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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, August 05, 2003
Meeting the School Marm
AS YOU RECALL, yesterday afternoon was the Go Get Cat and Take Her To School trip. And what a long strange trip it was. Got out to T'ville a little bit early, so I stopped at Sonic and got some greasy food and ate it, then scooted over to the old elementary school (where they have the summer care program) and picked up Cat. Had to wait while she went to the restroom, which took forever because she had to talk to herself and to the paper towels, but it was still only a little past 2:00 and we didn't have to be at the new school until 2:30. It's only about three miles from the old school, right up old Highway 11. (Highway 11 is a bit of a misnomer--for most of its length from Trussville on to the east it's just a little two-lane country road.) Finally she got finished saying goodbye to the sink and the potty and we were on our way. Turned onto the highway and right where it turns back into two lanes, we stopped dead. Bumper to bumper. It seems some incredibly bright person decided that not just first graders, but every single child in elementary school was to meet his or her teacher yesterday, and every single one of them in the 2:30 to 3:00 time span. Eeeeeejits. So, we sat in traffic from 2:10 to 4:00. 2.7 miles--14,256 feet--of cars. Cars full of small, bored children. You know, if you say that each car is about 22 feet long, and add a car's length of space between each, that comes out to about 324 cars in line, which is probably about right. 2.7 miles in 1 hour, 50 minutes. About 1 1/2 miles per hour--I could have walked it faster than driven it. Although I don't think Tiny Terror could have managed it. I just sure am glad I made her go to the restroom before we left. We watched the train go by. We discussed traffic--"Why don't you just go on that side?!" "Daddy would get a ticket, sugar." We looked at the horsey. There's an old pale swaybacked one that lives in a stable right on the side of the road. No, I don't know its name. No, I don't know its mommy. No, I don't think we can stop and ride it. Yes, it's eating grass. No, I don't know where its friend is. We looked at the hot rod shop. "Look Cat, it's a '56 Bel Air!" "Oooh, it's RED, Daddy!" We talked about her new teacher, and I read her the letter she got when she registered. "She likes to play the pinonno, Daddy?" "'S'what it says here..." "I like the pinanner, too!" Finally got to the building, and then the next test was finding a parking space--obviously, an elementary school doesn't need a whole lot of parking. Unless you are going to insist every child in school bring his car. In which case, you find out that part of the delay was trying to find a slot for 400 Suburbans and Navigators and Expeditions. We wound up parking on the furthest paved portion of the site from the entrance. Then did the same slog we did last Friday during registration. Sure would have been nice if some of the doors had been unlocked. Got inside, and it was like walking into an asylum. We managed to find her room after a bit and met her teacher, who seems like a very sweet young lady. Cat stowed away her supplies and then I took her to the potty again, and then it was time to go see her kindergarten teacher and show off her new short hair and pierced ears, and then to tour the library and show the librarian her new short hair and pierced ears. And then blessedly time to go home. Well, not home exactly--had to go get Jonathan and Rebecca from daycare, THEN go home. Where I found that Reba was going to be home late, so as Rebecca got her junk ready for soccer practice, I donned my chef's apron and prepared a lovely meal of chicken fingers, okra, green beans, and some sort of prepackaged Lipton rice mix stuff. Reba home, then we ate, then it was up and back to the soccer park for me and Bec, where I sat and got sucked dry by mosquitoes, then home where I stayed up much too late playing on the computer. And now? Well, I'm leaving early AGAIN, this time to take Boy and Middle Girl to the new school. Seems they want the students to show up between 2:30 and 3:00 to meet their teachers. I might leave about five minutes or so earlier than normal, just in case there might be some traffic. (Actually, Rebecca has a safety-patroller meeting at 1:30, so we're all going to get up there real early. Probably still won't get a good parking space, though.) AND, Ashley has her meet-and-greet the exact same time, so Reba is leaving early to go take HER to the middle school. I'm just glad I don't feel the least bit tired!
And speaking of prolithic...
I was just shanghaied by the coworker I mentioned earlier to go out to an onsite meeting with her and some nice fellow trying to start a business. Wouldn't be so bad, except that in addition to being a language murderer, she's a tobacco fiend and smokes in her car. I was in her car for about ten minutes going, spent twenty minutes out in the open air, then ten minutes coming back, and I now reek like a ashtray full of cigarette butts. We got inside and I very nearly sprinted to get on the elevator to go get a Coke from downstairs to try and wash the stench out of my mouth and she mistakenly got on the elevator with me, thinking I was going up. She was momentarily flustered, but I told her not to worry, she could just ride down with me and get a drink--"Oh, I can't drink sodas anymore--they're bad for your bones." ::blink::blink:: Yes, we want our bones to be nice and tough, just like our rock-hard lungs. Some people, eh?
Catching up...
Thanks to those of you who stopped in yesterday--not a lot to see, but you know how life is, always butting in and causing a distraction from productive bloggery. ANYway--I did want to answer a couple of the comments...Indigo took note of the excellent price for the tree-getting-down work. Indeed, it would have been cheap at twice the price, but one must remember that a hundred bucks goes much further when you don't have to pay insurance and bonding and overhead and taxes and business licenses and snappy looking duds with your name on the pocket--basically, he's out some gas for the chain saw, a six of PBR, and maybe half a pack of smokes. Then, on the the car thing--vachon THOUGHT she was going to be all smarty-pants like by suggesting that if Oldest would be satisfied with nothing less than a Jag, then she should have it in Tampa Bay Buccaneers livery. Little did vachon know, but the mighty Trussville Huskies also use the same red and white with silver and black accents as her beloved Bucs, so a red one would be JUST FINE--a moot point to be sure since the only way we could afford an XK8 is for me to drop dead. Tarheel Tater Man offered the first suggestion, namely: You could tell Ashley in order to get a car she has to be able to work on and repair a car, so that she'll know how the thing operates. Two good possibilities could come out of this:Well, now--don't think I haven't thought about this angle. I think girls SHOULD know how to work on cars, and in my little essay I did a long time ago that's over on the GeoCities part of this site, one of the points I stress to Little Boy in his selection of potential date material (for later in life) is to try to choose a girl who's handy with the wrenches. A gearhead for a girlfriend is one of those wondrous dreams, almost up there with meeting a girl whose dad owns a Porsche dealership and whose brother runs a gun shop. Anyway, as of this morning, Oldest has shown ABSOLUTELY NO interest in doing anything requiring a) effort, or b) effort. The idea of learning about how to work on cars is somehow going to have to be HER idea--if I suggest it she'll just refuse and then sulk and fuss about how everybody hates her. So, I'll let her look at all the cars she wants and try to sneak in some valuable knowledge without her realizing it--"LOOK DAD!! It's a 2004 Lamborghini Gallardo!!" "Hmm, that's VERY interesting--by the way, did you know that the tri-power unit for the L-88 Corvette operated with the center carb having a mechanical linkage and the two end carbs with vacuum actuation?" That'll work, I'm sure. As for her driving Franklin, I truly believe she would just run away from home instead. Just a few months ago when she was doing the local theater production of "The Jungle Book", I had to use it to chauffeur her butt over to the theater. We got there early and since the door was locked, she had to sit there with me in the truck until someone came. She spent the entire time with her whole body jammed against the passenger door, alternately mumbling and whimpering, certain that her short life had been ruined completely and with prejudice. Heh. It would be a good thing for them all to use to learn on--hard to break it any more than it already is. And the physical effort alone is worthy of Grasshopper's long years learning Kung Fu from Master Po--"If you can press the clutch pedal and not break your toes..." NOW, as for Miss Reba's place in this...I will get little help from her in turning her daughters into grease monkeys. Over our nearly twelve years of married life, I have managed to teach her only about two things--the body-style differences between a '67 and a '68 Camaro, and the pretty car with the three pointed star is not a Rolls Royce, it's a Mercedes. She wouldn't know the difference between a carburetor jet and a jet engine, and doesn't care as long as she gets where she's going. SO, right now I think I'll just play it cool and see what happens, and try to herd the cats toward something that is both interesting and kind to Daddy's wallet. And prepare to be road kill.
Cervically.
I would do this, except all my bosses do it without prompting. I have one fellow who pronounces caveat kah-VAHT. One of my coworkers uses the word "prolithic" for "prolific". You'd think they hadn't gradumicated from college. Monday, August 04, 2003
So, we drove to a park named Kentuck,
Which the rain had turned into muck. I sat on my stool, While the kids acted the fool, Thinking, “Boy, this really does lend itself to all sorts of rich bloggy goodness for Monday morning, and I sure hope I remember some of it enough to make a clever limerick or something. But before all that, I had to do my normal Saturday grass cutting Friday evening, but before THAT, I walked in to the kitchen to find Reba on the phone and Oldest poring over my latest AutoWeek. Huh!? “Whatcha doin’?” Weird nervous giggle—“Looking at your magazine!” Of all my stuff, the last thing I would have ever thought she was interested in would be my car magazines. She ran off somewhere else and Reba hung up—“What’s the deal with her?” “She’s been talking the past couple of days about the type of car she wants when she gets sixteen.” WHOA, CAMEL! WHOA! Did I say WHOA? WHOA! Derned kid’s THIRTEEN, and she’s already thinking she’s just gonna FLOUNCE down and get herself a car and she’s THIRTEEN for cryin’ out loud and, and…she’s looking at my AutoWeek. Hmm. “She had one of your Car and Drivers the other day looking at it.” Hmm. “What sort of things is she looking at?” “Oh, nothing really, just sorta looking at all the pictures—she keeps looking at all the expensive ones and I told her not to get her hopes up.” “WELL, YEAH! This is weird.” Reba patted me on the arm—“Yes, but at least she’s looking in YOUR magazines…” The unsaid thing being that ‘she may otherwise loathe you as only a headstrong, authority-averse thirteen year old can, but she at least knows that Dad likes cars.’ What a quandary. If I come on too strong, will it cause her contrarian streak to kick in? And of the things I have usually been reliably able to claim as mine and mine alone, car magazines were right up there with my guns and my underwear. Hmm. I figure it’ll be best to play it cool—which worked pretty well when she came pounding back down the stairs with the mag turned to the ads in the back, “Look, Dad—this one’s REALLY nice!!!” ’01 Jag XK8 convertible, 59 large. Whew. Maybe I could get her hooked on something cheaper, like crack or something. “Yeah, sugar—it’s real pretty, but you know we could never afford anything like that, right?” “Oh, I know, I just thought it was neat.” Then she ran off again. Hmm. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. Maybe I should go cut the grass. Which I did, with much vigor and no small amount of mind-swirliness. You know, one day you’ve got a wiggly, poop-spewing little bundle, and the next, she’s wanting a car and you’re the one who’s a wiggly, poop-spewing little bundle. And then your neighbor is yelling at you. In my concentration, I had not noticed that the lady next door and her daughter-in-law had walked up with the non-specific, male near-kin of the people across the street. Uncle, brother, brother-in-law, cousin—not sure exactly what the familial relation is, although there is always the possibility that he fills more than one slot in the line-up. Dirty camo pants, green tee-shirt with the sleeves artfully clipped away to reveal ropey arms the color and texture of saddle leather—he had come by a few weeks ago and wanted to know if my neighbor wanted him to cut down them there dead hickry trees in the back yard yonder. She told him one was in the neighbor’s yard, and that she wasn’t sure if the one between our houses was hers or mine. She told me about their conversation some time last week or the week before, and I told her that the tree actually sat right on the line between our yards. She said he quoted her $50 to cut it down, which sounded real good, so I told her I would be glad to go half on it. So, Friday, he was back. “Uhh, well, yonder tree I’ll get down for 85, and that one over yonder’ll be 85, and then it’ll be 15 t’ haul ‘em off.” Huh? Luckily, my neighbor and her daughter-in-law (who lives across the street, next door to the relative of Noble Woodsman) were even more confused than me—“So, for this one here, it will be $100?” “Right, for all of them it would be 230.” “No, wait, that tree over there isn’t hers, she’s just going to share the cost of this one with this man. You had quoted her $85 for cutting the tree, then $15 to haul both of them off, so to haul this one would be $7.50, plus $85 would be $92.50, right?” “Yeah, right, this one here will be 115 to cut and haul away.” Oh good grief. They went back and forth forever, and I finally figured that the price of cutting our tree had doubled up to a hundred dollars. That darned meth must be getting expensive. I got Reba to go get the checkbook and I wrote out a check to our neighbor for $50 and came back out to find that she and her daughter-in-law were still working out the price. ::sigh:: In the intervening time, Noble Woodsman had gone back over to move his truck and knock back a few, and by the time I had gotten back outside, the price had once again dropped to $85. I stood there and tried to recount all the various iterations of price with the ladies and finally went ahead and told my neighbor just to keep the fifty and we’d be even. She protested that it wasn’t fair, but I told her not to worry about it, as long as the tree got gone. I made the daughter-in-law (who was having him cut two of her trees) to be sure and stay out and supervise him since we were going to be gone on Saturday, and she promised she would. After our trip Saturday (more of which in a moment) Reba and I went out to go look at the stump. It looked like he had done a good enough job, and had cleaned up the yard and not torn a gaping hole in the side of the house. The neighbor lady came out and recounted his efforts, “And you know what? He wound up charging a hundred dollars! He came out and first said he was going to cut if for a hundred, then add thirty to haul it off!” After another round of negotiating, she and her daughter-in-law I guess managed to get him back down to something not quite so bad. Good thing I went ahead and gave her that check, I suppose. I allowed that maybe the next time we need a tree cut down, it might be advantageous for us to shop around a bit. She agreed. But somewhere there is a Noble Woodsman with a fridge full of 40s, half a case of Marlboros, and a satisfied smile. PICNIC!! Got up early Saturday and started getting the chilluns ready for the trip. Part of the preparation took longer than expected due to the fact that during the night Catherine, whose bed is right beside the bedroom window, had managed to wrap one of the curtains all around herself and in between her legs, and then peed all over it. This necessitating removing the curtain and the sheets and giving her a bath before we left. ::sigh:: I knew those curtains were going to be trouble. Everything else was relatively uneventful, and we managed to throw some cereal down their mouths and scoot over to the store for some ice and soft drinks and cash and snacks and reading matter. I had lobbed the groceries into the back of the van and slid into the driver’s seat with my sack of goodies when before I could even get my seatbelt on, Ashley had grabbed my copies of Southern Rodder and Hot VWs out of the bag and starting squealing like she was holding a lock of Aaron Carter’s hair. “Ahhmmm…those ARE mine, you know.” “LOOK REBECCA! JONATHAN! LOOK AT THIS!!” ::sigh:: Reba patted me on the arm and gave me that look. Poor Reba doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for—my poor mother, bless her heart, spent nearly ten years with paint fumes wafting up from the basement, all of her towels disappearing, stumbling over consoles and bumpers and tires and wire—some of which occupied the area underneath my bed. Oh well. She’ll figure it out. We followed her mom and dad down to Northport. I had not been to the old part of Northport, and it’s pretty cool, but Kentuck park is…well, not what I had pictured. There is a big festival every year that attracts artists from all over the country and has even garnered a mention in the New York Times, and I guess I was thinking of something a bit more spiffy. Without the artists and stuff, it’s just a regular park with some picnic pavilions and a walking path. Oh well, that’s what I get for thinking, I suppose. Anyway, lots of folks turned out from pop-in-law’s company, and they had a couple of DJs from a local radio station playing tunes, and a bank of charcoal grills cooking up hamburgers and hot dogs, and a little train to haul the kids around, and a dunking booth to raise money for their Christmas project, and several blow-up things to occupy the kids—one in particular was rather bizarre—a big caterpillar/obstacle course which required the children to enter the front of the caterpillar and stumble and bounce through its intestines to the very end, where they plopped out between two giant butt cheek-looking things. Ewww. Yet strangely compelling for the younger set. The grounds were sloppy from a rain earlier that morning—nothing terribly bad, but enough to drive my mother-in-law batty trying to get bits of dirt off the kids’ new sneakers she had gotten for them the other day. You may not believe this, but some people do not think that using a wet paper towel to clean the bottom of shoes is a very good idea, especially when the shoes in question are standing in mud, and the entire area is covered with mud and bits of leaves. But what do I know? She chased them around all day trying to keep the soil off. They enjoyed the caterpillar and the dunking booth, and I did my dead level best to just sit in my folding chair and read and eat my Cheezits. I got corralled into supervising a couple of them, but was usually able to coerce them to come back and sit down with poor old Dad, who would give them drinks out of the cooler and Cheezits. We finally left around 3, and made a side visit to Green Pond on the way back so the kids could see where their great-great-great-great-great grands were buried. The Presbyterian church pictured in the link was begun in 1826 by Sabert Oglesby, who had come with his father Sabert and uncle John and the rest of their family members from South Carolina to Alabama along about 1819 or so. It is reported that he built the church building himself, as well as a homestead that has long since vanished. It’s been a long time since we had been there—I think it was probably while Rebecca was still a baby. The kids couldn’t believe all the Oglesbys—it’s not a very common name, after all—nor could they quite fathom the number of graves of infants. The good old days did have their limits. They ran all over the place looking before they finally succumbed to the heat and mosquitoes, and then we were back on the road. The rest of the evening was devoted to scrubbing them down and trying to get their hair washed. Poor Cat had managed to get herself a rat’s nest the size of my fist in her hair, and it took Reba nearly an hour of careful pulling and yanking to get it out. And a full hour of screaming from Catherine. Which led to Sunday’s big event… Catherine Gets a Haircut Oh, if you only knew how much trauma this caused. For Reba. 6 1/2 years of pretty little baby curls that have never met scissors, all the way down past Cat’s bottom. Daddy has had the chore for most every day of those 6 1/2 years of having to brush and care for this mass of hair. While I am a sentimental lad, and have always loved her wild mane, it has become increasingly difficult to do anything with. I have been telling her (within earshot of Mommy) for months now that she needed to have her hair cut, and she could donate it to make wigs for little children who lose their hair because they’re sick. After her tug of war, she was more than ready to give it to the sick kids. SO, after church and lunch Sunday, Mom called the Cancer Society here in town and they referred her to Wigs for Kids. She got on the Internet and did her homework and steeled herself for the coming loss. She wanted to go with Cat, and she wanted ALL of us to go, too--for moral support, I suppose. Off we went to Head Start, up Cat hopped into the chair, Dad did the “cut it off to here” speech (lest Mom back out) and in a minute or two, fourteen golden inches of thick, fine fur was lopped off. Her hair STILL comes to the middle of her shoulder blades, though. The stylist trimmed up the raggedy ends, and in just a little while, I had a grown up girl. She looked so sleek, so stylish. And the rest of the afternoon she kept running her fingers and various combs and brushes through her hair, putting it in ponytails and taking it down again, all by herself. First she gets her ears pierced, and now this. And Ashley wants a car. They were just babies yesterday! ::sigh:: AND for the rest of today, I have to leave early and go pick her up so she can meet her teacher and put her supplies in her brand new classroom at her brand new school. Then tomorrow, I get to repeat this exercise with the other three. Which means, that there isn’t going to be a whole lot of productive blogging in the next couple of days. BUT, I do have TWO special secret luncheons on the calendar for later in the week, so there is the promise of other interesting stuff. Really! Honest! Well, maybe. OH, P.S.!! Forgot about it (several times) but those of you who have been pining for a good sound "Scourging of Richard Cohen" are in luck! Axis of Weevil Ambassador to Mizoo Charles Austin has upped stakes from the clutches of stupid BlogSpot and FINALLY moved to capacious and swanky new digs at http://sinequanon.spleenville.com/. All of you be a'changing your bookmarks and permalinks and such and go tell him hello. AND, IN LIKE MANNER...Young Christopher Johnson of the Midwest Conservative Journal has unmoored from the crumbling seaside of Bloggerdom to also sail into a new homeport at http://mcj.bloghorn.com/. Again, for proper enjoyment, please adjust your receivers to the proper frequency. Friday, August 01, 2003
Receipting
Oh, my. That really was something. Reba called after her last client had left and I swung by and picked her up (we rode together today), and then we beat it out to Grandmom’s house to pick up the kids, then on to the new school. [insert sound of little children saying “Hooray”] Now, their new building was supposed to have been ready a year ago, but there were some, ahem, difficulties in getting it finished, the greatest of which was the collapse of a towering mountain of earth behind the new campus. Anyway, from all reports everything is ready to go to start up on the 6th. Heh. Talk about positive spin. We rolled up and the entrances to the drives, as well as some of the main drives themselves, were still gravel, while only a couple of the parking lots had been finished. Apparently just that morning, because they were still oozing oil. All the various subcontractors were fidgeting around all over the place trying to make 95% complete look more like 98%. I’m always hypercritical of stuff like this, mainly because I used to do field observations, but I was astonished at the poor quality of detail work. Paint on doors that looked like it was done by Jackson Pollock, gaps big enough between masonry and fixtures you could stick in your thumb, missing caulk, drywall that looked like it had been carefully beaten with a hammer around the edges—a right good mess. The bad thing is that once the kids start moving in, most of this stuff won’t ever get fixed right. Brand new, and it already looks three years old. Anyway, the school is really two separate facilities on one campus, a kindergarten through 2nd grade primary school, and a 3rd through 5th grade intermediate school. And registration was handled in opposing corners of the campus for each. Which meant we got to stand in two different lines. Sure would be nice just to handle it all in one place, but what do I know. Luckily we have done this enough so that we had copies of our driver’s licenses and power bill already done and ready to go, so the only real wait was for the other folks to move it along. We did Cat first, which took about thirty minutes or so. We then trekked around to the back of the campus underneath the still-being-assembled canopy, across the still-being-laid sod and still-being-installed sprinklers (because the sidewalks were still in their conceptual form), and across the small expanse of still-to-be-installed shrubbery, all the while as I glared angrily at the laborers who kept leering at Oldest. I am a man of quiet and level temper, but I would suggest that when I am perambulating with my family you at least have the common courtesy to be rather discrete in your pervy daydreaming. Blunt force head trauma always take so long to heal, you know. Got the older two signed up a lot quicker (shorter line or more efficient setup, I’m not sure), and then we discovered that the Jefferson County school system is not giving itself due credit for being an educational innovator. How many other systems across our great land can boast of such diligence in adopting wonderful new verbified nouns! Today’s shining example was prominently taped above the tables where we went to pay our fees: “RECEIPTING”. Isn’t that a lovely word! And they even spelled it right! You know, just the other day I was thinking how great it would be if we could do away with that silly old “cashier” word. So we monied the receipter and were duly receipted. Then it was back across the campus to our van, then I took the family and wife back home, and now I am back here at work, because I still have crap to do, because even though we have already been to the new school, we have to go back Monday AND Tuesday to meet teachers, so I have to get ahead just to stay not so far behind. Blech. And when I get home today, I have to cut the stupid grass. It’s been three weeks now, and I can’t do it tomorrow because we have to drive to Tusca-derned-loosa to attend Reba’s dad’s company picnic. Why? I have no idea, I just go where I’m told. It promises, however, to be another one of those events that provides a rich vein of ore for mockery and invective, but I sure wish I could have figured out a way to sit at home and do it. ANYway, all of you have a good weekend, and I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning with incredible tales of the ordinary and the everyday!
Hmm. Something seems to be wrong with Blogger today. What are the odds of that?! OOH--well, now it seems to have magically fixed itself. Again, what are the odds!?
As previously mentioned, ultralight bloggage today due to silly old work, and the need to leave in a bit to go pick up Miss Reba and the kids and go get the kids put back in school. It starts next week on Wednesday, which is just so wrong from so many angles--a) who starts in the middle of the week?!, b) what happened to summer vacation?!, and c) Catherine will be a first grader. How did she get to be so old?! Anyway, might be back in a bit, or not, depending on if I can concentrate on doing my job. No wagering, please. Thursday, July 31, 2003
I think I...
...will go home now. Got soccer practice for Middle Girl tonight, and a whole stack of magazines to peruse while she and the rest of the kids run around getting all stinky. I might even go over to the Country Convenience store and get me some Vi-inner sausages and a cold drink. TOMORROW, I will be hard after it getting actual paying stuff done again, and then during the middle of the day will be going with Miss Reba to go get some of the kids registered and tour their new school. Which is your warning that the free ice cream cones will be dramatically smaller tomorrow, possibly even more than the customary 27%! Chet the E-mail Boy will be standing by, however, eager to receive various abusive and rude transmissions from the customers.
As you recall, it is...Noon-thirty.
