Possumblog

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.


Wednesday, April 30, 2003

And finally, what would Wednesday be without the weekly Lileks Newhouse column--today he's geeking on the ICC:
The International Criminal Court, like most international institutions, is a wonderful idea. A noble idea. All it needs to work is planetary government, worldwide democracy and the triumph of reason over tribal loyalties, political doctrines and individual ambition. In other words, it requires that we all live in the world described by the "Star Trek" television shows.

Some think we already do. One of the more fascinating characteristics of those devoted to international law is their insistence that such a thing exists. Oh, it does, but it's something we all accept without too many questions, like Michael Jackson's popularity. [...]

[...] Has anyone pressed the Belgian court to indict the various Baathist officials the United States has in custody? You know, the ones whose government forced pregnant women to strap explosive belts around their wombs?

If the United States hadn't destroyed Saddam's regime, every day in Iraq would have seen a violation of every human right the United Nations professes to uphold. Page through the 10 kajillion laws the United Nations has passed and you'll probably find one that outlaws jails for children, or corrective genital electrotherapy for dissidents.

But that's not the crime. The crime consists of deposing that regime without the consent of a Belgian court.

Who died and made them Capt. Kirk?
Nobody--they're just in that parallel universe with the groovy, beard-wearing evil Spock.



Musta been some sort of contest...

...because all day long I've been getting hits from a multitude of places (8 or 9 different ISPs) wanting to know the answer to a variation of the question: Who did Aunt Bea replace on the Andy Griffith show.

Well, I apologize for not being on top of this earlier, but Frances Bavier, playing Aunt Bea Taylor replaced Rose, played by Mary Treen in Episode One. (Oddly enough, Miss Treen returned in Episode 12 as Clara Lindsey, "Sam's wife.")

So now you all know why it is important to keep up with your Andy Griffith Show knowledge. (And let me know who was running the contest!)



Yet another unsuspecting victim...

As you recall from our show yesterday, we indentured poor unsuspecting Steven Taylor into the service of Greater Alablogma--he graciously posted a notice on his blog of his capture. Not realizing the danger he posed to himself, another one of them smart poli-sci docs left a message congratulating him, which offered yours truly just enough of a incentive to want to go see what HE had to say on HIS blog, where Dr. Joyner let it slip that Alabamaosity ran through his veins thicker than cat fur.

Although James has now left the leafy confines of Troy State University and moved up to the Metro D.C. area (where he works for a publisher), I sensed his longing for the down home life. I also sensed the potential to add yet another doctor to our club (thus paving the way for our hostile takeover of HealthSouth), so I sent James the following e-mail:
SUBJECT: Hmmm...another possible Weevil?

Good afternoon, Dr. Joyner,

I saw your comment over on PoliBlogger and followed it over to your blog, where I noticed that you had spent some time here in the greatest state ever to exist in all of human history. Given that, and your abundantly overqualified curriculum vitae, is it possible we could interest you in joining up with us?

I like to be polite and ask, because believe it or not, there actually are some folks who would rather not be associated with us! Shyeah--I know--go figure!

In any event, I have included the OFFICIAL membership rules--

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;
3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty good
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
11) Must be able to recite Monty Python and the Holy Grail and give an episode synopsis of all Andy Griffith shows from memory
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

DISCLAIMER: As with the well-loved Calvinball, the rules may change in the middle of the game.

So that's about it. Remember, the Axis of Weevil represents not only those who live in the state, but the entirety of the Redneck Diaspora--many of the blog writers listed as members no longer live within the confines of our borders, but have gone forth to spread the goodness of Alabama across the nation.

If you even remotely qualify, there is your very own Axis of Weevil Gift Pack sitting right here, waiting for the order to be delivered.
In mere moments, Chet the E-Mail Boy came back with the following from James:
I got a PhD from The University of Alabama, which is something of an oxymoron.
HEY! He said it, not me!
Also a high school diploma and a couple other degrees. And the folks still live there.

Otherwise, I meet all the qualifications except 9 (although I did have a student named John Browning in several of my classes at Troy State) and 12 (my pickup done died and has been replaced by a succession of cars). Of course, I'd have thought the vehicle would be required to be on cinderblocks in the front yard to qualify; go figure.
Well, there you go! First off, here is a nice picture of John Moses Browning which you may clip off of your computer monitor with a pair of sharp scissors and put in a frame, so that takes care of Number 9. The pickup truck requirement seems to be tripping up a good many folks--they get all edumicated beyond their upbringing and don't seem to recall that with a couple of hours, a reciprocating saw, and a big can of Bondo, ANY car can be turned into a nice El Camino-style truck--just the thing for work or play; for pulling up to the country club, or picking up hot chicks around Reagan International!

As for the vehicle being up on blocks...well, to each his own, but it's awful hard to drive 'em like that. However, they do make nice yard art, jungle gyms, or sources of cash by parting them out.

So, having dispensed with these minor annoyances, I dashed off a congratulatory reply and told James we would add his name to the roll, to which he said:
Sure. What the hey.
THAT'S THE SPIRIT!!

SO THEN, without further delay or detention, by the power bestowed upon me my The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in purest shimmering samite, and with feelings of great soberness and dignity we, The Heart of Dixie Jazz Ensemble and Mortar Squad, a.k.a. The Axis of Weevil, do FORTHWITH add, promote, inculcate and invest one James Joyner into our cast of characters, with all of the benefits (such as they are) and responsibilities pertaining thereto.

ANYONE OBJECTING to this may not wish to say it too loudly, given Dr. Joyce's background: "Dr. Joyner served as an officer in the U.S. Army from 1988 to 1992, primarily as a Multiple Launch Rocket System platoon leader. His stint included tours in Germany and deployment to southwest Asia for Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Along the way he went to Airborne school at Fort Benning, Georgia and Air Assault school at Fort Rucker, Alabama. His military awards include the Bronze Star Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, and a host of "I was there" medals."

He can put a world of hurt on you. Hopefully he can help us get the recoilless rifle working again.

BUT enough of that--it is time for us all to traipse over to Outside the Beltway and say hello to the newest Weevil!

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE--And you thought we would forget about the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack! Au contraire, Pierre! After she gets through putting in a new battery in the Pinto, Miss Janie will be loading up all your goodies and setting off for ol' Virginny. She's slow (you would be too at 93), but she's a hard worker and a very safe driver, so be on the lookout for her.



BULL!

Time once again to dip into the tiny treasure known as Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book, co-authored by Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon.

For those new to Possumblog, my wife gave me this book as a Christmas present (eerily peculiar, seeing as how she doesn’t know that I have a blog) and it has been a source of sage writing advice and interesting historical flummery ever since.

Today’s excerpt (from the 1901 edition edited by Dr. James Baldwin) is from pages 40-42, and deals with…
6. CONGRUITY OF FIGURES.


An Important Rule.—A sentence, or any complete series of words, is properly congruous only when the sensuous images its several words represent are just as harmonious as are the ideas, or mental realizations, they suggest.

EXAMPLES OF CONGRUITY


Obvious Incongruities.—When Sir Boyle Roche, in the House of Commons, declared how he ‘smelt a rat, saw him floating in the air, and was determined to nip him in the bud’, every one laughed at the obvious incongruity of these three figures in conjunction.

The most patent sort of incongruities of speech are those known as ‘Bulls’, ‘Irish Bulls’, or ‘Hibernianisms’—a product, however, not confined to Ireland. Of such was the somewhat hesitating address of an Irishman to a rather distant acquaintance. “When I first saw you I thought it was you, but now I see it is your brother”. Of such was also the modest reply of an English student when asked what progress he had made in medicine: “I hope I shall soon be fully qualified to be a physician, for I think I am now able to cure a child.” The progress from the cure of a child to that of a full-grown man would probably be quick.

In an old Dublin paper we read: “General — scoured the country yesterday, but had not the good fortune to meet with a single rebel”. A washing-machine was advertised under the title “Every man his own washerwoman”. Grey, in his notes on Hudibras, tells of a lawyer who in an action of battery explained to a judge “that the defendant beat his client with a certain wooden instrument called an iron pestle”.

It is not uncommon to read in the newspapers of a “unanimous resolution, with only one or more dissentient voices”. A vote of thanks is sometimes given to the chairman for his “spirited behavior in the chair”! Chairs have been reported to be “worm-eaten by rats”. Sir Boyle Roche, writing to an Irish nobleman, expressed the hope “if ever you come within a mile of my house you will stay there all night”.

An Irish newspaper, giving an account of Mrs. Siddons’s appearance, relates: “On Sunday, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world has been talking, exposed her beautiful adamantine, soft, and lovely person. . . . The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators who went away without a sight.” (English as she is Wrote.)

An advertisement was worded, “Two young women want washing”. Another, “Teeth extracted with great pains”.

Not quite so obvious are the following incongruities, which we take the liberty of citing from W.B. Hodgson, Errors in the Use of English:—

“Bacon was the great father and inventor of common-sense, as Ceres was of the plough.” (Sydney Smith.) So that Ceres, the goddess, was a father!

“The pestilential air of Hong Kong destroyed them (as it does everything living belonging to animate and inanimate creation.)” (H.C. Stirr, China and the Chinese.)

“In this book, Lady Morgan embodies her own views in the heroine, who is as wild . . . as ever trod the stage of theater or page of romance.” (Lady M.’s Memoir.)

“We are all Englishmen and men of Devon as you (Lucy Passmore) seem to be by your speech.” (Kingsley, Westward, Ho!)

