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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, February 03, 2004
You know, it's a shame...
...that today is not Groundhog Day. If it were, the groundhog would not only have seen his shadow, but more importantly, he would have seen the newest episode of "Rednecks in Space"! (I'm not sure what such a thing would bode for the weather outlook.)
Ewww. Gross.
It's time once again to take the Tiny Terror to the ear doctor to see if her ear has gotten any better. If not, it looks like he's going to have to tube her, which is one of those things that just seems so...I don't know, disconcerting, I guess. I mean, you spend an inordinate amount of time telling your kids not to stick things in their ears, and then you have some guy in a white coat who comes in with Mr. Lancet and Ben Zocaine and Mr. Sucky Pipe and Miss O'Ring and does all sorts of horrifying crap to your ear, and then packs it full of cotton. But, then again, you really don't want your kid to go around saying "Huh? Do whut?" all the time. And for any parent who has ever had a kid with a chronic ear infection, it seems to effect their brains so that they chronically behave like chronically angry baboons, which is really much less fun than you would think. Well, maybe they've cleared up and she won't have to worry about all those noisy trains. (Of course, if her ear IS clear, it means she has no excuse for the baboonery.) We'll see what happens.
Incredible
From noted law student and Holmseian nemesis Irene Adler, a link to a stunning Library of Congress exhibition of the colorized photographs of Sergei Mikhailovich Prokudin-Gorskii. From the website: In the early 1900s Prokudin-Gorskii formulated an ambitious plan for a photographic survey of the Russian Empire that won the support of Tsar Nicholas II. Between 1909-1912, and again in 1915, he completed surveys of eleven regions, traveling in a specially equipped railroad car provided by the Ministry of Transportation.
Neat stuff. Oh, by the way--here's a link to explain the voodoo digichromatography used to get the images from the plates.
Interesting Old Reading
More plagiarism, today an excerpt from the military dictionary portion of Simes' Military Medley, first printed in 1768 and now available in reprint from King's Arms Press & Bindery. HONOUR, is a virtue particularly incumbent on an Officer to preserve unsullied; consequently, all his actions should be guided by it: a man of true honour would rather exert his patience than his courage, except in defense of his King and country; for he who is guided by principles of religion and justice, establishes his character, and recommends himself to the favour of his Prince, who always rewards the deserving.
Web-surfing on Neb. senate floor gets OK LINCOLN, Neb. (AP) -- State senators will soon be able to surf the Internet on the floor of the legislative chamber.
And Speaking of Doggerel
I had a visitor come by yesterday as the result of a Google search query that absolutely baffled me. (And also managed to return Possumblog as the sole result!) julius caesar the roman geezer squished his face. What in the world was that about? Figuring that there had to be something else to this, I Googled on "roman geezer" and to my surprise found out that this is part of an apparently pretty well-known schoolyard rhyme, at least in some part of the world. The whole thing goes: 'Julius Caesar The Roman geezer Squashed his nose In a lemon squeezer.' Alternate versions have wife instead of nose. There are also a couple that do away with the whole juicer thing and substitute other literate bits in its place. Here's one I found: Julius Caesar, Roman geezer, Came to Britain, wasn't smitten, Back to Gaul, After All And another (that strains a little too hard)-- Noel Coward was a charmer As a writer he was brahmer. Julius Caeser Roman geezer Must have been a pencil squeezer. Einstein can’t be witty-less Frightened everybody That last line kinda falls apart, eh? Anyway, I have no idea why I posted this.
Speaking of Komic Kids
Got started on the morning's Toothbrush Story with Cat--little girl in forest, calling woodland critters to come home and brush teeth, finds Kelly the Bunny and Foxy Loxy (who continually bites and licks the tender parts of Kelly the Bunny to determine which parts would go best with cornbread and coffee) and then, a wall. You see, there needed to be another animal, and I was at a loss for one. I asked for Catherine's suggestions, but she had none. "Well, Cat, what about...a possum?" She looked at me with a puzzled look, "Dad, we don't have no possums at our house." I explained that we had lots of them all over the place, but she still had a look of great consternation (or constipation) on her face. Then the light went on as she remembered what, exactly, a possum is. "OHHH. Wait--a possum is one of them animals that's on the road." "Yes! That's right." "And they're playing dead." "Well, yeah, I uhh..." "And then at night, they gets up and leave." "Ahhhm, well...I don't think they get up and leave." "Okay, I want the other animal to be a hamster." So Kelly the Bunny and Foxy Loxy and Hammie the Hamster all had sparkly teeth.
Timing is Everything
Sat down to eat supper last night and after the usual round of twelve different conversations carried on simultaneously, it had finally quieted down a bit as the various We told her to just get a slice of bread out of the box and toast it, but she balked at that. Jonathan, being the helpful little brother he is, suggested, "Crackers are bread." Without a moment's waste, Catherine, who had been preternaturally quiet all evening, piped up and said, "Violets are blue..." That one got an honest guffaw out of both Mom and Dad. Of course, getting Dad to laugh is like hitting the jackpot with them, so she started trying out more material (which I felt was highly derivative and lacked spontaneity) and I had to give her the quick tutorial about going out on top with your big joke and not spoil it by endlessly repeating it. She'll be appearing at Chuckles & Grins next week at 8 and 10:15 Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Monday, February 02, 2004
If you've never visited A Little Aardvark Never Hurt Anyone, today is a good day.
It's one of those posts that helps you to remember what's important in life. And beyond.
Buckle Up--This Here's a Long Ride.
As usual, up early Saturday after a late evening of really hot and exciting laundry, and decided to see if we could get the grandparents to keep the children for a couple of hours to see if we could go look for furniture again. I figure if I play my cards right, I can put off buying a sofa until I get my $27,000,000 (TWENTY SEVEN MILLION US DOLLARS) from Mrs. Abacha. Which is probably a more likely occurrence than finding something I can actually stand to look at. Anyway, Reba’s mom’n’dad agreed to watch the little darlings for a while--we got there and the pest control guy was there in his bright yellow New Beetle, which the kids though was very clever for a bug guy to drive. They charged inside and immediately began their “we were raised in the forest by wolves” act while the poor guy was sitting at the kitchen table with my father-in-law. He didn’t quite know what to make of them. I suggested soup, then quickly shooed them into the den and told them to be quiet so Grandpapa could talk to the bug man. Reba and I made our escape and proceeded to head out for a couple of furniture places specializing in kid’s furniture, hoping to find a chest of drawers for Rebecca. Stopped by the Kids ‘R’ Us in Hoover that is going out of business. Nothing quite so depressing as a run-down kids store, that’s for sure. Nothing there. Aside from a crumbling building. Went back up the street to Parnell’s. Nothing. Then on to Burlington Coat Factory (“Not Associated with Burlington Industries”--you know, if I had a company that I had to spend an inordinate amount of time telling everyone was not associated someone else, I think I would change the name.) Anyway, they had one very inexpensive chest in dark faux imitation cherrylike color, which has been the closest thing we’ve seen so far. Still didn’t get it, though. Gotta look some more. Then back toward home to a furniture place that I swore Reba said was in Springville, but that turned out to be on Springville Road. On the opposite end of said road from Springville. Reba is actually a very good navigator when she has a map. Without one, there is a tendency for the person driving her to go all the way to Springville before finally deciphering her instructions. Oh, well. At least it was a pretty day. And the trip down Deerfoot Parkway did give us a chance to look for Jonathan’s orthodontist’s office again. She and the other kids had looked last week after school to no avail. She got on the Internet and tried to get a map but was repeatedly messed up by the fact that the particular street is not yet in any of the online databases, as well as the fact that the ZIP Code for the office covers part of Center Point AND part of Clay. She worked herself into quite a tizzy, going back and forth between two different areas with no actual streets that showed up. SO, at least we had a street name, and I figured it couldn’t be TOO hard to find, and we could always stop and ask. So, we drove the length of Springville Road in the Clay area and found absolutely no such thing as Murray Drive. (Named after Gavin MacLeod’s character Murray Slaughter on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. Not really.) I even stopped at the fancy BP station right there at the intersection of Deerfoot and Springville Road and asked the nice woman with the Marlboro lungs if she knew where Murray Drive was. “Naw. Don’t know where no Murray Street is. D’you?” she asked the burly bearded fellow behind me. He looked at her with his tiny little eyes, allowing the frothy cappuccino to dangle on his mustache hairs as he contemplated. He thought. Long. And hard. “Nope.” Oh well, maybe another time. I said thanks and went back out to the van so we could continue our search for the baby furniture store that is NOT in Springville. All the way back at the Winn-Dixie at the intersection of Chalkville Mountain Road, and there it was in a small outparcel building. The pole sign out front was bigger than the store. Nothing there. ::sigh:: On back to the inlaw’s to pick up the kiddies, then home for more laundry fun, and then off to take Bec to soccer practice. While she did that, I took Reba’s van and got gas and got it washed, then stopped by the library to see what all was going on in the world and answer some e-mail, then back to the park just in time to pick Bec back up. Such timing! On home once more, where we set in to get them all bathed and ready to go for the get-together at church. They really detested the part about having to get ready--after all, it was DAYTIME, and no one EVER takes a bath during the day. While they got ready, I flipped on the television and started folding clothes. I absentmindedly clicked all the way to the UPN station way down at channel 68 on the UHF dial, and OOOOoohhhhhh! Bad Disaster Movie Day! This one looked like a real stinker--I sat transfixed, folding socks and looking at a dreary potboiler that could have only been made in the late-‘70s. I didn’t know what the name of it was until IMDb’ed it this morning. It was none other than Meteor ! I don’t remember this one from when it came out in 1979, but it has all the required, essential elements of the Disaster Movie Genre--huge cast of Well Known Stars, Impending Disaster in Which Thousands of Innocents Will Die, Guys at Computer Consoles, Speaker Phones, Polyester Clothing the Color of Dirt, Countdown Clock, No Discernable Knowledge of Basic Physics or the Way Buildings are Constructed, Muttonchop Sideburns, Thudding, Ponderous Music, and RUSSKIES!! Cool. The synopsis from IMDb pretty much says it all: After a collision with a comet, a nearly 8km wide piece of the asteroid "Orpheus" is heading towards Earth. If it will hit it will cause a incredible catastrophe that will probably extinguish mankind. To stop the meteor NASA wants to use the illegal nuclear weapon satellite "Hercules" but discovers soon that it doesn't have enough fire power. Their only chance to save the world is to join forces with the USSR who have also launched such an illegal satellite. But will both governments agree? Oh, I forgot another fixture--The Metric System! Anyway, I hate to spoil it for you, but them darn Commies do eventually agree to work with us and blow up the asteroid. But not before chunks obliterate several city-type places. And cause people to wear ugly clothes.It does have your Requisite All-Star Cast, including a wooden Sean Connery as a guy wearing a leather coat and giving terse instructions; Karl Malden as an excitable, scenery-chewing NASA guy; Brian Keith as a humble, grandfatherly Red scientist forced to speak Russian the entire film; Henry Fonda as “The President” (he was much better in Fail Safe, although that probably goes without saying); Martin Landau, Trevor Howard, Richard A. Dysart, and Joseph Campanella--all playing the parts of “Gruff Men Who Needed a Job or Would Be Forced to Do Television Commercials or Appear as Guest Celebrities on the Gong Show”; and an appearance by Sybil Danning as “Swiss Girl Skier” (following up her stunning portrayal of “Amy” in The Concorde: Airport ‘79). The only thing that made the thing worth watching was that it also had Natalie Wood in it, portraying a Russian translator. Frumpy clothes and stupid accent or not, Natalie Wood was still a right handsome women back in the day. Just not in this film. The movie finally got over with in a stunningly bad array of muddy people and nucular ‘splosions and bad Russian, and then another movie came on that was made the exact same year. And it was one I had never seen before, but kinda knew about by reputation after seeing the sequel. It was Mad Max, of all things. What an odd movie. But still kinda neat to watch, even with all the missing stuff cut out so the local stations can sell more aluminum siding and fat-burner pills. It made The Road Warrior sequel almost understandable by providing the backstory. Nothing quite explains Beyond Thunderdome, but that’s a whole ‘nother thing. Anyway, part Generic Outlaw Biker Gang movie, part Walking Tall, part Clockwork Orange, part Vanishing Point, part Smokey and the Bandit, and part just plain odd, it’s a weirdly cool movie, if for no other reason that the presence of all the hi-po Aussie machinery. (Although I have to say that whoever thought you could switch a GMC 8-71 blower off and on with a red button had been out in the sun too long. Be sure to check out the Aussie Coupes website for the real versions of these things.) The meal at church was very nice, although it lasted way too long. Left late, and was coming up the road into our subdivision when I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a cat in front of me, then figured it was a possum, then a dog, and “HEY! KIDS! Look, it’s a fox!” I stopped and it trotted on over to the shoulder of the road and just stood there for a bit, a little gray fox. We get all kinds of varmints around our house, but I hadn’t seen a fox until then. The kids thought it was pretty darned cool, and they all got out their booklights and started shining them out the window to see it better. Which I think frightened it, because it took off into the woods. But Catherine was much pleased--one, she actually got to see it, and two, she was lonesome for a new woodland friend after not seeing Kelly the Bunny for months now. “Daddy, is Kelly the Bunny ever going to come back?” Awww. I told her Kelly probably moved to another house. She was sad, but now that there’s Foxy Loxy in town, she seems much better. I just hope Foxy Loxy did not eat Kelly the Bunny--boy, that would be BAD. Anyway, that was all Saturday--EXCEPT. Reba looked in the Yellow Pages, and found that our orthodontist has a WEBSITE (which I had not been able to find even with an extreme bout of Googling both of the partners' names and every conceivable form of address), a website with information and games and with MAPS!. Turns out that their office is right behind the BP station we had stopped at. Whaddya know. Anyway, we dumped ourselves into bed and promptly started snoring, which is just wonderful when you have a sore throat. Thanks to all of you who have commiserated with my pitiable condition, but it’s just the way life is. It’s only a flesh wound, you know. Sunday, up bright and early and dense-headed, to church, then lunch with the Chinese people, then home where I actually got to read the entire newspaper, then back to church for meetings and worship, and then back home to watch the remaining portion of the SUPER BO…oh. No. No. Can’t do that. You see, in my attempt to evade losing good television-watching nights for the kid’s TV Turn Off project, I had made the strategic error of choosing Sunday as our night to not watch the boob tube. Normally a day spent away from home and with the teevee off, it never occurred to me that there might be something really exciting to watch on a Sunday night. You know, like the Super Bowl. Oh well. It probably wasn’t a close game or anything. It’s always a blow-out. And the halftime show was probably pretty tame, too. Anyway, in lieu of that, I went to the grocery store at the foot of the hill and got the kids their snacks for school. On the way out, I noticed that the Sonic had FINALLY replaced the lamp in the end of their big cone-shaped canopy support! Now THAT, my friends, is EXCITEMENT that you JUST CAN’T GET ON TV! And now I’m back here today.
