot up on the conveyor and commenced to digging in THAT sock. I would not have been surprised had he pulled out a bulldozer, but he managed to unload a wallet and a change purse into the tub before satisfying himself that he had dislodged all of his metal. He went on through beepless and gathered up his stuff. While all this was going on, I had already dumped in my key case with 9 keys, all my spare change, and my class ring. This is usually sufficient, because most of the time they have the sensitivity set high enough to be able to walk in with a bulldozer. As the cute pair went on, I strode through the detector and set the blamed thing off. ::sigh:: What a goob. I unloaded the two barely metal pens in my shirt pocket (wasn't carrying the good ones today) and went through and it did it AGAIN! Grr. This time he just told me to come on through and waved me down with the handheld thing that looks like a frat house paddle. I lit the thing up like a Christmas tree. My watch, all the zippers on my jacket, my tiny little belt buckle, and most inexplicable, my wallet, which to my knowledge has no metal of any sort in it. I took it out to show him and was going to open it up, but I had obviously wasted enough time because he gave me back my stuff and let me go. I won't be the one to point out all the obvious flaws in the building security, but it all seems a bit much of a show for very little safety benefit and a whole lot of inconvenience. Speaking of which, it was good to see Norm Mineta on the teevee giving Santa clearance to fly over the U.S. Such a good little regulator, that Norm. (For what it's worth, I'd rather give Santa a couple of Colt 1911s and let Norm shuffle off to a graceful retirement. But that's just me.) Anyway, went in and was at first taken aback by the line I saw, but breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it was for the tax assessor and not the tax collector. I imagine tomorrow it will be wrapped all the way down the hall at the collector's office, but today there were only about three people in line ahead of me. Two of whom were the fun couple from the metal detector. Sure glad I wasn't the clerk who had to handle their tax notice. Ick. Butt germs. I handed my check and notice to the nice girl at the counter who wrote a number on it and told me to go over there, which I did, and then was once again promptly and efficiently processed by a nice lady with stiff red hair and gray eyeshadow, who managed to cheerfully print out my receipt AND find out from her coworker on the other end of the teller line that Sonja was having a colonoscopy. She's been vomiting since October, you know. $119.60 to the state, $248.40 to the county, $150.88 to the schools, $402.96 to the schools again, $92.00 to Trussville, and a minus of $53.00 for my homestead exemption. (One day I hope to be able to move out of the sod house and build one out of lumber.) Stopped by Sophia's Deli on the way back and got myself a Howard Special (meats of all sorts, with cheese, on a bun) and sat back down here and ate every bite. Exciting, eh?
Now then!
I have to go to the courthouse and pay my property taxes for the year! HOOORAY!! I LOVE PAYING TAXES! Gives me something to complain about. I also have to go mail some letters! HOOORAY!! I LOVE MAILING LETTERS! Gives me something ELSE to complain about. Anyway, back in a bit. Did I mention I got a car for Christmas?
Oh, yes. Now I recall.
I was trying to remember what it was exactly that made blogging so addictive. Having been home the past 11 days with hardly an opportunity to turn on the computer, much less organize my thoughts and write them down, I began to think that maybe this whole blogging thing was rather silly and pointless. But then, you find out that you just got a visitor who came by because he or she was looking for hippies recipes for a good cleanout, and, well, you know, it just makes it all worth it, doesn't it? As for the inquiry itself, I am reminded of several Cheech and Chong bits, especially the one in which Chong says, "Well, it was supposed to be Maui Waui, but it's mostly Labrador." I love the Internet. Man.
Also, Whilst Minding the Children Last Week...
I had the opportunity to view the entire 40 episode second season of SpongeBob SquarePants on DVD.
And what you've all been waiting on--
Well, maybe not all all, but possibly one of you. I got myself a digital camera! Yes, I have finally been dragged into the present. Back when I was on vacation, I took Boy out one night to go get his presents for all the girls, and at the same time I decided to shop around. Target, Wal-Mart, Sam's, back to Target, and finally decided to check Staples because I heard an ad on the radio. They had an HP package deal with an HP407 4.1MP camera and PS245 portable printer for $249. I realize there are better cameras, and printing is expensive, but the package price made it very attractive. I like the portable printer, and we used it when I went to my mom's house last Friday to be able to give her and my sister copies of the photos. I have a hard time getting anything to them with any timeliness because we're always running around, and so it was nice to be able to give them some pictures right then. The camera itself takes very good quality pictures, although the LCD viewer seems to be very slow, as well as the capture time. As long as everyone is relatively still, it works fine, though, and it is very simple to use. The printer is great for 4x5s--hard to believe they weren't done from negatives onto photo paper. ANYway, so you might be seeing some more photos on here in the coming year. Speaking of which, a gratuitous photo of Maureen O'Hara, in honor of the receipt from Miss Reba of The Quiet Man on DVD. Haven't gotten to watch it yet, and I can hardly wait. I mean, you figure a John Wayne movie with Maureen O'Hara and rowdy Irishmen has to be good, right?! I think so.
I hope it's not an omen of things to come.
Walked out this morning to come to work, furiously scraped the frost off of Reba's car, decided I needed to put down some of the papers I was holding in my non-scraping hand, went to the van and put the key in the ignition, turned it, and-- Nothing. Deader'n a hammer. It being relatively new, and having just been used successfully on Monday to ferry children around, I surmised that one of said children had probably left one of the many tempting ceiling-mounted click-on, click-off reading lamps in the decidedly clicked-on position. Thus ensuring a complete battery discharge by this morning. ::sigh:: I put my stuff down and wildly tapped on Reba's window to get her to reopen the garage door, ran in and got the keys to Moby, put them in and-- Cranked right up. Thank heavens. I finished scraping the last bit of frost off of the Focus and waved Reba and the kids on and got my stuff out of the other van--papers, garage door opener, parking deck card--and then see-sawed my way out of the tiny space between the front bumper of the Honda and the garage door in front of the Plymouth. Seems that when the battery is dead on the Honda, there is no way to shift it out of Park, which meant I couldn't back it up a bit to give myself some more room. Luckily, there was enough room to complete a fifteen-point, 180 degree turn. And now? Well, I'm back at work! Finally, some REST! And time to catch up with you all about the wonderful and strange adventures that occurred in the preceding week, none of which are actually THAT wonderful and strange, and it's probably a stretch to call them 'adventures.' But, you know, compared to watching batteries die, it's probably pretty compelling stuff. Or not. Anyway, check back periodically for some stuff throughout the day. I have some massive catching up to do with the paying gig as well as the blogging gig, so I can't give you the whole story at once. Most Disappointing Gift? Aside from the set of decorative stainless steel gut hooks from the Pampered Taxidermist, I would have to say it was one I gave myself, via Reba. (You know, you find something, buy it, and say, "Here, put this in my stocking for me!" Well, maybe you don't.) Anyway, I found a wallet set at Wal-Mart that had in it the one thing I have coveted for years now--a key case. For some reason, it has become very difficult to find a key case. You know, the ones that have a row of little hooks to hang keys on, and the sides fold over and snap shut, keeping all the keys together so they don't jingle and/or get all nicked up and/or tear holes in your pockets. I have had the same one now for over six or seven years. It's leather, and just about worn to shreds. Yet, it still does what I need it to do. But it's unsightly. I have looked and looked for a similar item, and even thought about taking it to the shoe repair place to see if they could fix a new case for it. But I figured it would be cheaper to buy one. If I could find one. SO, I was overjoyed to see the little set of stuff, and told Reba I was getting it so she could put it in my stocking, and that she could have the rest of it because the only thing I wanted was the key case. Christmas came, and WHAT'S THIS!? Why, it's a KEY CASE FROM SANTA! Yay! After getting the kids settled in with all of their noisemaking supplies, I eagerly tore apart the box and got all the other stuff and laid it aside and began transfering all of my keys to the new hooks. Ahhhh. Nice! And then, I closed the sides over, the new leather so slick, so soft, yet still so firm, and--and--::sigh:: It lacked a good half inch being able to close. Seems as though I have too many keys. I took off several, and yet, still, no dice. ::deeply overwrought sigh:: Later on, I took all my keys off and put them back on the old hooks, and snapped the old cover shut. The key case quest continues. Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Well, no.