I stand there baking in the hot sun, sweat dripping down my neck. Delivery trucks roar by as I wait for my mark. A lively joe blows past, a porkpie hat sliding off the back of his pate--not him. I'm watching a dame sashe up the bricks toward the jail, and I feel that feeling. Hairs standing up on my neck, sorta cold like when Sam the barber splashes me with witch hazel. I ease my eyes around, and there's a big jamoke standing there. Tall, six-footer. Hair that used to be brown. I says to him, "Hey mack, you oughtn't sneak up on a fish like that--you wouldn't happen to be Anderson, would you?" "Yeah, I'm Anderson. And you...?" "Yeah, it's me. Come on." I pushed open the heavy door and we walked into the cool air of the museum. The taps on my heels echoed off the hoity-toity marble walls, "Art-shmart, eh?" I motioned toward the junk on the wall. He kept his pipe shut. Lunch With Larry! What a fun time! Larry Anderson, famous Kudzu Patch dweller and boon companion to William J. Roberts, had driven down to B'ham today to attend some SBA meetings over at the Sheraton. Obviously, any of you who come to town must have lunch with me, but since Larry and I have never laid eyes on each other, we were forced to devise an elaborate, 1930s film-noir role-playing game in order to identify each other. Everything went fine until he cracked my skull open with a blackjack... I got to the museum at exactly 12:29 (1229 for you military sorts) and stood there with my very loud Mondrian-inspired tie waiting for him to show up. Unbeknownst to me, I was late. Oops. I happened to look through the doors to the lobby and saw some guy motioning with his hands--I walked in, "Are you Terry?" I am, and according to his name badge, he was Larry. Tall, distinguished-looking fellow, and both exactly- and nothing like I had pictured him. "I'm sorry, Larry, I thought you were going to meet me up front, but you must have come through the back!" "No, actually I've been here waiting for you--I was out front earlier, but didn't see you." ::blush:: Again, oops. We were seated at a table by the big window and both of us got the Thursday special, crab cake on a bed of mixed bitter weeds. Which was awfully pricey, but pretty good. Not the best crab cake in the world, but I wasn't there for the cholesterol and carbs, I was there to blabber with Larry. I think we covered it all--work, bureaucracies, pointless meetings, growing up, reading, writing, rocket science, Cletus, dealing with Uncle Sugar, dangerous things to do with chemicals, stupid people, riding the Iron Butt, good employers, bad employers, blogging, newspaper reporters (actually a subset of the stupid people part of the conversation), children, barbecue, wives, baby eclectus parrots, our new book publishing venture (Boll Weevil Press--we are looking for Other People's Money™ right now, but in the mean time, we have each advanced the other five genuine dollars against future sales). You know, the stuff everyone talks about. OH, and Road & Track magazines!! Larry brought a stack with him, and again I was embarrassed; this time because I had nothing to give him in return. So while he wasn't looking, I slipped a set of silverware and an ashtray off the table into his briefcase. It's not much, but it's all I had. It got time to go, so we went to the cashier, where we were charged an astronomical pile of money for our lunch. We paid, turned, and started walking away, and with no small amount of pain I mentioned that I had never eaten such expensive crabmeat (especially considering all the other entrees on the menu were about half the price of what we were charged). Larry, who is my hero, thought it was a mite too much too, and bravely taking charge, went back looking for an explanation. We got to the cashier and she was already shaking her head in self-loathing, realizing she had made a mistake adding up our bill on her handheld calculator. She apologized profusely and gave us back a 25% rebate. That made it better, but that was still one expensive hunk of crustacean and undergrowth. I thought Larry might get to come back and explore the ever-so-lovely Possumblog Work Environment, but he had other things to go do, so we had to make do with a quicky point-to-the-landmark exercise--"...that's Linn Park, that's the Courthouse, that's City Hall, that's the jail, that's Boutwell Auditorium..." Couple of more handshakes, and it was time to get back to work. That Larry is a pretty good guy.
Hmph!--Justin Timberlake Joins Stones At Toronto Benefit, Gets Pelted With Garbage TORONTO — In perhaps his most memorable cameo since donning a furry dolphin suit at a Flaming Lips performance, Justin Timberlake joined Mick Jagger and the rest of the Rolling Stones onstage during the veteran rock band's set at the concert for Toronto on Wednesday night. [...]Well, this is just horrible--no matter HOW much you dislike Justin Timberlake, these people throwing trash and bottle should have at least understood the danger of these items to the other performers--poor Mick's walker could have slipped and he could have fallen and broken his hip or something!
Interesting, maybe.
From yesterday's online edition of the Birmingham Business Journal: Birmingham chef to be on TV's 'Off the Menu' Birmingham chef Frank Stitt of Highlands Bar & Grill is joining the cast of Turner South's "Off the Menu," which profiles the South's finest chefs. Stitt, along with a chef from Charleston, S.C., and another from Memphis, Tenn., will join original show host Troy McPhail of Commander's Palace in New Orleans, to round out the new cast. The men will "showcase their outdoor and cooking skills on (the) half-hour daily 'catch and cook' series," according to Turner Broadcasting System Inc. "The chefs will remove their aprons and don everything from camouflage to wading boots as they literally hunt for ingredients found in the outdoors of the Southeast region," a promo from the network states. "Then it's into the kitchen with these culinary experts for a taste of what it takes to prepare dishes such as roasted quail and corn-crusted trout." Debuting Sept. 8, the new format will air weekdays at 10:30 a.m. CST and 5:30 p.m. CST. "The addition of these highly creditable restaurants allows us to create enough compelling episodes to offer our viewers a daily dose of this exciting and captivating series," says John Parry, Turner South's vice president of original programming in a press statement. "(The show) will continue to bring together two worlds close to every Southerner's heart - the outdoors and the kitchen." [...]Stitt is one of the best chefs around, but I have never pegged him as the outdoorsy type. Should be fun to watch, though--as you know, I can just never seem get enough compellitude, excitement, or captivation. If I only had cable...
Oh, that was fun.
Another sort of bureaucratic exercise of the pretty police, this time conducted by one of the guys over on the planning side--they keep dragging me in on these so they can have someone to blame if someone doesn't like the way it looks when they go to their Big Meeting--"Well, we had one of the architects on staff look at it, and he didn't say A WORD about it..." That kind of CYA diddly-poo. My planning counterpart is...well, he...let's just say he pretends to great wisdom. And I am being as honest as I know how that I DO NOT believe it has anything to do with graduating from UA. I have met thousands of Bama grads and they are invariably smart folks--however, I suppose the occasional statistical outlier manages to get through. I will occasionally mess with him, but I had to stop when he started taking my personal jibes personally. (Imagine that!) Probably the best one was the Monday morning a while back when he announced during our staff meeting that he was getting married. "You're all invited--I'll be pinning an invitation to the bulletin board." "Thanks, man--I'll be sure and pin your gift up there." It's no fun when everyone in the room is laughing at you. Poor dim dude. He did get the last laugh, though--he went and mailed me an invitation, so I had to break down and actually buy him something. (I consoled myself that I was actually buying it for his wife and not him.) He has an odd habit of trying to sound non-Southern, too. On occasion, he will attempt this weird vocal gymnastic thing which makes him sound both retarded and effeminate. But he thinks it makes him sound educated, I think. Hard to tell. Anyway, today's attempt at erudition was the development of a new pronunciation for "kiosk". kee-ahsk, right? Maybe some bit of emphasis on first syllable, long e sound; second syllable unaccented, short o sound? Sorta like the way EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD SAYS IT? Nah--we're gonna make it "kee-OASK". Long o, heavily accented, and drawn out until it plops off your lips like spit--kee-OOOOOAS-K. ::sigh:: People is something.
Dumb old gainful employment...
...once again rears its head. Paying work to get done this morning, so you might have to wait until after my sure-to-be-exciting lunch with Mr. Anderson to see anything here. ::sigh:: Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Mmmm...Dolphin Meat!
Shula to open steak house at Wynfrey Hotel Like football and steak? Then, you're in luck: Legendary Miami Dolphins football coach Don Shula will open a Shula's Steak House at Wynfrey Hotel at the Riverchase Galleria in Hoover."Hand-painted football menus"? Yep--lookee here. Anyway, now that he's coming to Birmingham, it should be much more convenient to get into the 48 oz. Club™. I might need to pick me up some of them steak knives, too. Maybe a nice bathrobe. Yep, just me, sitting around in my bathrobe, knife in each hand, eating a big ol' pile of cow.
State bans commercial fishing in polluted waters By DAVE BRYANAll together now..."Eww."
Adventures in Headline Writing-- Spain gymnast stripped of medal at worlds
Maybe it's just me, but shouldn't that be "Spainish"?
Hey James and Laurence--that Word of Mouth deal got Snopified back on June 11-- [...] If you want to find out what this anonymous contributor actually said about you, you have to communicate with him through Word-of-Mouth's ANONYMOUS EMAIL SYSTEM which — this is where the "sucker" part kicks in — is only available to Word-of-Mouth "Power Users": One-Year Subscription $19.97, Two-Year Subscription (BEST VALUE) $29.97. However, all the "Power Users" who have written to us about their experiences with Word-of-Mouth have reported that after they paid the fees to learn what was being said about them, all they learned was that the anonymous contributors had "misplaced" whatever information they supposedly had to share.Hey, send me twenty bucks and I'll say all kinds of stuff about you.
And what would Wednesday be without the Wednesday Newhouse News Lileks column? [...] Expect bad news for the foreseeable future. It's sexier than success. Eventually every network will do the Six Months Later story, and you know how that will go:Oh no. I better vacuum. I sure hope he brings the good stuff this time. The last time, all he had was a bottle of Vitalis and three Sominex. In fairness, that was better than Peter Jennings, who just sat there on the couch crying. Man, how I hated that.
Powell: Saddam Is 'Piece of Trash' to Be Collected
Sitting in the shadows of an dark, sweltering safe house on the outskirts of Baghdad, Saddam quietly dips his hand in a bowl of water and pats his head while whispering--"You're an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill." Wonder how long it will be before the outrage and breast-beating will start from those who think it's mean-spirited to call this psychopath a piece of trash?
HE'S BACK!! And he's COMING TO BIRMINGHAM!!
Or; What do you get when you cross a possum with kudzu? Obviously, lunch. Yes, the day is at hand when I get to meet another blogger face-to-face for a round of lunch. Larry and I will be dining on the morrow at the oh-so-precious cafe at the Birmingham Museum of Art (over 21,000 works of art, spanning 7,000 years...and vittles, too!!). Larry has been instructed to be sure he wears a shirt and shoes, even though I don't think this is a hard and fast rule at the museum. I will be respendent in my normal cotton long-sleeved dress shirt, which will be tucked into uncuffed, unpleated, stylish, polyester Haggar slacks. My ID badge will be tucked neatly into my breast pocket alongside my pens, and I will be screaming into a bullhorn about the gold standard and the Masons. In other lunchitudinal matters, the ongoing stalking of Miss Preede continues apace, and we have each now managed to require rescheduling at least twelve times each. We have set another date (which will remain secret until it has happened)--I will not be denied my promised FOX6 coffee cup. I may have to ask for an autographed picture, too. As well as one from Larry. Right now, it is time for today's fare--l'poulet noirci pour la micro-onde.
...Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree. On July 30, 1918 during the battle of Ourcq, Sergeant Joyce Kilmer was killed. In addition to his most famous poem, Trees, he also wrote the Rouge Bouquet: In a wood they call Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth 10 meters thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime. For Death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to free And fled away. Now over the grave abrupt and clear Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear The bugles sing: "Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them any more. Danger's past; Now at last, Go to sleep!" There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this place of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band. St. Michael's sword darts through the air and touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons: And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael's blood runs. And up to Heaven's doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of bugle notes That softly say: "Farewell! Farewell! Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning-star. Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!" The Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina is dedicated to him.
Looking out the window…
I can see that it is well past time for yet another rendering from that classic of late Nineteenth- and early Twentieth Century literature, Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book. Today, Lemon and Nisbet are discussing aspects of the: ARTS OF ABBREVIATION.Well, yeah.
Air marshals pulled from key flights WASHINGTON, July 29 — Despite renewed warnings about possible airline hijackings, the Transportation Security Administration has alerted federal air marshals that as of Friday they will no longer be covering cross-country or international flights, MSNBC.com has learned. The decision to drop coverage on flights that many experts consider to be at the highest risk of attack apparently stems from a policy decision to rework schedules so that air marshals don’t have to incur the expense of staying overnight in hotels. [...]You know, nothing surprises me anymore. Although it would have been nice to have an air marshal on every flight when this all got started, at least there was some peace of mind knowing that even though they might not be on every flight, there were enough to be a credible deterrent--sorta like to the sign you occasionally see--"These premises guarded by Smith & Wesson four days a week. You just have to guess which ones." Well, I don't suppose anyone intent on doing harm will have to guess now. What's really going to chap me is if this is some bureaucratic nonsense to create a false budget crisis, similar to the one when the FBI created an artificial backlog of document interpretation to plump for more money.
Are you the lucky girl he'll share them with?
"YOU can be if... ...Looking at a big beautiful old oak tree and realizing that it took years of growing" It's full-bore Lileks insanity! Tuesday, July 29, 2003
We need to have a talk...
...with whoever it was that came up with the word “funeral”, because despite taking up almost half the word, “fun” really isn't part of it. A long-time friend of our family—we knew him from church, and from school. One of his boys was a grade ahead of me, another a grade behind me, and the third was about three back. We all played football together, and his wife had been a kindergarten teacher and librarian at our school, and had been one of my Cub Scout den mothers (and she shares my birthday). A man of incredible handiness and quiet optimism, he and the boys built their own garage and shop in their backyard using rough lumber, a few hand tools, and a good eye. Always full of good humor, and even at threescore and ten, he had a handshake like a vise. In the last couple of months, he was diagnosed with cancer, which spread rapidly despite several drastic surgeries. The family thought that a corner had been turned last week, though, and he got to move from the SICU to a private room. And then he was gone. I dropped by my mom’s office and picked her up. NO way I was letting her drive again. Although she did want to go by the Farmer’s Market on the way back. No. Reba decided to take the day off and had gone with the kids to get her mom. My father-in-law, bless his workaholic self, had gone into work (in Tuscaloosa) and then driven BACK up for the funeral, and was going to go right back to work afterwards. Half a day on the road, that. We all sat in the back of the funeral home chapel, which is good for getting to see everybody. Which we did—folks we knew that had been former customers, folks from school, folks from church. A moment or two of quiet, then a couple of short eulogies by the current preacher and the man he replaced, and then it was time to go. A few more hugs and handshakes and bits of hurried gossip in the lobby. It was good to see folks I hadn’t seen in forever. But it wasn’t fun.
And then again, sometimes it DOESN’T pay to be off-handedly impertinent…
I had no sooner gotten sat down from my return from the funeral when Chet the E-Mail Boy came rushing (charitably speaking) through the doorway with the following missive: Subject: Christine Terhune HerrickHuh? What!? I confessed to Chet no small amount of consternation, given that I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what this was all about. (To myself I kept my fears that possibly once again I had been latched onto by a raving moonbat who had mistaken me for someone else—it has happened before, although at least this time there was a bit more to go on to deduce the reasoning behind this Herrickean fury.) To the magic Google machine I flew, where I tapped in good Mrs. Herrick’s name and the name of this blog, and LO AND/OR BEHOLD, there it was—back on Wednesday, January 3 of this year, I was waxing rhapsodic about my then-new Christmas gift of Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book, an interesting feature of which was a listing of books in the back by authors of the time—including one Christine Terhune Herrick! One of her titles from the list (What To Eat -- How To Serve It) I had managed to find on Barnes and Noble’s Out of Print Book site, and I then had this to say about her: Apparently a well-known cookbook [author] and general household scold of the late 19th- and early 20th centuries, with a name that desperately belongs to a high society dinner party hostess in a Three Stooges movie. Looking at her copious list of titles on B&N, it's hard to believe that they are missing some of her other fine works published by Harper's, which are listed as House-Keeping Made Easy and Cradle and Nursery. Bet those are some corkers, alright.Ahhh. Well, now. Ahem. Hmm. I suppose my waywardness with the vowels and consonants could have caused some pain to devotees of Mrs. Herrick, so I cobbled together a response to Mrs. MacMurray and pled insanity, begging forgiveness for being a brash upstart and sporting about with the Terhune legacy, and asked if posting her defense of Mrs. Herrick would be acceptable. Thankfully, Mrs. MacMurray had been in the teasing mode, and she quickly wrote back that she knew my gentle prodding was done with tongue firmly encheeked. It seems that Kathleen has written several scholarly articles and a book about the Terhune family, and is quite up on many obscure facets of Terhunania. In addition, for many years she dealt in rare books, specializing in the Terhune family. Breathing a great sigh of relief (along with the Possumblog Legal Department), I told Kathleen I would be happy to direct my readers to her website. She demurred (having not yet taken the plunge into the icy waters of Oceanus Interneticus) but did not object in the least if I directed you all to her book, Albert Payson Terhune : A Bibliography of Primary Works, which is listed on Amazon. Although the book is about brother Albert, it also contains Christine’s bibliography and a photograph of her. So, there now! Go, read! Or I shall scold you once more!
I make myself a liar--no posting this morning EXCEPT to note that long-time Axis of Weevil member and Gawker contributor Elizabeth Spiers has taken the plunge with her very own domain name and pretty, pretty Moveable Type software. Go tell her hey at http://www.elizabethspiers.com/, and as always, please adjust your permalinks. Monday, July 28, 2003
Dowdiness From Where It's Already Tomorrow Today, or something...
Aussie Tim Cobber Mate gets an e-mail from an alert Yellowhammer, H.J. Farmer, in reference to Mike Marshall of the Mobile Register and his ongoing search for clarification from the New York Times on the actions by a certain [...] standup comic specializing in insults -- Don Rickles with an exceptionally high language quotient [...]who gave rise to the newest fun verb in all of Bloglandia--"dowdify". The big question in my mind is when is Tim going to come visit Alabama?
Wow--everybody it seems is sprucing up--John Hawkins just got some spiffy new clothes.
I feel so...plain.
What do you get for the twenty year old who has everything?
Obviously, a Harry Potter birthday cake. And maybe some Legos. Happy birthday, ya' little punk ya'!
So Anyway,
Got home Friday and found out that I had made a dreadful error in cognition. It seems that when my wife’s mother had asked that the children spend this week with her and Gramps, it was only intended to be during the daylight hours. No night-spending. And it would begin today, not Friday night. Good thing I like my kids, that’s all I’ve got to say. So, Reba’s desire to clean house, and my desire to, uh…clean house will require some adjustments. ::sigh:: Whatever—so I got home and Miss Reba and I decided to take the kinder to see a movie. You know, everyone has their own benchmark bad movie—for some of you, maybe it’s Battlefield Earth, others of you, Ishtar, some find Santa Claus Conquers the Martians to be unwatchable. My own yardstick of craptacularity is a little fill-um called Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows. A rockin’ little sequel, which for me encapsulates every reason why the late-1960s should be wiped from the history books. It is stupid, annoying, and if I may say so, stupid. And annoying. Little did I know that people were still able to make such steaming piles of horse manure, until I plunked down close to forty bucks to go see Spy Kids 3D -- Game Over. Move Review Time—(I would say “spoilers ahead” but this scream-inducing pool of dreck is already far beyond spoiled. I’m going to give everything away, so scroll way down if you really want to go throw you money away on this stinker and don’t want to know how it ends.) What a bad movie. I came away with actual, visceral, throbbing HATRED for it and for the persons who caused my time to be wasted sitting through this mindless, idiotic drivel. How many ways is it bad? Well, first off there’s 3D. 3D is what you do when there are no more ideas left. 3D is a crutch for moviemakers who somehow think the audience will forgive you if you make a point of poking your finger at them-WHOA 3-DDDDD!-or throwing things out into the audience-WHOA 3-DDDDDD!-or any of a number of other things that do absolutely nothing except give everyone a headache. And oh, what a headache. The print we had wasn’t quite registered exactly right, so even with the tiny, stupid glasses, everything had fuzzy edges, and even today my eyes hurt. According to Miramax co-chair Bob Weinstein, "When you get the franchise right and (audiences) have such an enjoyable experience, you build a brand name," Weinstein told Reuters. "The 3-D was something fresh. Parents hadn't seen that in a long time and wanted to turn their kids on to it."For the love of all that’s holy, why not facilitate parents in turning their kids on to something else they haven’t seen in a while, something that’s better for them—like mescaline. Aside from the nausea-inducing stereopticon sensation, there was the nausea-inducing story. The Spy Kids franchise has continued to get worse with every movie, and surely this one will be the death of the series. It mostly revolves around Juni, who has the vapid, cloying, highly annoying screen presence of a young Danny Bonaduce. He has left the spy business to scrounge pennies from stupid kids who hire him as a private detective. He has lost all contact with his family, who desperately need him to rescue his sister, whose mind has become trapped inside of a new computer game designed by Rambo. The idea of the game is to trap unwitting children on the Fifth Level. Why? Because this is a moist, curly dog turd of a movie, that’s why. Anyway, after a call from the President (played by Dr. Doug Ross), Juni goes to the spy place and Salma Hayak convinces Juni to hook himself up to the game to save Carmen, and she convinces him without taking off her clothes. There is a brief bit of what is supposed to pass for double-entendre banter between Hayak and her on-screen husband, which zooms over kid’s heads (which is good, I suppose), and falls like a lead block on the adults (which made me want to punch the screen, which is probably not a good thing, I suppose). Juni gets into the machine and everyone in the audience puts on their glasses to start the headache-fest. He meets other kids inside who are “Beta Testers” (ooooohhh) who are actually nerds when you get to see them later in the film. They go through various levels of the game (you know, like in Tron, except hard on the eyes). Lots of stupid game play, none of which are anything as good as what kids actually play on video games now. Juni and the Beta Testers (ooohhhh) run into a girl, whom Juni falls in like with, whom he has to clobber a couple of times, but who then takes his place when he has to fight with one of the other guys or get kicked out of the game. The girl is not real, though, she’s just a decoy being played by Rocky to get Juni to the Fifth Level, but Juni doesn’t figure this out until the end of the movie. Anyway, Juni manages to also get Khan Noonien Singh to come into the game to help him, because a) he needs help, and b) Mr. Roarke wants to confront Judge Dredd because it was HE who paralyzed him and put him in a wheelchair and made him do commercials. So, they all wander around and fling stuff into the audience and poke things out there for us to be amazed by, and finally they find Carmen, who leads them to the Fifth Level and they shut down the game, thus foiling the nefarious schemes of Nick Martinelli. BUT, it’s not over, because Rambo Returns and somehow manages to build a big robot and starts rampaging through the city, and then since they had only a tiny bit of money left over, all the characters from previous adventures got to show up long enough to stand there and put on 3D glasses while the words “PUT ON GLASSES” flashed in front of them. Ten minutes later, the movie is over and Antonio Banderas is laughing his happy hindquarters to the bank, and I am fuming because Carla Gugino is on screen for about a minute. The robot Rocky is defeated when Zachary Powers confronts him in the control room and forgives him for being mean. Everyone hugs and the credits roll, and in the outtakes that must now accompany all motion pictures to make the audience laugh (since they didn’t get to during the feature), George Clooney mugged while chewing up his line and after the cut, grinned and quipped that he had probably just managed to wreck his entire career. Yep. Probably so. Game Over. Back home, off to bed after a handful of Advil, then up early Saturday. Off to the sporting goods place to get the youngest two registered for fall soccer and to unload perfectly good cash money for registration. Thankfully, no new uniforms this time, so that saved a little bit. Then back to the house to take stuff to the charity folks—Reba had a backlog of stuff in boxes, which she had put in the back of the truck while I was gone. SO, Franklin got a bit of a workout, and as a reward for his hard work, I stopped and got him some glue to put back on his rearview mirror. Once they get in the habit of coming off, they keep it up. It just occurred to me that since my readership has risen into the high ones, that some of you may not be familiar with one of the other members of the family. Franklin is my truck. He was named by the kids in honor Franklin the Turtle, because he is green and slow. The name also works well because he’s an F-100, and Benjamin Franklin’s picture is on a $100 bill. So there you go. (Oh, and he has 257,000 miles on him. Which might explain the slow part.) Anyway, got my glue and got home, to be confronted with several children and a wife who had gotten themselves cleaned up to go to the store. Hmm. “You know Catherine has been wanting to get her ears pierced and I had told her last week she could if she didn’t pee in her pants.” Some inducement, eh? Oh well. Got us all in the van and away we went to Wally World, where we wandered around for several hours gathering up a treasure trove of valuable prizes, none of which I can really recall at the moment. The important part of the trip went just fine, though. Catherine sat there all prim and ladylike (a first) after first picking out a pretty little set of earrings with rhinestones. Two pops later and she was even more of a prissy little girl. Not a fidget or a whimper, although she did confess to Mommy that “that ear poker thing hurted some.” We had some lunch at McDonald’s solely to satisfy the kids’ craving for cheap plastic Happy Meals toys and cheap plastic food. The big attraction was that the toys were tie-ins to the garbage we had seen the previous night. ONE MORE STRIKE! The movie and the Happy Meals seemed to have been conceived on two parallel-dimension Planets of the Stupid. The Happy Meal toys had Juni looking like a lobotomized Prince Valiant riding a unicycle. There was also a comic book (in 3D!) that had absolutely no relationship to the movie—different story, different-looking characters (yet, surprisingly, no better than the movie crap—go figure!). To say the kids were disappointed is an understatement. Finished that mess up and went BACK to the store, this time to the nearly deserted Big K-Mart to look for other junk we could have done without, then back to Wal-Mart AGAIN for the stuff we forgot that we couldn’t find at K-Mart, and then finally back home. Got the kids scrubbed and shampooed and into bed, and then it was time for Reba to visit The Possumblog Style Center. She had tried to get an appointment to have her hair colored early that morning, but was met with the studied indifference that can only come from a teenager who thinks being a receptionist in a salon is like, the coolest thing. So, she got some goo for me to play with on her hair. Yes, yes—I’ve done this plenty enough, so I know what I’m doing. Most of the time. This time was a bit different in that the goo she bought had a neat little comb applicator, making it less likely I would leave her with big streaks of uncolored hair. Not that that has ever happened… It worked really well and it looked good enough so that no one at church Sunday asked if she had gotten her hair colored. And saved about 70 bucks. Which is about what we had wasted on stuff at the Wal- and K-Marts. Sunday, churching up for everyone, and then some. Reba’s mom called at 6:30 wanting to know if we could come eat lunch with them at their church (which is the one where Reba and I grew up). They were having a special Sunday with a guest speaker, who just happened, a couple of years ago, to be the preacher where Reba and I go now. (Confused yet?) We got ready, went to our services, drove across the county to our old home, ate lunch, caught up on the gossip, was berated for not visiting more often, listened to the next sermon at 1, went home, collapsed, went back for our evening service, then went to the GROCERY STORE afterwards, then went home and ate a VERY late supper, then hit the bed like a sack of wet cement, then up bright-eyed this morning so I could come in here! I wonder why I feel so tired.