“It was our duty not to give hasty judgments until both sides of the question were before us.” (Speech of Hon. E.L. Stanley, 14-12-’65.) Hasty judgments may be given after?

“Was he able to dine upon £800 a year, or did he require twice that amount to do so satisfactorily?”—i.e., dine on £800 a year.

The following from Blackmore is either sublime or ridiculous:—
”He roared so loud and looked so wondrous grim,
His very shadow durst not follow him.”
Indeed.

Anyway, what always strikes me whenever I do these little exercises is how much cultural literacy the authors demanded of their readers—we have references to Roche, Butler, and Grey, as well as examples of the 18th century stage and Greek mythology.

And so, with the help of Google, I get some much needed learning up.

As for the title of the post, there is a great Richard Lederer article about Irish bulls and the colorful Sir Boyle Roche in the March 2001 Journal of Court Reporting (Googlecached). Seems Sir Boyle would have had great success deciphering ‘misunderestimated.’

The next bit of needed cultural info is the reference to Hudibras, a series of burlesque poems written by Samuel Butler. Later editions of the books carried engravings by Hogarth and commentary by Zachary Grey:
[…] Another clergyman of literary tastes, Zachary Grey, rector of Houghton Conquest, Bedfordshire, wrote much on church questions, but is mentioned here because of his edition of Hudibras, “with large annotations and a preface,” which appeared in 1744, with illustrations by Hogarth. The text was explained by plentiful quotations from puritan and other contemporaries. Warburton rendered some help, which he apparently thought was not sufficiently acknowledged; for, in his Shakespeare, he said that he doubted whether “so execrable a heap of nonsense had ever appeared in any learned language as Grey’s commentaries on Hudibras.” A Supplement to Grey’s valuable work, with further notes, appeared in 1752. Grey attacked Warburton in several pamphlets, and charged his antagonist with passing off Hanmer’s work as his own. In 1754, Grey published Critical, Historical and Explanatory Notes on Shakespeare. He died in 1766. […]
Sounds like Grey would have enjoyed blogging.

The cryptic (to me at least) reference in EW-DB to a 'Mrs. Siddons' (sorta like someone a hundred years from now puzzling over mononymous stars such as Cher or Elvis) got me to searching, and I found that in her time she was just as much a celebrity as Nicole Kidman or Catherine Zeta-Jones today. An actress with all sorts of juicy history, there is a good biography of her at the Burns Country site and at Encyclopædia Britannica.

Being a big star, she knew the importance of image, and despite not having a swarm of paparazzi around her, she still managed to get herself two-dimensionalized quite a bit. Here is a portrait of her in the National Gallery by Thomas Gainsborough, and then one by Joshua Reynolds, and one by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and an engraving by Adam Buck.

Personally, I still prefer Miss Zeta-Jones.


Tuesday, April 29, 2003



Say...that was no earthquake! That was the sound of a NEW WEEVIL A'BORNIN'!

Shrugging off the torpor of winter, springtime bursts upon us bringing with it the rebirth of a new crop of pestilence and woe in the form of a brand new addition to the Cotton State Reloading and Quilting Society, a.k.a The Axis of Weevil!! [cue recorded applause]

One Steven Taylor, author of PoliBlog (not associated with PoliGrip® or polliwogs, at least that I know of), and an assistant professor of political science at Troy State University (Troy--mythical home of 6 foot redheads) came up this afternoon and started banging on the screen door, clutching his freshly filled out membership application to his chest. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to work, he even comes to us with his very own set of post hole diggers! At least I think that's what Ph.D. means.

In any event, Steve managed to get very high marks on his test, although he does admit that his knowledge of The Andy Griffith Show needs some work. (As an aside, in order to benefit all members, a continuing education seminar on TAGS will be held the afternoon of World Domination class. The Rude Haiku class normally taught at that time will be rescheduled. Those interested in the seminar should sign up in the breakroom. And Merilene says to get your mess out of the fridge or she'll throw it out herself.) Anyway, Doc Taylor is real, real smart, and more importantly, his pickup truck works just fine.

SO THEN, by the power vested in me by Merle at Mid-South Truck Driver Training School, and as is the odd and peculiar habit of this august band, the Yellowhammer Internet Fun Club and Button Collecting Society does hereby take this time to convey and put upon Steven L. Taylor FULL, UNEQUIVOCAL, and VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW membership into the Axis of Weevil, with all of the pain and misery, mental discomfiture and carpal tunnel syndrome concomitant thereto.

Welcome aboard, Steven! And as with all new members, you can look forward to receiving your very own World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, consisting 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. In addition, we all remember that Jimmy from next door has returned to help out by providing our new inductee with one of his very nice painted rocks. These rocks make wonderful keepsakes or driveway markers for your trailer.

By way of orientation, please park in your designated parking space--Mr. Briscoll next door is mean and will have you towed. And don't park in Edna's space, or she'll slash your tires. You must wear your ID badge at all times-since the raccoon incident, this has been standard company policy. Do not complain about the VFW surplus softball uniforms--we're working on it. The copier is for official Axis of Weevil business only. No copies of body parts AT ALL. Again, this stems from the raccoon incident. As noted earlier, Merilene is real picky about stuff left in the refrigerator more than a day or two and unless you want her to dump it in your desk drawer, it's best to not leave it in there. Pencils and pens are in the supply closet next to the mop sink. The Personnel Department is short-staffed right now due to having to cover both it and Accounting due to the indictment situation, so if you need insurance forms, be sure to go up there and ask instead of using interoffice mail.

What are you waiting for--go read PoliBlog!



Hey, don't worry about your English--it's better than mine.

Good to see some activity over in Persia again!

As a reminder for all my daft friends on this side of the world, writing a blog in Iran takes infinitely more courage than calling yourself a protestor and covering yourself with ketchup and blocking traffic downtown.



Saddam to deliver message within three days: unknown Iraqi group

The message, limited to texts written on small placards, will be held aloft by Saddam in a manner reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote after being flattened by a runaway boulder or falling anvil or safe, or being blown up by that really big rocket he built.

Beep-beep, baby.



Oh, in case you were wondering...

You may not know it but Fort Payne, the epicenter of this morning's tremors, is the Sock Capital of the World.

Just thought you should know.



Good Job!

Leeds educator named National Teacher of Year
MARY ORNDORFF
News Washington correspondent

WASHINGTON Leeds Elementary School teacher Betsy Rogers on Monday was named the National Teacher of the Year, a first for an Alabama educator.

President Bush will formally honor Rogers on Wednesday in a ceremony in the east garden of the White House.

Her excellence in the classroom, however, will take her away from her first- and second-graders for the next year and put her on a national and international speaking tour representing the profession.

"My whole issue is equity in education," Rogers, 51, said Monday. "I really wish we had a country where there was no need for legislation because we would take care of all our children. It's unthinkable some children would not have the best facilities and a nurturing, safe environment. My message is all children should have a quality education." [...]
Congratulations to Mrs. Rogers!

As for making sure Alabama's kids get the best education, there are only a couple of obstacles--this, and this.



Eerie Silence in Hollywood as Anti-War Stars Vanish

Wow. Musta been some sort of big idiotarian Rapture or something.
[...] Mike Farrell, star of television's "MASH" and organizer of "Artists United to Win Without War," told Reuters that those who joined the loyal opposition in Hollywood had not been silenced and certainly were not backing down.

Instead, he said, the "huge coalition" of those opposed to the war were gathering strength and preparing to fight another day -- over post-war Iraq, domestic issues and future "preemptive strikes" by the Bush administration. [...]
Thanks, Baghdad B.J.!
[...] "There was a well-orchestrated campaign to do that through hate radio and Web sites and voices that sprang from the (Bush) administration and said 'take your choice, you're with us or with the terrorists,"' he said.
Ooo. Hate radio. Disembodied voices. Obviously, a vast right wing conspiracy is afoot...
"But the Dixie Chicks are back on the air and their record is number one again," he said.
HAH!! Take THAT! Annnnnddd....
"Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon are not going to stop making movies for a long time.
THAT!! Annnnddd....
Janeane Garofalo has a (TV) pilot going forward.
THAT!! HaHAA to you, all you narrow-minded evil people!! Your feeble attempts have FAILED!! We will be starring in Afterschool Specials and direct-to-video presentations for MANY YEARS TO COME!! Hmph!
These ugly-mouthed people like to think they are more powerful than they are."
Don't be so hard on yourselves, Mr. Farrell--oh, wait--you mean the who disagree with you. Well, carry on, then!



Yep, we get 'em, too.

Of course, I thought one of the kids was trying to get in bed with us--a thump, junk on Reba's nightstand jingling around--then nothing. Hmm. Must have been Reba rolling over and bumping the nightstand. There was the normal five seconds of runaway-heartbeat, fright/flight response that comes from being awakened from a dead sleep by an unfamiliar noise, then an almost immediate collapse back into slumber.

Alarm clock went off, I turned around and lounged on the bed with my head at the foot and halfway dozed and watched the CBS early news, then turned it on to the local NBC news (sorry Nikki) and found out I was disturbed not by kids, but by a 4.9 earthquake up around Fort Payne--
[...] Carolyn Parker of Gadsden, Ala., says the earthquake lasted about 45 seconds and woke her up.

"My husband jumped out of bed," she told WSB-TV. "He said he thought it was like the end of the world or something. He ran outside."
Hmm. I guess he wanted to be sure and see it. End of the world don't happen every day.
Nick Jebeles of Remlap, Ala., said he and his wife also were awakened.

"I went out on my back porch because I thought it was a tornado, but the weather was fine," he said. [...]
Hmm. Guess Nick didn't want to miss the tornader.