From the Lofty Heights
of verdant Talledega Hill, overlooking the mighty and swift Pinchgut Creek, I bid yet another weekend goodbye, and a hearty good morning to you all! Stay tuned for spectacular and incredible yarns of suburban life, including Furniture Shopping; Searching for the Orthodontist's Office; 1970s Disaster Movie Reviews; Foxy Loxy; Petard, Hoisted by Own; and the Sonic Has Its Cone Light Replaced!! Stay tuned--I have to go to staff meeting right now. Blech. Friday, January 30, 2004
Friday Afternoon
And it's just about time to get out of here for the usual weekend jam-packed full of fun and high explosives. And the Super Bowl, not that I really care. Despite liking football pretty well, and yammering about it like an idiot during the college season, watching pro ball is sorta low on my list of things to do. And anyway, after seeing Franco Harris' Immaculate Reception--watched on a fuzzy-pictured television set, sitting around with my dad and my uncle and a few cousins in my uncle's country store one cold December night in 1972--it's all been sorta downhill anyway. Oh well, at least there's the commercials. Other things on tap for the weekend include the usual pounding of clothes on rocks, taking Middle Girl to soccer practice, another meal at the church building tomorrow evening, remembering pi to the 247th place, and trying to get rid of this cold. The one thing I have steadfastly refused to mention all week--I mean, who DOESN'T have a cold?! This one came on real sneaky like, disguised as a hoarseness I attributed to driving around with the window of the van down doing my Screamin' Dean impression. By yesterday evening, it had made itself known right well, as it filled my upper head parts with a particularly tenacious snotcrete material. This, along with a general malaise and swirly-headedness, has made both sleeping and staying awake a rather carksome process. Of course, it's not like having a collapsed lung, so I figure I can tough it out. Anywho, all of you have a wonderful weekend and we'll crank this silly mess back up bright and early Monday.
Happy Anniversary to J. Bowen, writer of No Watermelons Allowed, Axis of Weevil Minister of Nucularity, and number one referrer of traffic to Possumblog!
Hm. Y'learn something new every day.
I was just now typing up another in my long series of fascinating meeting minutes, and instead of typing "...a dark terra cotta color...," I typed "a cark terra cotta color." I went back to change it and noticed that it didn't have the squiggelly line under it to indicate it was misspelled. I tried to click on it to get a synonym to no avail, then went off to the online dictionary and found a whole new word to abuse! cark
Gastronomy
Just got a hit from someone with this inquiry--I need a light and fluffy hushpuppy. Rather defeats the purpose, doesn't it? I mean, it's about like asking for a light and fluffy hammer. Hushpuppies, another one of the wonderifermous uses for grease and corn meal, are by their very nature intended to be substantial and somewhat dense. Like me. Obviously, they shouldn't be rock hard, but a proper hushpuppy has a firm, crunchy outside crust, with a heavy, moist interior. They are the bread equivalent of an anchor, keeping all the other foods on the plate calm and securely moored. Lightness and fluffiness would be an insult. Biscuits, on the other hand...
And great was the fall thereof.
Dr. Smith’s detailing of his antigravity experiments just reminded me of my own attempt at cheating Earth’s pull. The exact date was Wednesday, October 2, 1996, at our old house in Irondale. I remember the date because I am looking at the account of it I wrote for the stupid newsletter I used to send to all the people who had quit The Bad Place where I used to work. Here goes... [insert dreamy music and hold your head into an aquarium so everything looks all watery and dreamy-like] After a quick breakfast with my daughter Ashley, we bundled our things together to head downstairs for the truck. I thought how nice it was to be leaving the house early for once. Ashley thought little kid thoughts. I opened the door to the basement stairs, and Ashley stepped down. It was a cloudy, dark morning, and the basement was a lightless chasm. So, Ashley turned on the lights. With the way now sufficiently illuminated to keep me from falling headlong down the stairs, I stepped down and reached back to close the door. As my heel narrowly missed the front edge of the second step, I began my headlong fall down the steps. Oh, I had slipped on the carpeted steps before, and had even missed an entire step, but this was a new and entirely unpleasant thing. I felt my upper torso sail forward, then WHHHUMMMP!OOOF! my shoulder hit the stairs, my feet neatly arced over my head then WHHHHUUUMMMMP!OOF! the cycle repeated itself for two more times WHHHUMMMP!OOF!, WHHHUUUUMMMP!OOF! until I lay in a mushy heap on the bottom landing, my tumble brought to an end by the concrete block basement wall. I looked around from my new vantage point, realizing thankfully that I could still see, and ever-so-slowly sat up. Ashley was transfixed in terror at the top of the stairs, and in my most confident Daddy voice I told her, “Don’t worry, stuntmen do this all the time.” Reba had leapt out of bed at the first WHHUUUMMMP! and came running to the door to make sure Ashley was okay. I told her that Ashley was fine, just a little scared. I collected my papers and my Thermos and got my lunch bag out from underneath my rather sore butt. I stood and found that I had not broken my neck, back, legs, or any other bony protuberance. My shirt was not torn, my pants were still in their unsoiled polyester glory. I had survived. I looked around, noticing the two wood 2x4 studs that I had installed several months earlier to close off one side of the landing--they were now ripped from their nailings and shoved almost out of the opening. The momentum of a multi-hundred-pound oaf rolling downhill will do that, I suppose. Ouch, I thought. That must have hurt. I heard Jonathan and Rebecca crying upstairs because of the bad loud noise someone had made. And lest you think ill of her, Reba did ask about my health, and I assured her that I was okay. “Stuntmen do this all the time.” I told Ashley that we needed to go, or we would be late. I remember thinking on the way down the steps that it seemed to be taking an awfully long time to get to the bottom, and that it sure was loud, and that I couldn’t stop falling, and that it sure was a lot of hurt. But as I walked gingerly out to the truck, I couldn’t help but think what a great story this was going to make.
It’s been a while since I posted any lengthy quotations out of old books I have--I finally plumbed Everyone’s Writing Desk Book for all it had in it aside from the synonyms-antonyms-homonyms section. SO, I figured I would rummage through my other stuff and see what I could find.
I have a modern reprint here of a book entitled, Plain Concise, Practical Remarks on the Treatment of Wounds and Fractures, by John Jones, MD. I purchased this from a wonderful place called the King’s Arms Press and Bindery, who specialize in reprints of 18th century publications and ephemera, with a particular focus on military and political treatises of the Revolutionary War period. According to their website, the book I have is a copy of a “rare work of 113 pages printed in New York in 1776 and contains much detailed information of the treatment of wounds and fractures as well as hints on the design and use of military hospitals. Among the chapters included are, Penetrating Wounds of the Thorax and Abdomen, Of Simple Fractures, Of Compound Fractures, On Amputation, Of Gun-shot Wounds, &c.” Believe it or not, it really is interesting (even with the chore of reading something full of “long esses” and ligatures). The discourse seems vigorously scientific on one hand, but the outcome of that supposed scientific knowledge points to a profound ignorance of the nature of disease--some of the treatments had not changed since Galen. Lots of bleedings and purgatives and minute observations of humourous imbalances, and biting upon rolled up cloths to alleviate pain during the more uncomfortable procedures. Oftentimes, our modern stereotype of doctors during this time is that they were cruel men not far removed from pure quacks, but despite describing some rather grisly treatments, the overall tone of Dr. Jones’ book is nonetheless one of great kindness and compassion toward the suffering patient. In the Introduction, Dr. Jones delves into his opinion of what becomes a good Surgeon-- […] instead of attempting an idle panegyric upon the most useful of arts, permit me to point out to you some of the most essential duties and qualifications of a good Surgeon; the proper requisites of which respectable character, are only to be found in a liberal education, furthering every means of acquiring knowledge, which must be ripened by experience, and graced by the constant practice of attention, tenderness, and humanity. A judicious surgeon will always find his powers and abilities of assisting the wretched, proportionable to the time he has spent, and the pains he has bestowed in acquiring the proper knowledge of his profession. […]
Jim Smith empirically works out the equation for the coefficient of friction of ice: what I have learned since I last blogged, on Tuesday
In any event, Jim, so sorry to hear about your debilitation and all our best wishes and prayers for a speedy recovery. Thursday, January 29, 2004
Study: Sedentary life starts in toddlers
I know my kids were derned lazy babies who wouldn't get out and mow the yard for nothing in the world!
Kerry raises $500,000 online in two days
GREETINGS!
The Least Surprising Headline of the Week: Hezbollah: Group May Kidnap More Israelis
Religion of peace, doncha know. Just like those nice Quakers.