You know what this old world needs? More stories about Yorkshire Terriers!!
But who could we trust to give us such needful words?! I say no one but Francesca Watson, who has been incommunibloggo over on Yorkie Blog for much too long! SO, go over there and send her an e-mail and bug her until she answers!
Phenix City's Nattering Nabob of Negativity...
Chuck Myguts of Redneckin' fame has up and moved to new digs at http://idlehourwebs.com/redneckin/nucleus2.0/. All of you please reset the buttons on your radios.
Whew.
Against all odds, I have once again managed to make it through another weekend. Lots of junk to cover, and as always, I have our wonderful staff meeting to go doze through before getting on with the somewhat enjoyable tales of Lady Mondegreen, The Most Hated Movie Experience EVER, Franklin Gets a Mirror, Wal-Martians, More Head Holes, Salon d'Rat du Bois, Visitin', and Other Junk. In the mean time, reader Garland Stewart sent me a link to a story in yesterday's Birmingham News--I had already read it myself in the paper before getting Garland's e-mail, and I agree with him that although the circumstances of the story are terribly sad, the writing by Carol Robinson is first rate. It's about 5,000 words long--a long read, and a hard one given the subject matter, but worth it. Friday, July 25, 2003
I can’t think of another thing.
Except for the odd circumstance that Miss Reba’s mom and dad wanted to have the kids stay over at their house. Starting tonight. And continuing for the rest of the week. ::blink::blink:: Mom-in-law called at 6:30 this morning and asked for them. “Are you sure?” (Not so much looking a gift horse in the mouth as trying my best to caveat that emptor as much as possible. And yes, I know that's not proper Latin--why be bothered by that when I refuse to use proper English?) “Oh, yes, send them on!” Well, now… Whenever the kids are gone, Reba always wants us to clean their dumpy rooms, take unused toys off the Island of Unused Toys (where you get can get a deduction on your income taxes), work out in the yard recreating the Gardens of Versailles (which means me going down to the garden shop in the truck and hauling rocks and being stove up for the rest of the week), and 5,325 other items on the ever-lengthening ‘List of Things for Terry To Do’. On the other hand, the ‘List of Things Terry Actually Wants To Do’ is but one single item. I am a simple man with simple appetites. Must be the weather. SO ANYWAY, my normal weekend task of ruining perfectly good small minds will be spent elsewise. Be interesting to see what happens—I’ll tell you all about it Monday, if I remember any of it. Or, I might just make up a bunch of stuff. See you then!
Space Shuttle Columbia Debris Recovery Enhanced With GIS
Just got my paper copy of ArcNews today, and it had a very interesting cover article dealing with computerized mapping the debris field of the shuttle Columbia to aid in recovery. In case you've never read ArcNews, it's put out by ESRI, who produce mapping software. Each issue of the magazine is jam-packed with articles about different uses for GIS software, ranging from "Finding Homes for America's Wild Horses and Burros With GIS" to "Locating Traffic Jams, Plant Specimens, and More". Interesting stuff.
I am not a baseball fan...
...because as you all know, it's not football. But, THIS is pretty darned cool, not matter what! Check out ol' Carlton, a-standing there like he owns the place! Or Woodie, flinging the pill like nobody's business! And that suave devil Greminger! Neat stuff.
He might object to it...
But that's just tough noogies. Reader Jim Smith (not an alias, by the way) and I were just writing back and forth and he mentioned that in addition to living that free'n'easy swinging academic lifestyle, he also is the board chair for a non-profit, and he is having to take a few hours off to go pound the pavement for fund-raising. As is my terribly sneaky way, I managed to get him to tell me that the organization is the Family Support Network of Eastern North Carolina which operates in Beaufort, Bertie, Greene, Hyde, Martin, and Pitt counties. (The link is to the parent organization) According to Jim, FSN-ENC "provides referral, emotional and educational support to families with special needs children or who have experienced the death of a child. We have a small group of professionals who work with the families and also what are called support parents. These support parents have been through similar situations with their families. They seem to make a tremendous difference."Sounds like a wonderful group of folks--I know Jim would appreciate any assistance you can offer, especially you folks up in Tarheelandia.
Paradise by the Pinchgut
Wow. Yesterday afternoon was about as close to midsummer perfection as you could ever get around here—went to the soccer park to wait for Reba to bring Rebecca and puttered around a bit just soaking it all in. Low humidity, mild temperature, slight breeze, big puffy Maxfield Parrish clouds, brilliant blue sky, grass and trees as lush as Olde Sodde. The sound of the train coming through, quick blips of coach’s whistles, the thunmpk-ing of soccer balls, the p-TINK! of kids connecting with horsehide over at the baseball park. Oh, and the birds—tons of birds—four or five different pairs of sparrows were up there, just chirping away and flittering around and occasionally lighting long enough on handy fences and low-hanging tree limbs to engage in raucous, vigorous, and embarrassingly public copulation. Must be the weather. Anyway, Reba finally wheeled in and Bec hopped out, and I got to sit there on the bench reading my nice, somewhat new Car and Driver. Got home early due to an early end of practice, got Cat to come fill up the bird feeders with me and just stood there looking at the sky and trees. It sure was pretty. “What you lookin’ for, Daddy?” “Santa.” “Daaaad! Santa’s at th’North Pole!” “Rabbits?” “Daddeeee!! Rabbits don’t fly!” “The house? It needs paint, you know.” “Hm. Yeah, th’ house need-es some paint. I’m goin’ inside now so I can finish my game.” “Okeedoke. It’s real pretty out here, isn’t it, Cat.” “Yes sir, it’s priddy, but I’m gettin’ eat up by m’skeeters.” “Yeah. I think I’ll come in with you.” Yesterday afternoon was a good one.
This was interesting--Fuel truck overturns, spreads fire--8,800 gallons flow into storm drains near western cemetery
Seems a full gasoline tanker turned over, spilt its load, caught on fire, and started pouring flaming gasoline down the local storm sewers over by Elmwood Cemetery here in Birmingham. Which caused quite a stir, to say the least. My favorite local teevee reporter was there, and the video was pretty darned dramatic, with shots of manholes being blown off and thick black plumes of smoke rising up out of the cemetery (!), due to the flow of motor fuel through the sewer pipes that run underneath it. Thankfully no one was seriously injured, and despite the dramatic 'splosions and stuff, it turned out that property damage was not that great. And you know what, it took me to today to realize that when it happened, I didn't have that tense, cold knot in my stomach. My first thought wasn't that some jacked-up jihadi had stolen a gasoline truck and tried to take out a few infidels on the way to the Eternal Hourihouse. I just figured it was caused by one of the normal assortment of low-wattage folks who manage to get driver's licenses around here. Frankly, I'll take the dimbulbs over the nutjobs any day of the week.
From the "It's a Small World" File--Lileks Discusses Pryor Convictions: [...] Hugh Hewitt's show today concerned an interesting judicial controversy - some Dems are suggesting that a certain nominee [current Alabama Attorney General Bill Pryor--Ed.] is unfit for confirmation because he is a staunch Catholic, and hence opposed to abortion, and hence cannot be trusted to rule in a fashion consistent with Roe V. Wade. We have not gotten into the abortion issue here, and we won’t now, or ever. I bring up the issue because there’s something revealing about the implications of the criticism.Tsk, tsk. When will people like Mr. Lileks figure out that the only way a staunch Catholic is acceptable in politics is when he's that dreamy guy President Josiah Bartlet. Anyway, this is one of those things where there's a lot of heat and no light--in the end, there are plenty of sitting justices who blatantly ignore plainly written statutory language in favor of ruling based upon their own biases and philosophies--one need look no further than the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. Straying from interpretation to invention is not good for anyone, no matter which side is doing it, but Pryor really doesn't seem to be the venom-dripping troglodyte that he's being made into by his critics. Thursday, July 24, 2003
Showing the Flag
This was in the Birmingham Post-Herald yesterday--Alabama's flag flies over Baghdad airport By THOMAS HARGROVENot to be too pedantic about it, and knowing that further explanation would further traumatize poor, sensitive types--it's not a "simple red "X"", but rather a crimson saltire, or Cross of St. Andrew. As you can tell, since it has historical religious overtones, The Easily Offended would probably have a fit about it. And the 214th is based in Alexander City (Tallapoosa County) and Tuskegee (Macon County), not Alexandria. Several members of Alabama Guard units are known to be carrying state flags.But of course! As a practical matter, the Alabama flag is a good choice for a unit marking--graphically, it's simple and distinct, with strong contrast between the colors--the Florida flag is similar, and both the Texas and Tennessee flags are distinct enough to both be easily seen and identified. (It would probably be inflamatory to fly this one, but it's good to keep around just in case.) Flag raisings have become something of a sore point during the second Persian Gulf War. U.S. Marines were quickly ordered to haul down the American flag on March 21 after coalition troops captured the southern Iraqi port of Umm Qasr, a public-relations gesture the Pentagon thought necessary to demonstrate that America wants to liberate Iraq, not conquer it. But the policy guaranteed there would be no Iwo-Jima type moments for American forces.Again, I know I'm being a pill, but I don't think there's a Marine alive who would want to be called an "ex-Marine". He is a classy man, though, and not willing to foam and fume for a reporter about the men having to take down their flag. It is a different war. Another thing, now that I'm all riled up, wouldn't it be nice if online editions of newspapers would give you a link to interesting places like the Iwo Jima Survivors Association? Anyway, wrapping up is this paragraph: But the Alabama flag has a simple design that is not well known outside the state. It's unlikely anyone in Iraq would recognize it as part of the United States, experts said.Hey, we even have trouble here getting people to recognize us as part of the United States.
Lunch!
Got over to Oak Hill Bar and Grill in Homewood early, thank goodness, so I could cover my tracks from Tuesday—“Will there be one, orrrr…” “Nope! Give me two menus again today and let’s see what happens!” “K.” Gotta love that combination of ennui and apathy that is the mark of a fine eating establishment, especially when applied to a place that ain’t. Anyway, as I said, I wanted to be able to wipe away my tracks so that there wouldn’t be one of those awkward, Costanza-esque ‘Clash of the Worlds’ scenarios that killed Independent George, where I’m having to explain exactly how it is that I know a certain local teevee girl, and how I have this website that I do…but it’s not usually pronygraphic [sic] or nothin’…and that I occasionally refer to him as My Friend Jeff™ and say mean stuff about him. But, since I was there a few minutes early, I got it all taken care of. He showed up a minute or two later, wandering around outside looking for the usually-late me, so I hopped up and shouted “Hey, Moron!” out the door at him—“You’re the moron—you’re usually LATE!” “Am not.” “Are too.” We were e-mailing junk back and forth the other day, and he mentioned something that nearly floored me, being that he and I had known each other now for FOURTEEN years. Hard to believe. He came to work at The Bad Place about six months or so after I started, at which time I immediately struck up a relationship with him based entirely upon merciless teasing, bitter sarcasm, and car talk. Ahhh. Y’know, it’s hard to find friends like that. He got the chicken wrap and I got the half-pound wad of cow on a bun and we discussed the usual variety of topics: job search (he’s still looking), car shopping (with their third on the way, they’re shopping for a minivan so they’ll be JUST LIKE US—BWAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!), my Oldest (delusions of persecution so strong they make your everyday Arab seem like Pollyanna), his Oldest (pooping on a schedule now, though only through the judicious use of a time clock and whistle mechanism and chemically-doctored juice every other morning), stupid people, things I don’t quite like about our van (no auto door lock, the hatch unlocks with all the other doors, the transmission downshifts right when you’ve set up a nice four-wheel drift through a curve), mortgages, siblings, our burnt-out hippy Mutual Friend Mike, and then it was time for the reason for the whole get-together, the heartwarming ritual swapping of magazines—he got six AutoWeeks, one Automobile, one Hot Rod, one Popular Hot Rodding, one High Performance Pontiacs, one Mustangs and High Performance Fords, and the July issue of Hemmings. I got a Car and Driver. AND, stuff to blog about, so I call it even. Wow. Fourteen years. Still hard to believe.
Whee.
Funny, but the normal gaggle of pervgooglers I get here ask the exact opposite of the question-- does ann curry of today show cross her legs . I'm not sure, but when I have lunch with her, I'll ask. And an encouraging sign that members of Pacific Island cargo cults are becoming much more advanced-- FRUM EVENING GOWNS.
New Digs for the Bureau
GSA inks contract to build FBI office Efforts to revitalize downtown Birmingham got a boost Wednesday when a federal agency said it had signed a $34.4 million contract for construction of a new FBI headquarters near the convention complex.Well, that's pretty good. This project has been bouncing around downtown for years now--I've even done some sketches for it. The problem has always been trying to find enough open space to satisfy the requirements for a great big building and parking deck along with the wide security perimeter of open space around the building--stuff that usually makes moving out to the 'burbs attractive for high-value targets like the FBI, or the Federal Reserve Bank, which moved out to Liberty Park. Downtowns are more interesting when the buildings are able to address the street and offer some interest to passers-by, and hopefully some effort will be made to do that on the chosen site. One thing going for it is that it's more off the normal pedestrian pathways, so if it doesn't have rows of twee shops and cafes, it won't be quite so bad as it would have been on the site closer to Kelly Ingram Park, which IS intensively used, both by everyday folks and by tourists visiting the Civil Rights District. This is a link to a MapQuest photo of the site (Ack! Stupid MapQuest is about like Stupid Blogger--you may have to go to the zoom button and go to the highest magnification if it shows up as a photo of the entire downtown area.) Probably the most interesting nearby feature to the site is Oak Hill Cemetery (the green area at the top of the photo), which was Birmingham's first large burial place. Most of the early founding fathers and local dignitaries are buried there, along with Louise Wooster. Miss Wooster was an interesting person--if any of you have a local library that does inter-library loans, you might be interested in her autobiography.
Witness intimidation, obstruction of justice, perjury claimed in filings VAL WALTONJust allegations, folks, just a bunch of made-up nonsense by mean people out to get the slick-haired founder of HealthSouth--nothing to see here, just move along.
Man, How I Hate My Friend Jeff
As you know, he and I are supposed to have lunch today. I had gotten the kids to daycare and was all the way to the interstate entrance when I remembered that I had left all of the magazines I was bringing him on top of the radio in the bedroom at the house. Grr. Stupid Jeff. I couldn't show up without magazines--even though he only brings one or two, and I bring an entire giant stack, if I left them at home he would berate me and act like a tiny whiney little girl about it, so I had to TURN AROUND and go ALL THE WAY BACK to the house to get them. Made me 10 minutes late for work. Boy, I just can't stand him! Wednesday, July 23, 2003
He Angles for the FOX6 Schwag...
SUCCESS!! I have now managed to break into the fast-paced world of collecting local television promotional items--Miss Nikki comes through with promises of great treasures after having so callously gone and had major oral surgery in order to not have lunch with me yesterday!! On a serious note, Nikki's mouth really is hurting and she told me she probably will have to be on air during the 10 o'clock newscast. It's difficult enough to have to get up and talk on camera, but quite another to have to put up with excrutiating dental pain at the same time. SO, my personal wishes to Nikki for a speedy recovery and for being a such a good sport about my teasing. (And we have plenty of time to set up a meeting to talk about my newest teevee show project, "Possums Gone Wild".)
Speaking of Ritualized Blood Letting...
The trip to Ridge Park was the usual sort of fun. "Have you ever..." No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,no,nononono, nonononono. "Do you suffer from..." No, no, no, no, no, no. "Have you ever exchanged..." NO, no, no, no, once when I was a small boy in Marseilles, no, no, no, no. Finger stick, pulse, blood pressure, waddle onto nice cushy chair, Betadine, Betadine, Betadine, hurtful Indian Rub with latex tourneq--, turni--, terni-- rubber band, pressure, gleaming large bore (the needle, not me), squeeze ball, The Young and the Flippin' Restless on the teevee, some chick in the chair beside me who loudly made calls to her boss at Penney's to say that she was right in the middle of giving blood? and might be, like, a couple of minutes? or, like, an hour late, you know? and like, she had to talk at full scream to her boyfriend who was standing there beside her looking like a real moron, see that the pheresis patients across the way were getting to watch Cast Away and didn't have a single blabbermouth anywhere around, quit squeezing, breathe sigh of relief when Blabbergrrl left, yank needle, hold gauze and give the fascist salute, clean Betadine, clamber out of the chair, rebutton shirt sleeves, go to canteen to look for fig Newtons AND THERE AIN'T NO DERNED FIG NEWTONS!! Grr. If I had the strength, I would have gone all Hulk on them, but I satisfied myself with some nice crackers with sour cream and chive filling. (Two packs, dadgummit.) Walk out and that stinking girl is STILL there, having her snack with her dimwit at the front desk and loudly chiming in whenever anybody said anything. You know, same old same old.
The Ticket Window Is Open!
Possumblog’s Travel Club often gets odd requests for fun and relaxing holidays. Just a while ago, a nice visitor from AOL came in wanting to know all about visit scary asylums of florida. Yes, traveling to frightening Florida funny farms is a wonderful way to spend your free time, and we offer the following as examples you may wish to visit—there’s this one down at the southern tip of the peninsula, and then there’s this one with a Native American theme, but possibly the nastiest, most vile place is this festering mess. (Football season starts in only 38 days!! WOO-HOO!)
For all of you who hated stupid, STUPID Blogger...
...and decided to switch over to something more reliable, like say, BlogStudio--Nate McCord sends the following cry: It's been slow to impossible to load and isn't taking a couple changes I tried to implement. Ya might pass it on if you get a minute.Blogger--It's Not So Crappy NOW, Is It!?
So…
The morning’s meeting today was unusually raucous, which is okay I suppose, although it does make it hard to take notes. We managed to make everyone all ill and cross and meanly-disposed, so I suppose it is no small irony that I will be going up to the Red Cross at lunch to give blood. Mmm. Fig newtons. Anywho, last night’s festivities pretty much matched up with predictions—got across town to the Flying J truck stop over on Daniel Payne for a sip of sweet, sweet distilled petroleum. You know, truck stops are very interesting places. Then it was on to pick up Oldest, who promptly fell asleep the moment we cleared the driveway. Back across the county to the soccer park, swapped Oldest for Middle, participated in a public display of affection with Miss Reba through the open driver’s window of her vehicle, which brought squeals of protestation from the back seats, then waved them all good bye. Went and checked on Rebecca, who was out on the field warming up, told her I was going to go get a snack and would be back shortly. Of course, I had to visit the strangely compelling Country Convenience store (the log cabin-looking one with the gas station and restaurant and pool supply and convenience stores). Decided I needed a bit more oomph than pistachios, so I got myself a can of Armour Smoked Vienna Sausages and a bag of chips. Now, I know some of you may be horrified by my seemingly pedestrian choice of comestibles, but darn it all, Vienna sausages have a proud and noble heritage. First produced in Salzburg, not Vienna, they were manufactured as filling and nutritious snacks for soldiers in the Austro-Hungarian army. Their size is meant to replicate the case diameter of the common 11mm Werndl cartridge so that they could easily be carried on the march in bandoliers or clips. Later they were packaged in cans similar in size to stick grenades, again to better conform to military equipment requirements. After the fall of the Empire, soldiers continued to crave the rich, meaty goodness common to mechanically separated chicken, beef by-products, pork remainders, and nitrites, and an industry was born. Not really. It’s just ground up animals and flavoring. But yummy nonetheless. Got my vittles and went back to the park and sat in the van a bit, then walked on down to the field. Again, with all the rain threatening, there were only a few of her team there, but they practiced anyway. And then, terrible pain and woe when her coach accidentally came down on her toes with his cleats. Much tears and barely restrained sobbing—I hugged her (and let me tell you, little girls can get very dirty and sweaty and generally nasty) and we sat on the bench for a while to make the pain go away. Which it didn’t. Her team started a scrimmage with another group, and even when it seemed that it should be long past time for her toes to begin feeling normal again, she was still sniffling. So, being a good father, I did what I could to ease her misery. As you all know, loud public flatulence is an incredible balm to take away the hurt and pain of minor physical ailments among children, so I played her a gentle tune. Her stuck-out lip quivered and then quickly drew in, and a giggle leapt out. “Daaa-uuuh-deeeeeee...” “What?” “You’re SUPPOSED to say ‘excuse me’.” “FER WHAT!?” “Youuuu know…” “That wasn’t me, that was you!” More giggles and denials, but still not ambulatory, so I continued with a lovely sonata in G minor, and after a while she was recovered. There is still the issue of the burnt shrubbery over behind the fence that I still have to take care of, but at least she’s walking again. Home finally, nice bowl of soup, kids to bed, and then more resume tweaking for Reba. She went on TWO interviews yesterday morning, so hopefully she’ll find a better situation soon. AND NOW? Well, it’s time to head up the hill to the Red Cross and unload some nitrites. See you in a bit.
Adventures in Headline Writing!
I saw this one and knew something was amiss--Dole Awarded Medal of Honor at Dedication Bob Dole Awarded Medal of Honor on 80th Birthday at Dedication of Dole Institute LAWRENCE, Kan. (AP) -- For his 80th birthday Tuesday, Bob Dole got a U.S. senator and Medal of Honor recipient to sing to him — and received a political institute bearing his name."Happy Birthday" is nice, but it's not quite a Medal of Honor.
Paved with Good Intentions Department
A commentary in the Birmingham News this morning about the recent decision by Shelby County Planning Commission (the one south of Jefferson County): [...] Too many communities and shopping areas in the state's fastest-growing county don't include sidewalks. That's an issue for residents who would like to walk or jog for their health, and it contributes to the awful traffic congestion that knots up Shelby County's busiest areas, particularly U.S. 280. With public transit lacking, and no sidewalks, what choice do people have except to crank up their SUVs, minivans and sedans even if they just need to go a hop-skip down the street for a jug of milk?In and of themselves, sidewalks are great things, and I can't think of an instance in which they detract from property values. It is good to be able to safely walk to places within walking distance. However, speaking as someone who lives in a neighborhood with nice sidewalks on BOTH sides of the street, someone probably needs to tell people that those nice concrete ribbons can actually be USED. We have tons of joggers, and skaters, and moms pushing carriages, and people walking dogs--seems like every other stinkin' person in the neighborhood--and NO ONE will stay on the DADBURNED SIDEWALK!! And no one even follows the old safety rule about walking facing traffic--they just wander around like they're recovering from inner ear surgery. You know, you TRY to make people understand--a little nudge with the front bumper here, a couple of tire squeals there, and they just look at you like you're crazy.