Can't wait to hear what the boys at the BBQ Emporium have to say about it.

By 7 a.m., the NBC13 folks had swung into full "let's go to the Waffle House and ram a microphone into everybody's face and ask them what they were doing when the EARTHQUAKE!!!! hit" mode. It's exciting, I suppose, but after two or three breathless stories about how the junk on the nightstand jingled and all the dogs in the neighborhood barked, it's probably time to pack up the mobile truck and go cover something else...

LIKE THE SWARM OF KILLER LOCUSTS!!!!


Monday, April 28, 2003

Proving Once Again...

...that it's impossible to please everyone, as I was just about to launch into my funhouse of wordiness about the past weekend I was interrupted by the boy who delivers my e-mails breathlessly bursting through the doorway with the following message from reader Jim Smith (an alias if I ever heard one, especially since it comes from the made up land of EAST Carolina):
RE: weekend

Were you teasing us about the cheese toast? There had better be cheese toast.
::sigh:: Yes, yes, YES! There will be cheese toast, but if any of you people think I'm gonna do 4,000 blogwords on it, you're even more unbalanced than I am. Anyway, all that stuff is covered in my new book, War and Cheese.

[...] When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with Pierre, Natasha met her on the threshold.

"He has cut the cheese? Yes? He has cut it?" she repeated.

And a joyful yet pathetic expression which seemed to beg forgiveness for her joy settled on Natasha's face.

"I wanted to listen at the door, but I knew you would tell me."

Understandable and touching as the look with which Natasha gazed at her seemed to Princess Mary, and sorry as she was to see her agitation, these words pained her for a moment. She remembered her brother and his love of cheese. [...]
($54.24 at Amazon, signed copies available while supplies last)

ANYWAY, no sooner do I inform "Jim Smith" of this than I am quickly met with a reply--
I think I had that book but I went to a seminar and someone moved it.
And AGAIN, only nanoseconds later, the wheezing e-mail boy (I call him Chet) stumbled in with this:
Please excuse the earlier non-funny and reaching reference to moved cheese.

Organizational development references are rarely funny--even when they are good.
Indeed.

Fortunately, using my OTHER book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Bloggers, I was able to seamlessly blend reader mail into my own writings, thus adding bulk and topicality to what otherwise would be...

THE STORY OF MY WEEKEND!

Okeedoke--Friday's fun with bureaucrats was actually okay--it didn't last nearly as long as I had feared, and the presenter used a PAPER pad in lieu of the dreaded PowerPoint. If there was ever a topic that begged for the useless inclusion of spiffy, mid-90s computerized overheads, it was this one, so it's even more remarkable that it wasn't used.

Anyway, got through, came back to work and finished some junk, then jumped into the van and headed to the soccer park for the first of FOUR stinkin' games this weekend. Jonathan was making up an earlier rainout, and the field was still pretty squishy from the morning rains we had. They were playing St. Aloysius from over in Bessemer, and it looked like nearly half the team was girls. I was expecting our guys to make short work of them, but St. Al is apparently the patron saint of butt-kicking little girls--we wound up with a 1-all tie, and were quite happy to get it.

Back home, clean up the kids, go to bed so as to get right back up the next morning and shuttle him over to Moody for an 8 a.m. game. Went to bed at midnight, had to get up at six. Blah.

It was, however, during my Friday/Saturday sleepytime when I had the disturbing dream that I was in Las Vegas, and was married to Charlotte Church. SO wrong, on so MANY different levels, the worst of which being that I can't forget it! BAD! For the life of me, I have no idea why her in particular (aside from the obvious pulchritudinal reasons--BAD!!--sorry) nor why Las Vegas. Probably best not to eat crispy fried chicken with 11 herbs and spices less than 8 hours before going to bed.

In any event, the alarm clock stopped any more involuntary, unconscious, yet still supremely guilt-inducing exploits or horrifying images of the bizarre, so I stumbled around and got dressed and woke Boy up and got him dressed and off we went.

You know, since it's springtime, I figured a shirt would be just fine. I would have been well served to watch the news for about five minutes before leaving, because it was cold and damp and windy and I near about froze. But, the boys didn't seem to mind at all--real good game, and they won 4-2. Back to Trussville just in time to meet Reba and the girls for Catherine's game. For once, their team had a little competition. They managed to win, but only by a score of 8-1. It would have been higher except for some reason Cat had decided that the bestest thing to do was to kick the ball as hard as possible out of bounds any time she got near it. "But Coach Craig said if it was goin' in th' goal to kick it out!" "Going in YOUR goal--you can kick it IN TO the other team's as MUCH AS YOU WANT!!" "Oh. Okay!" We'll see how she does next week.

Home again, jiggety-jig, and as Reba worked on the laundry, I fired up the ol' Murray and began doing laps around the Ponderousrosa. Which always leads to entirely too much introspection. I have thought about getting Reba's hands-free microphone off her cellphone so folks will think I'm talking to someone on the phone instead of myself. In any event, the first lap around the perimeter, and I get off on this topic--'Why do I do this?'

Because the grass will get...No, not that, doof--why do I write this garbage. Oh. Well, who knows? If I didn't write it, someone else would and I wouldn't get all the fame and adulation and wealth and...hmm. Why, indeed. Then there was this--'Why are there so many really nasty morons out there?' Whew--good one. You know, being not-so-bright is not so bad if the person is nice and calm (like me), but the paranoid conspiracy theorists and flat-earthers and dictionary abusers and nearly illiterate and trolling seekers of someone to validate their existence and ignoramuses and outright liars just irritate me to no end. I have always thought it possible that someone might have a reasoned opinion that differs from my own--that's part of life. We disagree, then we move on. Sure would be nice if everyone thought like that, but I realize it doesn't quite work that way. For what it's worth, if you disagree with what I write here, don't think that I will dignify your thoughts with a response if you insist on being willfully ignorant. Or anonymous. If you expect courtesy, be courteous. If you can't bring yourself do that, go get yourself a hands-free microphone and mow your yard and talk to yourself, but please leave me out of your thought processes.

As I said, much too much introspection--but the grass looks awfully nice. Got through with that and it was time to load everyone BACK up and head to the park again for Middle Girl's game. Another fine effort from the girls--poor Rebecca wants to score again so bad, but they just didn't drop this time. She must have had six or seven attempts (including a booming kick that sailed over the top crossbar), but she only managed an assist. But they won 5-0, so they all were charged up about that, as well as the tournament they have coming up this weekend. They seem to be getting a bit cocky, so they might be in for a bit of a surprise.

Back home, and time to fire up the grille for some tasty seared cow flesh. Mmmm-MM! We need a new set of wires, though. The actual grille part that makes those pretty scorched lines on the meat has gotten a bit rusty, and despite my best efforts to knock all the tender, flaky bits of enamel and iron oxide off, there were still a few hangers-on that managed to attach themselves to my steaks, leading to some terribly gritty portions. A little A-1 sauce cured it. Mostly.

Got finished, got the dishes done, time for baths, hear Tiny Terror crying about the potty being broked-ed. Went up and found that she had torqued the plastic flush handle around like she was trying to turn the handbrake on a runaway freight car, thus guaranteeing said plastic to be twisted apart and lying at the bottom of the tank.

"You BROKE it!" [Apparently said with the combined fearsomemess of Snidely Whiplash and R. Lee Ermey]

::eyesquirt:: "Buh...BWWWWWAAAA AAAAHHHHHHHHHH ...uhuh BWAHAAHAHAAAAA AAAGGGHHHH!"

"Oh, good morning Viet Nam, I can fix it! Just don't break it after I do!"

::sniff:: "Okay."

Off to the hardware store, down to the broken potty fixins, get exact replacement (thus insuring another trip in a few years), back home, pop it in under the careful watch of several curious offspring (so THAT'S how it works--Yes! Now forget everything you've seen!), and then perform the Ceremonial Flush of Dedication. All better.

Kids scrubbed, hair washed, hair dried, off to bed, collapse into bed myself, wake up in daze for to get some churching up.

Get to church, find I have two teachers and one sub out of action, so I get Reba to teach Cat's class and put the seventh graders in with the eighth graders and then go try to stay awake in class. Class over with, time for church, and Catherine is wide awake and ready to wiffle and fidget and talk and lie in the floor and on top of me and kick the pew and then sit ever so still and then quickly bend over to pick up her purple purse in the floor and release a ripping backburp that sounded like a two-stroke McCulloch chain saw cranking up. Thankfully, she only pulled the cord once, and the smell of burning oil dissipated quickly.

Morning worship complete, back home, leftover lunch (including the remainder of the KFC--not that I was trying to recreate any sort of dreamstate entertainment for myself), read the newspaper, load everyone back up, head back to the church building, lead singing and DON'T mess up for once, get some supper, back home, collapse into bed again after signing notebooks and fixing snacks and soccer bags.

Wake up, come here, work like a madman, write this, and then look forward to the morrow.

And make some tasty cheese toast--here's my recipe:

Bread
Cheese

Place cheese on bread.

Place in oven on Broil. Heat until bread is toasted and cheese is melting.

Remove.

Eat!



Fun With Referrer Logs

Yes, I know you are all hepped up to read about the mind-numbingly banal details of my weekend, but in order to properly prepare you, sometimes it helps to prime the pump with the mind-numbingly banal details of why people come to Possumblog in the first place.

Such as this nice person who visited all the way from Jollye Olde looking for information on Extreme Zombies Woolworth.