Enormous
E-N-O-U-R-M-O-U-S. She managed to make it through six other words--bolt, groom, blockhead, swindler, pleased, and smattering--before getting stymied. Oh well, such is life. Or so you would think. They had all the parents and visitors of the eight kids competing in a room together away from the library, and we watched the contest on closed circuit. The moment Oldest was told she was wrong, she let out an audible and rather snotty "Oh, CRAP!" then a few minutes later showed up upstairs clutching her gut and melodramatically stage-whispering to Reba and me that SHE! FELT! SICK! I told her to shhh and whispered to her to go to the restroom, and she furiously hissed that SHE! FELT! LIKE! HER! STOM! ACH! WAS! ON! FIRE! Reba and I both told her to pipe down and I told Reba to take her out to the restroom now. ::sigh:: They came back in a little bit, and she was quieted down some, but she kept mumbling to herself and agitatedly spelling everyone else's words on the television. It'sonlyaphase,it'sonlyaphase,it'sonlyaphase... The final two kids went through seven more rounds before one got hung up on ubiquitous--e-u-b-i-q-u-i-t-i-o-u-s. The other girl, whose name I believe was Courtney Moss of Clay-Chalkville, spelled it correctly and then finished up with serendipitous for the win. As for the rest of the competition, the television we had wasn't quite plugged into the CATV outlet all the way, so until the custodian came and fixed it, it was like trying to watch and listen to scrambled Cinemax. Not that I know what that's like. You could hear the kids barely, but the pronouncer was inaudible until it was fixed. At least this year the pronouncer didn't have such a thick Southern accent as the woman did last year, although she and the judges both seemed to have lived a rather sheltered life. She stopped at one point and asked that the judges pronounce vigilante. As the kids say, WTF!?! You don't know how to pronounce THAT?! So, the judges pronounced it, something like "vij-a-LAHWN-tay'." Huh!? You TOO!? Stuff like that is why I get so miffed at being constantly hectored by the teacher's union sorts about how smart they all are. Yes, I'm sure you think you are, but when an 8th grader mocks you for not knowing a common word, it kinda hurts your argument. In other observances, there was one cute little smiling girl who asked for a definition for EVERY word. Including words such as log. It was obvious she had been coached in the fine art of stalling for time. She was eliminated toward the end, too. Then there was a lady there who seemed very intent on making sure all the other parents knew that you could protest a call. She said something even before it began about wanting to make sure she could hear the television in case she needed to make a protest. A kid misspelled embargo as embarigol because of the stilted way the pronouncer said it, which the kid repeated. The lady leaned over to the grieving parents and confidently said, "You know, I would protest that." Hey, no kiddin', sister. All in all, an interesting break during the middle of the day. And there were refreshments afterwards!
Okay...
Off now to Arndale (which is how us'ns say Irondale) for the contest. Wish me...er, I mean, Ashley, good luck. Be back in a bit to let you know how it turns out.
Comics' 'Cathy' getting married? KANSAS CITY, Missouri (AP) -- For 27 years, funny page fans in more than 1,400 newspapers have read along as "Cathy," of the same-named strip, navigated her life as a single career woman.
Speaking of the funnies, Berke Breathed's new "Opus" strip has been out for almost three months now. 10 strips, each panel beautifully drawn, but I have yet to crack a smile. Maybe it's me, I don't know, but I am growing impatient.
'Nother one bites the dust.
KB Toys closing Century Plaza store Same mall I mentioned earlier this month that's losing one of its anchor stores, Rich's. If they keep losing stores, it'll wind up looking just like Eastwood Mall.
Zephyr
Well, it's that time again. Oldest has her district spelling competition today to see if she gets to go on to the Jefferson County spelling bee like she did last year. I imagine she'll do okay again, but thankfully she's not all cranked up about it like she was last year. Lots less stress on all of us. So, I will be out later on this afternoon cheering her on and The title of this post is blatantly ripped off from Miss Janis, who seems to harbor no small amount of pent-up ill will towards contests of this sort; ill will which always seems to come back to that one word--zephyr. Miss Janis, if it would help any, when I think of zephyr, I always think of the 1937 Lincoln Zephyr V-12 coupe. (Although, for some reason, I hardly ever think of a 1978 Mercury Zephyr.) Or the 1934 Burlington Zephyr. Or a 1999 Kawasaki Zephyr ZRX1100. Or, best of all, the fearsome Washoe Zephyr.
Who?
We had our normal midweek Bible study at church last night--this quarter I'm teaching a class of about fourteen 7th-9th graders. As part of our study of spiritual beings, we were studying the nature of Jesus, and I noted that no matter whether or not people believed Jesus was the Messiah, God Incarnate, or some nice guy with special spiritual insight, or a widely-travelled wise man, or a carpenter's son who took one too many licks to the head from falling hammers, or a carnival freak, it was pretty difficult to say that Jesus as a living, breathing, person did not exist. I told the kids that the amount of information written about him, even if you discount the Bible accounts, is sufficient to establish his physical presence as much as any other historical figure, such as, oh, say, Julius Caesar. "Who's that?" asked one 8th grade girl. ::sigh::
Monkeys Show Males Think Hard About Sex - Really
No word about the desire to throw poop at spectators. Wednesday, January 28, 2004
"Funny" strange, or "funny" ha-ha?
I wish I knew. But I notice that within the last two weeks, I have been getting an inordinate amount of traffic from the Google Image Search function. (Yahoo, too, for that matter.) This might be not at all strange if I posted pictures on here, but I only post links to other people's stuff, not the actual picture. But for some reason, people who search for stuff using either of those services can click on some of the pictures and get sent here--the photos I have noticed the most as leading the most people here are one for the Superdome (from when I did a post about Weevil State's football stadium), one of a grass hut (from the same post describing Weevil State's Old Main building), one of the Bay City Rollers (who knew they had so many fans?!), a painting by Maxfield Parrish, a lovely image of Maud Adams (Rrrrowwwlll), and a shot of Miranda Otto (Mmmmmm!). They come from all different ISPs and countries, and I'm sure they are rather angry at winding up here. So, have I missed something at Google? Are they mucking about with their search algorithms again so that not only does the original location of the image get returned as a search result, but also any site that links to that image? Hello to all of you misdirected souls who stop by, though. We're glad you came by, but as always, Possumblog is barren of actual photographic content. So sorry.
Magic Talking Box BAAAAD!
Here's a story from today's Birmingham News about the thing my kids are doing the next couple of months where the television is turned off one night a week--Paine students challenged to turn off TV once a week 01/28/04
Obviously, too much of anything is bad (except Possumblog--Ed.), and television during homework time is an absolute no-dice sort of proposition at our house. But one day a week is not going to make up for six days of bad habits for those kids who watch too much. Now when it comes to interaction, I might be wrong, but as far as I know, they don't like it when you interrupt when the fat lady's yelling at the opera to ask questions. And the last time I read a book, no matter how loudly I asked, it never answered my questions. Dumb ol' book. Simply because an activity requires a person to listen or watch and not read does not mean that it's bad, nor does the ability to ask a question mean the activity is useful--ever seen a political candidate's press conference? Antisocial? Well, I suppose, if you allow it to be, but I know that our oldest uses books just the same way as some kids use television--as a way to tune her parents out, ignore her siblings, and neglect her other family and school responsibilities. As a result, she is, as we say down here, "eat up with book sense"--a commanding ability with raw facts; but she is also lacking in common sense--the ability to apply what she knows in a critically analytical way. Television, like most anything else, can be good or bad, depending on how it is used. It can be a way for families to learn and explore and interact, or not. So much of what's on is pure dreck, but you know, there's usually a little button that turns the power off or changes the channel. As for the school program, I predict great success based upon the following: [...] If Paine students succeed at the challenge and the student body racks up 10,001 nights of television-free activities by March 19, teacher Don Garrett has promised to shave his head during a school assembly. 'Cause you know, the perceived humiliation of an adult authority figure at the hands of his charges is one of the best ways to promote literacy, socialization and family interaction.
Sometimes…
I wonder to myself why I write this silly blog--it’s not like I make any money from it, Condoleeza Rice never leaves comments, Norah O’Donnell has never sent me an autographed picture--I mean, what’s the point? But then, I go to the referrer logs, and I see who all came by this little out of the way backwater of the Web, and I realize that there are people out there searching for answers--answers that apparently only I am able to give. And it gives me a whole new outlook on my value as a person. Just look; someone came by not long ago searching for hippopotamus thingymabob. If there was ever something I know about and can offer my advice on, it’s hippotamus thingymabobs. Now here in Alabama, we don’t see many of them, for obvious reasons. Well, take that back--it may not be that obvious. You see, under the Code of Alabama (1975), they are very difficult to import and you have to have a special license and all that stuff. So there’s not many around. Same goes for the closely-related hippo thingamajigger, hippo whosiewhatsits, hippo gizmos, hippo doohickies, hippo doodads, and hippo flibbertiejibbets. As well as any sort of hippo marital aids. The Possumblog Museum of Oddities and Fine Art (open seven days a week from noon to 5:30 p.m.) has a large collection of all of these (except the marital aids) nicely categorized as to age, type and size, as well as geographical provenance. It has been acclaimed as one of the finest collections of its type within a five-county area (including the northern half of Chilton County) and receives visitors daily who are dumb-struck and spellbound by what they see. Mrs. Li Xiu Goocher of Palmerdale notes in the guest book [edited for length], “It […] is […] terri [fic] and makes me want to pu [t] […] some money […] into […] more […] display[s]!” An anonymous visitor from Yuma, Arizona compares the collection favorably to the display of Gordon Terwilliger’s Curiously Wide Hat Brim he saw in Leadville, Colorado, as well as the Typing Paper Museum in White Plains, New Jersey. Come visit soon! But you know, Possumblog is not just about animal biology--we have a hard-earned reputation of excellence among the quasi-medical profession for dispensing good, solid advice on a variety of health topics. This is probably why someone came by here wondering about meth effects on earwax. As you all know, earwax is awfully annoying, but using cotton-tipped swabs, or bobby pins, or keys, or pencils, or paper clips, or pen caps, or rolled up business cards, or swizzle sticks, or toothpicks, or letter openers, or twigs, or screwdrivers, or teaspoons, or felt tip markers, or machine screws, or doorbell wire, or scissors, or twist ties, or umbrellas, or chicken wing bones, or your finger, or coat hangers to remove wax can cause damage to the delicate little ear-type structures inside your head, leading to a loss of hearing, which is bad. Likewise, methamphetamines, or “meth,” is not a good thing to use for earwax buildup, although rapid combustion associated with exploding chemicals in a meth lab can often raise the ambient temperature within a room to the level where the wax easily melts, and it can then be dabbed clean from the outer ear with a damp washcloth. Now, lest you think that Possumblog is only caught up in science and art to the exclusion of other things, it is obvious that you are mistaken, as witnessed by the person who came by not long ago seeking "handshake instructions". As always, we are happy to oblige any who wish to know the finer points of the social graces. From the Possumblog Manual of Protocol (1979 Edition, page 766): The handshake is recognized as one of the hallmarks of good manners. Improper handshakes can often drive away others and leave them with bad feelings for you. A handshake is a very simple gesture, but can be a determining factor in job interviews and social gatherings.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
The free possum cones will be 27% smaller tomorrow.
My normal semimonthly convocation of the Pretty Police beckons, so I will be incommunibloggo tomorrow for the better part of the day. As always, there are lots of folks up there in the blogroll you can peruse, and there is always (well, usually) some cheese in the refrigerator and maybe even some bread in the breadbox. Make yourself a sandwich and make yourself at home, and I'll see you later on tomorrow sometime.
Another Television Legend Gone--Former 'Tonight Show' Host Jack Paar Dies
He was a little bit before my time, although I have seen some of his "best-of" moments. He seemed to be a deft and personable storyteller, and the list of folks he helped along the way--including folks such as Carol Burnett, Woody Allen, Bill Cosby, and the great Jonathan Winters--is probably unmatched by anyone who came later.
More Crushing of Dissent in Ashcroft's America!
Cowboy Unilateralism! When Morons Attack! Did You See 'Im Oppressing Me?! NOW WE SEE THE VIOLENCE INHERENT IN THE SYSTEM!!--Al Franken Knocks Down Dean Heckler I saw a couple of other links this morning on this, and quite frankenly couldn't believe it: January 27, 2004 -- EXETER, N.H. - Wise-cracking funnyman Al Franken yesterday body-slammed a demonstrator to the ground after the man tried to shout down Gov. Howard Dean.