Notable Quotes! “I’m a person who hasn’t had a relationship in a very long time and hasn’t had sex for over a year so I find my personal life really boring.”Well, I suppose anything short of ritualized blood-letting would seem a bit tame. In any event, I believe it was Georg Hegel who said it best--“Don’t date crazy chicks.” “This isn’t a movie about horses. This is a movie about people.”And Mr. Ed was a TV show about an architect.
Hello...Calling Tasmania...Tasmania...Do you read me?
A quick shout-out to long-time reader Simon Roberts, Famous Tasmanian, who left a comment yesterday about receiving only 1/4 of his paid subscription to the cellulose version of City Journal--I sent a note to Brian Anderson (who is not the person to complain to, but whom I e-mailed anyway) about your problem and he promised if you will e-mail him your postal address, he will personally send you your missing issues. The Ombudsman Staff of Possumblog stand ready to assist each of you in similar endeavors, although it much prefers assignments such as helping retrieve lingerie models who have become stuck in trees, or helping you spend excess money. Tuesday, July 22, 2003
HEY! How'd it get so late?!
Oh. Well, time to head for the house. By way of the gas station because I'm about out of gas again, and by way of Ashley's other grandparent's house across on the western side of the county (she spent the last two days with them), then by way of the soccer park, because Middle Girl's team is practicing again. I figure I'll actually be home home sometime after 8. And then I get to come in early tomorrow for one of our regular regulator meetings that are always so fun and subsequently take up valuable blogging time later in the day as I pound out a set of minutes. WHICH MEANS, the possum leavings will be dreadfully shy on the morrow. I know you will all make it just fine, though, because the entire Axis of Weevil is standing by waiting on your call! See you later Wednesday.
CITY JOURNAL!!
Just received an e-mail from Brian Anderson, Senior Editor of City Journal to let me and all of you devotees of "school financing, policing strategy, and welfare policy to urban architecture, family policy, and the latest theorizing emanating from the law schools, the charitable foundations, even the schools of public health," that the newest edition is now online, with a range of articles such as "Straight Talk on Homeland Security" by Heather Mac Donald, "Israel Without Apology" by Sol Stern, and "Conservative Compassion Vs. Liberal Pity" by Michael Knox Beran. Go and have yourself a read--I promised Brian that all three of you would, so please don't make a liar out of me.
D'you remember...
a few weeks back when I told you about the guy I work with (June 9, if the old Blogger link won't work) who pops in all the time with inane stuff and who won't go away? Well, sorry to remind you. Anyway, he also has another bad habit. A few moments ago I walked into the men's room, only to find said co-worker having just finished speaking to a man about a dog. He turned from the urinal toward the open window (left wide open by the OTHER nutjob on the floor who feels compelled to open it up every time he enters the restroom and leave it there--same guy that brought collards to the Christmas party), and dropped his trousers to his ankles and proceeded to carefully smooth down the front and back of his shirt across the pimply, pasty expanse of his thighs and tighty-whitey clad loins. A few thoughts: 1) Please close the window before you do that. 2) Your shirt was fine. 3) You don't have to drop trou like a six year old to fix your shirt, EVEN IF YOUR SHIRT IS KINDA WRINKLED! 4) Hey, the window is OPEN! 5) Although fashionable in some quarters, most men do not wish to walk in upon another man in the process of removing his trousers. Especially in a public lavatory. 6) Civil service jobs call for candidates to be highly skilled professionals. Or psychopaths. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. But, dropping your pants is probably a pretty good indicator of something other than technical competence. 7) May I remind you that you are standing in front of an open window? Yes, I know we're up on fifth, and the Alabama Power Company building is an entire block away, but still... 8) No, I really don't want to chat with you at the moment. 9) Please don't hang around to chat while I am cowering in the stall. Thanks. I feel better now.
Just got one of those handy CNN Breaking News e-mails---- U.S.commander: Saddam's sons Qusay and Uday confirmed dead in raid on Mosul house.
I wonder how long it will be before a tape recording of them turns up urging the faithful to make jihad.
Boy Update!
Miss Janis (herself still recovering from getting all cut up), just said she needed an update on Jonathan's condition. As you all remember, he took lame a few weeks ago after a terrible skating accident at the local rink, which caused him to receive much petting and attention from various girls. Well, he's bouncing around like a rubber ball again. He hopped around for several days, and apparently got tired of having to hop everywhere. He slowly started easing around on his sore ankle, and after a couple of days of hobbling was walking normally. He still has a bit of a hitch when he runs, but that doesn't stop him from running. He and the rest of the kids were supposed to go skating again today, "Bud, are you going to try to skate today?" Short pause--"Uhm, I'm not sure." So I told him to be SURE he laced his skates up tight if he did, so he wouldn't hurt himself again. "Okay, Dad!" Little pine knot. He brushed his teeth and then we all went downstairs, had a bowl of cereal, watched the hummingbirds eat their breakfast, and kept an eye on "I Love Lucy" on the TV.
Y’all pack yer bags—we fixin’ to go on us a GUILT TRIP!!
Oh, I’m sure there must be a good explanation—earthquake, typhoon, sudden aversion to marsupials. No one would ever just simply forget about lunch. With ME! As I sat there self-consciously with two menus and two sets of silverware on the table in front of me, I began softly sobbing on my sleeve, wondering why I even bothered to get a haircut. Oh, I knew it couldn’t have been anything personal—such a personable and fun-loving local television reporter must be off covering IMPORTANT stuff. (Or…maybe she knows about the incident in 1976 in Keokuk….no, it can’t be!) Or, maybe it was just a stack lies!! Each one, a tiny thin layer like philo, until I was crushed by giant baklava of deceit!! I suppose maybe she just forgot. Forgot me like a used ta… [At this point, the Editorial Staff wish to remind The Readership that the Editor-in-Chief has occasional lapses of sanity, although it must be said that it is usually unnecessary to point out such occurrences. In this instance, however, the Editor-in-Chief is not suffering from his normal abnormality, but is merely attempting in his odd, tongue-in-cheek way to play his grift upon the lovely Miss Preede. We believe (given the notes we have seen on his desk) that he is more than likely trying to induce her to provide him with Channel 6 coffee mugs and/or golf shirts, in addition to trying to angle a lunch on Fox’s dime, possibly a ride in a mobile news satellite truck, and as best we can tell, gain a meeting with the production staff to pitch his television show project, “The Amazing Mr. Possum and His Blog”. As always, we apologize for this silly, shallow, and shameless display. Ed. St.] …ou cut me, DO I NOT SQUEAL, and hiss, and fall over and play dead?! OF COURSE… [Well, he’s still going at it. Perhaps we underestimated his tenacity. Which is why we usually keep him locked in his office. In the interest of space, the 3,209 words which followed the above have been excised. Ed. St.] ...A passerby asked me why I seemed so distraught—I told him the whole pitiful tale, and he said, kindness brimming in his eyes, that maybe if I had a nice coffee mug, or golf shirt with the colorful Fox 6 logo professionally emblazoned upon it—maybe that would make me feel better. “Or, maybe I could ride around in one of those big trucks with the dish on top?” He patted my hand and nodded, “Yes, even something like that might make you forget your sadness.” Raindrops fell from the edge of the dirty canvas awning, “Or, maybe…no. NO! Such a thing is too much even to contemplate.” “What young fellow,” he said, “whatever do you think could lift your waxen heart from the depths of despair?” “Well, you see, I have this idea for a television show—there’s, like, a camera guy following me around, and I have on this… [Obviously, this little confidence scheme has gone on far too long. We express our extreme regret for The Editor-in-Chief’s behavior, and while we detest having to ‘get out the moose’, we believe such a course has been thrust upon us. We would like to invite Miss Preede to have lunch with any of the other staff members, especially Chet the E-Mail Boy, who keeps her photograph right beside his telegraph key. And Chet needs to eat more than does our Editor. Ed. St.]
Electragleiten im Blau--German police to test Harley motorcycles FRANKFURT, Germany (AP) -- Police officers on heavy BMW motorbikes are a familiar sight on German streets, but Hamburg police on Tuesday began giving U.S.-made Harley-Davidsons a try instead.Hmm. Hard to believe they would ever make much headway against the spinning propeller boys, but maybe so. Harley's are much better screwed together nowadays than they were back in the AMF days, so good luck to them. (The big shame is that the Germans will probably put those annoying EEEiiiiiEEEEiiiiEEEEiiii sireens on theirs. It's just not right without a real one.) Anyway, here's you a link to the 2003 Electra Glide, and a dealer page for the R 1150 RT-P.
Well, gee, Peg Britton could have told them THAT!--Kansas Really Is Flat as a Pancake WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Kansas really is flatter than a pancake, U.S. geographers reported on Monday.Even more odd than the story itself is the fact that it carries a Reuters dateline, yet nowhere in it are the words Kansas, pancake, or flatter surrounded by quote marks.
On Soldiering, and Soldiering On.
Larry Anderson's take on Iraq: [...] The men and women in the Middle East are frontline soldiers in a conflict that has been going on since the end of the cold war and probably before then. I have pretty much quit reading the pundits who talk about Vietnam. Now I am deleting those who write about the "guerrilla" war that has now started in Iraq. Of course it is a guerrilla war. The Baathists and Islamic terrorists do not have an army with which to fight a conventional war. Low intensity conflict is all they have available. The problem with the Vietnam analogy is the US military destroyed the Viet Cong during Tet, 1968. Post Tet, the opposing force in Vietnam was primarily the North Vietnam Army, not the Viet Cong and the US forces soundly defeated the NVA each time they met. The war in VN was lost at the political level, not on the battlefield, and worse for those who expect American defeat in Iraq, I know of no one who believes the US Army during Vietnam was remotely as effective as the Army of today.Well, we might find them like that, but that doesn't make for good copy, now does it? Who wants to read about people trying to put their lives back together after living a thirty-year-long nightmare? Who wants to see pictures of mass graves? It's much better to play to the sensibilities of people who would rather believe Saddam spent twelve years only pretending to be hiding something. It might be worth remembering something the President said about Iraq: Earlier today, I ordered America's armed forces to strike military and security targets in Iraq. They are joined by British forces. Their mission is to attack Iraq's nuclear, chemical and biological weapons programs and its military capacity to threaten its neighbors.These excerpts were part of a speech given by the President on December 18, 1998. Funny, but I don't seem to recall the host of Democrats now braying about being 'misled' in our 'rush to war' saying too much back then. UPDATE: Dr. Joyner's take on the subject from last evening.
Adventures in Headline Writing: Man moons jury, found guilty of battery
He was found guilty of aggravated battery on two women, not for mooning the jury. (Jury duty--When you really get down and think about it, where else could you get paid 10 bucks a day and be rewarded with such fine entertainment?)
A Democrat with No Doubts
A story by Varion Walters with the Huntsville NBC affiliate WAFF about the recent visit by Bud Cramer (D, AL 5th District) to Baghdad: [...] Cramer's trip to the region helped him to develop his own theory of why we haven't found the smoking gun. "I think what I've learned is that we are looking for a warehouse full of items with WMD labeled on them, that's not what we're going find. This government was a master at hiding documents, at hiding from inspectors it's activities, using scientist scattering scientists, creating a reign of terror around them and their families, we haven't broken through that yet."Silly man--don't you know it was only about oil? Monday, July 21, 2003
You know…
The worst thing about your kids waking up at the crack of dawn Saturday and running around the house creating so much general mayhem that you get up out of your nice warm snug bed and traipse around the house telling them to hush, is when it’s not really happening except in your dream, and you wake yourself up out of an unsound sleep to find that it is just barely dawn, and you are still firmly snugged next to your wife, and the children are still blessedly asleep. But, you’re awake. Luckily for you, however, you are able to go back to sleep and go all the way to 7:30 before the phone rings and your mother-in-law asks if you’re awake so she can tell you the reason why they didn’t come to Vacation Bible School the night before was because of a big wreck on the Interstate, and you find yourself not really caring that much, but rather wishing you had remembered to unplug the telephone, while simultaneously suppressing the need to tell your wife’s mother that the kids were not all broken up and crying about not seeing her and your wife’s father, because the children were deep in the throes of a sugar overload from the special Vacation Bible School ice cream they ate. Ice cream that caused them to flitter around the ceiling of the van all the way home, jabbering at exactly 8,000 words per minute. So, you bide your time and wish mom-in-law a good day and hang up the phone and you turn over to mess with your wife but in the intervening minute or two of telephony, she has gotten up and gone to the bathroom, annnnnd, yep…she’s brushing her hair, which means that she’s not going to get back under the sheet with you to demonstrate a superfluity of naughtiness. ::sigh:: So you wake up and you realize that you must still be dreaming, because the hale, vigorous, manly, robust, muscular young fellow who occupied your body only hours before seems to have deserted you, leaving you muttering and stumbling around like a crazy man. Then you shave and brush your teeth and it’s allllllllll better. So you go downstairs and start doing what needs to be done. First up, feeding the livestock. Had just gotten out the porch door when I heard it creak back open behind me. Standing there in all of her glory, wearing pink beach sandals, Barbie panties, a too small tee shirt and a smile was the Tiny Terror—“I wanna feed the birds with you, Daddy!!” “CAT!!—Get back in there and put on clothes—no one out here wants to see your nekkiditity!” Wicked grin, disappeared into the house, but only after, “Don’t sla-” SLAMMM!! “m…the door.” ::sigh:: Got my bucket and started going around to the feeders and she was back out there in just moments, dressed properly for outdoor viewing and she helped me clean out the old seeds and pour in the new. She REALLY likes that cool scooper with the hole in it. We talked about Kelly the Bunny, Kelly the Crow, Kelly the Woodpecker, going into first grade, and KeeKee the Cat, and got everything filled up and the bucket put away and then it was time to clean the birdbath. Which involved water. Which was also necessary in order to give all the plants a bath, too. And to wash all of the (non-existent) dirt off the bench. And clean the ants. “We gonna water Jonathan’s tomatoes?” Oh yeah. And give ‘em some of that good Miracle-Gro 18-18-21. Lots of arm waving and running about later we had successfully drowned both the ‘mater plants in chemicals and were done for the day outside. No grass cutting for me. We had a ton of laundry to do, and I still had my side of the bedroom to finish cleaning up. Which task was mostly an exercise in moving stuff around some more, and doing a bit of vacuuming. Which managed to take up the entire stinking day. In amongst the clothes folding and dustbunny storms, I also managed to watch Sling Blade all the way through for the first time. I’ve seen bits and pieces of it enough to nearly be able to recite the whole movie, but it was good to get it all in the proper order. Of course, now that I put it in the proper order, I began compulsively repeating bits of dialogue around the house. For some reason, the kids didn’t seem to find anything different about me. Go figure. Also did a bit of job searching for Reba and put her resume out on Monster. At some point during the past few months, work for her has become something akin to being held hostage in a Dilbert cartoon. Odd how working your butt off and trying to do your best will alienate people. It seems she is “too sullen”. That she “doesn’t socialize enough”. That complaining about working in a Kafkaesque hellhole is…well, you get the picture. Time to move on. She’ll do fine. And when she is gone, she will have me to open unto her former place of employ the fiery portals full of all the bitter invective I still know how to stoke. Heh. But no names, just to be nice. Had lunch and supper in there along the way, then it was time to scrub the kids and get them to bed, and then it was very late, and then it was very early again Sunday morning and time to get them all up and in their clothes (“…no, you can’t wear your beach sandals and tee shirt to church”). Got through with class and sat down in the auditorium and Boy crashed onto my lap in about five seconds, then Catherine dropped on Mom about half a second later. All those sleepy waves gave me incredible fits as I tried to stay propped up. I would sit there and one second be patting Boy and the next nearly hitting my head on the pew. I have found that it helps to disguise my napping to occasionally start flipping pages when I hear everyone else do it. Now, if I can just get everyone else around me to loudly snore, flatulate, and mumble, I might be able to escape entirely unnoticed! Time to go, then it was off to Ashley’s other grandparents’ house, which, as usual, is all I’ll say about that, then back for evening worship which I managed to stay awake for in its entirety. Hung around for a bit afterward drawing a sailboat picture for Reba to use as namecards for the kids in her class, then waited for another HOUR as Reba and one of the other girls from church exchanged vital information which I will not call gossip, because I know quite well what’s good for me. Finally dragged Miss Reba into the van, then home for a quick bite, then to bed, then into the breech again when I got here this morning. Nothing but good old-fashioned fuster-cluckery, but enough to be a distraction. Maybe tomorrow will be somewhat more interesting…
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...WILSONVILLE!!
Once again, I must depend upon the kindness of strangers to fill the void of original material here on Possumblog today, so it was with great joy that I received Chet the E-Mail Boy as he rushed (or his version thereof) in here earlier with a letter from one Susanna Cornett, late of Cut on the Bias: Subject: AmabamaNo apologies are necessary, Miss Susanna. Knowing that both places are further south than Connecticut and that both begin with the letter “A” is sure to cause no small amount of confusion for anyone. But anyway.Indeed. Being as how you likely live in the Greater Birmingham Area, I wanted to notify you that my brother and his family will be moving into your General Vicinity in early fall. Specifically, he's taken a job with a church in Wilsonville. Are you Cognizant of this Village? Do you have Information you can share regarding it and its Environs?Ahh, Wilsonville! Like a jewel set amid the Golden Triangle of Columbiana, Chelsea, and Childersburg, this gleaming metropolis upon the banks of the mighty Coosa River is home to more than ONE THOUSAND souls, including Mrs. Vernice Stoudenmire, who has been the library director for 39 years. You may read a capsule history of Wilsonville (produced by the local Methodist church), where you will note that Wilsonville has been around for a good long while. The website will also tell you everything you need to know (except for that Wilsonville is 40 miles to the Riverchase Galleria, and about 50 to my house. There is some Remote Possibility that I myself will relocate to the Wilsonville Area sometime in the next six months, if the advance party finds it Amiable. We shall see.OOOohhh—Susanna gets to join up with the Axis of Weevil!! That would be cool, so let’s all work on our amiability skills, okay?! And I hope your Blahs go away, today, and Acme delivers most Efficacious Skates.Thank you very kindly—I hear a knock upon the door right now...hmmm, hmmmmmhmm. How odd—the postman has such a curiously long neck, and remains strangely silent. Oooohh, goody, my Acme rocket-powered skates…BLAMMMM!! [insert meep-meep sound, fade to black] best,As are we all, random though they may be. IN ANY EVENT, many thanks to Miss Susanna for writing in and seeking our assistance in this exciting time in her life. As with all visitors, I am certain the Possumblog Editorial staff has made it worth her while!
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...MINNESOTA!!
You know, today's installments of information would be awfully thin, were it not for the huge number of Possumblog Stringers, spanning the globe to give you the finest of local news, sharp, insightful commentary, and folksy recipes. Although my backlog of work today is causing me much distress, I knew I could count on a savior to come in and fill in the gaps with much wordage--I had just come back from my morning staff meeting to find one such missive from our Gopher State reporter, Toni Albani: Ole & Lena jokes are real big here in 'sota. Things are so dismal in the news, I think a little humor is in order. Remember, this is the humor of Norwegians!Conquerors of Northern Europe with the edge of the sword and with rapier wit. Subject: LENA & HELGAMs. Albani will be appearing all week at the Edina "Chuckles ;)" location on the By-Pass, with two shows on Saturday night. One of the towns on the lake where my family spent the summer (and where my parents have resided for the last 20yrs) is Starbuck. It's an old Norwegian town where people still speak Norsky and have that "Fargo" accent. They have a big statue of a "Buck" at the main crossroad and have the distinction of having created the world's largest lefse.AND their very own Hobo Park! Anyway, as Toni knows, Possumblog is nothing without large amounts of salt, fat, sugar and starch (the four basic Southern food groups), and lo and behold, the magical Lefse has ALL of those things! It's the PERFECT FOOD!! SO then, here is Corrine Hoium's Lefse Recipe from the website: Ingredients:HOW MANY LEFSE ROUNDS PER BATCH!? This information was strangely missing from the website, but my guess is that is would make about 10,000 lefse rounds. (That may not be right--I'm bad with numbers.) Toni continues (in the process giving Chet the E-Mail Boy a flare up of his rheumatism): There's also flatbread which is a local favorite. My Mom still makes the stuff, it's kind of along the lines of eating soynuts. Filling, but tastes like you are eating sawdust. Supposed to be a good thing for you to eat and low in cal's.MMmmm! Just like sawdust!! Nothing like a big handful along with some metal shavings to take the edge off of the hungries! Lefse is also low in cal's but everyone slathers butter and/or sugar on it which defeats that purpose.Well, yeah...and your point is? Mom still makes lefse around the holidays. Talk about cultural diversity, we always had lefse and lutifisk for Christmas eve dinner and ravioli for Christmas day dinner at our house.Cultural diversity, sheer insanity...whatever. Just as long as no one tried lutefisk ravioli, I guess it's okay. Or lutefisk marinara. Or spaghetti and lefse balls. I feel queasy. Once my grandfather died, so did the lutifiskHmm. Musta been one of them weird symbiotic host/parasite relationships you see on the Discovery Channel... - which was a good thing. That stuff really stinks!One assumes we're speaking of the lye-encrusted fish, not Gramps. Lefse is ok but I'm not a major fan so I won't be carrying on the tradition. My brothers are now the makers of the ravioli for Christmas so that tradition won't die out yet. We'll see what happens with the next generation.Oh, you know how these kids today are--they'll probably get all high-falutin' and have stuff like ham and turkey with peas and mashed potatoes and gravy and dressing and cranberry sauce... ANYWHO, thanks so much for this timely update, Toni! We always appreciate receiving updates from the vast snowy northlands. UPDATE:--Toni just sent in this link to her favorite purveyor of storebought lutefisk, herring, and lefse! Hmmm--I wonder if there is a market for cornbread-battered, deep-fried lutefisk on a stick...
Blah.
You ever had one of those weekends where when it's all over with you feel like Tom after Jerry has run over him with a big steamroller and he's flat as a piece of paper? And then, you come into work and it's like you are Wile E. Coyote (Genius) and the cool Acme rocket sled you built to catch the Roadrunner just sputters and fizzles, until you go to the back to see what's wrong and then it FOOMS into you face? Blah. Much bilgewater to pump today, so the normal level of silliness will be low until later, when I am expecting a brand new pair of rocket-powered skates from Acme. Those will work much, much better, I'm sure. In the mean time, be sure to go visit everyone else up on the blogroll and see what all they're doing today! Oh, and before I go, to the nice person who fell through the cellar door into the mess that is Possumblog by Googling for righteous babes with chainsaws--we regret to inform you that the Possumblog Supermodel Choir and Tree Trimming Service is currently running a two week backlog of work. They are still cleaning up from the last storm, and they have a big revival Thursday. This is always a busy time of year, so please contact Jeanelle to get on the waiting list. Friday, July 18, 2003
And that sound is?
Probably my head hitting the keyboard as I am unexpectedly overcome by a frightful nap-taking disease. All of a sudden, just so darned sleepy that I fear I will have to go lie down on the piece of plywood under my drafting table. Could be the VBS disease. Thankfully, tonight’s the last night. It’s fun for the kids, but it nearly wears me out—getting home at nearly ten every night this week will do that. And the kids are feeling it, too. Oh, they’re all wound up when they’re there, but they hit the bed like a hodful of bricks and it’s been nearly impossible to get them up every morning. Yesterday morning I grabbed Catherine and started scootching her off of her bed and it was like pulling taffy. Got her to the edge and she just smooshed down into the floor in a big puddle, still sound asleep. Getting her dressed is even more fun—she (usually) has enough consciousness to pick her butt up off the bed so I can get her pants on, but the whole arm-through-the-armhole thing eludes her when she’s catatonic. It’s like trying to dress a dead giraffe. Then it’s hair-brushing time, at which time she becomes fully enraged and awake. She has a head full of curly, thickly-grown (yet exceedingly fine) waist-length hair that is untangled exactly five minutes per week. The rest of the time it ties itself into knots. And causes her to yowl like a banshee until it’s subdued with a ponytail holder. The one with the flower. NO, the yellow one. NOT that one, the one with stripes. NO, that was yesterday’s. ::sigh:: Then it’s time for tooth brushing and Yowling, The Second Part as she decides she wants to go back to bed. Only a few weeks ago, I used to be able to bribe her with the promise of a Toothbrush Story, those being a variety of semi-lunatic tales revolving around the good dental hygiene of an assortment of characters. I sorta like doing these, and I thought she did too, but her distemper has put that aside for now. “You want a Toothbrush Story, Cat?” “NO! I wanna go to BEDDDDDdddddaaaaaAAAAHHHHH!!!” “We could tell the one about Edgar the Blandly Named Wombat and His Unexpected Bout of Dental Caries…” Head shake no. “Kelly the Bunny Gets Flossed?” No. “KeeKee the Cat Bites Off More Than She Can Hack Up on the Carpet?” “Why do you say those silly things like that, Daddy! I wanna go BED! And why are you sitting there on the potty with th’lid up and your clothes on?” ::sigh:: “Brush!” Tears, toothpaste, water, scowl, spit. “Okay now. You want to go downstairs and see the hummingbirds?” That always gets her. Thankfully, the others don’t require quite so much tending to. Yes, I know. “One day you’ll wish you had them to fuss over.” I know, I know. I just hope they decide to sleep late tomorrow. See you all Monday!