You know, hardly a day goes by that I wonder why Woolworth wasn’t able to make a go of it, but in the end, I think it was never able to get over the image of all the nickel-and-dime variety zombies they had, and their inability to move the 'extreme' ones. You know, kids today demand their extreme (or X-TREEEEEM!) zombies, and Woolworth’s just couldn’t deliver. Wal-Mart, on the other hand, kept an eye on the profitable youth market and on bargain shoppers, and has been able to leverage beneficial deals for high quality extreme zombies using their large size and buying power. This has squeezed all the mom-and-pop stores who carry zombies, but there are a few who continue to plug along by playing over in the specialty, boutique zombie side.

Next up, an Israeli visitor who wants to know "how to make your car faster" free.

Most of you know I had a long misspent youth messing around with various hot rods and such, so this one is right up my alley. Basically, there is absolutely NOTHING you can do to make your car faster for free, except to sell it and let someone else dump all THEIR money into it. Better yet, simply decide that a particular car is yours, and pretend that you have given the real owner permission to drive it. See, Michael Schumacher’s Ferrari is really mine, and I just let him drive it. My car is really fast, and with him driving it wins a lot, and that’s pretty neat for me. And when he goes and does something bad, like bending it, I can calmly sit here, knowing I do not have to write a check for a million dollars.

Next, someone with a scientific bent wants to know: what is the airborne velocity of an unladen swallow?

::chuckle:: Obviously, our interlocutor meant “airSPEED” velocity, but sadly the equation has a few variables which need to be filled in before we can solve—we need to know if it’s an African swallow or English, and if it really intended to be unladen, or if it decides it would rather carry a coconut by gripping said coconut by the husks with its tiny little feet. Assuming the English swallow, and assuming a weight of 200 grams, and the coconut weighing 1kg, and assuming the swallow beats its wings 2.6b/second, and the wind is calm, and the temperature is 15 degrees C, and barometric pressure is 900mb, we can calculate that in level flight the swallow can attain a LADEN airspeed velocity of approximately 322kph, or about 200mph. Unladen, the sparrow could theoretically break the sound barrier, but they have been known to become unstable at around Mach .9.

Glad to be of assistance, and remember to plug in the actual values for weight and so on.

Of course, Possumblog is more than just hard science, there is also the fine entertainment value it offers—much like a combination of People and Ladies Home Journal magazines, with just a touch of Highlights and the wonderful GRIT. Probably why someone came here looking for julie chen gossip.

Well, keep this to yourselves, but I have it on good authority that the hot Ms. Chen has quite an affection for dimwitted non-placental mammals, AS WELL AS dimwitted placental writers of online journals! (But you didn’t hear it from me!) I hear she also likes pickup trucks.

So anyway, that’s all the pump-priming you’ll get for now—I’m fixing to go eat lunch with Miss Reba, and then I’ll fill you in later on stuff.



Good Morning!

No 4,000 word essays on cheese toast this morning--I have stuff I have to go get done early, and only afterwards will I have time to fill you in on all the incredibly wondrous events that can occur in the 63 hours that separate 5 p.m. Friday evening from 8 a.m. Monday morning--there will be tales of Soccer, Soccer, Soccer, and More Soccer; Grass Mowing; Cooking of Cow Parts; The Broken Toilet Lever; Wicked Dreams; The Sound of Ripping Canvas (Luckily, Including No Smell of Burning Canvas); Shopping, Wife, Four Children = Not as Much Fun as One Might Think, and so much more. Run away while you can.


Friday, April 25, 2003

Time to head out...

I have a wonderful three hour lecture to attend about the new Jefferson County Personnel Board rules and regulations that I must dash off to. I'm sure it will be fun and exciting! Much like being strapped to the underside of a Humvee.

In any event, this is it for this week--after the lecture I will be heading off into the unknown reaches of The Weekend, which will, I'm certain, be equally fun and exciting.

SO, may you all have a great weekend, and in the off chance I do not fall down a cliff, or get hit by an errant blowgun dart from a Jivaro hunter, or suffocate under a pile of laundry, I will see you all bright and early Monday morning.







I was helping Middle Girl with her Alabama social studies project last night--she has to put together a book of interesting things and places here in the state--so I was on the Internet getting her some information about our state song (with its haunting Teutonic musical stylings courtesy of the inimitable Edna Gockel-Gussen), and about Bellingrath Gardens (go see it--it is absolutely beautiful), and information about Fort Morgan and the Battle of Mobile Bay, and the one that turned out to be the most interesting, the History section of the Redstone Arsenal website. I couldn't believe the amount of stuff on there, including the story of the Keller Super Chief (0-60 in only 25 seconds!), film clips of various missiles getting launched (like this 1957 clip of a Hawk intercepting a drone at White Sands, and a really cool clip of a guy fooling around with a jetpack), a huge photo archive (with hot chicks and 'splosives!)--all sorts of neat things.

Anyway, what was my point...OH YEAH, don't help your kids with their homework unless you want to learn something.



Five outta five...

HealthSouth co-founder to admit to bank fraud
RUSSELL HUBBARD
News staff writer

Former HealthSouth Corp. finance chief Aaron Beam Jr. agreed Thursday to plead guilty to criminal charges and help the government investigate the role of fired CEO Richard Scrushy in accounting fraud totaling $2.5 billion.

Beam, a company founder, agreed to plead guilty to bank fraud, admitting he lied when using HealthSouth financial statements to secure loans from Birmingham's AmSouth Bank and other lenders, prosecutors said.

He is the fifth out of five HealthSouth finance chiefs in company history to agree to help the government build a criminal case against Scrushy, who is accused in a government civil lawsuit of orchestrating a profit-inflating scheme between 1997 and mid-2002. [...]
Hmm. This one is going to be much harder to explain away as some sort of wild conspiracy by a jealous cohort of underlings bent on dumping Dickie Bird and taking over the company. Beam was there from the beginning, and was a friend of Scrushy--
[...] Beam's guilty plea agreement makes him the first of the company's founders to submit to government charges of fraud. He worked at Houston-based hospital operator Lifemark Corp. with Scrushy and quit with him in 1984 to found HealthSouth.

HealthSouth's corporate history published last year quoted Beam on his decision to leave Lifemark and join up with Scrushy:

"I went home and told my wife that I just interviewed with the biggest con artist I ever met or the most brilliant young man I ever met," the book quotes Beam as saying. "Either way, I was taking the job because he was really, really good at what he did." [...]
I know they'll try, but Scrushy's legal team are going to have a very difficult time spinning this as something positive for their client.



Fan Mail

As all of you know, I have legions of loyal readers who like nothing better than to sit down and write loving, sweet e-mails to me--let's read one, shall we? From the Sunshine State's sunniest correspondent, Bet Mulligan--
Subject: Madonna for Iraqi Information Minister!!

Dear Mr. Possum,

How could you?!
It was easy, let me tell you! (I wonder what we're talking about...)
You have besmirched the name of the best deadpan comedian of our lifetime. Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf (M.S.S.) is a national treasure. If you go to his websites http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com/ and http://www.theinformationminister.com you will see the love.
Now, now--although it may seem that I was besmirching Baghdad Bob by saying some incredibly wealthy (yet cheap) Hollywood Hypocrite could fill his ample comedic combat boots, in reality, nothing could be further from the truth!! (Oddly Enough!) As you all can tell from the above websites, Saeedude's career is skyrocketing--the InfoMin job was always a dead-end sort of gig (in more ways that one) and one which was always much too small for his ample talent. The office does seem perfect for Mrs. Richie, however, whose career seems to be bundled into the same one-way flaming handbasket as al-Sahaf's former boss.
Drawing any sort of parallel between M.S.S. and Madonna is a scandal and a tragedy. I can only shake my head wondering what drove you to such an utterance. Perhaps it was the lack of Lileks (altho personally I think James Lileks is Andrew Sullivan without the disco). The mind reels.
Oh, come now, Bet! Having seen TRUE scandal and tragedy, i.e., the Andy Griffith Show getting rid of Barney and bringing in Warren, and then going to color, I think it's laying it on a bit thick to say this even comes close. As for what drove me to make such a statement, I will confess that the momentary loss of a solid link to Lileks did cause no little consternation here at the keyboard and did, in some small way, make me feel compelled to link to a story with all sorts of twitlike twaddle from a tawdry tart.

Luckily, I had a Wet-Nap in the desk drawer, and after using it, I did feel refreshed.
You are a good man. Err, possum. I will continue to read and enjoy your pixels of pearls.
Awwww...See!? She still loves me and my warm soft fur and my acorn-sized brain!
Go Bucs!
Ah, Tampa Bay...what a team! What a wonderful group of folks! Thank you, Bet Mulligan, for your kind letter and for your support.


Thursday, April 24, 2003

Whew!! Just in the nick of time...

Iceland opens world's first hydrogen fuel station


The zeppelin is darned near sitting on empty.



Wow. A renaissance you say?

Nation to Get Newly Designed Nickels
WASHINGTON – The nickel will soon have a new look. President Bush has signed an historic bill that authorizes the Secretary of the Treasury to change the designs of 5-cent coins issued in 2003, 2004 and 2005 in recognition of the bicentennial of the Louisiana Purchase and the Lewis and Clark expedition. The design of the nickel has remained unchanged since 1938. In 2006, the nickel will return to a depiction of President Thomas Jefferson on the “heads” side and an image of Jefferson’s home, Monticello, on the “tails” side.