I mean, it’s 9:00 and I haven’t posted anything, so obviously something is amiss. Got all dressed this morning despite not wanting to. Long night, as Reba was sick with some sort of gut inconvenience and a backache, so neither one of us were particularly perky. Actually, it was more like she was exhausted. Anyway, got up I did, showered, rousted the children, fussed to get them dressed, got Cat up and sent her to go to the bathroom, got the mail together, found my coat, made another pass to get everyone motivated to get out the door, and returned to hear Catherine quietly crying. Seems her tummy was doing backflips as well. ::sigh:: Went and did some more fixing and doing and then heard her crying. Walked back into the bathroom, and the evil bug in her alimentary system had decided to make itself known at both ends. Simultaneously. Thankfully, half of it had a place to go other than the floor. However, the rest wound up on her new pajamas and in the floor. “I-I-I lovvvvved these pajaAHHHHURGGGGG ::sob::choke::” What a mess. Well, I’m not going in to work today, it’s pretty obvious. I managed to clean up the floor a bit--with the last bit of toilet paper we had in the whole house. I got her clothes off without messing her up any more than necessary and threw them in the washer and threw her in the shower and hosed her off. Got her to dry off, and then made sure everyone was securely fastened and then made a quick run to drop off the utility bill and stuff the mail in the post office and then to the grocery store to get soup and Sprite and PowerAde and a People magazine and crackers and toilet paper. 24 double rolls. On sale. So, for the rest of the day I will be fulfilling my nursing duties, and you folks are just going to have to wait another day for some possumy goodness. So very sorry, but you know, real life and all. Monday, December 27, 2004
Catherine has exhibited of late a great and childlike fascination with the magical power of mistletoe. The very idea that you can steal a kiss just by standing under a curious piece of green plastic has driven her silly. “DAAAddeeee! Look where you’re STANDinnnnnng!” Sure enough, there would be some of the greenery around--at the doorway of Grandmom’s house; in the decorations aisle at Wal-Mart; held in her chubby little hand--“YOU have to KISS me!”
Much giggling ensues. (On her part.) Anyway, we were coming back home from church As part of my charge to instill knowledge in my progeny, I felt duty-bound to point out this bounty of REAL mistletoe to the tyke most taken with it. “Cat--look out there at all the mistletoe in the trees!” “WHERE, DADDY!?” I’m sure she was expecting little sprigs of plastic stuck in Styrofoam balls. “Look out there at the trees that don’t have any leaves. All those big clumps of green up in the tops are mistletoe.” “Oohhhhh.” “Look, Daddy, there’s some! And there’s some!” “Mm-hm.” “OOH, there’s some, too, Daddy!” We drove on for a bit as she fell back into a silence, and then she piped up again. “Daddy?” “Hm?” “If you was out in the forest, and you was under one of them trees with the mistletoes, and there was someone there with you, would you have to kiss them--even if it was a stranger?” “Ah, well, I can tell you if it was a boy I SURE wouldn’t kiss him.” “What about if it was a GIRL?” “Oh, maybe. But she’d have to be REALLY good looking.” At this quip, I sensed a renewed interest in the conversation from my co-pilot, who, up until this moment, had been engaged in reading a paperback novel and enjoying the comforts of her new back massage seat cushion (provided to her by the pilot). “You mean, she’d have to be prettier than MOMMY!?” “Oh, no, Sugar--NO one’s as pretty as your Mama!” Home run, baby. I managed to get both the exasperated eye-roll that comes from being assaulted with blarney, AND the shy shoulder-shrug that comes with mushy flattery. She kept on reading, and in a barely audible aside, I heard her say, “You got lucky on that one, Mister.” Indeed so. It has been a wonderful Christmas this year--a bit too much to get all down in one short blog post. Or several. Much merriment and Santafication for all. Tonight has been the first night I’ve had much of a chance to even get near a computer (aside from some furtive quick intrusions between the normal intensity of keeping up with four kids), and you see what time it is. I promise to get back in the swing of things come Tuesday when I get back in the office. Yep--I’m still going to be on hiatus today, such as it is. Laundry, cleaning up the explosion of boxes and papers in the den, helping a certain mistletoe enthusiast paint a small ceramic box, driving various electric remote-control vehicles, questing about for batt’ries, and trying to get geared back up for coming back to work on Tuesday. Blech. Many thanks to all of you who STILL dropped by the past week, even though there was nothing much to see. Your continued patronage is greatly appreciated, and I promise you your patience will be rewarded with grand tales of Life Along the Pinchgut. But not until tomorrow. And then not all at once or else you might get a blogache. Anyway, until Tuesday sometime. Friday, December 17, 2004
And now?
Well, right now I'm typing this. And this. And this. But in just a few moments I will revert back to trying to finish typing my meeting minutes from Wednesday. Before I get to that, though, I figured I ought to take a moment and prepare all both of you for the Annual Christmas Holiday Suspension of Blogging, in which I close up the palatial Axis of Weevil World Headquarters building for a week to stay home during the holidays to play with the childrenses and shop and do normal people stuff. Obviously, being normal means no blogging while I'm off (you know, unless something really good happens) so the old place will be kind of quiet until Tuesday the 28th. At which time there will be a brief respite and much hearty possumy broth, and then another shutdown on the 31st to get ready for the arrival of the Baby New Year. Before I sign off and go do my paying work, just a word of thanks to everyone who has visited here over the past year, as well as over the past three years. It has certainly been an instructive and fascinating time, and I appreciate all of the people I have come to know, even if it is only through e-mail. If the quality of a man's life can be judged by the character of his friends, I am truly and richly blessed. May God bless you all, and grant you peace and comfort.
Last night was another one of those long ones--I had my little zoning board meeting to attend, and the agenda was much longer than usual due to the fact that we didn’t have a quorum last month. SO, everything got moved to this one, and then there were all the other folks. Anyway, that wasn’t supposed to start until 7:00, so I had a minute or two at the house before I had to leave. Walked in to see supper getting underway (homemade beef stew--mmmm) and Reba (mmm) busily chopping up stuff with a knife. I very carefully notified her of my intent to briefly molest her, and after that was done successfully, I got caught up on her day, which likewise had already been a long one.