This is absolutely stunning coming from ANYbody, much less Franken, who puts himself forth as the kind of liberal who's good enough, smart enough, and doggone it people like him. Does this now mean that I have license to start gang tackling protesters at Bush speeches?! (If so, I guarantee you I'd be a darn site better at it than Al, but that's beside the point.) This was assault and battery, pure and simple. Franken deserves whatever New Hampshire law allows. The trouble started when several supporters of fringe presidential candidate Lyndon Larouche began shouting accusations at Dean.
Just be glad you didn't tangle with someone who was on the pistol team. (Of course, I guess we should have seen this coming--Franken doesn't pull any punches in Dads' Weekend show)
Fun with Referrer Logs!
It's been awhile since we posted one of these, but on occasion there is someone who happens by who really needs some information. Such as this earnest young person who inquires about the: legal age for living on uour own without parents. Obviously, this is a complex legal matter, but where better to find answers to complex legal questions than a site called Possumblog?! So then, on to the topic--in most places, the statutory age of majority varies from 18 years old to "old enough to spell 'your' correctly in a search string", although this can be set aside if you find a judge willing to grant you emancipation. Our advice is to spend a few more days in school before deciding to follow this course of action, however.
Clash of the Worlds!
In which two guys and an aardvark take up painting. And eating. And setting the groundwork for running for tri-governors of California by groping a diabetic girl. Corroborating Evidence! From the Man in the Middle, and no, we're NOT speaking of Michael Jackson.
Via Forbes.com, a listing of the Worst Cars of All Time
Consisting of: 1975-1980 AMC Pacer--weird styling from Dick Teague, American Motors' design chief who also gave us some cleanly styled cars like the original two-seat AMX (one of which I owned, having a 390 and an auto) and its sister the Mustang-fighter Javelin. (Check out this link to the Alabama State Trooper Javelins) The Pacer was just too weird, though, although it was a perfect complement to the AMX III-derived "styling" of the later model Matador. Also they drank huge amount of fuel for a car intended to be an economy car. 1970-1974 Chevrolet Vega--A throwback to the days of total-loss oiling. Actually were not bad looking, and after the change to iron cylinder liners, the engine woes were cured. Sorta. And I still think the twin-cam Cosworth Vega is cool. And all of them can hold a V-8. 1970-1972 Citroen SM--Hydraulic wonderland. A concept way beyond the available technology. But they are sleek looking and fast, and they had a Maserati V-6. Fixing stuff was problematic in France, impossible in the US. 1978-1988 Fiat Strada--Not the first car from Turin to be saddled with the "Fix It Again, Tony" tag, but certainly one of the most uninspiring. 1983-1989 Ford Bronco II--A little too tall and tippy for people who had never driven anything tall and tippy before. Hard to build a customer base when they keep getting severe head injuries. Still a clean looking design, though, although I still covet the plug-ugly 1966 version. 1957-1959 Ford Edsel --A not-bad-looking car for the time, even considering the unconventional horse-collar grille, but the quality control on these things was horrible. It could have survived ugliness, but not being way-overpriced crap. The ones that survive do so only because of the extreme love slathered on them by owners. 1971-1980 Ford Pinto--Okay, so the gas tank thing was really, really a bad decision. But compared to the other vehicles in the compact car landscape of the time, the Pinto wasn't so incredibly bad. And, like the Vega, you could shove a V-8 under the hood. 1978 Honda Accord hatchback--I never knew these were so badly thought of. It certainly gives lie to the idea in Detroit that once you make a bad impression, the best thing to do is change the name and hope nobody remembers. The Accord is a very good car now. I think it's unfair that no one took the time to mention the Camry and the Tercel--which defined Japanese crap when they were first introduced, and likewise continued to grow much more refined and reliable over the years. 1971 Mazda RX-2 --Hey, guess what?! Apex seals wear out. FAST. Zippy little car though. When it ran. 1979-1984 Oldsmobile Delta 88--I assume this is due in large part to the horrid diesel offered in these cars. The cars themselves weren't great, either. You want a Delta 88? Get one of these. 1984 Pontiac Fiero--Well, it supposedly started out as a two-seat "commuter" car to sneak it past the bean counters, so maybe it can be forgiven its terminal anemia. They were very nice to look at, but suffered the typical indifferent mid-'80s GM quality control. By the time Pontiac had the thing sorted out into a proper hot little sports car, GM killed it. It will be noted that the Toyota MR-2, its main competition when it debuted, was a dinky little cracker box that looked like it was made from dumpster parts. The Mister Two, however, managed to soldier on to this day as a nicely evolved, very nice fun machine. (This is the last year for it, sadly. Too much desire to sell ugly Scion boxes, I suppose. Good luck on that, Toyota.) 1956-1968 Renault Dauphine--Proof that just because the French make real good wine, cheese, and good looking women doesn't mean they know how to build a car. 1957-1962 Sachsenring Trabant P50--Proof that just because the Germans make real good cars, schnitzel, and lusty blonde beermaidens doesn't mean they can do so with Russian technology. 1981-1991 Yugo GV--Proof that just because the Slovenes and Macedonians and Serbs and Croats and Kosovars and Bosnians and Montenegrins have a long history of blood-thirsty violence and turmoil doesn't mean they aren't averse to sharing the finest of their automotive technology with the rest of the world. And to wrap up where we came in, it's worth noting that their American importer, Malcolm Bricklin, developed his own car back in the mid-'70s, the Bricklin. Bricklin's source for the car's 360 cubic inch V-8 for the 1974 model? Why, none other than good old American Motors, who at the time was ramping up to pump out Pacers as fast as they could. UPDATE: By the way, here is a list from Tom and Ray from back in April of 2000. Lot of the same cars AND it includes the Volare! Whoa-O!
Probably won’t be able to use that one again.
Got home and got supper ready last night and then split up for the various activities. Reba graciously took Cat and Jonathan with her to go get Ashley’s hair cut, and I took Rebecca to the park. Which was completely dark. Seems the black flag was flying, meaning the fields were too wet to use. Or pirates. In either case, no practice. So, back up the road to retrieve the other two kids from Mom so they could go ahead and get the rest of their homework done and scrub the playground off of themselves in the tub. I had a feeling that Catherine would be unwilling to leave, since the hair cutting shop is a wonderland of stuff to get into. I needed some way to convince her to come home with the rest of us that would not create a public spectacle. Hmmm. I reached into my fatherly bag of tricks and decided it might be time to employ the most diabolical means at my disposal. Really, it was overkill, but Cat’s almost seven and she’s never had it employed against her, so I went ahead. Rebecca and I got the Head Start shop and walked in. Some black-tee-shirt-and-black-jeans-clad chick came slowly walking toward the register running her hands up threw her hair as she stretched her arms above her head. I’m almost positive she thought this looked sexy. It didn’t. Anyway, she mumbled something and I pointed to the kids and said, “I’m just here to pick them up.” “Coooool.” You know, no one’s ever said that to me quite that way before. Catherine started immediately balking and saying she wanted to stay. “BUT, if you come home with Daddy, I’ll give you a SURPRISE!” Her abounding avarice overcame her reticence about leaving, so she happily jumped up and headed for the door, asking all the way what kind of surprise it would be. “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, now will it!?” Hard to argue with that. After I had them all safely strapped in and was well underway, I finally revealed my secret weapon. “Daaaaddeeeeee--what kind of surprise? What kinnnnnnnd?” “Cat, if you are REAL good, and get home and get your clothes off and put them in the hamper and take your bath and be REAL good, I will give you…A YANKEE DIME!” They all went nuts, and I know I have used this in the past on the other two, but apparently they forgot about it, because they were just as mystified as Cat and just as excited to see the Yankee dime. They began yammering about it and about how big it was compared to a quarter and all kinds of stuff, all the way to the top of the hill. Catherine nearly split a seam getting herself out of the van and upstairs, dutifully putting away her dirty clothes and getting clean ones and settling into the tub. I did a few chores and was sitting in the bedroom when she came by and stood beside my chair. “I’m ready Daddy!” “For what?” “Daaaaaad, I want that thing you said--the yam…, the yeek…” “Yankee dime?” “THAT!” “Okay then, close your eyes REAAAAL tight, and stand riiiiiiiight here--KEEP THOSE EYES CLOSED!--and hold real still.” I reached up and gave her a soft kiss on each cheek. She opened her eyes with a look of utter and terrible disappointment--”THAT WASN’T NO DIME!!” She threw herself into a small howling pile on the floor, and I began to mockingly cry and wipe away fake tears, “You don’t like my kisses anymore? Oh, BOO-HOO. HOO. HOO. They’re worth more than ANYTHING, and YOU don’t like them--BOOO-HOO-HOO.” Underneath her wild mop of curls she began chortling like a little demon, “Now you’re LAUGHING at your PO’ OL’ DADDY!” The giggle could not be stopped, and when Boy and Middle Girl came running in to see what was going on, she could barely contain herself--“Come here, Jonathan, I wanna give you a Yankee dime!” Mom got home later and Cat had to go through the scenario once again and everyone had to give Mom Yankee dimes for her birthday present. As I said, I don’t know if I’ll be able to use that one again, but it turned out pretty well this time. And as for Catherine’s initial disappointment, she ought to be very glad that it was me who bedimed her, rather than some ancient aunt who dips snuff and smells like camphor. (No, I don’t know why it’s called a Yankee dime.) Monday, January 26, 2004
Virus Warning
Well, once again one of those nasty worms is about--I just got virus spam in my Yahoo! inbox that supposedly came from ME! I've said it before, but it bears repeating--I DO NOT send out attachments to e-mails unless you have requested them. DO NOT open anything that has my address on it AND contains an attachment, unless you specifically requested it, or I specifically told you it would be coming in a later transmission. Finally, DO NOT OPEN ATTACHMENTS if you don't know who or why someone would send it to you.
Speaking of obscure references...
I posted a definition last week sometime from my ratty copy of the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, and it occurred to me that I have another dictionary on my desk that is equally interesting--The Construction Dictionary, published by the Greater Phoenix Chapter of the National Association of Women in Construction. What makes it interesting is the number of slang terms in it, and especially the fact that even in these overly-sensitive times, it even has the culturally derogatory ones. In the preface, this is noted, and it states that in the process of creating the third edition [they're on their ninth now] the compilers produced "a dictionary with over 13,500 definitions of technical and slang terms. These included many that are encountered daily on the jobsite or in the construction office...and some that should not be." Thankfully, they're still in there anyway. A couple that I dare reprint here (due to having some Irish in me) are: Irish confetti--bricks. and Irish fan--a shovel. A couple of others (that I will sanitize for the more delicate among my readers) include: [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] backhoe--a pick. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] crusher--a hammer. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup]-head--any unbroken rock in excess of four inches. [Insert name of favorite stereotypically lazy and/or moronic cultural subgroup] speed wrench--a pair of pliers. Amazing what construction workers can come up with.
More for the Bored!