“It is a new century, and the United States is in a renaissance of coin design,” said United States Mint Director Henrietta Holsman Fore. “This is a very historic moment. It marks the first time in 65 years that Americans will reach into their pockets and pull out newly designed nickels.” [...]
::sniff:: At last liberation comes!! An entire generation doomed to grow up without having the joy of reaching into their pockets and pulling out a newly designed nickel!! We is SAVED!!
[...] More than 130 million Americans are collecting coins in the United States Mint’s 50 State Quarters® Program. I expect these new nickels will encourage even more interest in coin collecting,” added Director Fore. “Through these coins, Americans of all ages are learning about the geography, the history and the values of our great Nation. Now we will have new designs on the nickel commemorating the Lewis and Clark expedition and the Louisiana Purchase. Think about the discussions families will have around the dinner table!”
It simply boggles the mind, don't it.

"Why dear, is that a roll of Lewis and Clark nickels in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?!"

"Yes on BOTH counts, sweetheart--you know, I knew nothing of our country's great heritage until I won these new nickels as I was playing the video poker game at the truck stop. But now, I know that our great nation was explored by two tiny little explorers--look here--see how little they are? And you know this Jefferson guy--he's NOT the same guy as on The Jeffersons!"





The Girls...

Not that it matters one whit, and maybe it's just me, but does it not seem that Nat has gone on a very strict airbrush diet?



If you are having Lileks DTs...

There's always the Wednesday Newhouse coll-yum--this one on C-o-n-s-p-i-r-a-c-i-e-s (shhhhh)--
[...] Perhaps Galloway's being framed. But if the Dark Forces of War really wanted to discredit the anti-war movement, they'd have pasted Dixie Chicks posters in Odai's workout room. They'd have hung a gold-plated baseball bat inscribed by Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon in a prison interrogation room known to locals as the Kneecap Clinic.

If true, this bombshell will leave a very small crater. The anti-war movement is curiously impervious to the sort of scandal that could sink, say, the career of a popular evangelist. Find a preacher in a fleabag motel with a hooker, and his empire sags, groans and collapses. Prove that the outfit orchestrating all the big anti-war rallies has more communists on board than a 1930s Works Progress Administration documentary called "Paul Robeson Visits a Soviet Grain Co-Op" and the world yawns. Shrugs. Moves on.

Doesn't matter, you see. It was a war for oil! Oil! Oil, I tells ya! But then we learn that the son of the biggest shareholder of the TotalFinaElf French oil concern is married to the daughter of Canada's premier. You'd think that might put Jean Chretien's obstructionism in perspective, eh? Perhaps the fact of being Canadian insulates one from questions of corruption and self-enrichment. But the halos don't seem to show when we see these luminous beings on American TV. [...]
If c-o-n-s-...oh, whatEVER, don't fit your mood, then there's always time to hang over the Backfence
[...] From Paul, down in Kentucky:

Do you recall the cereal from the '70s, "Freakies"? They used to include in the cereal plastic figurines of the Freakies. They were troll/animal things that hung around a "freaky tree." Of course, they sang a song:

"We are the Freakies, we are the Freakies, we have a Freaky Tree . . . "


Something was seriously wrong with both the inventors and the marketing folks who thought this was a good idea.

They sound like drug-addled Manson family rejects. Having blocked all recollection of the Freakies, I turned to the Internet, resigned to spending an hour on eBay, poking around until I found the proper category (Things >: Stuff >: Plastic Crap >: Cereal >: Seventies >: Proof you have no life or taste >: Collectibles) but to my surprise, a google search steered me to http://www.freakies.com. Someone's devotion to a long-dead cereal is so strong that he has paid actual American money for the freakies.com domain name so he could set himself up as the curator of all things Freakie.

The Freakies were: BossMoss, Hamhose, Snorkledorf, Grumble Goody-Goody, Gargle and Cowmumble. Their copious adventures were detailed on the back of the box, and the site notes that they were popular with college students as well as kids. I'm always amused when someone brings up "college students" as proof that some infantile hobby has crossover appeal. Of course college students love them. They're hopped up on goofballs, for heaven's sake. They'll giggle for six hours over Richie Rich cartoons and think they're subversive anticapitalist morality plays. [...]
Go ahead and laugh it up--for those of use who survived the 1970s, with its H.R.Puffinstuffian vision of reality, the dread that comes with remembering the Freakies is nearly too much to bear.



Fun with Referrer Logs

This one is from yesterday--picks anvil lavigne. Must be one of Acme Records' new artists. Gotta love that soulful rendition of "Anvil Chorus."

And another, from that kindly Jeeves fellow, who directs a person to the smoldering trash dump that is Possumblog when he or she asks him: I think better at work when I sit down instead of stand, why?

I often get questions like this, because of the many long years I studied both brainiology and workpathy (the combined form of "work" and "apathy"). Discounting the possibilities that our querist is not a race car driver or an airline pilot, probably the best reason you think better at work while sitting goes back to the fact that although our brains are like, real smart, they are limited in what they can do. When you stand up, your brain thinks, "Whoa, something ELSE to keep up with!", because, you know, it has to make you balance and all. If you sit down, your brain is freed from worrying itself about your body suddenly tumping over, and thus it is able to use its Balance Thingy (or BT for those of us who have studied it) for complex computational tasks, like trying to figure out how to play Minesweeper.

So there.



Madonna For Iraqi Information Minister!!

Madonna Slams American Values
LONDON (Reuters) - U.S. pop superstar Madonna, one of music's richest performers, has attacked her fellow Americans for being obsessed with the "wrong values" such as getting rich and looking good.

Madonna told the Radio Times that Americans had opportunities people in other countries did not have but got caught up in superficial dreams.

"We as Americans are completely obsessed and wrapped up in a lot of the wrong values -- looking good, having cash in the bank, being perceived as rich, famous and successful or just being famous," Madonna told the television listings magazine.

"It's the most superficial part of the American dream and who would know better than me? The only thing that's going to bring you happiness is love and how you treat your fellow man and having compassion for one another." [...]
::blink::

::blink::

Very easy to say you don't need it when you already have it, eh?



Notable Quotes!
HOLLYWOOD (Reuters) - They really said it -- notable quotes from the news:

"We strive for perfection but when you're typing that fast, there are occasional mistakes. We regret the error."

--ABC's CATHIE LEVINE after a closed caption for an ABC News' Tuesday broadcast said Federal Reserve Chairman ALAN GREENSPAN was hospitalized for "an enlarged prostitute" instead of an enlarged prostate, quoted in The Washington Post.

-- - -- -

"He should be so lucky."

--Greenspan's wife, NBC correspondent ANDREA MITCHELL, reacting to the "enlarged prostitute" in the Post.
For anyone who ever sees the multitude of typos I make before I get a chance to correct them--remember, when you're typing fast, there are occasional mistakes. Now some of you may not think 12 words a minute is fast, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.



The Free Ice Cream Cones Will Be THE EXACT SAME SIZE!!

Via Snopes.com, a link to the Fourth Annual Free Ice Cream Scoop Give Away Deal In Which You Get 2.5 Ounces of Frozen Stuff From Baskin-Robbins and A Kid Gets A Book!
For every scoop given away, Baskin-Robbins will make a donation to First Book to provide new books to children from low-income families. To date, Baskin-Robbins has supported the distribution of more than half a million books to children throughout the United States and parts of Canada.
Of course, those of us who life in the Birmingham area might have a bit of a drive in order to participate.



When you dream...

...that Ken Layne is staying in your guestroom, it might just be time to work outside in the yard a bit!

Nah.



Toddler twins go on rampage
PARIS (Reuters) - Two French three-year-old twin boys who disappeared from home then reappeared hours later without their clothes had been off wreaking havoc in a neighbour's empty house.

Police initially feared an abduction by a paedophile when the missing boys were discovered late in the evening walking through their home town of Deols, western France, stark naked and holding a bedside lamp, newspapers said on Thursday.

But a call from a neighbour to report a suspected burglary revealed the boys had broken into a nearby house and gone berserk, emptying out drawers, bouncing on beds, scribbling on walls and gobbling up orange-flavoured vitamin pills.
Ah, the French...
The twins discarded their clothes after getting covered in shampoo and toothpaste after a rampage through the bathroom, squeezing out bottles and tubes.

They grabbed a bedside light and took it away with them thinking it would help them find their way home in the dark. [...]
Now wait a minute--are these kids French toddlers, or two University of Florida frat boys?





Home Town Folks

Great Scot! Athlete dons kilt as a Highland Games pro
ANITA DEBRO
News staff writer

During the week, Trussville's Kearney Smith works out of his home as a software writer for a community company.

He spends time with his wife, Paige, who is expecting twins and their two sons, 12-year-old Kearney and 8-year-old Graham.

But come weekends from April to November, Smith hits the road for towns and cities in such places as North Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee to participate in Scottish Highland Games.

The 6-foot-2-inch, 320-pound Smith dons a kilt and throws heavy objects such as stones, wooden poles, hammers and metal weights in the seven traditional sporting events at the games. He is a professional Scottish athlete. [...]

Smith won his first title as a professional at the Charleston Highland Games in South Carolina in 2001. He plans to compete in nearly 15 games this year.

But as he gets older, Smith's main concern will be fighting off injuries, which are prevalent in the sport.

"You can do this for a while, but the injuries kind of catch up to you," he said. "This is not like other sports, where youth is the only way, but you have to pace yourself."

Smith has already suffered several injuries including a detached biceps in his left arm, which kept him off the circuit for three months.

When he is not competing, Smith judges amateur events and he recently hosted his own training clinic in Trussville.

He hopes to have a good 10-year run in the sport and when that's done he's thought about pursuing power lifting.

"I don't know, maybe I'll just learn to play the bagpipes."
Adding insult to injury, eh?