Cat came wandering by and I asked how her presentation had gone in class. “Fine.” She certainly was a cutey when she left yesterday morning--as I mentioned, their project had been to research the way Christmas is celebrated in different countries, and she got Ireland. She had a couple of books she looked at and found a couple of sentences that she thought would work. Being seven, she’s still not quite up on the concept of a research paper, so I punched them up a little and she colored a picture she drew all by herself. I also printed out her some song lyrics. As part of her presentation, she decided she was going to sing Danny Boy (yes, she knows it’s not a Christmas song, and it’s Irish only in the sense that people think of it as being Irish, but she likes it). She’s been practicing all week. Anyway, we got all of her stuff done, and as I mentioned before we got her soda bread baked (again, not necessarily a festive Christmas thing, but at least a bit more authentic than her song), and bright and early yesterday morning she decided she was going to wear her green plaid skirt. This was paired up with a little white turtleneck and her nice church shoes. She was cute as a button. As for the presentation, it apparently went pretty well, although I think her teacher read part of it for her. She DID get to sing her song, though, and after finally getting her to say something other than “fine,” she said she did it really nicely. The only drawback was that for some inexplicable reason (ostensibly due to some concern about germs) but after giving everyone a small sample, her teacher threw away her loaves of soda bread! Grr. I can understand all the kids probably grubbed all over the bread with their icky hands, but still, that was a lot of food to waste. Even if we had fed it to the birds it would have been better than wasting it like that. ::sigh:: Whatever. I gathered up her books to drop off at the library and got my papers for the meeting and gave Miss Reba a little Christmas goose on the way out the door. Meeting, one hour, blessedly non-controversial, on over to the library, dump books in book return box, and then ON TO SAM’S. I had to pick up some food for our office Christmas party today--pecan pie and vegetable tray--and I had to go get some bargain-priced gasoline in Reba’s car. Did that, on to home, had a bowl of stew, refereed some sort of conflict occurring along the border of the upstairs bathroom and the hallway (sporadically heavy small arms fire that dissipated upon my arrival), watched the High Drama of who would be chosen as the next Tyro (proudly may I note that this is the first episode I have watched all season), and then time for getting to lie down on the bed for a few brief moments to enjoy the FREE copy of Hemmings I had received in the mail. The only thing better than Hemmings is a free one, you know. Nodded off after looking at two pages, and decided it was time to go to bed. Up again today, to another conflict with Tiny Terror, who wanted to wear her pajamas to school. They were having Pajama Day. You know, I really wish they would quit having Pajama Day--at the elementary, the middle, and the high school. Maybe I’m just old fashioned, but I just can’t quite get past the sense that pajamas aren’t appropriate wear in a pedagogical setting, even if you are having The Polar Express read to you. So, tears. Wailing. Muleyness. Obduracy. And finally, pajamas removed and replaced with jeans and a Strawberry Shortcake tee-shirt. Yet another victory won through superior firepower. And now? Well, I’m finishing up my Christmas meal. In a surprising turn of events, no collards were brought this year. Chicken fingers, some salads, my vegetable tray, some green bean casseroles, assorted nuts (including some who were NOT of the human variety), some cheeses (none of them particularly challenging, however) desserts (including my pecan pie, that I made a surprise attack on while everyone else was distracted with the food food). The crap I got from Sam’s was horrid. The broccoli in the vegetable tray tasted like it had been left in a truck at the Mexican border and then sat on by various in-smuggled construction workers. Of course, the biggest disappointment was the pecan pie. The innards were okay, but the crust was about like eating kapok. Blech. I think I’ve got to go make a phone call, if you know what I mean.
CUBA! Where Irony Flourishes in the Rich, Warm Tropical Breezes of the Worker's Paradise!
Cuba erects sign linking U.S. and fascism And somewhere, a tiny tear trickles down the pocky, spotted face of James Earl Carter. UPDATE: I just found the picture of the sign. And that's either a '40 or a '41 Plymouth five window coupe in front of the sign.
December 17, 1903 On the morning of December 17, 1903, Wilbur and Orville Wright took turns piloting and monitoring their flying machine in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. Orville piloted the first flight that lasted just twelve seconds. On the fourth and final flight of the day, Wilbur traveled 852 feet, remaining airborne for 57 seconds. That morning the brothers became the first people to demonstrate sustained flight of a heavier-than-air machine under the complete control of the pilot. [...] One wonders how different the world would have been had they been bloggers rather than bicycle mechanics...
Adventures in Headline Writing!
For some reason, when I read this--Newsview: U.S. takes cool stance on Annan, all I could think of was this. Of course, this being tied up in international diplomacy and all, their idea of a cool stance is more along the lines of this.
From the Tater Bed!
Marc Velazquez sent the following yesterday and I thought it was a pretty good idea: As an addition to the Thursday Three, perhaps a Friday Follow-up would be appropriate for Christmas and help generate more comments (as if you need help with that!). My proposal, forthwith:
AS for the second part of Marc's inquiry, as I noted to him, a group of baby possums would be a litter. Possums are solitary as adults, though, and do not congregate except to procreate. If they did run in packs, however, I think the proper term would be 'a gross.' As in, "Eww, look! A gross of possums!" This site says they would be a "passel," which I suppose has some alliterative appeal. Also, did you know that boy possums are jacks, girls are jills, and babies are joeys? That's what I hear, anyway.
Okay, I realize I have no place to talk.
I mean, let's face it--I don't look like Brad Pitt or Steve McQueen (although some have remarked that I bear the lithe gracefulness of a young Raymond Burr). Be that as it may, I do realize the following might not be seen as particularly valid advice, but I have to say it nonetheless. If you are a woman who bears a eerily striking resemblance to the late Jim "Earnest P. Worrell" Varney, it is probably NOT a good idea to drive down Highway 11 with big white curlers in your hair. Thursday, December 16, 2004
A Question of Modern Etiquette
I just now walked into the restroom to rest for a moment, and was unnerved first of all to see that someone had taken the center stall, which everyone should know by now is MINE. Be that as it may, I walked over to the stand-up conveniences and began my few moments of quiet contemplation, only to have it shattered by the sudden flurry of conversation coming from the center stall. The occupant, you see, was on his CELL PHONE. And he was talking about someone in the LEGAL DEPARTMENT. I mean, I've heard of maximizing billable hours and all, but STILL! Anyway, I finished up, quickly, and then my quandary arose--does one flush in such an instance, thus disturbing the conversant man on his cell phone, or does one quietly leave, sparing the caller the indignity of loud swirly water sounds, but offending the next person to come in and use the facilities when he discovers the contents of the bowl to be amber rather than restful blue? Truly, it is a question that only could arise in a highly advanced civilization. UPDATE: Although Eric suggested flushing loudly and repeatedly, and I had briefly flirted with the idea of kicking the stall door in and screaming like a lunatic at the man who used my stall, upon reflection I finally settled on this answer. One must quietly take his leave after washing his hands, and wait in the lobby until such time as the caller leaves the restroom. Upon his exit, without making eye contact with him, re-enter the restroom and flush. Remember, poor manners upon the part of others is no excuse for poor manners on our own part. Although no one could quibble were you to leave a silent-but-deadly WPD (weapon of pants destruction) before you exit the restroom the first time. UPDATE the Second: Famous Fritz favors flushing furiously.
Another thing we talked about was anonymity.
For some very good reasons (namely being a opinionated, single, girl) Sugarmama uses a pseudonym to keep down the number of potential stalkers. I haven't gone that route particularly, but have done everything I can to keep Possumblog sort of a hidden-in-plain-view sort of thing. It's not a topic I ever bring up, although if anyone I know does find it, I wouldn't be ashamed (much) to say it is indeed my hobby. HOWEVER, I have thought before what sort of name I would have if I were ever to decide to blog in pseudonymity. Dudley Hall. I always thought it would be fun to write a newspaper column on architectural criticism. However, being in the field, it would be hard to do truthfully without upsetting a lot of potential employers, so I always thought I would write it under the name Dudley Hall. Why? Because it's the name of the architecture building at Auburn. Pat Dry. I don't know why, but whenever I see recipes for stuff and it says to wash something and then "pat dry," it just makes me laugh. Again, I have no idea why. Jean-Paul Sartre. A while back I thought up a cool-sounding French name, but then I found out some other guy had it, so I couldn't use it. Similar thing happened with "Lambeau Field." N. Deed. Well, Glenn Reynolds ruined that one for me. Anyway, I think you can see why I just stick with what I have.
Oh, Nate--you just THOUGHT you were jealous...
Because not only did I get to have lunch with the attractive, willowy and highly cerebral Sugarmama, I ALSO managed to weasel a good-bye hug out of the deal! Now, I'm not one to gloat, but, well, you know. And not only that, I managed to go the entire meal with giant wads of spinach on my teeth, and yet she STILL hugged me. AND she commented favorably upon the pens I carry in my jacket pocket, AND my official ID badge lanyard! As always, a fun lunch with Miss Sugar (not her real name, by the way) over at Cameo Cafe. I got there early to get my favorite table by the window so I could watch fire trucks, and after only a few minutes my lunch companion showed up. It's always disconcerting to see a fellow blogger in person, even though this is now like my fourth time to see her in person. I keep forgetting how tall she is. Anyway, I had a Diet Coke and the blackened chicken wrap in a REAL chipotle tortilla, which I knew was chipotle only because it said so on the menu. It also came with two little plastic tubs of special sauce that had no discernable flavor. (The sauce, not the cups.) Sugarmama had a great huge honking sandwich with meeeat and cheeeese and meeeeat and cheeese, that to her great credit she managed to almost eat the entirety of. Topics of conversation included her new promotion, computers (I nodded and looked concerned to feign understanding of all this talk), cutting the cheese, the often unstated difference between acting childlike and childish, contact with the known world (being that outside the realm of bloggerdom), books, parenting, Peter Pan (contrary to popular belief it is not a surgical instrument), work, school, dating, and, of course, me, because it's all about me. Over too soon. I hate the idea that lunch hours have to actually BE an hour. Anywho, we walked back down to 19th Street where we parted ways, first with a firm handshake, and then use of the aforementioned Svengali-like ability I had to cloud her mind and make her agree to give me a hug. I'm sure she will never be the same again.