Anyway, I had gotten up to Sunday, which, as usual, consists of getting everyone up and out of bed and dressed and in the van and to church before 9. Would have been much easier except Oldest was on one of her all-too-frequent adolescent breaks-with-reality, in which you sit and scream at your siblings inside of minivan, then vow that you never said anything, much less raise your voice. ::sigh:: It'sjustaphase-it'sjustaphase-it'sjustaaaAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH!! Sorry. Got to church, had another good couple lessons, then lunch, then some singing and the last lecture of the day, and then it was time for FURNITURE SHOPPING!! I believe that's what some call "being in a rut." Pshaw! What do they know?! Probably enough not to set out with a vanload of tired, restless, yammering howler monkeys, that's what. We ran by the house to unload leftover food, then back over to Twigs and Tchotckes to take back their seat cushion, then stopped by the gigantic Mazer store over in Homewood--"stopped by" being rather deceptive, being that it's clear on the other side of the county from where we started out, and made even further by the fact that I took the wrong turn on I-459 and went up scenic Highway 280 rather than going on down to I-65. It's another one of those "we set up shop in a dilapidated suburban shopping center that used to house a decrepit K-Mart, AND PASS THE SAVINGS ON TO U!" places, with nice duct tape detailing around the front doors and friendly and helpful sales staff ready to HELP U WITH YOURE CREDIT! Alas, nothing here that we couldn't find anywhere else. I mean, aside from the soggy paper sack full of garbage from Sonic that I managed to run over as I parked. Let me just say, "Eww." On then up the hill a bit to the Baby Superstore, which went out of business many years ago. Yes, it's still out of business. Then back across town to the house--never had I been more glad to be there. I felt like I had a Mr. Coffee Nerves on my back. To make it worse, there was my committment to assist the kinder in the Shut Off the Idiot Box Week competition which meant that I could not relax and let the warm, comforting cathode rays bathe me in luxurious radiation. Life is so unfair, you know. After eating supper, I put Cat to bed--she cried for exactly three seconds and then started snoring--then tried to get the rest of the crew to go read. Rebecca steadfastly refused, wanting to further jangle my tiny little nerve with GAMES!! She looked down beside my bed and saw the one thing we could play together that was sure to help calm me down--EXTREME Jenga! They'reonlyyoungonce, they'reonlyyoungonce, they'reonlyyoungoooAAAAAGGGGHHHH! Sorry. Anyway, it's just the thing after 14 hours of non-stop action. Oddly enough, I won both games, playing with a steady hand and a keen eye. Must have been the Tums and the laudanum kicking in. (Not really--I always buy generic antacid) Anyway, back at it today--tonight begins regular soccer practice for Middle Girl, and Mom is taking Oldest to go get a hair cut, both of which will certainly be very interesting for those of you who are bored.
Restaurant Review Time!
After making a brief stop at the card shop to get birthday cards because I haven’t had any time to get them earlier, time that would have been well spent by taking just a few more minutes to closely examine the one card I purchased that I thought was a birthday card but was, in fact, an anniversary card, I strolled on down Birmingham Green to our appointed date place. It certainly has changed--the old black wainscoted deli/meat-and-three has given way to a restrained, fresh-looking restaurant with tasteful décor, soothing cream-colored walls, and starched white tablecloths. The neoclassical detailing and richly upholstered chairs contrasts nicely with the dark old tiled floor from the building’s original early 20th century construction date, and gives the place a New Orleansish feel, and I hope they keep it so spotless. New restaurants are always so nice, you know, with pretty plates and shiny silverware and clean walls and doorways unpeed upon by winos. The place was busy, but not packed, and I asked the nice lady at the impossible-to-open front door for a table for two. There were about three or so open along the wall. She got a couple of menus and led me to a table for four. I thought maybe the others had been reserved, but no one was ever seated there the entire time. Whatever. Anyway, I sat down to wait on Reba and examined the menu, which is similar to the one in the article I linked to earlier. Reba finally got there and agreed to sit with me, believe it or not, and opened her cards before looking at her menu. She was greatly amused by my choice of cards, especially the anniversary card. As for lunch, after much hemming and hawing, we both decided to have the pecan-encrusted Mississippi catfish, which came served with black-eyed peas, grilled vegetables and rice with a molasses butter sauce. I realize that had I been an actual fancy restaurant reviewer like legendary Birmingham gadabout Dennis Washburn (may he rest in peace), I would have ordered something different from Reba to let you know what it tasted like, too, but the other stuff seemed either too heavy or too spare to make a good lunch. The dishes arrived after only about ten minutes or so, artfully arranged with a sprig of green stuff that I think was probably dill or fennel or dogbane or something, on a small raft of whole thin green beans, vegetables, peas and rice. The fish was nice and clean and the portion was adequately sized, but the molasses sauce was just a little too molassesy. I realize you all think I’m a big rube, which I suppose I am, but the current temptation for trendy chefs to throw in these unusual “rustic” flavors with “rustic” foods is just a bit twee, and it grates on my nerves. Unsophisticated or not, I know that simple is the hardest thing in the world to pull off well. And molasses for the sake of novelty don’t cut it. It wasn’t bad at all--it was entirely edible--but the wrong gesture for the wrong food. Aside from that personal beef, the service was prompt and pleasant, and the glasses and forks didn’t have goop on them. It’s a good place if you want to show someone you’re real classy up during the day, although not the place to go eat lunch everyday.
For the bored among you...
Well, as I mentioned, I had to leave early Friday to get the Tiny Terror. Those drives are always the worst--odds are that it's nothing, but when you're a parent, you feel duty-bound to run through all the worst-case scenarios. 'Hmm. Headache, fever. Could be meningitis, could be SARS, could be flu, consumption, Lyme disease, Legionnaire's...' After a while, you realize that you're just hurting yourself, and you figure you'll just deal with whatever it is and that you REALLY need to loosen your grip on the steering wheel. Thankfully, it seemed to be nothing more than a passing bit of uncomfortability, but to play it safe, she stayed home with Mom and the rest of the rugrats while I went and got lectured-up at church. Our annual lectureship began that evening--like clockwork every year, we either have someone in the house who is sick, or it's freezing cold, or raining buckets. Saturday was okay--no sick, no rain; but Sunday it poured and poured all day. At least I didn't have to cook--I usually get corralled into either getting up at the crack of dawn and grilling chicken Saturday morning, or, like last year, trying to get some catered chicken from KFC. This year, someone else did the birds, which made the logistics a whole lot easier. Anyway, off to the church building for a couple of hour-long discussions, then back home, did some more laundry, finished getting little munchkins into bed, and then hit the hay. Up early again Saturday, did some more laundry, got the kids to put on some clothes, stopped by McDonald's for horrid breakfast stuff, then by Wal-Mart to pick up some side dishes for lunch, got to the building and managed to keep the kids quiet for another couple of hours. Cat was definitely back to her normal fidgety self--which is one of those OTHER guilty feelings you have as an parent--'Why can't you be nice and quiet like when you're SICK!?' Lunch, which was barbecued chicken with what you would expect for trimmings--slaw, beans, tater salad, bread, and a groaning table full of desserts that really looked good. I was very good, though, and only smelled of them--deeply, with great lustiness. Which always weirds people out for some reason. One more lecture and then...FURNITURE SHOPPING!! At least this time we had the good sense to drop the kids at Reba's parents' house, although for some reason we went back and got them later. Anyway, first to Unpainted Furniture, because, well, you just never know when you might find a perfectly good piece of furniture there. Not this time, though. Stopped by Hamburger Heaven for a quick bite--I had only intended to get us a couple of drinks, but then Reba said she wanted one of their mini-cheeseburgers (which are the size of everyone else's regular cheeseburgers--their normal ones are gigantic) and then the thought of a big pile of onions and sauce and meat sorta overwhelmed my earlier vow to be good at the dessert table. Managed to get saucey onions all down my white shirt. Figures. It sure was good, though. Off to the other side of town--we figured we might be able to find a suitable lingerie chest over at the antique store in Riverchase. No such luck. Back home, got the kids, and then went to Sticks and Stuff. You know, if you wanted to name a store in such a way as to make everyone think all you sold was junky crap, you probably couldn't find a better name than Sticks and Stuff. Unless it was Junk and Crap. They actually have some okay mid-price furniture, although their building in Trussville looks like something that might contain a store called Junk and Crap. Did find one sofa that 1) looked not quite so odd, 2) didn't look like the Michelin man, 3) could be ordered with a sleeper unit, and 4) was within our meager budget. Asked the sales guy if we could steal a cushion and see if it would work, which he kindly let us do. Probably not many families of six come in and steal single cushions, I suppose. It looks okayish, but I'm still not convinced, either out of the desire to not spend any money or inertia. Whatever. Home, then, for real this time, and finished scrubbing children and drying hair and folding MORE clothes and time for bed once again. Aaaaah--nothing like hearing rain on the roof. BUT NOW--I have to take a break in this scintillating bit of suburban drama to take Miss Reba out for her birthday luncheon. Going to go to the Cafe Dupont, which used to be out in Springville but has now moved to a newly renovated location where our old favorite, Dyson's Deli, was located. The new place is really swanky and probably has somewhat edible food. We'll see, I suppose. Be back after while.
He's Baaaaack... Dean: Iraqi standard of living worse now
Aside from some obvious pandering in which he allows that Saddam was not a nice boy, Dr. Dean seems to be in full blither mode again. Interesting too, seeing as his next big contest is in New Hampshire, where the license plates all read, "Live Free or Die." Although some may think such sentiments are just so much twaddle, there are actually people in this world who believe it better to be a poor freeman than a wealthy slave. And, at least for now, the people of Iraq have an opportunity to actually have a standard of living, rather than having to exist in a perpetual state of knowing that for one misspoken word against Saddam or his sons, they--or their children--could experience the sights and sounds of a Ba'athist torture chamber. Whatever you might think about the necessity of going to war with Iraq, Dean's supposed critique based upon (unsubstantiated) claims of economic straits suffered by the population is ludicrous and could just have easily been made about post-war Germany and Japan. Iraq has the potential to have a good standard of living for all of its people. That potential only exists now that Saddam is gone.
"Hey, kids..."
"What should we get Mommy for her birthday today?" Quoth the Youngest, "Mama just wants a piece of quiet!" You betcha, especially after this past weekend, details of which will be doled out in dribs and drabs thoughout the morning. BUT FIRST, I must do a tiny bit of work junk. Be back in a bit. Friday, January 23, 2004
Friday Afternoon Meeting--Or Not!
It starts in ten minutes and will consist of our capo and a roomful of all us babbos. It promises to have lots of mindless chattering, probably going on for two hours or more. I am looking forward to this in much the same way as I would look forward to a two-hour cavity search. UPDATE: Entitled--"Be Careful What You Wish For" Got started--blahblahblah--someone's beeper went off and she got up to go out. More blahblah, I sit there wishing I had a beeper that would go off. She came back in, I thought to myself "why?!" More blahblah, then there's a knock at the door--secretary pokes her head in and says there's a call for Terry--"The school called and said your daughter's sick." ::sigh:: Got up and went by the desk on the way to my office, asked if she was still on the phone. Nope, they just told her it was Catherine that was sick, gave their number, and then hung up. Got to my desk to call, the school's line is busy. Grr. I mean, GRRR! Try again. Repeat. Just now got through after numerous phone system redirects--headache and low fever, feeling pitiful. So, off to home a bit early today---I'm sure she'll be okay, but it's still a bad way to get out of a meeting. See you all bright and early Monday, with lots of stories to tell, I'm sure. EVEN MORE UPDATEDER: Got to school and found her quietly sitting on the bench outside the office. Got her stuff, got her brother and sister, headed home, got out the ThermoScan annnnnd--96.3 in one ear, 96.0 in the other. She's downstairs right now fighting with her siblings over a game of Monopoly. In other words, she's fine AND I got out of my meeting with no need to feel guilty! Sweet, as the kids say.
More Sad News--'Captain Kangaroo' Dies January 23, 2004, 2:01 PM EST
Captain Kangaroo was fun and and clever and informative, which I know from first hand experience at having to endure numerous stupid Japanimation Saturday mornings with Pokemon and Digimon and Yu-Gi-Oh and Sailor Moon. […] He was critical of today's TV programs for children, saying they were too full of violence. And he spoke wherever he went about the importance of good parenting.
I think I'm going to eat lunch at Captain D's, too!
Meridian woman surprised with pearl in her oyster po-boy MERIDIAN, Miss. (AP) -- Sacheen Morgan says there's no doubt the seafood sandwich she ordered was the real thing — it contained a pearl.