(No angry e-mails from pipers, please!)



AAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

What the heck's going on!!!


Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Not much in the way of bloggery tomorrow--time once again for my twice a month exercise of bureaucratic ineptitude and furious notetaking, so be sure to wander around and go say 'hey' to all the neighbors.

OOO!! Before I go--Good News for Texas, Louisiana, Alabippi, and Florida! -- US lifts travel warnings for four Gulf states, citing end of Iraq war. The Redneck Riviera Rejoices!! Just when we all though the trip to Gulf Shores was going to be cancelled and now...hmm? Huhwhat?! Persian Gulf? Not 'of Mexico'?

Well, never mind.



Stay safe, good girl.
For some reasons, I won't be able to update my weblog regularly for a while...actually I'll write but I can't do as much as before; I'm really sorry about this but the present situation don't allow me to spend much time in the net, And also sorry that I can't reply e-mails at the time...
You know, I really don't have the right to complain about too much.



What could be better...

...than a 12 gauge shotgun? Via Nate McCord, it would have to be this.

Heh. Cool!



Poor Marc...

Spudbuddy Marc Velazquez writes in from the wilds of North Carolina:
Whilst perusing the Possumblog lair for "nuggets" of literary gems,
Oooh, I don't think I would touch anything remotely resembling a nugget in this place...
a brief mention of an Axis of Weevil softball team was made. Not previously seeing any sign-up sheets or notice of try-outs, I wondered if the team had already been filled.

With the "Axis" roster at 35 rip-roaring bloggers, you have enough to field a football team, let alone a softball team. Is the team set? If not, I would like to try out for "the guy what sets on the cooler and doesn't let anyone have a cold one until the 7th inning (unless the coach yells at me)". My experience at riding pine should come to the forefront for this critical assignment.
Poor Marc--I just wrote him back to remind him that as of the game with Bob's Trucking on Highway 78 back at the start of the season, not only was Marc on the team, but he was our PITCHER. Sadly, Marc didn't get his glove up in time and took a heavy line drive right to the melon (and Tammy, Bob's dispatcher, is still distraught about it, so please don't tease her about it). Since then, Marc has done an admirable job of providing inspiration and moral support to his teammates, although we do occasionally find that he has wandered through the gate and fallen down into the gully behind the dugout.

WE ARE GRATEFUL, however, that Marc seems to be recovering enough to realize that he should BE BACK ON THAT FIELD!! Way to go, bud! It will be so nice to finally have you back at full speed so we don't have to keep hearing the terrible taunts of "We Need A Pitch-er, Not A Belly Itch-er!" (Not to say anything bad about our current pitching rotation, but we really could use some defense).

As for other sports, we do have the hockey team and, of course, fifteen different shooting teams, and then there's also the nude beach volleyball team.

Marc goes on--
Also, to help defray uniform costs, you should shake down the contributors to the "Axis of Weevil Gift Pack"™ and get some nice new pinstripe numbers, rather than those old hand-me-downs from the VFW.
::sigh:: Yes, I know. This really has been a bone of contention--those things smelled like Old Spice and yack when we got them, and since nobody thinks they have to do their own laundry, things haven't gotten any better. And I have to admit that reusing the VFW logo and calling ourselves the "Very Fine Weevils" just didn't work too well. But it was the best we could do at the time, doggone it. With Jimmy from Accounting under indictment, the Intramural Activities Fund has had to be used to cover the copier bill. HOWEVER, a sponsorship deal with some folks interested in extending Alabama's cultural hegemony throughout the known universe might have some possibilities... Marc continues--
It's just too late in the year for a bake sale, and besides, the kids have already been bleeding us dry all year for their school "fund raisers". [Decorum prevents me from saying what I'd like to do with those fund raisers.]

In the future, baseball caps with AoW and a picture of the Weevil mascot should be big sellers, and maybe make enough money for you to sign up for Blogger Pro, so you won't have to suffer through those Blogger "downtimes". Makes your head swim just thinking about it, eh?
Actually, I always thought the swimmy feeling in my head was the result of some sort of vascular problem.

As for the ball caps, that might actually be a pretty good idea!



Wow, two years in Internet time is an eternity!

Two whole years ago, Meryl Yourish started writing her online internet journal (you know, a "web log" or "blog" for short)--lot happens in 730 days:
[...] Two years ago, weblogging was a new phenomenon to many, and not nearly as popular as it is today. Most of the bloggers were techbloggers or diarists. Rebecca Blood was wonderful. She responded quite kindly to my letters and was extremely helpful to a newbie. (Can't say the same for Dave Winer, but hey, that's Dave.) Warblogging didn't exist. Charles Johnson was a techblogger, although even then, he was posting about anti-Semitism and Arab terrorism. I was a regular reader of MetaFilter, Salon, and a sometime reader of Slashdot. All in all, the first year of my weblog had a much different voice—until the bloody Israeli spring of 2002. Between six straight days of terror bombings that culminated in the Passover Massacre, and the kidnapping and murder of Daniel Pearl, my feelings hardened considerably. Shortly thereafter, I found myself unable to remain in the neighborhood I'd established myself, over by Shelley Powers and Jonathon Delacour and the rest of that crew. Our thoughts were too far apart, and we kept getting into arguments. Bad ones. [...]
Ahh, those were the days. I remember I was addicted to The Straight Dope message boards in the Long Ago, until the Great Server Crash. Then I saw the Lileks Bleat where he had discovered LGF and Den Beste and Doc Reynolds (as well as the evil known as Blogger) and I was hooked on something else to scratch the typing itch. Which led to the mess unfolding below. And it also led to finding Miss Meryl, whom I congratulate for having the sticktoitiveness to keep plugging away and for serving as a fine third baseman on the Axis of Weevil Softball Team.

Happy Blogiversary!



Once again...

Blogger is acting up. All sorts of really dumb stuff lined up below, and it's nearly 9:30 and nothing has been posted yet. Why, it's almost enough to make me say something mean and spiteful about stupid, STUPID Blogger. But I won't because I'm nice.

UPDATE: It finally started working at around 11:15.



Nigerian Presidential Election Marred by Charges of Fraud

Thus insuring a steady supply of fresh, new e-mails.



What is this, some sort of race?

Ex-CFO to plead guilty
VAL WALTON and MICHAEL TOMBERLIN
News staff writers

HealthSouth Corp.'s former treasurer and chief financial officer agreed Monday to plead guilty in the company's massive accounting fraud that federal authorities contend was directed by ex-CEO Richard Scrushy.

Federal prosecutors charged Malcolm "Tadd" McVay, 41, the 10th former HealthSouth executive to enter into a plea agreement and assist investigators, in the financial deception at HealthSouth, the nation's largest operator of outpatient surgery and rehabilitation centers.[...]
Number 10, eh? Looks like the Feds are ahead of the Iraqi Card Game by two at the moment--of course, I don't think they have fifty-two to round up, and fleeing to Syria is not really an option.
[...] McVay's name has already surfaced on a few occasions in the hearing in which Scrushy seeks to get millions of his assets unfrozen.

On April 9, SEC lawyers asked Scrushy a battery of questions in which he invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Among them was whether McVay asked for a $500,000 bonus or certification contract before signing the company's third-quarter earnings statement in 2002.

McVay's name also came up last week when Thomas Sjoblom, a Scrushy lawyer, asked [former CFO Weston] Smith if a group of HealthSouth executives had met at McVay's home in late 2002 to plan a "coup" to push the founder out of the company. Smith said he knew of no such meeting. [...]
There was an article in the paper Sunday about Sjoblom, one of Scrushy's attorneys in this case, and a former SEC attorney himself. In it, he heavily discounts the SEC's case against his client, but perceptions being what they are, it certainly doesn't look good when your client pleads the Fifth on a laundry list of questions, nor when all the people who had access to the moneybag are rolling over right-and-left.

Sounds, looks, acts like a duck.


Monday, April 21, 2003

From Francesca Watson, her comments on this Washington Post article (requires registration):
[...] When I sit down and think about the horrors that comprised life in Iraq over the last few decades -- I mean really sit down and think about it -- I am more and more appalled and angered by the behavior of the privileged class in this country over the last few months. Bush is the terrorist? Really?? It doesn't take much effort to spout the party line, of course, and it is so much easier to simply believe what one likes, or indulge in political stereotyping, than it is to actually look for the truth. The resulting intellectual dishonesty of the Tim Robbins, Martin Sheens, Susan Sarandons and Barbra Streisands of the world is just breathtaking -- are their children in danger of being summarily executed by government thugs because they chose to speak out? Is there really anything about the consequences of speaking out in America that can possibly equate with the slaughter, the terror, the brutality this Iraqi family suffered? How do you survive for 20 years without knowing what happened to your child? How do you go about daily life when all around you are the images of the man responsible for destroying your family? How do you quiet the hatred and loathing that twists in your heart every time you see a government official or military uniform? How do you hold on to what is essentially you when you are powerless -- powerless to protect your children, powerless to bring their killers to justice?

This article brought me to tears. I cannot begin to comprehend the evil that was Saddam Hussein. Oh, I see the proof, and I see the complicity, and I see the pain, but I cannot comprehend it. And I cannot understand the hearts of people who make it the equivalent of honest political disagreement in the richest, most powerful and most generous democratic country in the world.

So I will remember -- I must remember -- what they said, what they stood for. And I will remind them -- in my own small way -- every time I don't buy a movie ticket, or watch a television program, or buy a book, or support their favorite charity. Of course these people are entitled to believe and say whatever they choose. But it matters -- it matters enormously -- what we, as a culture, choose to support. So I choose not to support people who cannot make a distinction between authoritarian regimes and the freedoms we enjoy as Americans, whether our president is Republican or Democrat. [...]
Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!

Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!
Isaiah 5:20, 21



I wonder...

Given these sorts of headlines--No. 18 on Most-Wanted List Arrested in Iraq--how long it will be before we have John Walsh in Baghdad with a special "Iraq's Most Wanted" show? "COPS" should be pretty interesting, too.



The Dream of All Headline Writers...Syracuse Police Say Man Bites Dog



Have I ever mentioned how much it pains me that when I spot a typo, and try to correct it, that Blogger takes anywhere from one minute to several hours to update the post? I have? Oh, well, let me just say it ONE MORE TIME!

Stupid Blogger.



Mental Novocain Alert--Now Complete!

In which our hero and his family spend an action-packed weekend in Atlanta!

To be skipped in its entirety if you are the least bit susceptible to boredom.

ANYwho, the reason more details of the past weekend were not mentioned in Thursday’s post was that we were going out of town, and I didn’t want to give all of you an invitation to come over to Chateau d’Possum and help yourself to my collection of antiquities, such as my lovely collection of Saddam ashtrays.

As you will no doubt NOT remember, as with our trip to Nashville last year, this trip was done in conjunction with a program our kids are involved with at church—all the Bible Bowl competitions, the scrapbooks, the song leading, the Bible reading, the Good Samaritan things I talk about—all those are part of the program, and it’s intended to help train the kids to become better leaders in the future. (Hard to believe it, but we’ve been doing this for five years now.)

Every year, the national group has a convention which is held at two or three different sites at the same time, depending on how many local congregations sign up. They are usually in Atlanta and Nashville, and this year was no exception—around 4,000 folks where we were, and around 7,000 up in Tennessee. Despite the more touristy lure of the Opryland Resort, we actually prefer going to Atlanta, mainly because the convention is smaller and you can leave the same night as the last event and still get home at a relatively decent hour.

The kids get to compete in some events while they’re there, as well as get recognition for other work done during the year—all of them are involved in Good Samaritans, then Jonathan and Rebecca were both in Bible reading and Bible Bowl, Jonathan submitted some artwork, Rebecca did a scrapbook, and Ashley competed in songleading.

For the parents (or at least for me) it’s juuuuust like a vacation—exhausting, bothersome, stressful to the breaking point, expensive. ::sigh::

On with our story…

THURSDAY P.M.

Got through with work, met Reba at the soccer park to let the kids get in their last practice. Got home, and it was time to pack.

Blech.

Reba started packing the previous Sunday, and told me in great detail what each of the kids would be wearing on the two days we were going to be gone. I must give her credit—usually a two day trip for us is like packing up an airborne unit for extended duty, despite my best efforts to lead by example: for me, two days = two sets of underwear, two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, two shirts, the pair of shoes on my fee, a tie, electric razor, comb, toothbrush, and giant, 4,000 count bottle of Super Ultimate Strength Maalox tablets. The rest of the family usually multiply everything by a factor of six. (Except for the Maalox.)

Hair bows, multiple pairs of shoes, underwear for a month, clothes enough for filming a movie, hair dryers (even though there’s one clamped on the wall of the hotel bathroom), makeup, hair rollers, books, magazines, toys, favorite blankets, pillows—on and on.

BUT, this year, Reba said, “You know what? We are only going to be gone two days. I’m just taking some jeans and a nice pair of pants and a couple of tops. I’m tired of having to lug all that stuff around that I never wear.”

AND LO, the heavens were parted asunder, and the heavenly hosts didst sing, and in his mind a large silly man didst leap for joy at these words…

“Hmm. Yes, that’s probably a good idea—like you say, there’s no use packing a bunch of stuff you won’t wear and have to carry that around.”

In my mind I was doing the Endzone Dance To End All Endzone Dances; I was Steve Martin with ‘Happy Feet’; I was shouting from a mountaintop, “I TOLD YOU SO!!! AND BY THE WAY, IT’S MY BIG LARDY BUTT THAT HAS TO HAUL THIS JUNK AROUND!!”

Outside? Well, let’s just say never play me in poker.

So, I got my little bindle together and got the Odyssey (which I may rename the Ordeal) all loaded up and ready to go—one big bag of girl stuff, one rolling backpack with mine and Boy’s stuff, a shoe bag, a couple of hanging bags, The Striped Bag (holding various toiletry items and Maalox), book bag full of coloring books, assorted video games—and managed to finally crawl into bed at the nice, normal time of midnight:30.

How it got that late, I’m not quite sure. Luckily, I was able to get an entire FOUR WHOLE HOURS of sleep before having to get back up and shoo everyone downstairs on…

FRIDAY!

(Despite having earlier written “Saturday”, there was indeed another day wedged in there.)

Up early, because we had to be out of the house by six, which means that everyone had to be up by five, which meant that I had to be up a 4:30, which meant that I am still sleepy. Got them all up and dressed, loaded up the cooler with ice and packed it between the back seats, threw some microwave breakfast vittles at the kids, made several trips to load more stuff that I forgot Thursday night. Grr. Kids walking around like zombies—“Kids, we HAVE to get out of here NOW!” Each one goes back to fetch something else, then the dreaded question… “Did all of you pee?” Each one goes back to play in the water. FINALLY, after much spasms of Dad in a Hurryistis, we were on the way at exactly 6:10.

“I forgot my kitty!”

“It’ll be fine.”

“But Mama SAID I could have it!” ::start sniffling::

“Well, your kitty had to stay so it could watch your puppy and make sure it and all the Barbies and your horsies and your socks are safe from bugs.”

“BUT I WAAAAAAANN—…WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PLEASE STAND BY…and then she was laughing and singing and everything was just peachy keen and the birds were chirping and the sun was shining and everyone was happy to be on the road.

Got to the church building right at 6:30 and the convoy of folks was forming up to head out. Sixty some-odd folks (some more odd than others) in ten or so vehicles including our big fifteen passenger bus. ONWARD!

Got out on the road and had a remarkably uneventful drive except for the time just outside of Riverside when I had pulled over to pass a tractor trailer and nearly got rear-ended by an Isuzu Trooper that had been cruising along in my blind spot. I am usually pretty scrupulous about keeping track of whom I have passed and where everyone is around me, but he managed to sneak in there and I didn’t do a full head check (I DID signal, though—not that it excuses me, but around here, most people apparently think you have to pay to use your turn signal, so the fact that I signaled put me ahead of most Bama drivers).

I’m not sure what made him angrier—the fact that I pulled over onto him, or the fact that I didn’t whip back in behind the tractor trailer when he laid over on the horn. Of course, being a nice man who is a careful, considerate driver, he felt compelled, after regaining his composure, to fly up onto the tailgate handle and demonstrate his horn-using ability for the entire time it took for me to pass and return to the left lane. THANK YOU, Mr. Isuzu Driver Man, and I think YOU’RE NUMBER ONE, TOO!

Stopped at the Georgia Welcome Center, which, due to construction, featured outhouses. Which were not well received by the more feminine members of the group, so we went on to the next exit. Well, everyone else did—we had to go find Catherine, who wandered off inside the building with someone else from the group. Sorta like Jesus getting left behind in the Temple, except instead of astounding the doctors of the Law, she was crying about poop. ::sigh::

Caught up with the group, then lost them again as my crew abused the Chevron and decided it was a nice place to take a break. Not that it made me anxious. Or overwrought. Or foam at the mouth. Or turn red. Nosiree, bob. Just stood there calm as a turtle. Not really. “NO, YOU DON’T NEED TO LOOK AT THE THIMBLES!! PUT DOWN THE BIG PENCIL AND COME ON!! LOOK—EV-ER-EE-ONE has LEFT!!”

Thankfully, the Georgia State Patrol was about as active as the Alabama version, and through the concerted effort of a size 10 Rockport on the go pedal and 210 smooth Honda VTEC horses, we finally managed to catch up with the rest of the caravan after about twenty minutes.

The rest of the ride into Atlanta was uneventful—got off at the right exit, turned on the right streets, and rolled into the parking garage at the Hyatt right on time. Bags on the cart, met our advance guard who had come in on Thursday, and went up to the lobby. Where we waited. And waited. No rooms for us and a few other folks. So much for the wonders of advance registration. Grr.

Oh well.

We stowed our stuff in another person’s room from our group, and piddled around a bit—I decided I would help Jonathan and Rebecca and highlight their verses they were going to read so they wouldn’t get lost, we watched a minute or two of the television, and then got lunch.

Got back, still no rooms, waited, finally got word that some were ready but they might not be on the same floor with everyone else, said fine, got keys—Reba and the girls on 20, Jonathan and I on 2. Swap with someone else on 2, and finally get it to where the girls are in 237, and we’re in 203.

Call me crazy, but I got to thinking…wouldn’t it be neat if there was, like, some sort of system, maybe on a “computer”, where people who are checking into a hotel could know where their rooms were going to be ahead of time, and they could maybe request rooms next to each other, and…nah, what a silly thought.

But at least our rooms had the wonderful aroma of stale tobacco smoke. Oooh—maybe if, in that system I was thinking about, they could not put people in stinky smoke rooms if they didn’t like the smell of someone else’s cigarette sm…oh, who am I kiddin’?! There’s no WAY something like that could work!

Got everyone back together and went to the first of three different award ceremonies for the weekend. This one was for the activities where you get a certificate or medal for participating, and is more informal. And I screwed up the camera, opening the back before letting it rewind the film. Why yes, that crunching sound IS me grinding my teeth. Lost several pictures, including some older ones on the roll from when Catherine and Reba had gone to the zoo on Thursday.