Okay, so I'm still really busy.
And it's even colder outside today. BUT, I get to have lunch with Sugarmama! Yay!
Still Not Getting It, Volume XLVIII
Kerry Campaign Head Admits Miscalculations By STEVE LeBLANC, Associated Press Writer
Second, rather than attempt to either ignore it, or factually refute it (such as could have been done with a full release of military records), they took the highly ill-advised step of attacking the veterans themselves. Although you and I might react the same way when someone attacks us and tells us that we couldn't have been in Cambodia even though we made it up ourselves, for a Presidential candidate to start tearing apart the same men he attempted to use for political gain as his "band of brothers" fairly well reeks of political tone-deafness. And to complain that the press was somehow responsible for the debacle is ludicrous, given their vituperation toward the group, and their incessent drive to discredit the Swift Vets. The press was in near complete lockstep with the Kerry campaign in repeating as fact their talking points about the group. If anything, the Kerry camp didn't realize that people might not have so much trust in what came down to us from on high by the editorial boards of the NY Times, CBS, et al. That's what happens when you sweep your credibility into a small pile in the floor, douse it with lighter fluid, and strike a match. Anyway, Ms. Cahill, Karl just told me to lay off and let you keep digging.
Ahhh--the chill in the air, the sound of sleigh bells, twinkling lights--it can mean only one thing, you know. That’s right! It’s the First Ever Axis of Weevil Ramahannuchristmakwanzavus Thursday Three!
Yippee. Now then, being that it’s the very middle of a whole passel of competing holidays, this might be hard to make it as inclusive and festive as all the rest of the T3s have been, but we’ll try and do the best we can. Remember, anyone (theoretically) can play along, and if you don’t do any celebrating of any sort, it’s okay. Just make something up and no one will be any wiser. Except Santa Claus. Just leave your answers neatly gift-wrapped in the comment section below, or leave a link to your blog so we can all come by and oooo-and-ahhhh at your inventiveness. Anyway, on to the questions, which were once again provided by our favorite East Carolinian, Jim Smith (not an alias, by the way). 1. The ol’ Tannenbaum--fake or real? When does it go up? And when does it come down? 2. Shopping--fake or real? Oh, wait, that’s the last question. Here we are--do you wait until the last minute or plan ahead? Do you give gift cards? 3. And finally, where do you carry out your celebrating, of whatever sort it might be? At your house, at a relative’s house in the area, or out of town? Take yourself a big gulp of eggnog and get to work! As for my answers--regular readers will know that the Possumclan always make use of a traditional plastic tree that is now in its thirteenth year of faithful service. Reba and I had a real one the first Christmas we were married, and the constant bother led me to find a fake one. It usually goes up during Thanksgiving vacation, and usually comes down on New Year’s Day. Although some folks might scoff at a fake tree, please understand it is part of my cultural tradition, and you mustn’t scoff at the quaint ways of indigenous peoples. The first Christmas tree I ever remember at our house when I was little was made of aluminum foil with a silver painted broomstick trunk, and from there we moved on to a big white flocked tree. Both were lit up with spiffy floodlamps with the swanky modern rotating color discs. (We had to get rid of the flocked tree because rats got in it.) Anyway, since we celebrate Christmas in more of a secular style, a fake tree has as much symbolism as anything else to me, and it won’t burn the house down. #2--Miss Reba shops all year and stores presents away like a squirrel hiding walnuts. I wait until the week before, because I would forget where I hid stuff within five minutes of hiding it. We do occasionally give gift certificates and the like, but mostly we give actual presents, just like Santa Claus. #3--We have three sets of people to go see here in town, but we made a hard and fast rule the first year of our marriage that in order to keep down petty jealousies amongst these groups (two in particular) we would never leave the house on Christmas Day, and everyone else could just jolly well stay away as well. By doing this, we figured we could have some private time with our kids and they could actually play with the stuff Santa brings them. It has worked out very well, although not without some grumbling. But, being the jolly fat man that I am, I say they can take their grumbling and shov...never mind. As for the other visits, those occur mostly in the days before, but sometimes after, Christmas, and it is always tiring, and not that much fun. But, hey, who but a Scroogely Grinch would ever complain about Christmas?! So, the foregoing should not be construed as a complaint. Please. (If I get coal again this year, I might file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau.) Anyway, there you go. Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Oh, sure.
Danged fool Chet the E-Mail Boy comes in and starts mucking around with MY stuff, and everyone thinks I'M insensitive. He seems to be forgetting that pair of shoes I'm letting him have, and that despite my better judgment we went ahead and bought a new company car for him to drive around in. It's very nice, too--an '89 Mercury Tracer with only 90,000 miles. Cost us $425 on E-Bay, which was a pretty good deal since it doesn't look like we are EVER going to get paid for the loss on the Pinto that a certain codger (who seems to think he has enough free time to mess with my computer) drove into the Illinois River. Anyway, I have an employee conference that I have to attend with Chet now to deal with his insubordination.
HELLO MY NAME IS CHET AND I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE STOP MR OGLESBY SAID IF HE EVER CAUGHT ME MESSING WITH HIS COMPUTING MACHINE THAT HE WOULD MAKE ME CLEAN THE SEPTIC TANK SO PLEASE DO NOT TELL HIM STOP HE IS DISTRACTED AT THE MOMENT SO I SHOULD BE SAFE STOP I JUST WANTED EVERYONE NOT TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING ME A PRESENT STOP MR OGLESBY GAVE ME A COUPON FOR A DOLLAR OFF ON KELLOGGS CORN FLAKES AND IT WAS SUCH A THOUGHTFUL GESTURE THAT I DO NOT WANT ANYTHING ELSE STOP
It's very cold outside, and I don't like that one bit.
That's it--just an observation in passing. I'm going back to typing now.
Obscure Architectural Term of the Day!
Well, since we got all scriptural, let's look at the-- ECHAL. In a synogogue, the fitting enclosing the Ark or cupboard in which are kept the rolls of the Law; often of wood. An ornate example of the C18 exists in London at Bevis Marks, in the form of a large tripartite REREDOS. As always, here's you a picture to look at of Bevis Marks, a description, and a bonus definition!REREDOS. A wall or screen, usually of wood or stone, rising behind an altar, and as a rule decorated. Here's a pretty picture of a reredos (pronounced "reardose" I found out after no small amount of embarrassment) at the overly-long named Parish Church of St. Joseph's Blaydon-on-Tyne.(As always, definitions provided by the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition.)
December 15, 1791 On December 15, 1791, the new United States of America adopted the Bill of Rights, the first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution, confirming the fundamental rights of its citizens. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of religion, speech, and the press, and the rights of peaceful assembly and petition. Other amendments guarantee the rights of the people to form a "well-regulated militia," to keep and bear arms, the rights to private property, fair treatment for accused criminals, protection from unreasonable search and seizure, freedom from self-incrimination, a speedy and impartial jury trial, and representation by counsel. [...] And to the credit of the writers, it remains one of the most influential documents ever produced.However, not to quibble with the description (which is a backhanded way of saying "I have a quibble with the description") but the Second Amendment doesn't guarantee the right of the people to form a well-regulated militia--it states that because a well-regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms was not to be infringed. And, despite arguments to the contrary, "people" means the same in the Second Amendment as it does everywhere else in the document--persons as individuals, whether they are acting in concert with other people or not.
Oh, that wasn't so very bad.