I'm sure there will be a run on them in the next few days. (It certainly beats finding the normal stuff in your fast food--bugs or bandages or hair.) UPDATE: I am forelorn--I thought that the po-boy was possibly a limited-time offering, like their scrumptious fried crawdads were, but ALAS, and ALACK--the local joint over across from the hospital didn't have a single thing which might conceivably have a semiprecious stone in it. ::sigh::
Well, you get a little bit of sympathy at first-- Atkins widow demands Bloomberg apology NEW YORK (AP) -- The widow of Dr. Robert Atkins went on national television Friday to demand that Mayor Michael Bloomberg apologize for calling the late diet guru "fat."
But then, at the very end, we have this little tidbit from the Widow Atkins-- Atkins' widow said the event's caterer "considered [sic] to be one of the best in the Hamptons." Oh, please. I was kinda rooting for her until that line. It's like half of all Seinfeld episodes--"He's the BEST, Jerry! The BEST!"Well, whatever you might think about either Bloomberg or Atkins, it never ceases to amaze me that politicians are surprised when they get caught badmouthing someone, and then that they feel compelled to follow up with all sorts of lame attempts to offer non-apology-apologies. Hey, by the way, ever eat a pine tree? Many parts are edible.
Mimicry
We were eating supper last night and suddenly Boy started crying--he had bitten the end of his tongue and as a parent, my duty was not to startle him any further by letting on about how HORRIBLE the place on his tongue looked, nor that it was BLEEDING!! So I calmly told him to get a piece of ice out of his cup and hold it between his tongue and his front teeth. Little droplets of tears continued to sporadically spurt out of his eyeholes, so I then took to theatrically dabbing at them with my napkin--"'TOP IH, Dah-ee!! Quih boh-her-en me!" Well, you try to talk and hold an ice cube in your mouth. Anyway, he cheered up a bit, and began doing the silly talk for his own enjoyment, and then remarked that he thought he sounded Australian. "Now, wait a minute there, Hoss!" Seeing as I have a So, I was, like, all talking and stuff, dude, and then delivered a sudden coup de main. In the style of famed thespian and profound political philosopher Sean Penn as Jeff Spicoli I said: "Aloha, Mr. Hand!" Boy thought that was the most HILARIOUS thing he had ever heard. He cackled and the piece of ice flew out of his mouth onto his plate and he fell out of his chair onto the floor laughing and holding his stomach. Fortunately, he did not rebite his tongue.
Driving
Yet another morning of delays. The first was caused by our newly relit electronic interstate message boards all across the state. All the other cool states have these, and I suppose everyone else is used to them by now, but they're new for us and quite a novelty. They were installed last year, then had to be removed and fixed when they didn't work, and now they're back in place. This week has been the first that they had actual words on them, rather than just four bulbs lit up down in the bottom right corner. And therein lies the problem. The ostensible mission of these big boys is to ease traffic congestion and pass along information. What no one seemed to realize is that we seem to have a very high percentage of people who read with their finger under each word and with their lips moving. Which means that on a nice open stretch of interstate, the fact that there's a message up there means at least a few people in every lane slow down to make sure they get the whole message, even if it's "SIGN UNDERGOING TESTING." So, the thing designed to ease crowding and promote better traffic flow creates a long, senseless delay. What I can't figure out is why it is the people who slow down can't keep going just as fast as they're when they're reading the TV Guide or putting on their makeup. After we all got past the sign, the road magically opened up again until I got to Roebuck, where a tractor trailer had t-boned a Nissan pickup at the entrance ramp from Roebuck Parkway. Didn't look too bad, but there were all kind of flashing lights and people standing around looking and three lanes of traffice squished down into 7/10s of a lane. I managed to make up for the delay and get to work on time by driving 152 mph after I got past the wreck. (Not really) Thursday, January 22, 2004
Doctors Remove 175-Pound Tumor from Woman
...Tumor Currently Running Strong Third in New Hampshire Dem Polls
Well, it appears the Gigli is up.
A world without Bennifer J-Fleck--somewhere, there is probably some sad guy dressed up like an Indian with a tear in his eye.
Well, some folks do tend to take it a bit more seriously than others, that's for sure.
(Link sent to me as a peace offering by that wicked Mr. Stewart, who wonders why Earnest T. Bass is not mentioned in the story.)
Lunch Atop the 'Ham
Well, there was a good view. 20th floor of the AmSouth HQ, and a bright shiny day that makes one want to prance down the street singi...oh, wait--let's not start that again. Anyway, visibility 10 miles, which means that had I been a few stories higher I might could have seen my house. (Not really) Walked in, and saw an attractive lady sitting at a reception desk. "Blahblah Merchant's Association meeting?" I asked hopefully. Just as I had gotten that out, another school of pinstriped movers and shakers came in right behind me, and I suppose she thought we were all together. (Despite the fact that I was dressed like a used car salesman from the Dakotas--shirt, tie, and a gigantic black M65 field coat with quilted liner.) The nice lady graciously nodded to me and to the people behind me and mentioned a name, and the guy in the lead nodded his head at her and looked at me, so I figured we must be together, too. Walked behind their group into a small private dining room-within-the-private-dining-room and was met with a table full of bright, shiny, eager, successful people and a couple of empty chairs. I shed my coat and looked around the room trying to find one single person I knew from the business association--who ARE these people? I went around to the other side of the table, and drew back a chair. Something's just NOT right--"Pardon me, folks, but is this the Blahblah Merchant's Association meeting?" No. Just then, Nice Lady came through the door with a stricken look on her face and began aplogizing to everyone, which I took as my cue to go with her. "It sure looks like you have some good food--I hate to leave!" The guy at the head of the table, a dead-ringer for Sen. John Edwards, chuckled and introduced himself and shook hands with me as I was going back out the door. I really don't think he would have minded if I had stayed. People are just like that. But, I had to go to the real place, which was an even nicer room with many, MANY fewer people. Wound up with about twenty souls or so. I usually go to these things as an observer and to field any questions about my own little slice of the gummint machine. Each person was asked to speak, and the conversation went around the table as each variously described a glory day in a dimly remember past in their neighborhood, and/or how the whole neighborhood has just gone to the dogs. All of them with a beef about municipal goverment. As an afterthought, they asked for my input. I noted that I couldn't really speak for any of the other departments, but when everyone sits around talking about how 'The City oughta do this,' and 'The City oughta do that,' they had to remember that THEY were the city. If they didn't like something, they had to do something other than complain and daydream, and they needed to work together as a unified group. I went on for a while, talking about the need to work with the folks who live there, with the schools, with their council person. But not to expect others to do the work for them. (I've given this same advice to this same group for years now.) They all nodded their heads in thoughtful agreement. I had to leave not long after, and by that time they had definitely concluded that maybe in addition to the usual lunch meeting, they could possibly have a couple of breakfast meetings during the year. Maybe. Or maybe an after-work meeting. And that something needed to be done about crime. ::sigh:: Oh well. At least the food was good.
FLASH!! Garland Stewart just forwarded a story he's closely following on CNN: CNN: Riots at Auburn University today
ROLL TIDE ROLL!!! I refuse to dignify this bit of cruel japery at my alma mater's expense with a response, other than to remind everyone that Adam was a Georgia Tech grad.He had to be, because he was eating an apple while sitting next to a naked lady.
But will they like the view?--Dean Says Voters Will See Through Flaws
...To His Core Competency of Lunacy.
Still more work...
I have a lunch meeting to go to that promises to be so incredibly exciting that I might actually stay awake or something. Maybe. Or not. At least it promises to be somewhat fancy--it's being held in the top-floor corporate dining room of one of the local banks down the street. Be good to see what all those ATM fees are going toward.
Poor Susanna!
Susanna Cornett is finally here amongst us, and her take on Birmingham is a delight to read, at least to this old-timer: Notes from Alabama - Wednesday, January 21
I sat in the library and read a Stephen King novel for an hour, my car parked on the street at a meter allowing 10 hours of parking without moving. There's people in NYC who'd pay rent for that space, transferred to their fair city. Heh. Just wait until you try to go back at night to eat supper or something! Parking is turning into a running gun battle due to the growing number of entertainment places and finite number of available spaces. Part of the problem is that everyone wants to park right by the front door of where ever they are going. Part of it is restaurant owners taking over public streets and parking spaces for their customers. Gritty urban drama!Downtown Birmingham has the odd distinction of having parallel streets with the same numbers, only with N or S on them. So you have larger numbers with South on them (8 Street South) going down to First Street South as it moves north, until it hits some street in the midst of it all (I never could find a sign with its name) where the numbers change - now it's all North. So you can travel north and pass Second Street South, First Street South, Unnamed Middle Street, First Street North, Second Street North, etc. Freaky, and nothing I've seen before. But simple. I should do okay. Actually, I did do okay, going to a meeting downtown today. Pretty city, no heavy traffic, empty parking spaces everywhere. I could grow to like this. [...] Ahh, yes. The Grid. It really is simple, I promise. What you have to remember is that 1) the railroad tracks bifurcate the downtown area , 2) streets run N-S, avenues run E-W, 3) stuff north of the tracks are Whatver Address, NORTH and the stuff south is Whatever Address, SOUTH, 4) numerical avenue designations ascend, starting at the railroad tracks and working to the north and the south, i.e. 1st Avenue, North is closer to the tracks than 4th Avenue, North, and 5) the first one or two numbers in a street address designate the particular avenue or street--2114 1st Avenue, North, for example, means that the address is along 1st Avenue, North (north of the railroad tracks) between 21st and 22nd Streets. You can also have something like 108 22nd Street, North--an address that is along 22nd Street, North, between 1st and 2nd Avenues.NOW, this is SUPPOSED to be the way it is. There are, however, clashing and bashing intersecting lines whenever you leave the very center of town as over the years outlying suburbs were annexed. And to make it even more confusing are the two tiny streets hard on the tracks--Morris to the north, and Powell to the south. Each is named for one of the founders of Birmingham, and they intermittently stop and start along their length all the way out to East Lake. (This is what you call your Unnamed Middle Street.) Second, North Birmingham, out beyond the Convention Center, was once its own town and has its own numbering system, as does Ensley, on the west. Ensley especially is confounding due to the use of both numbers AND letters, as well as a wide variety of lettered courts, ways, places and avenues--Avenue B might go to Court B then Avenue C then Court C then Place C then Avenue E. Maddening. Likewise East Lake and Woodlawn, each their own places until the early 'teens with their own illogical grids. And then there are the one-way streets downtown. You'll have to figure those out on your own. Remember, two wrongs don't make a right, but three rights makes a left. Oh well, you'll eventually get it straight. It really is easy to get around downtown, and yes, for all you who might be tempted to think otherwise, it really is a nice looking place.
Y'all get your hip waders on, it's getting deep in here.
Trustee exhumes 'Caesar' as Walker departs Auburn THOMAS SPENCER
Which is what he repeated Wednesday when asked to explain the importance of the passages. "Further I will not go," he said. One can only wish.So it's left to the Auburn family to decide whether Caesar had let power go to his head and whether Brutus was acting treacherously or in the best interest of the Roman republic. But one thing is certain: Beware the ides of March. Ah, yes, March Madness!You know, you think when this story can't get any more bizarre and embarrassing... Wednesday, January 21, 2004
The Toothbrush Story Returns!!