You know what we haven’t done in a while?
I mean besides that. We haven’t had a selection from my Christmas present, Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book! (One reason is that we are just about to run out of the more interesting passages and getting into the dry stuff like commonly misspelled words and the like.) In any event, Messrs. Nisbet and Lemon and their editor Dr. Baldwin today consider: 8. CONSIDERATION QUALIFYING BREVITY.The referenced work of Milton is the poem "Light", and the story of the death of Absalom and the lamentation of David is found in II Samuel 18.
Sometimes it pays to be off-handedly impertinent…
Oh, it all started innocently enough—I’m watching the local TV news one night, the FBI comes to search HealthSouth, a curvy blonde local reporter is on the scene, I blog about it the next day (just happening to mention the name of said reporter and comment on her comely physical appearance), one of her friends finds the entry and thinks it’s funny and sends her the link, the reporter visits Possumblog, and I get a e-mail! ::blush:: Yikes—people actually READ this crap! Anyway, as is my way, I got Chet the E-Mail Boy hopping about with a response and over the course of the past months finally managed to weasel a LUNCH INVITATION out of her!! Now, before any of you out there start thinking naughty stuff and tsk-tsking and getting all huffy—read back over all of the stuff on Possumblog and you will certainly realize that Miss Reba is in no danger of having her husband conduct himself as anything other than a complete gentleman. My system of beliefs tells me it’s wrong to even consider such a thing, much less act on it. Another portion of my system of beliefs tells me that the last thing I want to do is wake up dead in a large, sticky pool of blood with Miss Reba racking another shell into the chamber of the Mossberg. As it is, I look forward to my upcoming luncheon much in the way I do with My Friend Jeff™ (with whom I will be dining next Thursday), or with fellow Axis of Weevil member Larry Anderson (who is penciled in for the 31st)—it’s just a great way to chat with a friend about a wide variety of topics. Although, in all fairness I think I must confess that neither Larry nor My Friend Jeff™ would look the least bit fetching in a black leather bustier. (Sorry, guys.) There IS one odd thing that always trips me up, though, whenever I meet someone I only know through pixels—you think you know everything about someone, and then you figure out, ‘Hey, this is a perfect stranger!’ What do you talk about? You know, being a news junkie and all, there’s all that local news shop-talk I want to yammer about—who the best reporters are, who are the most pretentious jerks, why can’t the story caption folks spell anything right—all the stuff she would probably like nothing better than to forget for a few minutes. And then there’s the fact that in person, I am not nearly the sparkling conversationalist I appear to be in print. I grunt and roll my eyes, I knock things over, I have spinach on my chin. You just never know how such things will turn out. But, I figured I would keep my fingers crossed, and hope against hope that I wouldn’t make a complete ass of myself in front of a local television personality, who would then feel compelled to do a terrible story about me and what a twit I was and how I only graduated from the sixth grade and how I smelled like bug poison and that I was wanted in several states and…and then the phone rang. “Hey, this is Nikki!” Seems she got called in to work early today, so our repast had to be rescheduled for Tuesday. ::sigh:: And then we jabbered for another hour as if we’d known each other forever. Talked about her upcoming nuptialization, the fact that she has just moved out close to where I grew up, David Neal’s new play-toy (and no, I don’t think I have EVER seen a weatherman more…aroused…by a piece of equipment), parents, babies, kids, Pomeranians, mentally ill Pomeranians, teeth, more teevee. What a sweet person! So, lunch looks like it will be right interesting.
Farm Report, International
Due to the intense interest in the topic, as witnessed by the amount of comments the Staff has received here at the Possumbarn, we take a moment to ask our far-flung network of gardeners across the globe to let us know how THEIR produce is producing. Specifically, your 'maters. As mentioned, Boy's are making lovely vines, sugarmama (who is back from New York CITY!, by the way) is using hers to feed tail-less rats, and those of various Vidalians are small and rough looking. And now, how are yours? Tomatoes, that is.
YEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAWWWWWWW!!
Adding to an impressive string of wins and high finishes in the Outside the Beltway Caption Contests, The Possumblog Cheerios Citgo Nextel Team has done it again with a win in the latest contest. Said Oglesby, "We was running good up high through the turns and that caution on lap 132 really helped us out--we were able to get four fresh tires instead of two, and to dial in a bit more wedge." Asked about a possible equipment violation purported to have been found during the post-contest inspection, Oglesby said he was "certain that my crew chief did everything right, cause he knows how important it is for the team and our sponsors not to lose any points this late in the season." Oglesby's crew chief, Jim Ned Buttram of Hueytown, Alabama, predicted that the supposed violation, which is reported to have something to do with the driveshaft-to-drive pinion angle, will be cleared by the tech inspectors later in the afternoon. Other teams have complained loudly that the Possumblog team has benefitted from rules that give it an aerodynamic advantage over competitors, such as being granted an exception to use a quarter-inch higher rear spoiler and a slightly smaller radiator opening. Oglesby attributes this to "just racing talk. Folks have to understand the disadvantage I'm working with from a cranial-capacitywise point of view." The next Outside the Beltway Caption Contest will be held at the North Carolina Speedway in Rockingham, North Carolina.
You know,
I dearly love for people to drop in and ask questions, but this whole Internet deal seems to have ruined some folks. Just got a visitor who was searching for trussville radio shack business hours Not to put too fine a point on it, but there is a marvelous thing called a telephone. Ann, who answered the telephone, just told me that the hours are 9 a.m to 8 p.m., Monday through Saturday, and 12 noon to 5 p.m. on Sunday. OH NO! I'VE BECOME AN INTERNET ENABLER! Forget what I just wrote--just go use the phone!
Adventures in Headline Writing--Fleischer, Letterman duke it out on CBS
I stayed up and watched this show. A slugfest, it wasn't. As always with political folks, Letterman was cordial. He did press Fleischer for details on why the statement about British intelligence wound up in the State of the Union, and Fleischer answered in the mode of a just-barely-former White House spokesman, and his response about the need to remove Saddam from power brought a round of applause from the audience. The quips about pronouncing "nuclear" where clearly in jest, and Fleischer handled them with good humor. (And for those of you who think pronouncing it "nucular" confirms all your worst thoughts about Bush, just remember that there was a President who, even though he was a nuclear engineer, pronounced it "nukier".) As for Helen Thomas, Fleischer was nicer than some folks. In all, it was a nice, plain, sorta softball interview with the guy. Fleischer did seem to have installed some sort of Joe Biden grin reflex, however. One second his smile was nearly as taut as the Jack Nicholson playing the Joker--the next second, he was the very picture of stony-faced probity. Reba's only comment was that she would rather have watched George Stephanopoulos.
Morning Farm Report
The tomato crop is coming along slowly--the two vines of Big Boys have produced abundant leaves and blossoms, only to come forth with six fruit between them. Yet, they have provided endless hours of fascinating conversation with their grower, Boy: "Your tomatoes are looking good, Buddy--what do you do to them to make them so pretty?" "Ummm....well, you put dirt on them." Incredible! (And a telling insight into what would happen were we to have a pet.) As it is, every morning Farmer Dad walks out to survey them, seeing that they are lovingly tended, fertilized, watered, parasite free, gently rearranged so that their smelly vines are just so on the cage. Maybe all the attention makes them shy. In his other crop, pears, the tree has done very well this year with about 17 fruits. The two we got off of it last year were the best pears I've ever eaten, so I'm looking forward to these. The grass is looking beautiful and green, although it's common nutgrass instead of Tifton Bermuda. Oh well, it grows, it's green. And finally, the livestock seem to be getting along just fine. We just started on our second 25 pound bag of bird seed, and the squirrels are still stymied by these new-fangled feeders. Kelly the Bunny has not been seen lately, though, and it is feared that she may have succumbed to the forces of nature. AND the hummingbirds are now back. I had put out two different bottles of juice for them--which they studiously avoided. Could have something to do with the fact that it had turned into a rather good grade of prison hooch. Just a tip--sugar water does not keep indefinitely, especially if you've had it in a refrigerator that's not working right. Anyway, since we haven't had time to go to the store this week, I whipped up a batch using turbinado sugar, and within a day, there were four or five fighting to belly up the bar. It's good stuff--I tasted of it before I hung the bottle up, and I promise to not let it go bad this time. Hummingbirds are mean little drunks, you know. In other farm news, after 53 straight hours of blogsurfing, reader and Possumblog minion Jim Calloway decided maybe he should do something else. AND, in the continuing saga of the mighty, mighty Dennis Washburn (may he rest in peace), former Birminghamhock (and current dweller of East Carolina) Jim Smith asks the following: I do not really think I am right about this but was Dennis Washburn's dog called Precious? I think it was a silly name like that.You know, when I first wrote that story, I ALMOST put down Precious as the name of the Washburn's poodle, but I couldn't quite remember if that was right, and I didn't think to ask My Friend Jeff™, who is a fellow devotee of the white-belted, leisure-suited prose of Mr. Dennis. BUT, now that I have corroborating recollections from another person, I am prepared to say that "Precious" was indeed the dog's name. AND, in grateful appreciation to Mr. Smith for digging this gem out of the deep fissures of his mind, I am fully prepared to swing wide the door of the fabulous Vault of Possumblog Antiquities and Treasures and withdraw for him the following fabulous prizes: a keyring made from a genuine .45ACP cartridge, a mint copy of the June 1968 issue of Argosy magazine, a Chinese checkers game, a coconut carved and decorated to look like a pirate, a welding rod, a 36 count box of plain latex prophylactics, a PEZ dispenser (head missing, but was Popeye), an Italian pay telephone token, and an entire set of keys to various locks. It certainly pays to know your Birmingham trivia! Anyway, work to do now. Thursday, July 17, 2003
Another mass grave found in Northern Iraq BAGHDAD, Iraq (AP) -- In the latest in a series of grisly discoveries, the U.S. military said Thursday it found another mass grave — this one in northern Iraq and thought to contain the bodies of up to 400 Kurdish women and children slain by Saddam Hussein's regime.Just something to ponder, the next time you get your dander up and start wanting to compare certain of your fellow Americans to Nazis.
The Right to Keep and Arm Bears...Airport workers find gun in teddy bear ORLANDO, Fla. (AP) -- Airport security workers found a loaded handgun stuffed inside a brown teddy bear that a 10-year-old boy was carrying on a trip home after his family's Florida vacation, authorities said Thursday.Just a thought, but the next time a person comes to your hotel room and gives you a rather heavy and lumpy teddy bear, it might not be the best idea to accept it. Even if it's free.
And then there's lunch...
Having exhausted the allotment of places close enough for both of us to comfortably walk to (and which have a health department rating higher than a 'C-'), Miss Reba and I went back to Quiznos today and picked up a couple of salads. I also figured I would get a bowl of hot soup since it's a breezy and cool 93 degrees out today. It comes either with crackers--which is a sure-fire, never-fail accompaniment to soup--or, a hockey puck of a polenta muffin. Because I am stupid, I decided to get the polenta puck. Everything that is detestable about unrighteously made cornbread is embodied in this thing--dense, packy, and...and SWEET. And it didn't have crust. I took one bite and almost cried. I wound up eating it by crumbling it up in my soup, (which, of course, ruined a perfectly nice bowl of soup). I'll not be fooled again. Please remember, folks: biscuits and cornbread = no sugar.
New Purported Saddam Tape Urges Holy War
Y'know, I realize there's a bunch of guys in funny-looking helmets wandering all around the country. I realize that if they saw you, they'd probably pot you on sight. But still, is it too much to ask that the next time you feel the urge to yack a bit, that you have one of your people run downtown to a newstand and pick up today's paper, and maybe read a few lines while Ahmed films you on a VIDEOTAPE. Could even be the funnies...wouldn't matter a bit.
MSNWhacked!
It is with no small amount of pride that Possumblog’s place as THE site of choice for the illiterate and disaffected of the world is FURTHER REINFORCED by the fact that it is the only returned search result for: photos of women wiht no clohes on Thank you all for stopping by and visiting. HOWEVER, it is the policy of the Possumblog Editorial Board not to include photographic matter or representations of anything, much less women wiht no clohes on. We understand that our readers might like such images, even if the clohes is am on. We recommend fine periodicals such as The National Geographic or American Science and Surplus for those of you with more prurient tastes. The decision has been made, though, that wiht or wihtout clohes, the pristine perspective of black-text-on-white-background (being, as it is, such a signature of Possumblog) will remain unsullied by anything which could be said to substitute for one thousand words. NOW. It is time for lunch.
Dumb ol' work stuff to do this morning, so until I get it done my mom says I can't come out and play.
UPDATE--And wouldn't you know it, but I have stuff to do and I'm caught in a Merylanche!! Grr. Dumb ol' work getting in the way AGAIN! Anyway, to everyone who stops by from Miss Meryl's joint--Hey. Even though there's nothing good this morning, there's always the archives if you get bor...well, crap. Nothing good in the archives, either. Well, there's some yellow cheese in the refrigerator (which is working just fine now), and there's half a loaf of bread on the countertop, so make yourself a sandwich and go visit some of the fine people in the blogroll up top (paying particular attention to the Axis of Weevil folks). Remember not to sit on that chair over there by the back door, because it has a broken spring. And you may have to jiggle the handle on the pot to make the water stop running. Otherwise, you sorta have the run of the place until I get back. Oh, and I don't have cable. Sorry. EVEN MORE UPDATEDER--Double dingdernit--important WORK OF THE CITIZENS to accomplish, and I remember that it's Lucy's birthday! Happy birdday, Lucy! Wednesday, July 16, 2003
ALABAMA WOMAN WINS BULWER-LYTTON PRIZE!! Congratulations, Mrs. Simms!!They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.The wife of an Air Force retiree, the mother of an eight-year-old daughter and a fifteen-year-old herpetologist son, and the doting owner of an Australian Bearded Dragon, Mariann Simms of Wetumpka, Alabama, is the winner of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. When not stroking the beard of her Pogona vitticeps, she gardens, cooks, and runs an online interactive humor site, HumorMeOnline.com. Like Tony Soprano, a native of New Jersey, she has lived in Alabama since her husband was stationed there thirteen years ago. Besides becoming a household name, she will receive the contest's traditional prize, a pittance. [...] UPDATE AND REVISION---Yesterday, I mentioned that this seemed to be something of a spoof, since there was a prominent e-mail address on the homepage that was for a guy from Nashville. HOWEVER, I now see that the humorous title is intended to be another part of the myriad caption contests on the site. A much better source of information about the owner of the site was to look at the site designer's website. DNS Computer Services out of...Wetumpka. Which is owned by...Doug Simms. Who just happens to be...retired from the Air Force. ::blush:: Sorry to doubt you, Mrs. Simms!
Ladies and Gentleman--LUNCH!!
In order to help loyal reader Jim Smith (like we believe that's NOT an alias) get by the afternoon hungry time, we now pause to review today's selection from Roly Poly! Reba and I got the #16 Russian Beef (roast beef, brie cheese, lettuce, tomato, scallions, dill pickle chips, russian dressing, all lovingly crammed into a flour tortilla) and the newest fave crave that hasn't even hit the menu yet, the Steak Fajita (steak and other stuff). We always get a whole sandwich and swap halves--the fajeeter was sorta hot (after all, it doesn't come blazing on a white hot sheet of metal), but was good. I did get one bite that tasted a bit on the gamey/liver-y side (in fairness, it would been great with fava beans and a nice Chianti). The Russian was likewise pretty good, although I think it would have been better hot. And without the brie. Again, there was a bite or two in there that was a bit too...too much like a slab of industrial solvent. But that's just brie for you. Overall, both sandwiches were real good and the shop itself is always neat and clean and it's in a cool old building with an outdoor seating area at the sidewalk that's perfect for fresh summer days like today when the temps are in the comfortable 90s. In reading back over this, it just occurred to me that I have now become the spiritual successor of Dennis Washburn. For those of you who grew up in Birmingham, you know what I mean. And you weep tears of exceeding joy. For the rest of you, Mr. Washburn worked as an entertainment/feature/dining/binge drinking/television/movie reporter for the Birmingham News for about a thousand years. Papers used to have guys like this to write about the local nightlife and write glowing praise for advertisers whom they patronized. His inimitable style often had he and his wife Bunny flitting to and fro with their friends across the swingin' Seventies landscape of the Magic City, gorging themselves on racks of lamb and martinis at one swank bistro, before leaving (with a doggy bag for their poodle, whose name escapes me) only to head to another watering hole for some prime rib and cocktails, then on for a night of dancing while listening to the hot tunes being spun by Rockin' Ray. Most of the time this was done while driving a car from one of the local dealers, so the trip also served to provide an opportunity to write an auto review. Oftentimes, a movie was involved, so you could also wangle a movie review out of it, too. Dennis had a cool Mac Davis perm and the puffy, pallid appearance of one too many nightcaps. He wound up losing his job at the News a good while ago, mainly because he wrote what he always did, but SHOCK OF SHOCKS, someone decided he wasn't writing an IMPARTIAL review of a product, but was, in fact, RECEIVING COMPENSATION from the advertiser. Again, this stuff used to be normal practice, but it was time for Dennis to carefully adjust the mirror, buckle his seatbelt, put the gear shift into Drive, and swing the gleaming new Ford Thunderbird out onto the expressway of unemployment. Didn't stay down long though before he started up his own little local advertising paper called Dennis Washburn's Hotline. Same stuff he did for the News, except no one could fire him for being a shill. He passed away a few years back and it really was sort of sad to see him go. UPDATE: Jim mentioned in the comments below about The Cane Break--Hartselle's own Bob Cain, the founder of the Cane Break Supper Club and leader of the Cane Breakers, is listed in the Alabama Music Hall of Fame.
Notable Quotes
"The message of 'The Monkees' was that when authority goes off course, you have to rely on yourselves. We needed that message during Vietnam. We need it again today. You can argue about the Monkees' music but that message was their enduring contribution."Wow, man. From the episode list of the first season, the following shows illustrate the concept of relying on yourself when authority goes off course: 1. Royal Flush (9-12-66)Y'know, Sigmund, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Kerry says Bush has credibility gap [...] Kerry and other Democratic presidential candidates have stepped up criticism of the president since the admission last week that a line in his State of the Union address alleging Iraqi attempts to buy uranium from Africa should not have been included. Other questions have been raised about prewar claims about Iraq by the administration.Somehow, I feel this would carry more weight were it not being said by, oh...John Kerry. That last sentence is irksome, given that Kerry seemed to be a bit more certain of Saddam's intent and capabilities regarding weapons of mass destruction back in 1997 on November 8 and on November 9: [...] Mr. President, I could explore other possible ominous consequences of letting Saddam Hussein proceed unchecked. The possible scenarios I have referenced really are only the most obvious possibilities. What is vital is that Americans understand, and that the Security Council understand, that there is no good outcome possible if he is permitted to do anything other than acquiesce to continuation of U.N. inspections.Of course, that was 1997, and we had a different President.
I have noted before Cadillac's uncomfortable use of Zep tunes to a) either convince 40 year olds that Caddies are cool, groovy cars, or b) convince 90 year olds that they're driving a cool groovy young person's car. Noted this bit on Lileks this a.m. : But you know, now that I think about it, there’s been a sharp decrease in the Boomer Uber Alles effect. If an ad agency suggested using a Joe Cocker song for a car commercial they’d be met with rolled eyes. There’s a marked decrease in tie-dye nostalgia and dead rock-star hagiography.Well, unless you're Cadillac. Although it could be worse--it could be Celine Dion yalping for Chrysler.
Reader Mail
Chet the E-Mail Boy was up early this morning and just came wobbling in with the following from a known tuberphile: Subject: Pouffy HairYes, I did do a double take at that word, too, but thankfully the twelfth letter of the alphabet was indeed present... and teasing up the front, did you start humming that Slim Whitman classic (something about a white horse)?What an odd question! Why do you ask, dear reader? Oddly enough, I found myself humming that pleasant ditty myself this morning and was wondering if others shared in that experience.Ahh, I see. Well, it is a good question--although while performing my morning toilet I usually like to sing Bandera Waltz at the top of my lungs while strolling around the back yard. This usually does not cause distress for the neighbors, except for the mornings I forget my pants. When that happens, I usually launch into A Fool Such as I. After the police arrive, they normally request that I sing Birmingham Jail. Actually, my normal morning is to wake up a bit before 5, fumble around and turn off the alarm, take my pillow and turn around to the foot of the bed, turn on CBS, alternately drool and doze and watch the last few minutes of Up To The Minute , then the CBS Morning News, both currently being anchored by Melissa McDermott. At 5:30, I change over to the local NBC station for their dippy morning show, where today I was overjoyed to see that Wendy Garner has returned after twelve long weeks of maternity leave. While she was gone they rotated a couple of different anchors in her place who had the sparkling personalities common to both river gravel and pencil shavings. (Yes, I'm glad she's back.) Along about 5:40 or so, I fall over the side of the bed and creak into the bathroom, turn on the water, eat my pills that keep me from keeling over, brush my teeth while admiring my incredible physique, waddle to the shower, stub my toe on the little razor sharp deal at the bottom of the door, stumble headlong into the shower knob, lie unconscious on the floor of the shower until sufficiently wrinkled, then dry off, get my new-fangledy electrical razor and sit on the pot and shave, then brush my teeth again because I forgot I already did it, then put on my Spider Man Underoos and my business clothes and at precisely 0600 I put on my DI hat and grab my swagger stick and the metal garbage can and start getting the kids up and ready. "BOY! Is that a stuffed Pikachu in your bed!? Pikachu says it's time to hit the deck or else you will be tickled mercilessly!" Tuesday, July 15, 2003
When to know that you've really hit your stride as a blogger...
When you're the first TWO returned results for the search string boll mose party. I feel so...so...powerful. And today, Mr. and Mrs. America, you will witness this power with the birth of a NEW POLITICAL PARTY, The Boll Mose Party--dedicated to furthering the ideals of that great American president, Theodro Rovelt!
SHOWER UPDATE!
A reader who wishes only to be known as "Mr. Anon-a-Mouse" just sent in the following contenders for inclusion in the slowly building Top Ten List of Things To Think About to Squelch Your Desire Should the Need Arise at an Inopportune Moment, Such as When You Are Supposed to be Mowing the Yard: - Miss Piggy (from the Muppets) singingRemember, that's Kim Jong Il singing, not Lil' Kim. And Slim Whitman alone should be enough to kill anything.
You ask--you get!
Reader Jim Smith writes in with this request: I have noticed that it has been a few posts since you mentioned food. Please do-the diet continues. At least I am dropping some inches.Happy to oblige...FOOD! Today's meal was one of those 16-block-long sorts...eight blocks down to meet Reba at the Sabor Latino Mazatlan Tower Cafe Mexican place down on First Avenue, then eight blocks back to work. I figure the 300 or so calories I burnt up on the walk should just about balance out the 5,000 calories in the taco salad I had. But what a salad. Definitely not that crap from Taco Bell, but a nice fluffy shell the size of my head, full of lettuce and meat and tomatoes and cheese (strangely enough, the same contents as my head), all of it cemented to the plate with a dollop of refried beans. Reba got the nachos, which is the same stuff except spread all over the plate. Of special note is that there is a new chip guy, replacing the long-suffering young hombre who a while ago apparently tried to give his hair those rich, tawny, highlights that Daisy Fuentes has. (Sadly, it just turned bright red.) Anyway, the new chip guy was very nice, although I would appreciate it if he would wear normal pants, or if that's too darned difficult, to keep his big baggy ones pulled his up. Also of note was another hot new waitress, who I think is related to one of the older ladies who works there. You may think it odd of me to say, knowing me as you do, but I think she probably needed to keep her britches up, too. Either that, or wax the small of her back. Anyway, lunch was very good. Tonight being VBS night again, it's probably going to be just regular ol' slick ham sammiches with yeller cheese on them. We get home and there's only a few minutes before we have to load right back up and leave, so not much time for anything with actual nutritional value. Unless my mother-in-law drops in. Like she did yesterday. Unannounced. I love her to death as if she were my very own mama, but whenever she comes over it feels like we're having our foot lockers inspected by Gunny Hartman. And trust me, the Casa De Possum could use a general tidying up, so the free food comes at the price of Reba feeling as though she were an inadequate mother/cook/maid. Which really, REALLY makes it hard on ME! Anyway, Mominlaw was nice enough to bring us some roasted turkey breast, fresh tomatoes, corn bread sticks, cole slaw, fried okra, and fried squash (cut up long ways instead of in circles). "Be sure and give me back my box lid and that margarine bowl!" Yes, ma'am. Anywho, there's your food for the day!