The meeting only lasted about an hour and forty minutes today, and it was mostly non-controversial stuff. Much less scribbling that way. However, I was feeling horrible--I didn't get into bed until midnight last night, and had to get up at 5:00 this morning, and one of the fistful of pills I take every day to stay alive made me a bit queasy. I had intended to stop and get some breakfast on the way in, but realized after placing my order at the drive-through that I had forgotten I had given Reba all my spare folding money last night when she had gone to the store. I didn't even have a single dollar. ::sigh:: I just drove on off and went on to where we have our meeting. BUT, what to my wondering eyes should appear?! I walked into the conference room, and it had obviously been cleaned up and moved around for someone to have a Christmas party, and over underneath one of the tables was a big #10 galvanized tub full of beer. More important to me, however, was that it was ALSO full of GIGANTIC BOTTLES OF DIET COKE! Big ol' 40s--one full liter of rich, flavorful, caffeine and phenylalanine. Mmmm--chemicals! AND THEN, one of my coworkers brought in some junk to feed our committee members, and one of the items was GIGANTIC CHEESE STRAWS! Man, I love cheese straws--if you've never had them, they are baked dough things with cheese and flavoring and flour and grease and salt, usually extruded out into disgusting looking curls or twirls or patties. These were bigger than anything I had ever seen before, so in order to allay my nausea, I sneaked over and got one, and promised myself after the meeting I would go get me a Coke. Which is exactly what I did. The bit of food made me stomach settle down some, so I grabbed two more of the cheese straws and a jug of drink on the way out to the van. The Coke was sort of lukewarm, but I did not care in the least. Although those big bottles are a bit of a bear to handle. ANYWAY, I need to REALLY get some work done today--I am going to be on hibernation all next week in anticipation of a visit from St. Nick, so I am going to be less able to play today and the rest of the week so I can get my notes typed up. "Less able," but not completely locked up, mind you, so do check back in every once in a while. Until the next update, you might want to take a gander at this news article: Ala. Judge Wears Ten Commandments on Robe By BOB JOHNSON, Associated Press Writer
Anyway, be back in a while with more stuff. Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Continuation of Yet More Sleep-Inducing Tales from the Weekend!
This is gonna have to do you until later on in the day tomorrow--I’ve got my bimonthly exercise in being a mindless regulatory drone, so nothing much until later in the day. ANYway, as we go backwards in time to Saturday [insert wavy, going-back-in-time visual effect] all the girls finally got home. They had managed to go all over the county and finally wound up spending actual money on a dress for Oldest that they found over at the Parisian at the Summit. ::sigh:: Thankfully, it does look nice, and is both attractive and modest. Trust me, this is VERY hard to find. Apparently such an attractive and modest outfit required shoes. I have been told that all of this stuff was on sale, thus saving me great wads of cash. I am dubious. Got the kids fed, scrubbed and bedded, and then it was time to get right back up and go to church Sunday. Good sermon, aside from constantly having to poke a certain someone who had exhausted herself during the trip to the emergency room. I would almost be sympathetic, except she seems so put out that anyone would DARE try to keep her awake. We sit on the fifth row back, and I KNOW it has to be distracting for the preacher to see her nodding. Or acting like a turd when Mom or Dad elbows her to wake up. ::sigh:: Anyway. Also went and got a substitute for leading singing that evening. Remember my cold? It’s gone. It was replaced by the plague or something. My lungs and Eustachian tubes are filled with something the consistency of 5-minute epoxy in about its third minute of curing time. Hard to sing when you can breathe or hear yourself. After that, we left Oldest at the building so she could work on her debate stuff (she’s great at disagreeing, horrible at logic--I doubt this will be beneficial to her) and the rest of us went on toward the house. Stopped for lunch at Applebee’s and told them in NO uncertain terms that I didn’t want to have to navigate one of those stupid high round tables with creaky swivel chairs. Was seated at a regular table with a chair set at the end. I had kind of figured that might be one of the kid’s seats, but they all made a dash for the other chairs, perhaps anticipating being able to sit on one of the many sides of Mommy. No one ever fights to sit by me. ::sniffle:: As it turned out, they took all the chairs and Mom wound up on the aisle. Food, served with all deliberate speed, pay, leave, home, and then time to take Rebecca to go do some Christmas shopping for her siblings. We stopped by Wal-Mart and found most of the stuff, and then headed out over to Sam’s to use some of our newfound wholesale purchasing power, then BACK to Wal-Mart to see if I could find something else, and then back to the house to unload and reload with Miss Reba and kids and head back to church for the evening bout of keeping someone awake. Brief meeting afterwards, then time to head home for good. And go to bed. In total, a very busy weekend, and not one I am that ready to redo anytime soon. And tonight? Well, I have some more typing work to do for someone named Rebecca who has some science work to turn in tomorrow. OH, and Catherine and I made our soda bread last night! How could I forget? She got to help me measure and stir and pat out one into a pan, but it was so late that she didn’t get to see the finished result until this morning. She was very impressed. It tasted pretty good, but it’s not quite like cornbread or biscuits. ANYway, that’s about it for now. See all of you later on tomorrow!
Update Number 17 From Captain Myers!
Frank writes this week about messing up, but in the end, finds that some mess-ups are better than others. I don't say it enough, but many thanks to Captain Myers for the service he is doing in the cause of freedom. It takes a special group of people to do what he and his fellow soldiers do, and as a country we are hard-pressed to do anything that could ever adequately reward them. Stay safe, Frank, and my best wishes for you during the holidays and in the coming year.
Dr. Smith put in a request for some lunch blogging, and being that I am always willing to respond to my vast reading audience, today I decided to try something a bit on the differentish side.
I don't like to do this, because once I find a comfortable food rut, I figure there's no good reason to jump out for some fad or other. But, in this instance, I figured it would be like I was pretending to be an investigative reporter or double-naught spy or something, so I set out for the wilderness of the AmSouth Harbert food court to follow up on a sighting from last week--Golden Rule Barbecue. As I have mentioned several times in the past, I am basically distrustful of any fancy barbecue place, and even more so when said joint doesn't actually HAVE a barbecue pit, but rather brings in its meat from elsewhere. But, having said that, there is still the lure of being able to go somewhere close-by for smoked pig meat, so I figured I owed it to myself to find out if it's worth a second visit. First of all, it's cold outside today. Second, I thought I was going to get hit by a black 7-series BMW when I was crossing the street. Just wanted you to know. Anyway, on to the food court, after passing by the nice flower shop lady explaining an odd-looking basket to a couple of older guys, and up the escalator past the piano-playing guy. (The harpy was nowhere in sight.) As to this new joint--well, we can't really call it that--this new tenant, the decor when you first see it is very nice, with a dark wood storefront in the modern faux historical look. The walls have a few photos of the old original restaurants, as well as a couple of Bear Bryant/Alabama ones. Not that there's anything wrong with that. The back of counter area was humming along efficiently, with gleaming stainless warmers and coolers doing their warming and cooling duties respectively. First disappointment was the front surface of the counter. A pretty little mural of a brick wall, with a trompe l'oeil depiction of a pork-shoulder-and-butt-filled barbecue pit, complete right down to the cast-iron cleanout doors. ::sigh:: Sure, I understand the need to add some atmosphere or else it would look no different than every other place there, but, still. It would be like going to a strip club and all there was were paintings of nekkid girls. You know, like at the Louvre. I realize I should not prejudice my feelings for the taste of the food by the atmosphere, but the whole experience of settling in at a good ol' barbecue joint to eat and tell lies is such a deeply ingrained part of my social upbringing that it is difficult to separate the experiences into the eating part and the non-eating-but-still-darned-necessary parts. The menu board included their complete fare, including salads and chicken and such like, and it was good to see they did have banana pudding, or as we say, "nannerpuddn." (I didn't get any of the sweet stuff, though, because they