I promised to provide Miss Janis a transcript of this morning's Toothbrush Story. For those of you who are new, these are a series of improbable tales I use on the mornings when Tiny Terror is in a bad mood and doesn't want to brush her teeth. They usually include animals engaged in various activities that they immediately forget about when they are reminded that they need to brush their teeth. It keeps her (Catherine, not Miss Janis) entertained for about four minutes. IN ANY EVENT--this morning's story was about Flip the Cat and Rachel the Snowshoe Hare. I can't actually remember the rabbit's name--but I do remember it was distinctly different from the usual assortment of names based upon the duosyllabic, hard-K-sound variety normally suggested (i.e., KeeKee, KayKay, Kacey, Kimmy, etc., etc., ad nauseum) Also, you have to make up voices for the characters. Imagine I am talking like a cat and a rabbit. CAST: Flip is a big floppy white cat, Rachel is a big floppy white snowshoe hare. Once upon a time (which is how all really good stories begin) there once was a white cat named Flip, who lived in a house with a little girl with very curly curls. Every morning, Flip would squish herself down into the toilet paper holder [Stage cue--stuff cat in between paper roll and holder] and watch her little girl brush her teeth. One day, she thought how much fun it would be to brush her own teeth, but seeing as how she was stuffed into a toilet paper holder, such an outcome was not feasible. Just then, her friend Rachel the Snowshoe Hare hopped into the bathroom and briefly watched the little girl brush her teeth, and then said good-morning to Flip. RACHEL: "Good Morning, Flip!" FLIP: "Hello! Hey, would you do me a favor and help me brush my teeth? I can't really get to it since I'm stuck here with the bumwad, and I don't think I have the necessary dexterity to actually hold a toothbrush." Rachel agreed, but only on the condition that Flip reciprocate the act of kindness on her behalf. Flip agreed, of course (as housecats are wont to do), and Rachel hopped over to the sink and fetched a fresh toothbrush and held it just so betwixt her forepaws and gave Flip's teeth a vigorous scrubbing, and Flip woke up the whole house with much loud spitting and rinsing. [Stage cue--spit sounds] Now with minty fresh breath, Flip held the toothbrush in both of HER forepaws, and gave a sound scouring to Rachel's big rabbity buck teeth, also accompanied by much spitting and rinsing. [Repeat spitting sounds] Afterwards, both Rachel and Flip had the cleanest teeth of allllllll the stuffed animals in the entirety of the little girl's house. [CAST BOWS. EXUENT STAGE RT] (It's much better with voices.)
From the Captain Renault File: Powell confesses annoyance with French By BARRY SCHWEID
So, not quite all roses. The wishful thinking on the part of the reporter is probably harmless, though, and seems to be part of a desire that IS as old as this country, that is our seeming pathological desire to be granted appreciative approval by our relatives across the water. But, whether we like it or not, all the cool kids at school still think we're the geeky uncouth freshman from the bad part of town, even if they are occasionally nice to us and don't penny our door shut. As the great thespian Bill Murray said, "We're all very different people. We're not Watusi, we're not Spartans, we're Americans! With a capital "A," huh? And you know what that means? Do you!? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world!"Realistically, given actual circumstances, as well as Mr. Murray's highly nuanced and thoughtful riposte, it might be a bit too much to expect that we'll be loved, no matter how hard we try. Likewise, it's probably best for us to drop the idea that in some magical time past all the cool kids had a crush on us. As for France, any country that gave birth to both Sabine Herold and Sophie Marceau is pretty darned okay by me.
Ahoy, Matie!
Good lunch--I was rather miffed that there were no parking spaces along 20th Street, so I had to park in the back lot. Not that big of a deal except you have to go in through the back door and it's almost like walking throught the kitchen. I don't know, but if you're like me, you really don't want to see what they do to your food. Anyway, for some reason it was a slow day and there were plenty of tables. Jeff already had one and had a big plastic tumbler of sweet tea. I sat down and the nice waitress girl asked if I wanted something, so I asked for a Diet Coke. She came back and plopped a big plastic tumbler down in front of me, half full. In her other hand, she held a 12 ounce can of Diet Coke. For some reason, I really expected a full glass. And from a fizzy hose somewhere. Oh well. Jeff ordered the girly vegetable plate while I, as part of my plan to thumb my nose at both the Grim Reaper and PETA as well as support the American beef and pork industries, ordered the bacon cheeseburger. It's one of those old-timey, hand-squished patties that's about the size of a billiard ball in the center. Pretty good, I suppose. Topics of conversation included new babies; lack of sleep therefrom; getting the Big Snip (or the Lil' Snip, as the case may be); mini-vannin'; house painting; his brother retiring from the Air Force (flying F-15s out of Japan) and going to work for FedEx (which doesn't have very many F-15s); stupid people; pleasant chunky waitresses; and buying a car online. He got a very good deal on his Sienna, after being told by the local Toyota dealers here in town that he would pay list price or not get one, and that he would take whatever color they had on the lot, and then he would have to get down on his knees and shout, "Thank-you, short-sleeved car selling guy, I'll have another!" while being paddled with a custom-embroidered $200 floor mat. Jeff, being a former fraternity boy, was certainly used to such demeaning treatment back when he was in the hands of his Greco-collegiate brothers, but by purchasing online, from a dealer a few miles further out in the hinterlands, he got to get the exact color he and the Missus wanted, with the exact equipment, and saved about 1300 bucks. And the process was painless. Which, or course, is why he's worried. Nothing should be so simple and painless, you know. After I finished my BSE on a bun, we paid and went out to do the ol' tire-kicking routine. Some kinda nice things his Toyota has that our Honda doesn't are a built-in DVD/child pacification-neutralization system, and rear headrests that don't have to be taken off the seat to fold it down. It does have a shifter with recognizable detents for each gear, which after the sloppines in our Honda shifter would be nice--HOWEVER, the shifter is stuck there in the middle of the dashboard, which is just freakish. (Unless it's in an Alfa, and then it's just Italian.) Swapped magazines--he surprised me by giving me FIVE this time, and I won't quibble about the fact that I had already read two of them. I gave him his ten-pound stack of dead tree, and off we went. On the way back downtown, it was easier to see Vulcan on his new perch with the new elevator tower. It's not going to be much longer before the park is open again, which will be nice. He's pretty and shiny now, which is good, but still a bit disconcerting to see. Before he was all spiffed up and restored, he had been painted in a flat, iron oxide red color. This, in addition to the large streaks of rust, was not really very pretty, but it did make the old fellow look like he was made out of iron. The new paint is a high-gloss gray, which is great for weather resistance, but he looks a little too much like a fiberglass Muffler Man. In any event, it's still good to have him back.
FUN!
It's been a while, but today marks the return of Lunch with My Friend Jeff™. I have a foot-high stack of car magazines today (and he will probably have two) BUT I made him promise to bring My Friend Cathy™'s new van so I could play inside of it. (He did make me promise to control my flatulence.) Today's choice of eatery will be The Anchorage in lovely downtown Homewood, an ancient meat 'n' three joint that has been around since the Pleistocene. Almost impossible to get a table during regular lunchtime, which is why I am about to cut out right now. See you in a bit. I would tell him you all said 'hey,' but as with all my local friends and family, he has no idea of anything called a Possumblog.
You know, sometimes I have problems with rolling divergent oscillation, too.
Nate McCord makes note of the first (unintended) flight of the F-16 Fighting Falcon on 20JAN1974. F-16s are cool.
Now THAT dog can HUNT!
Vincent man's dogs hunt bombs, termites, mold MARIE LEECH
I was on the teevee!
I finally got my interview tape yesterday--the report was a couple of minutes long, and my portion of it was a long shot of me patting the conference room table with my palms as if it were a warm skillet, with the reporter doing a voice over; then a closeup of my left hand moving back and forth as if I had lost all motor control as the voice-over continued; and then...MY CLOSEUP, Mr. DeMille! Large, fleshy head, saying one sentence--'It helps us help them quicker, when they are able to do some of the preliminary work themselves,' or some such twadde. One two-second blurb, out of a twenty minute chat. I am SO famous now!
I am the New American Idol
Reba took Ashley to clarinet practice last night, so after supper I turned on American Idol as I was cleaning up the dishes and watched it with the three younger kids. They get the biggest kick out of it, and since they all have reasonable singing voices, even Catherine can pick out the stinkers. I'm just waiting for her to say "bloody awful." Anyway, they were having a good time, and then the guy came on who did his personal interpretation of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Eyes rolled back in his head, lots of arm waving, trills and tremolo and stumbling runs of off-key caterwauling. He finished up and was promptly flayed, and as the commercial was coming on, I launched into the first couple of lines while standing at the dishwasher. Jonathan swiveled his head around with a look of utter surprise--"DAD!! You could be the American Idol!!" I just laughed--"Son, I'm a bit too old for American Idol. Maybe American Geezer." "Well, if you weren't so old, you could be the American Idol for EVERY YEAR THEY HAVE IT!! You're GOOD Daddy!" Man, I live for constant positive reinforcement. You will never find anyone else in the world, other than your kids, who think--who know--you are the bestest singer and brain surgeon and dish washer and trick shot and bug catcher and joke teller and lion tamer in the whole world. That's pretty hard to beat.
More Formatting Questions
Forgive me, but I just can't help messing with this quote box thing, because I want it to be just right. (Or, at least "just right" in the context of Possumblog.) Just pretend you're going to the ophthalmologist--now then, put your chin right here and tell me if This is better--13.5 pixels high, Verdana font or ifThis is better--same size, Century Gothic. Alright then, what aboutThis one--same size in Garamond, which is the same font as the rest of the page. Okay, you can sit back now and we'll poke around on your cornea for a while.
And now, Fun with Innards!
Haggis, Born in The USA By Trevor Datson
Anyway, although the article says that the recipe is a closely guarded trade secret, don’t let them fool you. Direct from Scotland, here is a tasty recipe you’ll be sure to enjoy. I would reprint it here, but I'm feeling rather queasy at the moment.
You've seen them.
They're all over the place--old Captain D's turned into Chinese restaurants, Omelet Shoppes turned into Bottle Stoppes--what in polite circles are known as "adaptive reuse projects" when done nicely, but when done badly in the more gritty parts of town are just simply fodder for website hijinx. SUCH IS THE CASE with a site sent to me by Dr. Weevil's evil brother and NASA employee Steevil--Not Fooling Anybody--subheaded as "a chronicle of bad conversions and storefronts past." Each site has a photo of what it is now, what it was, as well as design commentary. Some good ones include the Gilstrap Chiropractic (formerly a Kentucky Fried Chicken), Master Donut (used to be a Mister), and proving how far the Planet Hollywood franchise can fall, there is Gino's East in Chitown. One wonders if there is a corresponding Gino's West in an equally attractive spot in Cicero or Oak Park. Anyway, many thanks to Steevil, who says he came across the link while NOT surfing a particular website devoted to naughtiness and pictures of women clothed in wet tee shirts or sand or Scotch tape, while he was NOT at work. Tuesday, January 20, 2004
If you are a World War II history buff, you've probably already seen this story about a new website that promises to be incredibly fascinating. By Jeremy Lovell
Aerial reconnaissance is dangerous stuff, especially when all the guns had to be taken out of the plane to make room for the cameras and extra fuel. I mentioned back during Christmas that I had gotten a good book on such stuff--Secret Empire: Eisenhower, the CIA, and the Hidden Story of America's Space Espionage . I'm about 2/3 of the way through it, and it's a remarkable look at the development of the U2, the SR-71, and spy satellites. Some space is given to the story of the Air Force recon crews who risked their lives over the Soviet Union, China, and Cuba but not a whole lot. Over forty aircraft and over two hundred crewmen were lost to hostile fire before the advent of reliable spy satellites, and many of these men's families never knew what actually happened to their loved ones due to the secretive nature of their task.
Monday was interesting.