Pardon me, sir, but do you blog to the left, or to the right?
Got an interesting comment below from a longtime reader who goes by the tag 'vachon'--I excerpted a bit from Taterman's talk about why he blogs, and she had this to say: Ok, I'll admit it, I read the "A List" left political blogs. I even type my 2 cents into their comments sections. Let's face it, the South is not known as a hotbed of radical treehugger/pinko/commie/veggie politics and as you know, I'm a bit left of Ho Chi Minh.::blush:: Anyway, aside from once more having to send someone a bribe for being nice to me, vachon's comment about left/right blogs is interesting and one vachon and I have talked about before. Seems ridiculous to have to say it, but it is possible to folks to disagree. AND possible likewise to not feel that if you don't get your way, it's time to get out the papier mache heads and the drums and start burning down a few McDonald's restaurants. Read enough of the stuff on here and you will find out I think a big group of folks who call themselves leftists or liberals or whatever are on the intellectual level of my 13 year old daughter. Petulant, illogical, rash, naive, narrow-minded, blindly earnest, desiring of an easy lie in place of a hard truth. And completely devoid of a sense of humor. And in fairness, vachon sees the same thing when she looks toward the other side. BUT. At some point in there, you meet folks who, despite believing things you yourself know to be wrong or stupid or illogical, at the end of the day you don't mind a bit them coming over for supper, or going to the store with you, or coming in to shoot the breeze. Why? Well, part of it is because they have figured out that it's a lot easier to be happy when you can laugh at yourself and you can overlook the faults of others. And, part of it is they have figured out that sometimes the folks who do agree with them can be pedantic and insufferable, and they are just as put off by it as you. Still another part of it is that every once in a while, they will concede they might be wrong about something. There are actually a LOT of people out there like that, but many times the only voices you hear are the statistical outliers and the ones hiding over under the end points of the bell curve. One of the best things about so many people having access to a computer is being able to read a wide variety of opinion. Opinions undiluted by the restraint of selling soap or ironing boards; or by an editor's false assumption that "balance" means for every opinion, there is an equal, opposite, and equally valid counter opinion. Blogging has allowed a much wider audience to begin seeing the aberrant nature of the loudest, most strident voices--voices the media seem to gravitate toward, perhaps to reinforce the drama inherent in strongly conflicting opinion. (Drama being just the thing to get folks in the door so you can sell them gutters and vinyl siding and a two year subscription package.) In any event, one of the great promises of the current snappy exchange of information available online is that hopefully individuals can make decisions with a better understanding of the question at hand, or at least the reasons why others may feel it to be important. Lots of individuals, blogging their little fingers off, may not be a world-changing revolution--I'm not enough of a forward-thinker to know (not to mention forward-thinking gives me a headache). Maybe, blogging's promise is only a more technologically advanced way for folks to talk to each other about cats. I kinda hope it turns out to be a little of both.
Mental Cold Shower Top Ten Redux
Well now, apparently this topic is too disgusting for all but the most hardy of you; one being a reader who identifies herself as Sarah, who thinks the idea of Strom Thurmond having a kid under 30 is something sufficient to choke off her libido even quicker than being poleaxed. The other suggestion would be from bored voice actress Allison Lane, whose limbic system is suddenly frozen over by thoughts of Josh Hartnett, "and others of his ilk" (which I personally find odd because Josh is just so dreamy, not to mention his ilk! Oooh...ah, well, um...Never mind.) Strange thing, too, given the biological makeup of our two commentors (aside from Marc and his deal with Dom Deluise in a tutu) is that I never really considered that girls would have the need to employ a mental cold shower. I suppose I always thought this task was covered by shopping. In any event, The Possumblog Top Ten Mental Cold Shower list is now 2/5 of the way to completion. UPDATE: Speaking of shopping, Possumblog's Land of Ten Thousand Loons Correspondent Toni Albani took a break from repairing her boat to send in this: A Husband Shopping Center was opened where a woman could go to choose from among many men to be her husband. It was laid out in five floors, with the men increasing in positive attributes as you ascended up the floors.Thanks, Toni!
And now, for our next performance, you see before you the world's smallest violin...Fired coach sues UA for $20 million Fired University of Alabama football coach Mike Price filed a $20 million lawsuit against the University of Alabama Monday that charged he was wrongfully terminated after allegations arose about his conduct at a golf outing in Pensacola.Actually, I think it wasn't the firing that led to the ridicule among his peers, but rather messing around with a woman that looked like Joe Namath wearing a blond wig. Then again, that's just me. In any event, it is interesting that this wound up in federal court, especially on the grounds that Price was denied life, liberty, or property without due process of law. Seems a bit of a stretch, and not a particularly good way of winning nor of salvaging his reputation. Whatever.
And speaking of awards...
Thanks to James Joyner for YET AGAIN awarding me a place in his ongoing Outside the Beltway Caption Contest! Doc has been awfully generous to me over the past month or two, (I even scored a first place spot while I was on vacation!) and I just wanted to publicly thank him and let him know the bribe money is in the mail. (Although, I think I'm going to have to kick in a bit more so I can get him to spell "Oglesby" with only one G...)
'The commanding stage presence of Fred Grandy, with the deft comedic touch of a young Raymond Burr...'
Day One of VBS had yours truly giving a sizzling performance as Saul of Tarsus, struck blind on the road to Damascus--it was everything that you could ask for in a performance from a large blindfolded man in a dress and stylish sandals. We always get a few folks to dress up in costumes and portray whoever the main character of the story is for the evening's lesson, then for a few minutes give some hints about who we are and get the kids to guess our identity. (Hey, it's Daddy!) The kids have fun, and even though we stick to the story, there is a bit of room to ad lib--after all, Leeds and Damascus are a few miles apart. I do believe, however, my best work was three years ago when I did a four night run as Gideon--even grew a beard for that one. Which was an experience in itself, seeing as how I had never grown a beard before. My mother was near apoplecty when I showed up at her office one day to mess with her (for as you know, only the homeless and drug addicts have beards). After I explained what I was doing she calmed down a bit, and then told me I sure had a ton of gray in it. Thanks, Mom! Anyway, I have cleared a spot on the mantle for my Tony. Monday, July 14, 2003
Silly work...
Well, just when I thought I was going to be able to play some today, I get the call to stand in for my boss at a meeting across town. Which will be outside. Where it's 138 degrees. Feh. Maybe there will be time for fun and games tomorrow. [scarlett] For tomorrow is another day. [/scarlett]
Do whut?
Doc Joyner links to a post from Kris Vilamaa about a dialect test being conducted by Hahvahd which he found by looking at one of them Kansas newspapers. Fun survey, all 122 questions worth of it. They do seem to be thorough. Anyway, I posted this because I often joke about how Yankees snicker at us for saying "hose pipe", which is that long green thing you use to water your yard. (Call it a hose, or a garden hose, but unless you want Northerners to mock you, don't call it by its real name.) Well, my friends, that changes TODAY!! Actually, this changed when we were on vacation a couple of weeks ago--we brought along the newest Harry Potter and the Order of the Whatever book, and within the FIRST TWO pages, author J.K. Rowling (who is from Great Britain, where they invented English), calls a hose pipe a "hose pipe"! What a revelation!! Finally I am freed from the shame and reproach suffered lo these long years. SO, silly Yankees, no more making light of me when I say hose pipe! (And by the way, I put my sacks full of cokes in a buggy when I go to the grocery store.)
Gyrene on the Move
(Billy, just be sure and let him know there is no dishonor in getting beat by someone tougher. He just needs to be sure and pick his fights better.)
Views on Blogging
From Marc Velazquez this morning: [...] While a few "A-list" bloggers will get heavy traffic and lotsa link love, many of us stay near the banks of the raging Web/blogosphere stream, catching some tidbits now and then, passing them along, and enjoying the company of our neighbors. Bottom line: if you can make a few friends and every once in a while someone gives you a positive comment on a post, you're doing well. Anything more is gravy. Trying to join the big boys (and girls) in the fast waters can be precarious, and usually unsuccessful unless you are a fine writer with a good amount of time on your hands. Point #3 is the key - you can only get out of it what you put in, and as you develop relationships in the blogosphere you can be rewarded with good friendships.
A story only a few of you may appreciate, but one of you ::coughLarryAndersoncough:: should really like it--via Autoweek, taking a trip from Head to Head in Eire in a Mini convoy. Good stuff if you like cars with roller skate wheels. (Which I do.)
(Although, I am almost positive the subheading "When Irish Guys are Milin' it's flat-out Gallic fun" should read "Gaelic".)
Interesting stuff on the teevee
Saw an interesting show on PBS yesterday about small businesses. It was an interview with a spry fellow named Bob Sakata. I'd never heard of him before, but he grows corn and invents stuff to make it easier to produce corn. The next time you hear someone screeching that they can't succeed because of their economic status, or their race, or their disability, or because they're oppressed, (or, likewise, the only way to succeed in business is to be a heel) you might want to send them to this link for a transcript of the show. Here's some excerpts: [...] HATTIE [Hattie Bryant, narrator and host of the show Small Business School]: (Voiceover) Bob Sakata was born in 1926, and grew up on a 10-acre farm in California. He helped his father in the field and started thinking about how to make work easier.Indeed he is.
A Contest!! (of sorts)
Spuddy Buddy Marc Velazquez left a comment below regarding my use of the ol' "mental cold shower" when I was rebuffed by Miss Reba for my lusty carnal advances towards her this weekend as she sat pulling up tiny little mimosa babies out of the flower bed. As I mentioned, one quick thought of Janet Reno in a Speedo tends to damp down any sort of physical yearnings for nigh upon several minutes. Marc suggested If you can gather enough interest and votes, maybe you can put together a Top Ten "Mental Cold Showers". My vote would be Dom Deluise in a tutu.Interesting...and probably more effective than even Janet Reno, seeing as how even Janet might start to look pretty good in the right light. Thinking of Dom, on the other hand, would be much like falling on your bicycle crossbar, no matter what the circumstance. In any event, in the spirit of Marc's request, leave your own suggestions in the comments. (Obviously, nothing too raunchy, please. Not that anyone would dare think of anything worse than Dom and Jan locked into a nekkid mad embrace.)
Well now,
I hope you all had a good weekend—as you can see from my VERY SPECIAL POSSUMBLOG episode below, mine was the same old deal—one thing I didn’t mention is that all the sunburn you all thought I would get while on vacation happened Saturday. One of these days, I will remember to put on sunscreen if I’m going to stand in the sun for five straight hours. Bright crimson neck, mahogany arms from the elbows down (excepting where my watch was on my left wrist), and sugar white everywhere else. ::sigh:: There goes my dream of being an Abercrombie underwear model. And I got a nice vacation postcard from Nate McCord, which had my picture on the front. Thanks, Nate! And glad to hear the statute of limitations has run out. OH, and Panhandle reader Jim Calloway sent me a link to a wonderful catalog that I will be sure to order from. Sunday was good, managed to get to church EARLY for once, got to chew on my new class of 4th and 5th graders for making their Wednesday teacher nearly cry (seeing a grown man cry is bad for children, don’t you know), then had to Cat out for a sound thwacking for acting like a rabid bat during preaching, went and got more useless Sinbad toys from Burger King for lunch, and miracle of miracles, I ACTUALLY GOT TO READ THE NEWSPAPER! A week just isn’t the same without some of that exciting Prince Valiant action. Back to church, had our kickoff for Vacation Bible School, which for anyone unfamiliar with the concept, is an excellent way to simultaneously exhaust yourself while becoming insane. And then today, there’s my staff meeting in just a few short minutes from now. Should be fun! (Won’t be though.) Anyway, talk to you some more in a bit...
Y’know…
I obviously don’t have a dog in this fight, seeing as how I’m coming in on it late and seeing as how possums have a brain the size of a walnut. BUT, I think if I thought of myself as a Child of the Enlightenment, that I could come up with a better name for myself than “Bright”. I realize Illuminati was already taken, but hey… As it is, calling yourself a Bright is intellectually akin to smacking a big “Kick Me” sign on your back. But, I suppose that’s just the non-placental part of me talking. Anyway, I think I'll go play with my LiteBrite now. Saturday, July 12, 2003
Weaned?
Usually, Chet the E-Mail Boy is very conscientious about not prying into the messages that come clicking across his telegraph set, but yesterday, he seemed nearly beside himself. He shuffled in and with his withered and liver-spotted hand passed across the desk to me a message from the Sweetheart of Vidalia, Janis Gore. “Chet, old boy, what seems to be the trouble?” He would not answer, but only stood there as a crimson glow grew from his wattled neck to his hollow cheeks. I read the short, somewhat cryptic text-- Hon,Weaned? Weaned?! Ahhh—obviously, Lucy’s mom had taken note of the recent gigantic downturn in my production of mindless drivel, ill-advised commentary, silly crap, and outrages against the Laws of Grammar that visitors have come to expect when they cross the threshold here into the odd little corner of the ‘net called Possumblog. I chuckled and winked at Chet, who by now was rather shaky, and I quickly dashed off a response to the effect that I knew my normal idiocy level had been running low lately, and explained that between my real life job duties as a civil servant constantly at the beck and call of 265,000 citizens (and several unsympathetic supervisors), and my non-paying jobs as a daddy, and a husband, and a chauffeur, and a mechanic, and a groundskeeper, and a security guard, and a letter-in of refrigerator repairmen had occasioned a temporary slackening of productive bloginess. I assured her that while the quantity had indeed been poor (for once matching the quality), that I had no intention of weaning any of those who drop by looking for fresh Possum milk. I flipped the Western-Union pad at Chet, whose addled-pated cheerfulness quickly returned as he turned and nearly skipped out the door to his keyset. As I then sat there in my dark, fur-lined lair, absent-mindedly stroking my marble bust of Milton (Berle), a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to me…what if Janis is thinking what others have been?! What if my entire, hard-won, regular readership (burgeoned as it has to the point that within at least the next year I shall be required to remove one of my shoes to allow me a sufficient number of digits to count them all) has decided that I no longer have the will, the desire, the fire in the belly, to shovel the copious loads of stable leavings Possumblog is famous for?! I collapsed onto my genuine Herculon sofabed, my mind reeling. And then, it came to me—in the spirit of “A Very Special Blossom”, I would create a special episode, and thus was born this—A SATURDAY POSSUMBLOG POST!! It is filled to the overflow with the rich meaty goodness that is Possumblog, with the added benefit of being composed entirely on my HOME computer! While I simultaneously swab children in the tub! And dig earwax from their crusty headholes! And while smelling like a ripe, deceased goat from having slaved away in the yard for five hours and not having given myself a brisk hosing down! And while folding clothes! Fascinating, hard-hitting, and a pitiful reminder of the effects of blogsessive-compulsive disorder! I now give you... HEARTWARMING SCENES OF DOMESTIC TRANQUILITY!! SO THEN, as you all remember, yesterday I was waiting for Mr. Appliance to call. And I waited. And waited. Forever. I did get most of my minute-transcribing done from our meeting Wednesday (which was good, in that it means I’ll have more time to play on Monday). Finally, at 4 o’clock I got a call from the dispatcher saying their man could be at the house in ten minutes. “Ahhhh—look, I work downtown and it’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to get home!” “Twenty minutes?” “No! At LEAST thirty minutes, maybe a bit more.” “Well, I’ll have them there in about 35 minutes.” Crap. Started crashing the computer to get out of there, told our receptionist I was taking my lunch hour and headed out. Up on the interstate, then grind to a halt halfway home. Every lane, as far as I could see. Dead. I took the next convenient exit to get on Highway 11, which is the same thing as First Avenue, and Roebuck Parkway, and Parkway East, and Gadsden Highway, which is a lot of differently-named-but-still-the-same four-laned surface streets that magically had become as densely packed as the interstate. Seems a few thousand of my good friends had decided to take the same detour I did. So I creeped along for another 35 minutes. Finally managed to get around whatever wreck or disaster had clogged up the interstate and beat it for the house. Only to get off at the Trussville exit and sit in traffic some more. ::sigh:: Finally got home an HOUR after I started out, certain that the guy had long left. Much to my relief, he was still there, so after profuse apologies to him for being so late, I let us in and he went to work. Thirty minutes later, a nice new heater element in place (one of the fusible links had blown), and there was cold air once again. Hooray. Paid him his money, which I had just gotten paid myself that very morning. Our bank account is less like a reservoir and much more like a high pressure fire hose. Oh well. Reba came blazing in just a bit later, dumped the three little ones, took Big One to band practice, went to the store and came back with some vittles. Ate a bite, then it was time for me to run back and get Ashley from practice. And got the store for paper towels. And get gas in my van. Store, towels, line. Again a traffic jam! The mop-headed kid was over at the service desk—I caught his eye and he tilted his head back to motion me over. Thank goodness, and I vow never to call him a mop-headed kid again. Out, and I saw I didn’t have time to get gas, so it was on over to the high school on about a thimbleful of fuel. Shades of the Soccer Park Gas Fiasco danced in my mind, but I managed to make it there and to the gas station without a flame-out. Back home, fed Oldest, shooed the others to bed, and collapsed into a fitful night of sleep. I opened the package—inside was a note, and attached to it was a bra. Something about “I was reading your blog and did this to my bra! Hah hah!” It had something like ink spots all over it—hey cool, FAN MAIL! I unfolded it and looked it over, then folded it back and put it on a very high shelf that was in our old house along about 1970 or so. Then I turned back and went into the den where there was a glass-walled room and a meeting with a very serious group of men in ties, clustered around a conference table. Oooh—man, heavy hitters—they were from the NSA and were discussing something with Colin Powell. I walked in and sat down and saw the bra lying on the floor by the door. Of course, I was both infuriated and mystified, so I nonchalantly got up and put it in my pants pocket. I turned and went on into the dining room next door, which was being set for a big banquet. Sometime later, I woke up on our back porch, terrified that Reba was going to find this ink-speckled bra and start asking questions. But wait, that was a dream, right? No, here’s the manila envelope it came in. Hmm. I reached into the bookcase and there it was! But, still probably not a good idea to have it out—I unfolded it again and looked at the size—38 DD. Whooo-whee! That’s a whole lotta fan mail! I took it and went into the backyard, where there was a group of folks from down the street, or at least that’s who they were supposed to be, because I didn’t know who any of them were. Which meant that this IS a dream, so as I crawled back in through the window, I decided that even though no one would care that I was walking in with a bra, I probably needed to put it in the cabinet by the plates, so I did. You know, it’s probably not a good idea to eat a couple of hot wings before you go to bed, even if you are a bit hungry. And please, if you soil your 38-DD bra while reading Possumblog, I apologize in advance and ask that you please not send it to me. At least by regular mail. Anyway, between my fits of foundational phantasms and Reba having leg cramps, I finally managed to go to actual sleep along about dawn. Exactly thirty minutes later, some small boy and his oldest sister decided they had slept long enough without turning up the volume of their Gameboy to its maximum level, nor without promptly starting an armed conflict between each other, so they thus began doing both of those things. Which woke me up. “SHAAAUHH!” That’s right. I told them to shut up. The horror! But I had only imagined it, because they kept right on, top of their lungs. “Kids, you told me you weren’t going to make noise on Saturday!” They heard that. I drifted back off, then was whumped by the sheets being flung over me and bounced around as Reba got up. ::sigh:: Some alarm clock. I drifted off for a minute until someone else got into the wakeup act by turning on the television, so I dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day. Breakfast, then outside to bring the house back into the proper Stepford look. It’s been past time to trim the edges of the sidewalk and driveway to get rid of those horrifying strands of grass that dare grow over the concrete, so I did that then got on to the big job. Two and a half weeks, tons of rain, and no mowing made for a very lush jungle. I occasionally exaggerate how high the weeds get, but in all honesty, the spindly ones in the back had gotten up knee high. But before that, I did my normal mimosa duty. How I hate mimosa. As you recall, last year my idea was to build a nice robot to pull them up. For the sheer entertainment value of it, I figured I would make it look like fresh-faced NBC News correspondent Norah O’Donnell, but I actually found something better! For some reason, Reba had come out while I was getting the stuff out of the shed and sat down on the sidewalk and started pulling up the little shoots along the flower bed. IN HER LONG COTTON NIGHTSHIRT!! RRRrrrOWWWWLLL! “You go cut grass.” “You know you have on your nightshirt, right?” “I’m fixing to go inside and change. Go on.” Heh, “But, you know, we don’t HAVE to do yardwork…” “Kids are awake.” Indeed. And she was actually pulling up the mimosa, so I took my mental cold shower (Janet Reno in a Speedo) and got to work. Took forever. Had to stop and talk to my neighbor widow lady about cutting down our jointly owned dead hickory tree, had to stop and help the young guy next door cut a piece of wood, had to stop and run Catherine back in the house, had to stop and down a couple of gallons of water. Must have been about 175 degrees today. Got finished, refilled the bird feeders, made old man noises, drank more water, went out in the front and watched Rebecca and Catherine ride their bicycles for a bit, got them to come back in before they got heat stroke, had supper, started the chore of cleaning the children, including Little Boy, who decided sometime today that he could start walking on his hurt ankle again. He’s very brave, you know. And then I started writing this mess! The mess which, as you all know, usually includes… WITLESS NEWS COMMENTARY!! Missing Python Slithers Out of Dutch Toilet Bowl Cleese, Palin Cheer Recovery of Mate Chapman— Chapman: “Not missing, only on holiday” Britain Stands Behind Iraq Uranium Charge Congressional Democrats Place Fingers in Ears, Chant “BLAHBLAHBLAHI’M NOT LISTENING!!” I’m Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille. The Washington Post notes the sudden demise of blogging: 'AOL Journals' To Bring Blogs To Millions Enough of that, time now for some… THOUGHTFUL INSIGHT!! I received a very, very nice e-mail yesterday from John Reeves, a member of the Alabama diaspora living in Greenville, South Carolina, by way of Pittsburgh, by way of Gurley, Alabama. Steve popped in via a link from Miss Meryl’s place, and we talked a bit about our respective family histories and, of course, I had to throw out my bona fides and brag about gggg-whatever Grandpa Sabert who came to Alabama after fighting the Lobsterbacks in South Carolina during the Revolution and the War of 1812, and settled down in Green Pond while this was all still part of the Mississippi Territory. 191 years, and we’ve haven’t moved more than 50 miles from where we started. (That might explain a few things. Or not.) Anyway, Steve went on to pay me some awfully nice compliments (which I steadfastly refuse to repeat lest I appear to be patting myself on the back while blowing my own horn) and asked how it was that I got started doing this. Good question. I took a couple of undergrad creative writing classes at UAB back about 1981 or so, taught by the rather somewhat famous Dennis Covington, both of whose classes I passed with low Cs. I wrote just about like I do now, which probably explains the grades. But you know, at the time all that post-modern crap was doing well, and the kids who got better grades were much better at describing the odor of pee and what their various naughty parts felt like. I didn’t really care so much, because there was a girl in both classes who looked exactly like Jan Smithers of WKRP in Cincinnati. Anyway, that was about the extent of my formal training. This state of affairs remained intact until 1995, when I left my former employer. Not long after, scads of my friends there also recognized the distinct signature of being stuck in a handbasket hurtling headlong into Hell, so they skipped out, and as a way to keep in touch with folks, I knocked together a silly newsletter composed on my very own office computer. (A 386 with WordPerfect!) As I mentioned earlier in the week, I found a couple of these when cleaning out the bedroom last weekend, and hey! Possumblog prototypes! Seems the low-C-grade hardwiring had not been thrown out, and I went on to produce 12 or 14 editions of wildly moronic claptrap and hateful, vicious, invective directed toward my former employers and their pinheaded middle managers. Hee! Fun—and I even did a couple of issues with color photos! After getting all that bile out of my system, I was further sidetracked when an evil of enormous proportions was visited upon me. That’s right, they installed an Internet connection on my computer at work. Suddenly, there was an entire technological marvel devoted entirely to wasting time!! I surfed around a bit and found some sites I liked—ZUG in particular was an early favorite (and Bob, The Anal Fissure remains a classic in Internet literature). Later, I found about something called message boards, and hung out on several, including Tuco’s Collector Firearm Forum and The Straight Dope Message Board. These, among several others, introduced me to stuff like flame wars, and trolls, and a variety of other examples of mouth-breather behavior. I mostly lurked, although I finally got confident enough to chime in on a variety of topics of which I had absolutely no knowledge. Sometime in there, I found a link to some guy named James Lileks, who subsequently became an inspiration for me to do a bit more in the way of storytelling and such. I got my first real taste of having an open mike and no audience when I first set up a website for my former Revolutionary War reenacting group, the Georgia Refugees. If you go there and look through enough of the site, you'll see a lot of the same demi-brained bilge you see here. (Go figure.) Anyway, between that site and continued inspiration from Lileks, I started writing a few little short stories and stuff, but resisted starting a real blog because all I knew about them seemed to point to a way for mouth-breathers to relax after disrupting message boards, or as a place for earnest teens to wax poetic about their angst and that slut Jenna, who was like, all up in my face, and I like, told her to like, leave, and she was all "FINE!" Then, there was September 11. I wrote a pretty long series of thoughts about what had gone on, more or less so I could have a way of recording what would hopefully be a singular event in my life. Not long after, Lileks wrote a Bleat in which he pointed the way to some incredible sites that I had never heard of before, written by people who could actually use English and the rules of logic to bring some sense to all that was going on--folks like Dr. Reynolds, and Steve Den Beste, and the folks at Little Green Footballs. A revelation to be sure, and after reading and following links from these guys, I decided I wanted to play, too. So, I did. And I write what I write--when I'm particularly irked by the political situation, I comment about that. If I see something odd or humorous in the news, I comment on that. I talk about home, and my town, and my state, and my wife and my kids and my yard and birds and buildings and cars and culture and guns and girls and movies and cardboard and history and junk like that. Sometimes I get serious, most times not. I leave private folks alone, but if they decide they like being in the newpaper, they're fair game. Some things I won't talk about, because I just don't feel this is an appropriate forum for them. Some things I feel like I have to talk about, simply because I have soapbox handy. If you like what you read, you have made my day. If you don't like it, there's the back button. In either case, thanks for dropping by. But rest assured, you aren't being weaned! Friday, July 11, 2003
Metropolitan insights and avant garde culture alert!