would make me fat.) Since it was chilly outside, and since I have been craving it, I got a pork sandwich with the combo platter (yet another nod to senseless modernity) that had the Brunswick stew. Brunswick stew is good. When it's done right. I ordered my sandwich chopped, and got an order of potato salad just because I needed to maximize my carb intake for the month. By the time I got to the fellow at the cash register, my food was ready, which is laudably speedy service. Over 7 bucks, though--that's a bit on the pricey side. Especially after considering the eating of it. I filled up my styrofoam cup with refreshing and tasty Diet Coke, and set off again for my toasty warm office to see how good this brown bag of delights could be. And no, there is no place to sit down inside--it's like the other establishments and relies on the sea of tables out in the atrium. The sandwich was of a goodly size on a regular white bread bun. I had ordered chopped which, to the uninitiated, means that they are supposed to take a hunk of meat and whack at it with a cleaver until it's not a hunk of meat anymore. (It's different from sliced, which is just exactly what it sounds like.) Anyway, my idea of chopped is that it should be chunky, with some irregular-sized bits, but still identifiable as meat. The meat I received looked to have been pulverized into tiny splinters. That's not really SO bad, but when you do that, it makes the people eating it wonder if the meat hadn't really been nice and tender to begin with, so you had to run it through a jet engine to get it into chewable pieces. Anyway, I took a bite. Good, a bit of hickory smoke. But not great. As I have ALSO said before, any barbecue meat that can be served with an ice-cream scoop probably can't be all that great. There was a dill pickle. The sauce was okay, as sauce goes, but it's not quite what I think of as traditional sauce, especially considering how much touting Golden Rule does about it. According to this, their sauce contains: "water, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, vinegar, modified food starch, salt, tomato paste, spices, paprika, dehydrated garlic and onion, monosodium glutamate, sodium benzoate added as a preservative, propylene glycol alginate." Doesn't quite sound like anything from 1891. Compare this with Ollie's sauce--"vinegar, water, tomato products, salt, sugar, spices, soybean oil, margarine." That's more like it. On then to the Brunswick stew--like barbecue in general, there are a billion variations of the recipe--but this was a pretty good rendition, thick with lots of meat (pork? chicken? both? neither?) and corn and chunks of tomato. Also a lot on the greasy side. The lurid slick orange glow on the side of the paper container will probably pass unmolested through my gut and leave a similar coating on the old porcelain throne this evening. What did they give me to go with it? Crackers. ::sigh:: Should be hush puppies. The potato salad is pretty much beyond mentioning. Much like a cross between chunky mashed potatoes and library paste, it would possibly keep a hungry man from starving, if he could bring himself to eat it. Overall, it's really not horrible food, but fails by not meeting some awfully high standards that have become expected of something wishing to wear the noble name of barbecue. Like real Philly cheesesteaks, and real New York cheesecake, and real Rice-a-Roni from San Francisco, some things are just too important to dabble in for fun, and around here, barbecue is one of those things. Eat it if you must, but there are better local alternatives.
For those of you in the Birmingham market who might have been wondering: Beaner & Ken in negotiations with station Steven Mackay
No matter, they still have done very well, and offer a pretty good mix of entertainment. I will say they seem to have coarsened a bit since they were first on the air--hey, I like juvenile potty-related jokes about as much as anyone, but after a while it wears thin. Michelle, their newswoman (who was added to the mix after their OTHER newswoman jumped ship) has also been an interesting addition. She's funny, and has great stories about her son and her husband and the rest of her family, but when the topic turns political, she and the guys are a little too quick to see black helicopters with Halliburton painted on the side flying everywhere. Having a differing opinion is fine, telling a story from one point of view is fine, but deliberately ignoring facts isn't, most especially when you put yourself forward as a reporter. There have been several times when I just had to turn the radio to another station, just like I do when the somnambulant gasbag Daniel Schorr comes on. Why? Well, not because I CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH, but because when that mess starts, the show is no longer entertaining. Well, aside from all of that, I still enjoy their show, and have missed them the last couple of days. I would hope that the station would understand the tremendous amount of affection listeners around here have for their drivetime folks, and see clear to quit yanking everyone around about whether or not they'll stay.
Crohn's Disease May Respond to Parasite Therapy By Karla Gale
It appears Aussie Tim Cobber Mate has gone on walkabout. Again.
In case you haven't noticed, he's moved to http://timblair.net/weblog.php, so stand on your head and update your links.
Before we continue with our recitation of the weekend...
I received an e-mail from a fellow named Josh Schroeder that some of the rest of you may have gotten, dealing with a story from the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. I don't recall having spoken with Josh before (forgive me if I have) and I don't usually link to stuff that folks send me out of the blue, but this one is a pretty good story. One of the professors there at the campus writes a humor column in the school paper, and from the sound of it, there seems to be a goodly dollop of mean-spirited offensiveness to it. Occasional outré stuff, that as the professors says, is "...'about 80 percent stupid humor,' is an outlet for an almost fictionalized, crazed version of himself as the perpetual student...." Some of the folks on campus were incensed by his latest frippery, however: [...] But a group of students from the UWSP College Republicans organization wasn't laughing Nov. 4 when a post-election Rothfuss column included phrases like "punching smug-looking Republicans in the mouth" and "key every car you see with a Bush bumper sticker." The column's premise was that Rothfuss was drunk while writing to himself, and it suggested, "why don't you go on a killing spree? I pet you can take out fixteen for sisteen republicans beofre they gun you down. Duke, youd' be like a heroe." (sic)
[...] said College Republican Josh Schroeder. "I understood that he wasn't being serious," Schroeder said. "But I also feel that if someone with a conservative point of view would have said anything half as incredulous in a satire article, ... we would have had the book thrown at us." [...] [ellipsis in original] Don't believe it? Try a little experiment--in the professor's little whimsy, instead of "Republican," substitute "black people." For "Bush bumper sticker," substitute "NAACP." Let's try it: "punching smug-looking black people in the mouth," "key every car you see with an NAACP bumper sticker," "why don't you go on a killing spree? I pet you can take out fixteen for sisteen black people beofre they gun you down. Duke, youd' be like a heroe." Yes, and if this little screed had been written and published in a campus newspaper, the author would be out on his can in five seconds. No one would think for a second about giving him any quarter for his reasoning that "maintains that his teaching persona and column-writing persona should be kept separate." He would be gone, and everyone would be applauding the sensitivity and inclusiveness of the administration.Of course, it's not like the good professor isn't an equal-opportunity loon: [...] As a response to Michels' letter to the editor, which called the content of Rothfuss' column "totally inappropriate" for a faculty member, Rothfuss in his Nov. 11 column decided to satirically apologize for much of the bad advice that he'd provided via his column. His retractions of bad "advice" included telling readers not to chase hippies with a lawnmower and not to mix ammonia with bleach and drink it. [...] Academic freedom and the right of free speech are great, but the professor seems to have a problem, and it's not intolerance or even being outrageous. It's in not really being funny.Humor is hard to do. Offensive humor even more so. The professor's problem stems not from the fact that he sometimes writes over-the-edge material. It doesn't help his case to say that he spreads it around equally to all. The problem is that he fails to target himself as well. The difference between being clever and being a humorless shank is the ability not only to see the foibles and failings of others, but also to see your own, and to be comfortable enough being part of the human race that you are just as willing to skewer yourself as you are others. A tin ear, a weak pen, and overwhelmingly defensive self-righteousness rarely make a good combination of prose. You need to get out more, Professor Rothfuss. Oh, and lose the hat when you are indoors.
The End of an Era--The LAST INSTALLMENT of Interesting Alabama Place Names!