That done and done, and then it was time to go get Bec and Jonathan into their nice clothes for Bible reading and the rest of us ready for the evening award show. (Yes, it’s just about as harried as it sounds.)

Boy was changed and then all slicked down and spiffed up, and I actually managed to get him to put on a tie. If you only knew what a victory THAT was…

Got him down to the meeting room and we sat down for a few minutes of peace and quiet. Cup of water. Instructions for him to brush up on his verses. “Dad?” Uh-oh. “Yeah, buddy?” “This isn’t right.” “I marked what you told me, buddy, are you sure?” “Yeah, I was supposed to read something else.” “What?” “I don’t remember, maybe it was Mark 10. Or Luke. I don’t know”


I will say, he was remarkably calm about changing at the very last moment. I turned to several suspect passages, and each one brought not a glimmer of recognition. “Well, son, do you remember what it was about?” “Yes, Daddy, it was about ten verses…” Say Goodnight, Gracie— “No, sugar, do you remember what the SUBJECT was.” “Oh, it was about the man named Legion.”

Bingo. I borrowed a green highlighter from the lady next to me and quickly marked off his verses.

He did just fine, although he got a point taken off for going a bit long—it was supposed to be under three minutes. Otherwise, he was on target, and even managed to look up and not lose his place. And he was cute as a button!

Rebecca did fine, too, although she too missed a point for being a bit hard to hear, but she was tickled anyway.

Off for supper, which wound up being gyros for all from the place in the mall. Which in retrospect was NOT a good idea.

After supper, time for the first of the so-called “premier” award ceremonies, for the competitive events of the morning. A bunch of our other kids from church got a stack of trophies and ribbons, and Little Boy managed to score a 3rd place ribbon in the 3rd and 4th grade group for one of the drawings he submitted. He was exceedingly pleased.

Catherine, on the other hand, was suffering from some sort of respiratory gunk. She had been coughing all day, resulting in great wads of icky sticky sinus stuff pouring out of her. She had slept through most of the award ceremony (despite the World Wrestling Federation-volume of sound) and woke up right as it was over, all bleary-eyed and sweaty. We got up to leave and she hacked up a pile of goo that looked like a Portuguese man-o-war, which required an entire box of tissues to clean up. Yick. Then she got over to the side of the room and started her coughing fit, which resulted in more monsters of the deep coming into contact with her gag reflex, which resulted in…yep, supper. All over the carpet. I had turned my back for a SECOND and when I turned back around, Reba was valiantly trying to corral the flood with spent tissue and a Gyro Station drink cup. One of the other ladies in our group ran and got some paper towels, which we quickly spread over this little Technicolor fantasy, and I arranged the other three kids around her as a visual screen, lest we start a chain reaction. After I was sure she was going to be alright, I told Reba to hold them there so I could go find someone to help clean up the mess.

You know, it seems like that in a hotel the size of the Atlanta Hyatt Regency that there would be someone around who works there. I looked and looked, and finally decided I had better just use the house phone. I explained to the operator what had happened, and she assured me someone would be right in to clean up.

Thus assured that we were in good hands, I got back and arranged a few more towels over our Great Pile of Shame and got everyone back to the rooms so we could get Little Bit cleaned up and get everyone else in bed.

Everyone back in place and calmed down and cleaned up, we boys went back to our swinging bachelor pad in 203, where we got on our jammies and went to bed at 9:30. What a blessed sleep. Of course, with thousands of kids in the hotel, screaming and slamming doors and running up and down the atrium, it took me nearly TWO SOLID MINUTES to fall asleep. And boy, did I sleep. All the way to 8 the next morning. Exquisite, sleep-the-sleep-of-the-dead sleep for an entire ELEVEN hours.

And the next morning, in keeping with our theme today, was…

SATURDAY

8:00 a.m. Buzzer went off, and it was time to get moving. Since we weren’t spending the night Saturday, we had to check out and get all of our stuff BACK down to the van, which meant we had to be all dressed up and ready to go first thing, and stay that way all for the next 12 hours. I got in and took my shower while Boy watched cartoons, then we both got all dressed (and again he allowed himself to be shackled with a tie—“You’re lucky, Dad—your tie ties and doesn’t clip on!”) and we got our little bit of Manstuff dumped back into the backpack. I even managed to work up the energy to iron my shirt. Thus all packed, I called to see if the girls were up and at ‘em.

Call me a dreamer.

Very groggy Mommy answered the phone, a victim of the same yelling, pounding, running bunch of teenagers who had disturbed by sleep for TWO WHOLE MINUTES, except in her case they had kept her up till midnight. As had the unfortunate circumstance of having to sleep with Catherine. Cat has a peculiar way of sleeping, consisting of treating her bed partner much as Rocky Balboa treated the side of beef in Rocky. And, she talks. And giggles. And coughs in your face. And thunderously farts like her daddy. And still occasionally has accidental nocturnal enuresis. We love her anyway. Then again, I say that having been spared close proximity this time.

Luckily, the other two girls were able to mitigate the presence of Tiny Girl through a carefully planned campaign of mutual loathing that quite overshadowed other discomforts. You know, they say the American Civil War was fought by brother against brother. Heaven help us all had it been sister against sister.

Poor Reba.

I started getting stuff stowed in bags and making the first of numerous trips to the parking garage in the basement to put stuff away. By the time it was through, the valet guys knew me. Got completely though and checked out right on schedule at 11:00 a.m. Although, in retrospect, I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to be so accommodating given how long it took for us to get the room in the first place…oh, yeah—they charge you if you keep the room. ::sigh::

Got some lunch, then on to take the girls downstairs for song leading. The men don’t get to stay in the rooms while the girls are singing, but I sat around for a few minutes with Ashley before everyone got in the room and acted like the insufferable Dad every teenager rolls their eyes at. Heh. Anyway, made sure she had her pitch pipe, and her song sheets, and then she and I just started singing—no starting note, no beating time, just singing—I suppose she didn’t mind since the room was still empty except for us and Jonathan, and also it just gave her a way to calm down some.

It was a nice moment—one of too few here lately, but I’ll take what I can get. Finished up, and she sounded great, so we sat back down with Boy. As we did, a fellow outside the room stuck his head in the door and looked around, “Where’s everyone else?” “It’s just us—the rest of the kids haven’t gotten in here.” “Wow! You two sounded like three or four in here; that sounded really good, both of you. And you especially, young lady!”

I thanked him and Ashley smiled and thanked him, too. Oh, to have that smile all the time.

The other girls started showing up, so Jonathan and I excused ourselves and messed around for the next couple of hours, riding the escalator, picking up our artwork and scrapbook and taking THEM to the van (trip number five), making the electric sensor urinals flush, talking about the Easter Bunny, drinking water, making faces at each other.

The initial round wrapped up, and little Rebecca didn’t make it to the finals, but Ashley did, so we all waited around a bit more, this time with Bec and Cat to make it more interesting. The illness of the day before had subsided, so Catherine was back at full steam, meaning lots of legwork to keep her corralled in one place. Thank goodness I had a pen and a piece of paper. I managed to get her to sit in my lap for a moment and started playing a guessing game. I would write down a number between one and ten, she would try to guess it. Then she would write and I would guess. The little stinker was GOOD at it! She even knew to throw in a few random repeats to throw me off, or write down the same number I had just asked her. Smartypants! Kept her occupied for the rest of the time and kept my blood pressure down off the top of the scale.

Ashley and Reba reemerged from the meeting room and by all accounts the second try was even better than the first. Thus completed with all of our events, it was time for one more overpriced supper, then on to the final award ceremony. We got there early and to our great surprise, guess what was STILL on the carpet! Someone had been kind enough to remove the paper towels and cup, but the ghost of the gyro was still to be seen. You know, if…ah, never mind.

We settled in, and after a good long time of head-achingly loudspeakered announcements and raucous applause from everyone, Ashley got to go up on stage and see how she had done. Out of ten finalists in the 7th and 8th grade group, she came in a very pleased second place! And one of the other girls from our group got first, so everyone was extremely happy. Our bunch got another big batch of trophies, and Catherine slept through the majority of the proceedings once more. Thankfully, no more unexpected calling of Ralph upon her awakening, and since all of our belongings were already packed, it was a quick exit to the basement and out the door to the van.

Thanks be.

Of course, there was still the drive home.

Uneventful, aside from my having to fight extreme fatigue for two and a half hours.

Home, kids to bed, van unloaded.

Time for to make like the Easter Bunny and fill baskets with surprises.

In bed by midnight:30. Seems to be a recurring theme around here!

Up Sunday and get kids dressed and to church, manage not to fall over and snore too loudly, go eat lunch with Reba’s mom and day, drift off on couch afterwards, startled awake by the arrival of old friend of mother in law’s who just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop in, snuck off to bedroom, had just managed to drift off again when someone creaked the door open then left, drifted back off just as someone bumped against door then left, drifted off for final time, then was awakened by a loud sharp knock on the door—“Dad, where’s the remote?” Get up, go into den, pick up remote off of coffee table, hold it out, say “let’s go”, get us all back in van, go home, unload gift of leftovers from inlaws, start doing laundry, go back to church, come home, eat a bite, do more laundry, send kids to bed.

Find out I had gotten an e-mail from a local television journalist, answer it, go to bed. And then I woke up and here I was.

Amazing…BUT TRUE!!

And that’s enough sheer boredom for all of you today.



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