[I wrote this thing about halfway done, and then read it back, and came to the realization that it’s probably the most challengingly disjointed thing I’ve ever written. Extreme caution is urged—please keep a finger on the back button.] Funny how the brain works. Got through yesterday and headed back to the swingin’ burg of Trussville, picked up Boy from Grandmom’s and headed over to swap kids with Reba at the soccer park. Despite the downpour we had yesterday, Middle Girl’s team was indeed having practice, so I got her and her stuff from Reba and exchanged Jonathan for it, then Reba was off to take Oldest to band practice. (All that thrill-a-minute action and drama—take that all you 2Fast2Furious kids!) Anyway, as Bec got her cleats on we discovered she didn’t have her water bottle, so I told her I would be back in a minute and drove to the Citgo station down the road a piece. Interesting place, to say the least—it’s a log building with a pool supply place on one side, and a convenience store/restaurant/curio shop on the other. (The big news? New prices on dip and cigarettes!) Got Rebecca a Gatorade, then figured I had better get something to occupy me for a while, so I picked up a Coke and some Tom’s pistachios and a little paper bag of roasted peanuts. Dumped it all on the counter and the lady started ringing it up then did a double take—“Where’d you get them pistachios!?” What an odd question—“Over yonder by the rest of the nuts.” “Hmph. A feller come in here last night and just had a fit ‘cause we didn’t have no pistachios. Just kept going on and on. He got loud! I didn’t have time to go look for none, so I figured we musta been out of ‘em.” “Well, I’ll be. Was he drunk or something?!” “Nah, I guess he’s just one of them kind that like to hear hisself.” Yeah, I know how he feels—he needs to get a blog. Paid for my stuff and went out the door (pausing to look at the case full of custom Bowie knives) and went on back to the park to find that only three of the girls had shown up, the rest apparently put off by the rain. But, the field was in good shape and the coach is a real game fellow and loves to play with the kids, so they did their whole practice session that they normally do. He would have done it even if there was only one girl there—he’s not a martinet or anything, but if there’s a kid that wants to learn, he’ll be there to help. Good guy. Full of energy, too—he’s at least ten years on past me, but he’s as bouncy as Tigger. All the time. Every day. Me? I exhausted myself prying open the pistachios. Sat on the bench and vegetated for the hour and a half and threw nut shells into the fence line. The pistachios were fine, but beware of little bags of nuts from some Aunt Something-or-Other lady in Attalla. Maybe I’m a snob or something, but when you buy little homemade-looking sacks of roasted peanuts, you figure they’re going to be the best things you ever tasted. These were crappy quality nuts to begin with—all different sizes and condition, and half didn’t seem to have been fresh roasted; rather, they tasted as if they had been allowed to age in the hold of a Bulgarian freighter and allowed to turn rancid first, then roasted. And the roasting was inconsistent, too. Some were right, some weren’t. For the peanut snob, it’s hard to beat the Peanut Depot here in Birmingham. Been in business in the same spot on Morris Avenue since 1907, and they use big, iron, gas-fired rotating drum roasters that were made in the ‘20s—smells like absolute heaven every day. Good nuts, properly roasted. (They also boil some.) They mostly sell to vendors, but they also pack up little brown paper bags for folks off the street, too. Which is sure what I wish I had been eating. Blech. Got through with practice, got back home, waited a bit for Reba and the rest of the kids who had gone back up the school to get Ashley from practice, sat us all down and had some supper, after which I was ready to go get my work clothes off and read. Just then, Ashley leaned over and whispered to Reba, “Mom—I need some…pads.” ::sigh:: Late night trip to the store? Daddy job. ::sigh:: And feminine hygiene products, to boot. Oh well. Not that I mind that, in particular. As I’ve mentioned before, the comedian Rich Shydner used to do a bit about being glad about getting to buy monthly supplies for his wife as a way to validate the fact that he could, in fact, find a woman—“LOOK EVERYONE! I have KOTEX! That’s right—I’m buying them for MY! WOMAN!” So, I’ve never been embarrassed by having to stand there holding sanitary napkins. (Although, I gotta say having to buy them for my daughter feels weird and icky, so I just pretend in my mind they’re for Reba.) So, back out one more time and off down the hill to the grocery store. Spend several minutes trying to decipher all the various packages and looking for the best bargain, then stopped by the magazines. You know, many people seem to avoid you if you are a large man reading Shotgun News while holding two 24 count packages of Always Regular Maxis. Go figure. Put back the SN and went on to the only cash register which was still open, which happened to be staffed by one of the usual complement of big tall corn-fed Amazon high school girls they hire. It was at this moment, as she was giving change to the customer in front of me, that an incident came back to me that I hadn’t thought of in years, and likewise prompted this long-winded exercise. I was nonchalantly standing there, being so proud of myself for being such a modern, non-embarrassed-by-womanly-stuff-even-when-I-have-to-purchase-it-from-a-supermodel kind of guy, and suddenly it was 1982. [Insert dreamy violin music and make your eyes go all watery like it’s a dream sequence on TV. It will take a while to actually get to the point of the story, so you may want to go out for lunch or something then come back.] A long time ago, in a completely different other life, I had enrolled at UAB to study engineering. I wasn’t doing that well in math, and didn’t much feel like going to school, so decided to get myself a job at Southern Research Institute. They hired me as an engineering technician trainee (which is one half step above a lab rat, by the way) and assigned me to the materials testing department. Actually, this was a pretty cool place (if you were a real engineer)—we did a variety of testing of carbon fiber and Kevlar rocket components for NASA and their various contractors. They would send us an experimental fabricated part (like an entire rocket nozzle or nose cone), the machine shop would cut it up into coupons, then we would put instruments on the pieces and stuff them into various ovens or cold boxes and pull and twist and expand and crush them and see how well the various methods of construction held up. As I said, for engineers, the results were probably fascinating to study, but for a laboratory rat the job was hot and dirty and dangerous. Which suited me better than studying math, by far. In any event, we had one particular test apparatus that was pretty incredible. A big circular metal washtub looking device, up on angle iron legs, with soldered-on cooling lines all around the outside. This was a furnace and we used it to test large diameter rings cut out of carbon rocket nozzles. In the center was a set of hydraulically activated wedges, over which a test ring would be placed. The wedges could be pumped up to expand the ring and measurements of the deformation would be made. Complicating things was the fact that there were also heating elements inside the thing to get it to the necessary several thousand degrees, which meant that there also had to be some sort of insulation to keep air out of the center of the oven and damp down some of the heat. This was done with scoops and scoops full of powdered graphite. Dirty nasty stuff that got on everything. Including long-suffering trainees who got to put the stuff into the furnace. One day we were scheduled to run a hot test and everything came to a halt. “We’ve run out of rubbers.” You see, in order to test how much the ring expanded, we had to loop a very fine carbon fiber tape (like black dental floss) around the nozzle ring. The ends of the tape were then threaded through graphite tubing which tunneled through the furnace and the graphite filling to the outside of the tub where they connected to a couple of little micrometers. As the ring expanded, the micrometers would be spooled down to see how much it moved. Now, remember we’re trying to keep the hot gasses inside, and the outside air outside. No use having a gigantic explosion of 1,000 degree graphite everywhere. In all of the great engineering necessary to conduct these tests, it was found that the best way to seal the end of the graphite tube and the tiny carbon fiber tape was to use a condom tied to the tube, with the fiber running out of a pinhole in the end. And not just any condom would do. Plain, no reservoir, unlubricated. “Oglesby, go get a purchase order for two boxes of 36 plain prophylactics and run down to the drugstore.” Okeedoke. Got my purchase order, which was an experience in itself, then walked up to Birmingham Apothecary. This being in the far long ago time, condoms were still kept hidden lest children and old ladies be mentally deranged at the sight of them, so I went all the way to the back counter. Nasty blue work shirt covered in graphite, big steel-toed brogans likewise covered in graphite, fingernails like a coal miner. Was met by a cheerful little blonde girl who was probably about my age. A fine bead of perspiration formed on my head. “Hello, uh. Um, I need two, 36 count boxes of plain prophylactics.” She looked like she had been struck by a car. “What?!” Oh crap. Someone turned on the sweat gland motor full speed. “I, um, I work over at Southern Research, and we ahh, need to purchase two boxes of plain prophylactics. For what we’re working on. There.” Still with the dazed look, “Just a minute.” Then she called over the PHARMACIST and whispered to him, “This man says he needs two 36 count boxes of prophylactics—can you help him?” He stepped to the counter as she hid behind him, “Hello…you need two 36 count boxes of prophylactics?” Full melt down mode, as there are now other people waiting. Including a little old lady. “Hmhck, Um, yes sir—we have a machine over at Southern Research, and the plain prophylactics are to seal the ends of a tube, and we need the ahhh, plain type without any sort of lubrication or um, anything.” “Alright.” He went into the back and brought out two giant, white, 36 count boxes of plain, latex, unlubricated, non-reservoir tipped, male prophylactic devices. “Is that all?” Oh, you better believe it, chief. “Yes sir, that’s it for today.” And then I got to hand him the purchase order. Which he had to call and verify. Finally, clutching my scientific supplies, I turned and walked briskly back down the street. I got back and provided much joy for my coworkers in the retelling of these events. All that, just because I went to the store last night to buy something for someone else. As I said at the beginning, funny how the brain works. Anyway, no condoms to purchase today, but I do have to go back and let the refrigerator guy in again, and I really do need to finish my other work, so I’m going to go ahead and sign off for today. The weekend, as usual, will be jam-packed with stuff, so stop in again Monday, and you will be once again regaled with a wide variety of balderdash and flibbertygibbit! Thursday, July 10, 2003
::sigh::
$279.48 is how much it costs Mr. Appliance to replace the defrost heater element and the defrost thermostat. And since we don't carry these particular defrost heater elements in our repair truck, a certain homeowner will have to return tomorrow again and let Mr. Appliance back in the house. And now stupid, STUPID Haloscan is down and my little baby comments feature is not working. And a giant thunderstorm just parked itself over downtown and is dropping a whole ocean's worth of water. On the bright side, Blogger is working. So, what's to complain about?
Ladies and Gentlemen...BELTSVILLE!!
Yes, yes--I know I just said I wasn't going to get to play in here anymore today, but I just got an interesting bit of info from Dr. Weevil's not-quite-evil brother Steevil: On my way into work this morning, I saw a rather beat up station wagon with Mass. plates and a bumper sticker saying, "I will fear no weevil." The car exited the Baltimore-Washington parkway near Beltsville, so I assume the driver is an entomologist on a summer fellowship at the USDA Agricultural Research Center.That, or in a more sinister vein, an operative sent to destroy the Axis of Weevil! (Made even worse by being a Masshole!) Steevil, your assignment is to track him down and foil his nefarious scheme!! Note to Terry: Our farming cousins in Illinois only find my working at NASA impressive because it puts me near Beltsville.Well, yeah. I mean, rocket science is okay and all, but have you read that paper about Polyvalent Cation Effects on myo-inositol hexakis dihydrogenphosphate Enzymatic Dephosphorylation in Dairy Wastewater!? Man alive, it's a real whimdoozy! Anyway, I really, REALLY have work to get done! Really.
Yes!
(That's in answer to Fritz Schranck's inquiry in the comments below.) As we say around here, I don't care what you call me as long as you don't call me late for dinner. In answer to various inquiries about the celebration of my nativity, yes, it was very nice, but given how harried we are, the idea of a romantical outing is one that will have to stay on the action item list a while longer, as well as the pony rides and the moon walk and the pinata and the games and the party favors and having all my little friends over. I had also discounted the possibility of flaming sweets, too, but was pleasantly surprised yesterday to see that Reba's mom had baked an apple pie while Jonathan was over there, so in a fit of creative improvisation, Reba decorated it with three candles and it became my birthday pie. Mmmm...Pie! The kids sang Happy Birthday several times with lusty abandon and I blew out each and every candle, all by myself! Thank you! Reba kept Boy and Tiny Terror home last night from church, so the older two girls and I went on by ourselves. We had not gone half a mile when Rebecca asked, "Daddy, I know you want peace and quiet--which you won't get--but what else would you like? Would you like...a shirt?" "No, sugar--I don't really need any shirts right now." "Some...socks?" "No, don't need socks either." "Some...pants?" "No, don't need any pants." "Hmm--Mama said you didn't need any of that stuff but I was going to ask anyway. Some shoes? You know, you tried to find some the other day and couldn't." "Nah--well, yeah, I do still need to find some shoes." "Okay!!" "D'you think y'all could work in some peace and quiet, too, just so you're poor ol' daddy can hear himself think every so often?" "Okay!!" So far, they all have managed to stay relatively peaceful and quietful (then again, they were asleep for about eight hours in there...), so I don't know if I want to press my luck by going for the shoe add-on. Anyway, today will be another one of those in which Real Life™ intrudes--got to get my paying work knocked out this morning so I can leave and go meet the refrigerator repair guy. Yep--even with my expert care and service of a few weeks back, the silly thing is still not working right, so I have to go let Mr. Appliance into the house sometime between noon and eternity. (You think the cable people are bad...) SO, once again in what is becoming a very bad habit, the free possum fritters are going to be 27% smaller again today. Check back in tomorrow, though, and maybe things will have calmed down enough so that I can come out and play. Wednesday, July 09, 2003
You know…
When I first started writing this nonsense, I made a conscious effort to not allow Possumblog to be easily categorized—one day might be strongly political; the next literary; the third sheer bloviational madness; the fourth, somewhat like the first and the third, but with grated nutmeg; and then a fifth in which I say mean things about people in the news and plot world domination. I don’t particularly know why I necessarily felt, and feel, so strongly the need to throw all these innocent words around higgledy-piggeldy and be so resistant to convenient fileability, but the effort seems to be paying off. Witness the following search strings in which slow, furry Possumblog is returned as a search result: does soledad o'brien smoke? Oh man, and how! spongebob tuxedo vest Yes, it's square, too. "all stove up" Oh man, and how! debra jo fondren The only thing that made the 1970’s bearable. Or bareable, I suppose. grandma's fireworks store in huntsville You know, this just can't be a real good idea. pistol weaver stance pictures how-to Sigourney Weaver or Dennis Weaver or Charlie Weaver? Please be more specific. physical therapy jobs posting in scandinavian Scandinavian is such a beautiful language. I’ll be on the lookout for anything that says aahrmbrakenpooshenshov. Anyway, I am happy and proud to say that Possumblog still manages to defy any and all attempts at rational classification.
Oh, hey…wait a minute!
I AM getting old! I’m 14,975 days old today, you know. If I was a car, and those were miles, I would still be under warranty. If I was Bill Gates, and those were dollars, that would be how many I use to polish the underside of my cat. If I was Stephanie Zimbalist, that would be how many freckles I have on my chest. If I was Bill Clinton, that would be how many excuses I come up with every day to not have sexual relations with that woman. If I was Jodi Applegate, and those were references made on a certain blog about me, I would be sending the writer an autographed photograph. If I was an ant, and those were other ants, we could lift an entire beaver over our heads and carry it approximately an inch before being crushed. If I was a Peep, and those were thousands of years, I would still be fresh and moist. As it is, however, I am me, and those are days, and they add up to a sore back from sitting in the floor all day Saturday cleaning stuff out of the bedroom floor, and to the number of gray hairs that came into being on my head within the last month, and how many pounds I would weigh if I ate like I did when I was sixteen, and how many different ways I know to avoid being productive. (Writing this silly mess is Number 10,291)
Real Life, Chapter II
He’s hurt, but he’s not broke. After posting the update yesterday, he watched another video and then it was time to head back across town to the doctor—his gigantic throbbing green ankle had gone down some due to the restorative power of loose packaged frozen beans and peas, so I gingerly slid his sock and shoe on his feeties and started toward the door. Hop. Hophophop. Hop. Sad puppy dog eyes. “D’you want me to carry you out to the van?” Happy puppy dog eyes and a giggle. I hoisted him up (after clearing the threshold—no use adding a head injury from the door frame into the mix) and we waddled out to the van. He has somehow grown up without my knowledge. The little stringy bag of sticks I could once tuck under my arm like a newpaper has somehow become as dense as lead and as ungainly to tote as an oil drum. Or maybe I’m just getting old. Nah. Anyway, off to St. Vincent’s—the big event was getting to see an airplane coming into the airport. Birmingham’s aerodrome is just to the east of downtown and the main runway parallels the interstate, so it’s easy to see what all’s going on. Also sort of disconcerting if you’re new to town and suddenly a 757 comes barreling over the roadway out of nowhere. (Actually, that’s kind of scary even if you live here.) Got to the parking deck and wondered how I was going to lug him into the professional building without stroking out, but thanks to an understanding attendant at the parking booth (and no small amount of charming desperation) I was able to park one of the spots by the doors for mamas in labor. Still seems like they would have had some wheelchairs parked close by, too, but, you know… I got him and managed to get him off the ground and his limbs wrapped around me enough to get to the elevator and then it was down the long hall. And a long haul it was. I readjusted him so that he hung over my shoulder like a cement sack, which was a bit more easy to manage than the grip I did have on him. Got in, signed in, sat down. Waited. Read Entertainment Weekly. Wondered why. Tried to make him more comfortable by propping his foot on a chair. Didn’t work. Waited. Finally got called back to an exam room. Waited. He then became very interested in the Glaxo poster on the back of the door about the inner ear and otitis media, so we had an impromptu anatomy and physiology lesson, which took up several minutes. (I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV.) We looked at Vulcan for a while. Watched the cars on the Red Mountain Expressway. Rummaged around in the drawers. Finally, the doc came in and got down to business. She gently poked and prodded and moved his ankle—he was so touchy that it was hard for her to pin down exactly how much and where it hurt. She was very concerned that with all the swelling it might have been broken, so it was off to the x-ray room. Wait. We did have some distraction—a little toddler girl kept throwing her stuffed kitty at us, which gave her untold delight. Jonathan would patiently hop up and get it and toss it to her or put it on her head or tickle her tummy with it, which further drove her to fits of glee. I don’t think I have ever seen a nine year old boy who is so good with babies—whenever we’re out and see someone with a baby, he is just fascinated and really seems to enjoy playing big brother to them. He was like this with Catherine, too, but she has since grown to the point of being able to handily overpower him, so he has to be wary of her. Little kids, though, he does fine. After a while he got called back and hopped up onto the table—top and side of both ankles, then back out to the waiting area. To wait. Got the call to come back to the office and saw the pictures on the light box. Again, since I have so much medical experience, my trained diagnosis was that there were no breaks or chips or dents or dings or divots out of the hard parts, which was confirmed by the doctor. Just a bad sprain. Ice, ibuprofin, rest. “Well, little buddy, I guess you just missed out on a trip to the glue factory.” Which brought a snicker from the doc and a quizzical “Glue factory?!” from Boy. He’s used to not understanding what the heck I’m talking about, so he just laughed along with the joke. Paid my copay with my lunch money for the week and it was time to umph him back down the hallway. This time I got him in a fireman’s carry, which is really the only way to carry someone without hurting both of you, and then on out to the van. “Daddy?” “Yeah, bud.” “You know, McDonald’s is really close, and I’m sort of hungry…” “Uh-huh.” “Well, do you think we could go there and get something?” “Hmm—I don’t have enough cash left to get you a full meal, and you’re going to eat supper in just a little while anyway; it’ll have to be something small.” We pulled up at the drive-through—“What about an M&M McFlurry, bud?” “YEAH!! SWEET!” Well, the doctor DID say something about keeping his ankle cold. And he has such cute puppy dog eyes. (Of course, now all of his sisters are trying to figure out a way to score a shake, too—except without the need for painful injury.) So, anyway, he should make a full recovery, although he will have to be spoiled mercilessly over the next few days or so—Grandmom’s taking care of that chore today, so I’m sure he’ll be quite helpless by the end of the day. Many thanks to all of you who wrote in to express your get well wishes for him. I appreciate it immensely and Little Boy does, too. Tuesday, July 08, 2003
AAARGGHH!! REAL LIFE INTRUSION!
Just got a call from the lady at school. The kids got to go to the skating rink today and my poor little Jonathan buddy fell and twisted his ankle. Doesn't sound like he broke it, but it's swollen and he's inconsolable, so this is it for me today. Going to go get him and make a run for the doctor's office, so I will see all of you late tomorrow--I have my regularly scheduled round of regulatory stuff to do early. Anyway, bye now!
Reader Mail!
As I mentioned, Chet the E-Mail Boy remained ever vigilant while I was away, and left in the inbox several missives from the far-flung reaches of the Possum Empire. One such came from our Antipode Correspondent Simon Roberts— before vacating, I asked, “How are things down in Tasmania?” To which Simon responded with a roundup of all things Taz: Cold…very cold. Tasmania is a sleepy little place - not much happens here (although there are an inordinate number of gruesome murders for some reason). Actually, that should that be "IS an inordinate number..".Well, since we’re starting off on a language pedantry jag here, is it possible to come ungrued? Can murders be gruelike? Grueish? Can you be grueful? If you are caught in the act, are you grueing? Oh well, grue it… What else...I like very last paragraph in the article: Euphoria Furniture sales consultant Gail Krzyzanowski said she was selling a lot of furniture to people moving from interstate.As furniture goes, so goes the nation. Even more interesting is this article from the 7th, which basically says the whole booming Tasmanian economy deal is bogus—Thanks, guys! Next, Simon talks to the animals: The Tasmanian Tiger may not be extinct (actually they run this story out every 6 months).Well, it is if you’re a mangy arthritic dingo! (The link to the article Simon originally sent is now archived—the one above is a follow-up to it). Simon also sent a link to a story that is just as compelling: ...and finally the long-running story about the sacking of a Police Sergeant who was caught performing [EEEK!! WE CAN’T PRINT THAT WORD!!] in a public bar (off duty) is finally over.Ah yes, the Fascinating Case of Sergeant Sleaze. You know, it’s a shame Monty Python’s Flying Circus is off the air, for I believe this story would make a sketch as famous as either “Mrs. Premise and Mrs. Conclusion Visit Jean-Paul Sartre” or “The Police Station” sketch from Episode 12, Season One. (Although, in fairness, not quite so much as the “Epsom Furniture Race”.) Thanks to Simon for keeping us up to date with News from Down Under. And speaking of etiquette, last week we also received a heartfelt request for guidance from one Jim Calloway, a faithful reader who lives and works down in Northwest Florida: Say... just between us guys...And everyone else who reads this… If a lovely lady decides to go jogging one of our more humid mornings, like, say, today,Uhmmmm…yes, yes you did. Please go on… Do you think she has any right to get all huffy and glare at a perfect stranger who just happens to be driving by and, ummm, well, maybe sorta looks at her?Poor hypothetical Jim. Well, as you all know, the rules of gentlemanly conduct seem to have taken a beating over the years, and this purely hypothetical case points that out very clearly. Jim, obviously in this case (were it ever to have actually taken place) the lady in question absolutely has a right to glare—it’s obvious that she did not understand the nature of your actions. You see, some girls can be very forgetful, and it seems very clear that in this instance the young lady simply forgot to put on the proper foundation garments. In today’s fast-paced world, many women are hard pressed to keep up with such minor details, with predictable results. A man who was truly up-to-date with the Man Code would know this, and be prepared to act responsibly. Knowing how difficult it can be to keep up with dainties, a man should keep a ready supply of various styles and types of undergarments handy in the front seat of his vehicle for just such an emergency. The proper way to address this is when an unencumbered lady is seen, you should pull your vehicle to the curb (checking to make sure it can be done safely and legally) and quickly step into her path. “Pardon me, miss. I know that you must have a hectic and face-paced life, which would explain why you did not remember to slip into your [INSERT PROPER GARMENT NAME HERE; eg. “bra” and/or “panties”] before you left for your morning constitutional. Allow me to assist you by offering you one of this selection of attractive and supportive items which will make you more comfortable.” Good taste would dictate that you allow her to pick out her own selection, although if she seems hesitant, you may wish to offer a suggestion which you feel would complement her tastes and figure. If the climate is oppressively humid, you may also wish to carry a soft cotton towel to blot her with so that the clothing my be slipped on more easily. (And remember, young ladies do not perspire—they glow!) She may still not wish to avail herself of your gallant offer, but it is best in these instances to be persistent. Remember, vanity is an odd thing, and some ladies may not wish to be seen as forgetful, so a few simple reassurances may be helpful as you assist her. Afterwards, she will be very grateful and will know that you are a true gentleman! By the way, pepper spray should be flushed out of the eyes as quickly as possible after contact to insure that the corneas are not damaged. Just another helpful tip from the Possumblog School of Charm!