Yes, we have finally reached the end of the alphabet with today's selection of interesting place names gleaned from the back of the Official State of Alabama Highway Map, 1995/96 Edition. Before we get on to W, Y, & Z, I did want to point out that there is no X. Anywhere. No Xaviers, no Xanadus, no Xmas, no Xinhua. I believe this lack of X names creates a tremendous opportunity for any of you forward-thinking sorts of folks out there--think of the great riches that could be yours if you incorporated a town and gave it a name beginning with X! People just LOVE uniqueness, and with the only Xtown in the state, you certainly would be unique, and people would flock to spend money in your town! Well, anyway, think about it. SO, on to the show: First up, in case any of you still care where he is, there is Waldo, located in Talladega County. I don't think they were ever able to parley their good fortune at having the same name as the other Waldo into anything that paid anything. Nor did the idea for bringing in a bargain retailer known as WaldoMart. ANYway, next there's Warsaw, Waterloo, Wedowee, Weogufka, Weoka, Wetumpka, Wing, Yantley, Yarbo, and to wrap it all up, Zimco and Zip City. Possibly the most famous attraction in Zip City is the Zip City Auction Company. And so, having exhausted interesting things A-Z, it is with a heavy heart that this feature of Possumblog now draws to a close. However, I am looking into the possibility of listing Uninteresting Alabama Place Names. Monday, December 13, 2004
ANYway…
The original plan for Saturday had been for Mom to take Ashley to try to find a dress for school. She’s decided she wanted to try out in some pageant or other, and needed something glamorous. Being that she lives under my roof, however, this glamour was going to have to be gotten second-hand, so the plan was for them to hit the consignment shops. My task for the day was going to be exploring various hardware stores to start getting stuff together to repair the powder room floor downstairs. Yes, I still haven’t fixed that. I’VE BEEN BUSY! OH, and Friday the folks from Sam’s had come by Reba’s new place of employment, and I got her to sign up for a card so we could buy cheap gasoline, and soap by the forklift pallet. So, we had to go get our pictures made for that, too. OH, and in the mail Friday, Reba’s paycheck from her former place of employment had come in, so we needed to go to the bank. OH, but this was before we had scattered our children and one set of our wheels to the winds, so before ANY of that other stuff, we had to go get the van and the children. Up very early Saturday, because of the odd circumstance that causes Reba to choose this one day of the week to get up out of bed at the crack of dawn without being prompted. Or dragged out from under the covers. I woke up and my eyes felt like they had asphalt shingles stapled to them. And then there was the fatigue from being up the evening before and not being able to get any sleep because of the Taco Bell “food” ripping its way through my alimentary canal. I looked like this guy. We finally got out of the house around 11, went and got the kids and the van, and set off--Mom with the two older girls, me with Boy and Tiny Terror. First stop, the infamous Credit Union Service Center, where Reba was given grief by the teller because the teller had never seen a paycheck from Reba’s former employer. “HEY! WHO THIS IS?!” the teller screamed at her manager, who yelled back after looking at it that it was okay. Wow. What a relief. Next stop, down Old Springville Road and then up Chalkville Road to the sparkling new Sam’s Club. Went in, got our cards, and decided to shop a bit. Bought a pallet of soap, a bucket of Motrin, and a couple of other things. I had wanted to look at some of the electronics, but due to my fatigue-induced short fuze, I just got frustrated with having to maneuver the shopping cart AND the kids through the store, so we left. Don’t worry, though, I went back Sunday! After that, filled up with cheap gas in the van and the car, and in the process saved approximately $1.16 total over buying it at RaceTrac ($1.749 vs. $1.789). With that sort of savings, it should only be approximately 30 fill-ups before we make our money back on the card! LUNCHTIME, and I allowed Reba and the girls to pick the restaurant, and I followed along behind as they drove. They turned at the service road leading to one of two places to eat--either Waffle House or Pizza Hut. As fate would have it, they pulled into Pizza Hut. ::sigh:: The one in Trussville always seems as though you stick to everything. It’s never really clean-looking, although I guess it probably might be. (Ignoring the bits of paper and food on the carpet. And tables. And chairs. And counters. And ceilings.) And the “service” is a joke. Oh well. We got our food and the kids ate with great gusto. Paid, and then it was finally time to make our split from each other. I kissed the girls and sent them on their way, and then the other, tiniest girl and the only boy hopped in the car with me for a magical trip to the fascinating hardware store. On to Home Depot! With inquisitive children! And me with no patience! And full of pizza! First was to try to find something to fix the broken floor hub. Not having a real good idea of how to do this, I found a couple of things that might do it. One was a 1/2 inch plastic spacer, the other a metal mending plate. (Long after I got home and actually remembered how everything worked, I figured out the mending plate is probably the way to go.) Also picked up a waxless gasket, and some light bulbs--little candelabra bulbs for the front porch, and some big round knockers for the light fixture over our bathroom sink. All the while as I was trying to figure this stuff out, Catherine busied herself with attempting to brain her brother with various lengths of cast iron pipe. Also looked for some replacement flooring--5/16” Bruce, of some odd and cheap variety known only to housebuilders, it turns out. They didn’t have any. ::sigh:: Paid, and then went back down toward the auto parts place to buy some goo-in-a-can to have just in case the tires go flat again, the BACK up the other way to go visit one of the flooring places who ALSO didn’t have what I needed, then home. Where I went about changing the front light bulb, and noticed that the photocell in the sockets were corroded beyond belief. SO, I gathered the kids BACK up and headed back down the hill to Marvin’s to pick up some new photocells. Whereupon a certain tiny girl took this as an indication she should pester her brother with various electrical implements. Found some new sockets, paid, back to the house, they fit (whew) and then I went and looked at the bathroom. I quickly closed the door and started on some of the huge piles of laundry instead, and waited for the return of Miss Reba and her charges. About which, you’ll have to hear tomorrow, today having exhausted itself in various non-blogging related way. TOMORROW: More Going!
NEXT, “Well, whaddya know!”
The doctor came in and first, quickly assured Ashley that she did NOT have an inflamed appendix. However, they did find she had a functional ovarian cyst. So, the pain she had been having was real, and in fact, probably had been somewhat intense on occasions. I had the doctor go over the bloodwork with us, just to find out everything, and it all came back perfectly normal. So, basically, 600mg of Motrin, and allow it to resolve itself. (With the normal caution of possible complications we needed to be aware of.) After we thanked her and she had gone to get some Motrin, Reba and I gave a bit of a sigh and asked Oldest if she was ready to go home now. She said she guessed so, and then a thought occurred to me--“Ashley, do you know what a cyst is?” Well, of course not. So we explained it a bit to her--Reba used to have them when she was younger--and after THAT bit of information, she was equally ready to go home. Actually, she was ready to eat. She had said she couldn’t eat anything earlier in the day (aside from the YooHoo and potato chips at my office) because it hurt so bad to chew. Uh-huh. Well, after she found out the source of her discomfort wasn’t connected to her gut, her ability to chew came back in full force. We got her medicine and checked out, then proceeded to drive up the block to Taco Bell. ::sigh:: I wasn’t about to deny her whatever she wanted to eat, even if it meant the certainty of having to make a run for the outhouse later. Three soft tacos for her, a Fajita Grilled Stuft Burrito for Mom, and despite my better judgment, I got myself a burrito supreme and a soft taco. I might have said this before, but eating after about 8 at night isn’t kind to my system. Eating after midnight is worse. Eating Taco Bell after midnight, on an evening spent going through much emotional rigor, is possibly the worst thing to do. Talk about distress! Oldest, on the other hand, slept quite soundly the rest of the night, and woke up refreshed and ready to go shopping on Saturday. Next: Going. (Actually, next is going to lunch for me--I am hungry, despite having just recited a sickening description of a meal from Taco Bell. Eww.)
Because a siren would not been nearly so loud, that’s why.