Where was I? Oh yeah, The Aftermath!
Got up early Thursday and having packed the night before, went down and strapped the kids down and dropped off the keys at the office (and told them about the leaky ceiling) and headed north. Again, the trip was blessedly uneventful except for the previously mentioned run-ins with highly skilled drivers. Got home a little before 2, checked to make sure all of our piles of junk had not been touched by burglars, went outside and to make sure the torrential downpours had not washed anything away, unloaded luggage, started doing laundry, went looking for a decoration for Oldest’s bedroom, and…went out to eat! Nothing in the fridge, no inclination to set in to cook, so while we were out decoration shopping, we stopped by the most famous Olive Garden in the world, the one over in the Eastwood Mall area of Birmingham which was once the setting for an article by semi-famed cricket writer, sucker-up of Guardian expense account funds, and upper class pretender Matthew Engel; said article later in turn soundly fisked by James Lileks. Anyway, not my most favorite Italian place, but it was right there and it does have a kid’s menu. While I was gone on vacation, East Carolina reader Jim Smith wrote in to ask that I mention if I got to eat any seafood with pasta while I was away. I did, but not until I got back home—shrimp alfredo, which was reasonably good and quite artery-clogging. Again, O.G. ain’t really my idea of a good seafood place, but I was still in the mood for fishiness. Finished up, went home, did more laundry, got up the next morning and in a fit of obsessive-compulsiveness, decided I wanted our shower cleaned. Completely. We have hard water, so a nice crusty film of calcium forms on the shower after approximately five seconds, and I have fought the stuff for five years now. I tried everything—Scrubbing Bubbles, Ka-Boom, Clorox—all of them did get it cleaner, but the foggy film was just too tough. I even tried the diluted CLR spray for bathrooms, which didn’t put a dent in it. Time for the heavy firepower—in a bold gamble I know Acidman would heartily approve of, I started dousing the walls and glass with just plain old straight CLR. I’m not sure of the exact pH of it, but it sure ‘nuff acidic enough to do the job since it contains not one, not two, but THREE different acids: glycolic, sulfamic acid and citric. The task did, however, require A WHOLE BOTTLE! And lots of scrubbing. BUT, once I got through three hours later, our shower was cleaner and sparklier than when we first moved in. I felt so…so…woozy and light-headed. And the small cut on my finger was very painful. But what a feeling of domestic pride! Then it was time to use the shower and get it all scummy again in order to get cleaned up to go over to my Mom’s house for the Fourth. My sister had come up from Mobile (about an hour ahead of us on Thursday) so it was a nice family gathering. Again, no one was in a mood to cook, so my mom picked up some barbecue and some chicken from Full Moon. I usually wax rhapsodic about Dreamland or Jim and Nick’s, but Full Moon is another great pig place, and they have a hot horseradish chow chow that is really something. (The smoked chicken was just as good as the pork, too.) Good time and got to blabber for a pretty good while before the children decided to start acting like berserkers. Home again, clean some more, to bed, then it was time for the Mother of All Saturdays. Our bedroom continues to look like a dump, and Reba in her own fit of obsessive-compulsiveness decided that It Must Be Cleaned. However, Reba is not good at this—she gets in the middle of stuff and finds something interesting to read or something to put up in another room, which leads her to wander off and wind up at bedtime with an even bigger mess, most of which will be strewn over my side of the bed. Alternately, she will say I need to help, and then rather than letting me get something done, I wind up waiting for her to give me bits of string to throw away and safety pins to put in the safety pin cup. Again, such a procedure virtually guarantees nothing ever really gets done. SO, after her gentle entreaty to help her clean up, bright and early Saturday, she said, “Okay, where do you want to start?” Much like questions about whether certain pants make certain butts look big, there was no right answer to this, but in a bold stroke I said, “You start on your side of the room, I’ll start on mine, and we’ll meet in the middle.” I could tell this wasn’t really what she wanted to do—she always seems to think the big mess in the room is the result of me (which IS partially true, I will admit)—so she always wants to get over into my stuff and start rummaging around. She just never really wants to work on her stuff. But, given the confidence I expressed in my plan, she just sighed sadly and went to work. I managed to throw away four big black garbage bags full of stuff (as the child of parents who grew up during the Great Depression, I have a visceral aversion to throwing ANYTHING away, even if it’s old ticket stubs or bent paper clips), clean the old Admiral console radio off, stow all my loose books, dust my bookcase, get rid of two big boxes of junk that had been in place since we moved, find two different copies of the newsletter I wrote a few years back for all of the folks who quit my old employer (in re-reading these, I see that the editorial tone of Possumblog has a very clear ancestor), vacuum the floor, and after a hard day’s work generally make a remarkable difference in reducing the level of junkiness. ON THE OTHER HAND, poor Reba didn’t make much headway, other than to stack a huge pile of stuff over on my side of the bed. Which means her side of the room will be my next project. ::sigh:: I paid for all my effort Sunday, when I could barely get around without grabbing my back and making old man noises, but hey, my side of the room’s clean. Anyway, thus ends my Summer Vacation. Now then, on to more important matters! Monday, July 07, 2003
Fun ‘n’ Games!!
With the amount of rainfall, outdoor activities were limited this year. We did manage to go by The Track and Ride the Wild Woody (no Andrew Sullivan comments, please), and there was the previously mentioned cement pond action, but mostly when confined to quarters it was everyone for himself. I did get to do what I always want to do—mound up on the couch and watch The History Channel—got to see shows about Gatling guns, the Lear Jet, and the recovery of a World War II P-38 from a glacier in Greenland. Even the kids liked that one, although they fought tooth and nail for Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon at every other opportunity. By way of explanation, we don’t have cable, so anytime they can get access, it’s a marathon of Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh! and Samurai Jack and Spongebob. And this time, I was introduced to the horror of Hamtaro. Must…kill…Hamtaro… Where’s a good .243 when you need it? We took along Catherine’s butterfly-pattern hook rug, which provided several solid seconds of enjoyment for her. On the other hand, I found it relaxing and therapeutic. Still didn’t get if finished, though. And we all played several games of Scrabble, and Boggle, and Uno. And started all over again. Reba brought her normal allotment of bodice-ripper Harlequin books, and I brought along a book I’ve had for a while and had never read— Albion’s Seed. Well researched, I suppose, but irritating as sin most assuredly. I tried, but after the introductory chapter about how the book was an exciting new look at methods of writing history, synthesizing “old” and “new” schools of thought with never-before-imagined curlicues and flounces and charts and graphs and flaming spider monkeys and mind-numbing compartmentalization, it was a book I just couldn’t put down quickly enough. I love history, but have little patience for anyone who goes to such tremendous lengths to tell me how great and wonderful what you’re about to read is going to be. All swishing swords and ululating, and you’re just begging Indiana Jones to unholster his revolver and pot the savages right then and there. It's probably a good idea as books go—just drop the pretense and get on with it. Another one I brought along that I HAVE read before is The Mother Tongue, subtitled “English & How It Got That Way”. I thought it was an excellent book when I first read it, and upon rereading, I still think it's an excellent book. Breezy, but well written and informative and especially useful for those of us who make up our own words and rules of grammar and stuff. Boring? Yeah, probably. But then again, as much as we run around normally, just sitting still for a minute was pretty nice. Speaking of which, it’s about time to go for today. I still have a few more bits and pieces of vacationiana, and some really good reader e-mail that came in while I was away that I’ll get around to tomorrow. Right now, it’s time to get ready to go—tonight soccer practice starts back up for Middle Girl and band practice for Oldest, and I have to go pick up a picture we had framed over the weekend and then there’s finishing up the bedroom cleanup detail I started Saturday and…oh, you get the idea. Anyway, see you all tomorrow, when we’ll explore more of the wonders of Possumland!
Vittles
One of the nice things about staying in a condo is that it does have a kitchen, which means you don’t have to eat out all the time. We got down about 3:30 Saturday, checked in, then went out to eat. (We got groceries later.) I just drove along toward the east looking for a likely spot, turned around at the Flora-Bama, and started back. I don’t know exactly what I was looking for other than some seafood and a place to placate the kids and on a whim decided to visit a place called Zeke’s Landing. Now, from the street, it’s impossible to tell what Zeke’s looked like—it was back in behind a strip shopping center, and even after getting into the parking lot, it didn’t look like much. Heh. So, all six of us, rumpled and smelling like the road traipsed upstairs where we were greeted by a courteous young man in a tie and tuxedo vest with a towel over his arm. Oh. My. Yes, we had run slap dab into a fancy place—within two hours of our arrival, we were going to have our most expensive meal. ::sigh:: Oh well. It’s a real swanky place, but, this being the Gulf Coast, we were not the least bit underdressed, so I didn’t feel too much like a rube. And we did get to sit right in a corner table looking out to the marina and down to the place where Zeke’s fleet of charter deep sea fishing boats come in and clean the stuff folks have caught. This might sound really gross, but it was actually fascinating. And clean. No slimy guts and stuff, just great huge fish sliced neatly into little bits and quickly wrapped in plastic for the guys who caught it. Every few minutes, another group of guys would come in and the boat crews would bring their catch over in big wheelbarrows where it would be flopped onto big stainless tables and washed down and cut up. Jonathan and I were the closest to the window, so we got the best show. Like when one group of about eight college-aged guys milled around with the ONE girl who had gone out with them. As if being the lone female didn’t guarantee enough attention, she looked a bit like those Anderson girls—Gillian from the neck up, and Pamela from the neck down. How the guys ever managed to concentrate on fishing I’ll never know, but they brought in a stack of amberjack that were the size of Volkswagens. “Look how HUGE they are, son! Have you ever SEEN such big ones?!” “No, Daddy!” (One day about five years from now, he’ll get the joke.) Anyway, I had the fried snapper, and Reba and the older two girls got the fried shrimp, and Jonathan and Catherine got what all kids want from a fancy seafood place, the cheese pizza. Good food, but I still think the tab was a bit steep. So we left and went to Bruno’s and stocked up on normal stuff. Sunday after church we finally got to eat at the Original Oyster House in Gulf Shores. Mmmm. Good food, good prices. And wonderful family entertainment in the form of an oaf making balloon animals. ::sigh:: Who just happened to set up his little table and tip jar right next to me, and directly across from a set of wiggly little children who belonged to me. ::sigh:: “Hi, would one of you kids like a balloon animal?!” Catherine got a devilish look in her eye—“Cat, would you like this nice man to make you a balloon,” I asked. Vigorous head nodding. “Okay, what would you like, young lady?” said he. “A CAT!!” He paused for a second, “Oh. Well. I don’t know how to do a cat, but I can do a dog or an elephant or a giraffe or a cow or a dog or a bird or a hat or a flower…” He rattled off a laundry list of non-cat items he could magically produce, but the flower is the one that stuck out in her mind, so a flower it was. She eagerly watched him blow it up and twist—all the time while he kept up his patented line of patter…”Where are you folks from?” “Birmingham,” I said. “Did you drive down?” “No,” I said quietly. I stared up at him blankly. “We had to walk.” Heh. That’s apparently not a response they teach them about in the Baldwin County Institute of Applied Inflatable Avatar Construction. I smiled to let him know I just playing, and he recovered fully. Then Jonathan had to get something, and decided he wanted a dog, which was efficiently folded and squeaked into being before his eyes and then we were paged to go to our table. Thank goodness. (And yes, I did drop a couple of bucks in the tip jar for the pneumoartiste.) Got inside, and found someone ELSE from home, a young couple we go to church with and their family. Small world. Exact same thing happened last year, too, with a different set of folks. Anyway, sat down and ordered and was rewarded with a gigantic shrimp po-boy. Mmmm. I don’t even remember what anyone else got, except for Catherine who ordered a cheese pizza, and Jonathan, who got a pepperoni pizza. ::sigh:: Lead ‘em to water and all. Oh well. On the way out, Rebecca decided she needed a balloon animal, so she was rewarded with a fiendishly complex yellow rabbit. And another dollar went into the tip jar. Monday was mostly spent in the suite, as it alternately drizzled and flooded all day. It did let up a bit toward suppertime, so me, being rather oafish and dull, decided to go get some food for us so we wouldn’t have to get all the kids out in the rain. By the time Reba figured out a place for me to go, the weather had turned again, and I drove into Gulf Shores in the middle of a driving storm. Just the tail end of Bill, but a hefty and wet tail it was. I ran inside DeSoto’s Restaurant (sorry, no link) and nearly drowned. But I didn’t. I should have called ahead, too, just to work out the kinks in their food prep and sales procedures. It bills itself as one of Gulf Shores’ landmark dining experiences, and most of the folks who care to leave a review of it on various forums speak highly of it, but it looks and feels a little worn down. And part of being a landmark is apparently that poor service must be overlooked—I swam in and there were two hostesses at the checkout playing cards and trying to ignore me. “Y’all do have takeout, don’t you?” “Uh, we do right now, but we might not later.” Huh? “Pardon?” “Well, it’s not that busy right now, but later on if it gets more busy, we won’t have time to do it. When did you want it?” “Ahhh, well, right now.” “’K.” ::sigh:: After it finally arrived and I floated back down the coast to the house, it turned out to be pretty good food, despite the loving care it was presented with. I got Reba the grilled grouper, and I got a plate full of scrimps and ersters and flounder and crab claws and crawdad tails, and Ashley got a big salad. The younger kids had already eaten their fill of grocery store food, so they left us alone until later. Having to go out to sea and catch it like that made it taste all better. Let’s see—we had a couple of fast food meals, and a nice meal at Jake’s Steakhouse which was just fine and benefitted by being dead across the street. Sadly, we did not get a chance to check out new Possumblog reader Dougal Campbell’s suggestion of Lulu’s Sunset Grille—it sounds great, it’s owned by Jimmy Buffet and his sister Lulu, and Dougal’s mom is the kitchen manager there. Maybe we can get by there next time. ::sigh:: So many fish, so little time… Anyway, on to our next topic…Activities!
Now then, our next topic...Accommodations
We stayed at a pretty nice place in Orange Beach called Seaside Beach and Racquet Club in this unit right here. It’s right next door to the Gulf State Park--Romar Beach area, and convenient to many souvenir shops. Of course, there is little around there that’s NOT convenient to a souvenir shop… This particular condo complex was recommended by Janis Gore, who along with her hubby, has one of the nice beachside units. We waited so long about reserving our spot, however, that we weren’t able to rent hers and Lyman’s swinging, telescope-equipped pad and had to settle for the “Tennis Villas”. Not bad, though. Not right on the beach, but close enough to be in danger of being destroyed by errant hurricanes. The one we were in was clean, but beginning to show the signs of too many rentals. The bad thing about having a condo is that renting it out is just about the only way to make it affordable, but renting it out means filling it full of people who seem to think it’s a hotel that they can trash with abandon. Most in our part of the complex are built about like a Jim Walter home inside—inexpensive paneling and trim and finishes and the like—which would hold up just fine for something you, personally, use only twice a year or so. But they aren’t made for prison inmates. The master bathroom was an especial treat. Ashley walked in and stepped in water, which I figured was the leftover mop water from it being cleaned. No biggie. Then, it was there again later. Hmm. No leaking sound from the toilet—must just be one of the kids. Then I was startled out of a dead sleep at four a.m. Monday morning by a constant dripping sound. I stumbled in and found the ceiling vent leaking water all over the floor. It didn’t occur to me that there was still one more unit above me, and I chalked it up to the torrent of rain going on (which turned out to be Tropical Storm Bill). Put the trash can under it and went back to bed. Continued to find water the following days, then finally after ANOTHER early morning wake-up, realized that I could hear sloshing in the tub in the unit above. Whoever it was seemed to like to take their bathies in the middle of the friggin’ night, and also like not having any freeboard between the top of the tub and the top of the water. At least I HOPE that’s what was going on. Anything else is too horrid to contemplate. Anyway, I told the girls in the office about it when we left, and they both sorta looked at each other funny. Hmmm. The storm didn’t do any damage to the outside other than blowing some of the chairs around. This sounded something like standing in a large metal box while gorillas attacked the outside with sledgehammers. The balconies on the back were framed and decked in wood and were connected slap into the side of the building, which created a lovely symphony when EVERYONE’S chairs started doing the cha-cha. Strangely enough, Tuesday night was even worse, and this was long after the storm had moved inland. All night long, the deafening bumping and thumping of plastic chairs on timber driven by a near-constant 40 mile an hour wind. The floor/ceiling separation wasn’t all that great either. You could follow a single person all around the unit above by listening to their footsteps. Which was interesting, except when they were running around in their lead diving boots. That was just plain loud. The unit did have the advantage of being close to the indoor pool. Since most normal people like being out in the sun, we usually had this one to ourselves, so despite several days when we couldn’t get out, the kids probably got to spend as much time swimming as they would have gotten to do in the outdoor pool—even with sunscreen, we can’t keep them out too long. Of course, Oldest was beside herself having to be inside. “What are we swimming in?” “Water.” “What’s in the other pool?” “Water.” “Alright then, hush.” Nothing like a little logic to really make her mad. And it’s not like she can really even swim yet. All that money we spent last year on lessons, and she still won’t put her face in the water, and thinks that skipping across the bottom on her toes is the same as swimming. Catherine, on the other hand, having not swam since last year, managed to learn how to do underwater somersaults. I grabbed her and asked if she wanted to flip, which she eagerly agreed to, did that a couple of times, then she did it herself. Incredible. Then she started doing two, then three, and very nearly made it to four before drinking about a gallon of water. Then she did them backwards. AND THEN, I got her to dive down and do a handstand on the bottom of the pool, and then got her to where she could glide underwater from one side to the other. Wow. I guess we got our money’s worth on HER! Other items of interest about our abode was that it was home to half of Trussville and Chalkville. We went out on the beach one afternoon, and ran into one of Jonathan’s classmates and his family who were staying there, who then told us of several more folks staying there. It was hard to go any length of time without seeing some big hulking kid with a Hewitt-Trussville Huskies tee shirt or a willowy blonde cheerleader removing a Clay-Chalkville Cougars shirt. (This being a family outing, I refuse to discuss this matter in more detail.) In any event, I hope whoever was the last one out of Trussville locked the door and left some food out for the dog. Which will lead us on to our next topic in a bit--EATING,
The Backstory…
Okeedoke—so where is this magical place my family and I went? L.A., baby! That’s right, Lower Alabama. Now some of you may wonder why this place in particular, but the Alabama Gulf Coast shares with Florida some of the most beautiful, blindingly white beaches in the world. The Florida side, on the panhandle from Destin down to Panama City has always been a real touristy place, while the Alabama side was not quite so built up. Or expensive. Hence the sobriquet “Redneck Riviera”. Dauphin Island, on the west side of Mobile Bay, is still somewhat secluded but it along with everything from Fort Morgan to Gulf Shores to Orange Beach to Perdido is decidedly much more Riviera than redneck nowadays. The Alabama side is somewhat more family oriented, while the Florida end is more heavily trafficked by partying college kids, but all of it has gotten pretty high toned. And manages to draw folks from pretty far away. Saw the normal bunch from Tennessee and Mississippi and Georgia, along with a goodly number of folks from the Midwestern I-states, and one intrepid couple who lashed two kayaks on the roof of their Nissan Pathfinder and drove all the way down from MAINE! You know, you really have to want to go kayaking bad to do that. There were a good many folks on motorcycles, but this being the 21st Century, they were wealthy enough to be able to buy the whole outlaw biker persona at the Harley shop. I did feel kind of sorry for one guy who came all the way from Mississippi on a mildly chopped solid-frame Harley. Hardtail, indeed. The big winner of the long distance award, however, goes to some guy in a Chevy C-1500 who drove in from Alaska. That's not a typo--ALASKA! Hey, Gulf Shores is nice, but I don’t know that I would drive 3,000 miles to go see it. Which leads us into our next topic of…VEHICULAR MAYHEM!! As for our drive down, the Honda did just fine. It was very nice not to have to worry so much about the possibility of breaking down, and it performed like a champ even though it was loaded to the gills. Got a bit over 20 MPG, and the kids managed not to rip or tear anything. Of course, being anesthetized by having along a little VCR/TV combo tended to mellow them out a bit. Some of you may decry the loss of wonderful childhood memories of Slug-A-Bug and License Plate Bingo and Count the Possum Road Kill, but having once been a child myself, and now having four with deafeningly loud whine buttons, having an gentle, habit-forming electronic narcotic is a blessing. We were able to pass by most of the rest stops and purveyors of boiled peanuts (and REAL BOLED PENUTS, and GENUINE BOILED P’NUTS, and Fresh hot boiled “PEANUTS” IN “SHELL”) and made pretty good time. The only gauge of a successful trip, by the way. “Yep, rained a bit, but we made good time.” Speaking of roadkill, seems there was less this year. I’m not sure why, but I really doubt it was a general increased sense of tidiness by ALDOT. I speculate (wildly) that since we’ve had a lot of rain this year, the critters have not been so pressed to search around for water and thus were less inclined to play in the traffic. Last year, I counted over twenty hard possums and four soft, but this year there were only about 16 armadillos to one possum, along with a porcupine, three raccoons, assorted furry things, and oddly enough, two big birds. Several kind and considerate drivers did all they could to make me part of the count. Almost to a vehicle, they came from one place—metro Atlanta. I don’t know what it is about driving in Atlanta—the short distances between exits, the congestion, the crystal meth—but without fail if there was a car which came screaming up on my rear end (even though it was obvious there was a line of cars in front of me going slow), or which tailgated, or cut someone off, or drove like they learned how in Bombay or Caracas, it was somebody from Atlanta. Next worse were the ones from metro Birmingham, particularly Shelby County. Rude, hyperaggressive, and fully deserving to star in one of those nice films they show you in driver’s ed about the dangers of driving while stupid. I don’t mind people who drive faster than I do—I drive fast sometimes, too. But there is a difference between being fast and being quick. Quick means you anticipate more than one car length ahead of you, and you leave yourself some room to maneuver, and you share nicely with the other children. ::sigh:: Morons. Anyway, we arrived safe and sound Saturday afternoon at our lovely condominium, which will get full attention in our next installment in just a bit!
L.A. CONFIDENTIAL!!,
or Hi, my name is Bill, and I’m a tropical storm, or Veni vidi beachy, or, aw—forget it…too many possible titles. Anyway, as you can no doubt surmise, I have returned from holiday at lovely Orange Beach, Alabama to the lovely embrace of unvacation. Blah. Got in here to work and it was just like I haven’t even been gone—of course, it’s hard to understand what I thought might change in seven days, but, you know, you sorta hope… Anyway, I have a bunch of e-mails from you good people that I have to tend to—Chet the E-Mail Boy has them in a neat stack over by the mimeograph machine. He’s fine, by the way—he had eaten all of his corn flakes up after the first couple of days, but I think his lady friend dropped by and brought him some food because I found a Hardee’s sausage biscuit wrapper in his trash can. Whatever—as long as she’s buying, I suppose it’s okay. After I get all of the e-mail sent out, I will be composing all sorts of lurid yarns describing our jaunt to the Gulf Coast and posting them throughout the day. Check back in periodically, and there will be all sorts of stuff. Nothing really different from what’s normally here, but it will be the very newest in repetitive mundanalia!
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