I trotted over and opened the back door of the truck and she was in full song, doubled over, clutching her stomach, bawling her eyes out. I got her and started walking her to the entrance with Reba, both of us trying to get her to settle down some. To no avail. Inside, past the security guard (where I had to turn in my pocket knives) and on to the triage counter. The necessity of answering questions made some of the tears and moaning stop, and she was given a cup to pee in. That done, more paperwork, go have a seat. And get to hear all about the wild ride. It seems that Reba’s dad was at home because he had meetings here in town all day Friday, and so he was home early and when Oldest came in screaming he volunteered to drive them to the hospital. In Reba’s words, “Terry, I’ll never ever say anything about the way you drive ever again.” I am actually a very good driver, but oftentimes Reba is reading a book when she’s riding along with me, or is looking out the window. So, she’s not paying any attention to stuff, until I do something she wasn’t expecting, and she thinks I’m the one not paying attention, because she got startled. Whatever. I don’t let it bother me, because I have ridden with her driving, and I never read. For a reason. Since I value being able to engage in connubial exercises of a carnal nature, however, I have NEVER said a word about her skills as a driver. And I won’t now. Other than to say that I always prefer to drive, if at all possible. In any event, I have also ridden with her dad before, too. Apparently, driving skills are passed down genetically. On the trip Friday, it seems that he did indeed neglect to take an alternative route. Well, a paved alternate route. Reba said when he saw the sea of taillights in front of him, he took to the inside shoulder--not the emergency lane, but the median, and was driving as he usually does, but with more vigor, and more nervous twitchiness, and less judgment. Driving in the grass around here is a big danger, mainly because there is so much junk hidden over there, and there are all sorts of unseen ditches and hummocks that can do some major damage. So, you have him, driving like a maniac down the median, every bounce and jolt sending Oldest into further screaming paroxysms, further inciting Pops to put the pedal to the metal. They finally had to get back on the road, and came to a dead stop. After a while, some old woman came wandering by who had gotten out of someone else’s car and tapped on their window. Reba’s dad rolled it down a bit, and the woman started screaming, “THE WHOLE INTERSTATE’S BLOCKED! WE’RE GOING TO BE HERE ALL NIGHT!” Which resulted in, “WAAAAAAA! I DON’T WANT TO DIE, MOMMY! AAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!” They finally got through, and didn’t get a ticket for driving on the median like so many other received, because one of the tow truck drivers was kind enough to call ahead to the cops to let them go because they were on the way to the hospital. From there to the hospital was also quite a trying ride, as well, although at least the pavement was smoother than the shoulder. Back now in the emergency room, Ashley had finally calmed down a bit, and had quit the crying and screaming, although she was still moaning a bit. We had to go fill out some more paperwork, then sit some more. Finally, around 7:00 she got called back to an exam room, where we waited. She had finally calmed down enough to just sit and talk, which was good, because I finally found out what all the hubbub was the result of. “Coach Dumbass (not his real name) said that if your appendix bursts, you die.” Well, no FRIGGIN’ WONDER she had been so upset! I have just about gotten to the point where I’m going to have to sit down and give her The Talk. No, not THAT one, the other one. I am loathe to do it, because she has enough problems with respecting authority as it is, but it is the speech that goes something like this: “Just because someone gets a job in a public school, doesn’t necessarily mean they are smart enough to tie their shoes and chew gum.” I know there are a lot of good, hard-working, smart, conscientious physical education teachers out there--if you’re one, this is not directed at you. But rather, it is directed at the morons who can’t do anything else in life except instruct pimply-faced adolescents on the rules of badminton. If you’re going to dispense medical advice, make sure it’s RIGHT, you dimwitted pile of crap! There is a big difference between “potentially fatal if left untreated” and “deadly, no matter what you do.” Anyway, she’s probably beginning to figure out that she’s smarter than some of the folks called upon to instruct her, and as I said, given her propensity to backtalk, that’s probably not a good thing to know. Because no matter how bright she is, she still has to obey the rules, so even the thickest brick in the hod can still make school life hard for her. You know, some people really get a charge out of being in charge, even if it’s just a bunch of kids. And, to make it even worse, come to find out all of the kids she insists on hanging around with and calling her “friends” had been pumping her full of horror stories all afternoon about the terrible diseases she might have--and again, all of them fatal. The Other Talk we have so many times with her that I have stopped counting--“Don’t make friends with people who enjoy torturing you emotionally.” She might be bright, but she also is a little too susceptible to allowing herself to be caught up in wild ideas, and it gets the better of her. As in this instance. The doctor finally came in and took her history, which was as confusing and illogical as one might imagine given all of the misinformation she had been fed, as well as her own conflation of symptoms and reactions. At the first mention of pain in the lower right quadrant, the doctor’s eyes brightened and said, “OOOh, it might be your appendix!” but her enthusiasm dimmed as soon as she took the rest of the history, and was confronted by conflicting levels and locations and onsets of pain, as well as all the unrelated symptoms Oldest had begun to exhibit. So, the best thing to do was get some blood and schedule her for a CT scan. Send Pop on back to the house. Wait. Wait. Go to the restroom. Wait. Talk. Made the trek to the imaging department, where she got injected with stuff and got to ride the scanner, while Mom and I sat there impassively with big lead aprons on. Waited another three hours. During which time Oldest decided to go to sleep. Finally along about 11:30, the lab results and the CT scan had finally been returned. NEXT, “Well, whaddya know!”
SO, why is this all Jordana’s fault?
I believe her exact words were, “One day she's really going to be sick, and then you'll be sorry!” So, it’s her fault. Heaven forbid I actually have to feel guilty about anything--especially if I can blame someone else! Anyway, Friday afternoon, Oldest spent the time here quietly reading her book, and around 4:30, Reba swung by on her way home to pick her up before going on to her mom and dad’s house to pick up the other kids and go home. Along about fifteen minutes later, she called me from the car to let me know that there was a giant wreck on the inbound side of the interstate--seems a dump truck had gone through the outbound guardrail and rolled down the embankment into the oncoming lane. Made a big mess, as you can imagine. Anyway, it gets to be about time to go, and I am buttoning things up right at 5:00 when the phone rings--it’s Reba again, “Hey, she’s really hurting--I’m going to call the doctor.” In the background, I hear what sounds like Oldest being fed into a trash compactor--screaming, crying, wailing, moaning, weeping, bellowing. Hmm. I agreed to wait around here until she had gotten some word back from the doctor’s office about what to do. Wait, surf a bit, fix stuff for today, and at about 5:20, the phone rings again--“We’ve got to take her right now to the emergency room at Children’s.” Hmm. In the background, still the howling and crying, but by this time I figured there just might be something to this. And at the exact same time immediately started feeling that horrible twinge of guilt. I mean, you know, I knew it probably wasn’t “the unthinkable,” (whatever that might be) but I began to figure there must have been some sort of actual physiological source of her discomfort. “I’ll meet you there.” I hung up and got my stuff and zipped over to Children’s and after several minutes of wandering around the emergency department entrance, finally found the valet parking guy warmly ensconced in his booth watching television. “Could you park my car for me? I have it parked over there--I didn’t know if that was okay or not.” He gave me a ticket and went on, and I suppose he was miffed at being taken away from the Simpsons. Then, wait. I knew it was going to be a while, because on the way over, I heard on the radio that the dump truck wreck had necessitated completely closing the interstate. I just hoped Reba remembered that and took a different route.. I milled around the lobby for a bit, then decided I needed to wait outside so they could see me and not miss the entrance (there’s a lot of construction going on, and I missed it myself). Watched an ambulance crew get their truck back in order after dropping off a patient, watched a couple of cop cars come and go, wondered why the Children’s Harbor building across the street is so fussily ugly, watched another ambulance drop in to chat with the first crew, watched the valet shift change, peeked through the wooden hoarding around the construction site, kept looking at my watch. After 45 minutes came and went, it was apparent they had NOT gone around the wreck but were stuck in traffic waiting to get through. So, wait. Calculate just exactly how guilty I should feel. Keeps coming up the same answer, despite my best efforts at using different numbers, and not carrying the 3, and multiplying by .09. I knew whatever her malady was, it couldn’t be too horrid, or else she would have been in much worse shape while she was at the office. Still, it wasn’t completely in her head. SO, no matter how many times in the past it had been, there was indeed that one time that it wasn’t, and no matter how many times I ran through the Story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf, it didn’t help. Wait some more. Finally, about an hour and some change after the initial call, here they come--Reba’s dad drove them in his Explorer--which itself turned into quite an escapade. NEXT--No need for a siren.
Well, now.
THAT was certainly a long weekend. I blame Jordana. You'll get to hear why in a bit, after I attend to Monday Morning Staff Meeting and after I have had a refreshing cold beverage full of caffeine and after I get it all typed up, you will read stunning tales of Going to the Emergency Room, Going to Sam's Club, Going to Pizza Hut, Going to Home Depot, Going to Marvin's, Going to Church, Going to Applebee's, Going Christmas Shopping, Going Back to Church, Going Home, and Going to Sleep.
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