Well, not like Mars Rover interesting, or American Idol interesting, but interesting from the point of view of the normal allotment of stuff that happens to me. For once Miss Reba didn't feel the necessity of getting up from under the covers and doing housework, so [Good Parts Edited Out] and since the housepainter was supposed to come by and pick up his check at precisely 8 a.m., I figured it was time for us to get up and get going. 8 came and went. I called and left him a message that we were going to the dentist and would be back later, and then got the older three up and ready to go. Down to the foot of the hill, park, nearly freeze into a great big goobsicle between the van and the doorway, while children cavort as if nothing is amiss, go in, get them signed up and sit for a spell to read some hard-hitting news. Came across an old Good Housekeeping with the fresh-scrubbed and airbrushed mug of Katie Couric on the cover. As if root canals weren't painful enough to have in a dentist's office. Anyway, I went ahead and flipped over to the article, because I'm just that way. Picture of Katie in black dress all kittened up on a couch, picture of her hosting the Tonight Show, big graphic quote in the middle of the page, 'I have a newswoman's hair and the heart of a social worker.' Wow. You know, that is just so true. I quietly pondered long and hard about whether or not I could keep from heaving a great sea of foamy bilious chunks onto the magazine. I didn't, I just quietly folded it back up and placed it in the rack, which I really think is to my credit. The kids came and went, and after not long at all they were all finished. And it appears that Boy will need braces. He's got a lower jaw full of crooked little pearls in the front, and a slight underbite. ::sigh:: If it's not one thing, it another that costs LOTS of money. The girls' teeth were fine, thank goodness. Back home, and found that the painter still had not come by. Was told by Miss Reba that we need to get another piece of furniture so that Tiny Girl and Middle Girl would have a place to store their unmentionables, which are strewn hither and yon around their room. I know by now that it is better NOT to suggest that they should use the space they already have and oh, maybe put away some of the stuff that no longer fits--such is the path to much misery. Better to nod affirmatively, and try to prolong purchase process as long as possible. "Well, can we wait until next month to buy it? I mean, we still have to pay for having the house painted and all. We CAN go shopping, though." I figured the shopping part would save me, but Reba was less than enthusiastic about looking but not buying, so she threw out the lure of the 12 months-same-as-cash ploy. And while she was casting about, she brought up the need for a sofa again. Our old one has been thoroughly kidified over the past twelve years, and it really does need to be updated. Whatever--doesn't hurt to go look. Actually, it does. Went out to the Big Three over in Irondale--Haverty's, Marks-Fitzgerald, and La-Z-Boy--three purveyors of moderately-priced stuffed goods right there beside each other to facilitate shopping. No one had any lingerie chests that looked like anything close to the girl's furniture, and no one had any sort of nice, simple, fresh sofas. They were all giant pillowed balloony things that look like some drunk guy's version of swanky. Well, that took up two hours, and then we decided to visit the uptown Marks-Fitz store over by the Galleria. They did have some better looking sofas, but I still managed to get out without purchasing anything--we were hamstrung by having four high-strung rug rats with us who made the quiet, contemplative discussion of a large furniture purchase nearly impossible, what with their near-constant desire to sit on EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF FURNITURE IN THE STORE. Grr. Back across town, empty-handed, with a side-trip to Wal-Mart for toiletries, then home where I finally got a chance to catch up on the work I took home on Friday and see the newest crop of talent on this year's American Idol. There's another person from Birmingham this year on the first rung, but she's no Ruben. If they show her, it will be on tonight's show that has the Atlanta auditions. And that's about it.
Not that the next day...
was too bad. Up early Sunday, did the regular chore of getting everyone up and dressed, made some breakfast, loaded the van with all the Bibles and binders and booklets and other stuff, loaded up the kids, off to church, got there, got parked, Oldest runs around to my door and pounces on me--"TELLMEYOU DID GET. MY. CLASS. BOOK!" 'Cause, you see, there is a certain delusion in her mind that it is my job to make sure she has her books. Although she reserves the right to complain that she is being mistreated when she is reminded to get her books, exemplified by much muttering and eye-rolling, as well as loud reminders of how everyone expects too much of her. "No big deal, Ashley--there are extra ones in the classroom or you can look on with someone else." Her advanced state of righteous indignation was palpable. She stormed off without waiting for anyone else. At least I could get all the way out of the door of the van. Inside with the rest of us, make sure everyone is at his or her post, go to class, go to worship, manage to make it through about 1/3 of the sermon before some small girl in our family decides that her charm and curly locks will make up for boisterous whininess. ::sigh:: Take her out, adjust her attitude, sit in the fellowship hall and listen to the sermon over the speaker, give her further fodder for future sessions with her therapist by insisting that she sit still and keep quiet leading to further thundershowers of tears, and then as the last song was being sung, she became a cute little human once more. Figures. Off then to the other side of the county to eat lunch with Ashley's other grandparents, which, as always, is more than enough information, then back toward home--"MY! BATTERIES! ARE! DEAD!!" Oldest, having another crisis. Pitiful, really. Poor GameBoy completely devoid of energy. Starts three-way screaming match with Rebecca and Jonathan demanding that they give her their batteries or let her play their games. The Howard Dean of the Back-Seat Set. Have to get gas anyway, so I figure I'll go inside and get her some stinkin' batteries and keep her mollified. (Remember, now, she is almost fourteen years old. Which to my mind is a lot older than two years old. Strangely, the behavior is almost identical.) Got gas, went in, not an AA cell in sight. ::sigh:: Get back in the van, go across the highway to the Walgreen's, get Reba some crackers, get a giant bottle of Walgreen's brand antacid, walk out door and remember that I had forgotten the entire reason for stopping in the first place, go back in, get pack of batteries, and finally peace reigns in the Playground of the Rude and Insolent. Back across the county to the church building, evening worship, then a meal afterwards for the youth group which doesn't get over with until 9. You know, when you wake up at 5:30 and have had many of your delicate nerves trampled by your children, 9 o'clock is a bit on the late-ish side. A lot. Home, and after further acrimony about someone having the temerity to touch Oldest on her person as they were disembarking the vehicle, the entire lot was banished to Upstairsistan and told to stay within their borders or risk an immediate, unilateral, and forceful response with the full force and might of Parentlandia. They went on to bed. (Some of you will note that I occasionally compare riding herd on my brood to international relations. It's merely a rhetorical device, I assure you. We're really very nice parents. For all of you who will become parents, just do your best and love your children and everything will eventually work itself out. And remember, never negotiate with terrorists.) And then there was Monday!
Alrighty then--BORING STUFF!! Wheeeeee!
I have no idea what happened Friday. I think the laundry got started, and I think I helped, and I think we had pizza for supper. I think. I do know that Saturday dawned dim and drizzly, and I really hoped that I would be getting a call saying that Middle Girl's soccer practice had gotten cancelled. No such luck. I puttered around and watched some of the Weekend Today show, and got Rebecca up so she could get dressed. The practice was scheduled for 10-12, at least on the marker board, but just to make sure, I figured I would call the coach--last week's was moved to 1:00, you know (or don't). Called--no answer. That settled it, I supposed, so after it got around time to go we loaded her up with her ball and a bottle of Gatorade and took off. Driving down the hill, I asked ONE. MORE. TIME. to see if she had heard ANYthing different from her coach. "Are you SURE you're not going to meet at another time?" Blank look. "I don't know. He said something about 11, or something. I don't know." "What did he say about 11?" "I don't know, I wasn't listening." ::sigh:: "Well, now you know why we tell you it's a good idea to liste..." "I DID! I just couldn't understand what he was SAYING!" No win on this one. Decided to go on to the park, just in case, because you just never know. Got there, and aside from several raindrops, we were totally alone. Turned around and headed back out the drive--"Daddy? Why did we get here so early?" ::Ralph Kramdenesque slow burn:: I tried explaining that she didn't tell me anything about a later time until we were well underway, and further, she didn't seem too confident about that later time, and finally, that since we were already underway and she might have misheard and I couldn't get her coach on the phone, that we really had no choice except to go and see what was going on. Which made for a very sullen child. Bang-ZOOM, Alice. Got back home, looked around the outside of the house a bit to see how it looked. Pretty good, certainly better than it has for the past few years. Once the paint on trimwork starts to go, everything looks tattered really quick. Amazing what a nice coat of paint can do. Helped fold more clothes, went through backpacks and pulled out old papers, and FINALLY, it was time to head back out for the 11 o'clock practice. Loaded Middle Girl back up, ball, Gatorade, drive. Met her coach driving the opposite way, just as he was coming into his neighborhood and we were leaving ours. Flagged him down and got him pulled over--"Hey, what time is practice?!" "One o'clock!" Went through whole story of miscommunication, turned around and went back to the house again. Decided to keep from getting out any more than required by registering the two littler kids for the upcoming season online. But not before tearing the house apart looking for Little Boy's birth certificate. Still couldn't find it, much to the chagrin of my parental counterpart, who seemed to take this news with much ill humor. I was able to abate her sense of my ineptitude by noting that by registering online, we would not have to have a copy of the elusive certificate right then, and could turn it in later. That bought me a few extra points. Which were quickly taken away when it came to pay the online registration fee and we found that there was a $20+ fee for online payment. Well, fergit that! Off to the Academy sporting goods store with Rebecca in tow. The combined effects of laundry and rain had conspired to put everyone in a foul mood, and taking one of the players out of the game seemed the best way to help keep things quiet. Got Cat and Jonathan signed up, and found that I didn't need a birth certificate after all. Whew. Looked around a bit, got a couple of pairs of cheap sweatpants for Rebecca to practice in, and hit the door with too much time to go on to the park, and yet not quite enough time to swing by the house. Finally figured it would be good to check in, so I dropped by the house, walked in, did something I can't remember, then headed out to the park for the third time. Which happened to be the charm, thus proving that old aphorisms are firmly rooted in fact. Dropped her out, and seeing as how I had eaten neither breakfast or lunch, I decided to go visit my friends over at the Country Convenience Store (the factory-made log building housing a convenience store and a pool supply place). Pulled in and parked, and noticed a scrawny, rather countercultural-looking young man wearing a thin tee-shirt and some really kewl tattoos. He was driving a beat up red '64 Falcon four door sedan, and was talking in that loud, high-as-a-kite mode with a big fat blonde girl. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Walked in, grabbed a Diet Coke and some canned meat "food" product and an AutoTrader to look at while I waited. "Would you like a bag for that?" I allowed that I would, if it would be no trouble. "Oh, it won't be no trouble t'all!" She then launched into an absolutely unintelligible ode to her husband (I think) and on what trouble really is and plastic and something and BWWAHAHAHAA! and this and that. "Thanks." I went back out and Jack Spratt and his corpulent companion were still yell-talk-arguing with each other about something as they wandered around the car slamming various doors and the trunk lid. I pulled on out to the road, and noticed they had a Dealer tag on their chariot. These are metal tags that car dealers use temporarily on demo vehicles and stuff they drive regularly. Why this sweet couple of kids had one is probably the basis for an entire shelf full of Southern gothic literature. Or at least two or three Coen Brothers films. Anyway, back to the park, sit, eat, drink, read, listen to the radio, doze, and then take Middle Girl back home after finding out EXACTLY when the next practice would be. The rest of Saturday was blessedly uneventful. But then there's always the next day...
Okay--one more thing before the boring stuff. Alabama Travel Tip #34
You don't have to leave your vehicle in the way of traffic if you have a wreck. If you and the vehicle are both operational, you're supposed to move it to the side of the road to await the arrival of the police. I say this purely for the selfish motive that my normal 22.3 minute morning commute was ruined by two folks who had a minor fender-bender in the left lane, right past the Tallapoosa Street exit. Nice huge flat emergency lane there, but they just stood there, arms akimbo, looking back over two miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic. I know for those of us who had it drummed into us to NOT MOVE YOUR CAR in case of an accident that this sounds like pure heresy, but really, it's okay and is intended to cut down on the congestion and further danger posed by vehicles in the travel lanes. If it can move, move it. And keep me from being late to work.
Okay, but before we start with that, I wanted to try something.
Usually, I use boldface and blockquote to set off a bit of text I’m It looks something like this, or it should, if it doesn’t overload Blogger’s ability to translate all the computer gobbledygook. The only drawback is that it takes much longer to type than simply doing a blockquote, which means I’ll have to keep a copy somewhere and cut-and-paste when I want to use it. Anyway, what do you think? Is this too jarring of a change to the purposely boring layout of Possumblog? Is it akin to theUPDATE: Based upon the comments, I made a couple of changes--I increased the font size to 14--18 would be a bit too big (sorry Larry), and did my best to shield the more delicate members of the reading public from references to Andy Griffith in any format other than the Accepted Version, i.e. Black and White. I apologize for using the analogy I used without any warning, but that is the one I commonly use to describe a horrible, unwarranted, unpleasant change.
Well, I'll be--Part II
Made it through ANOTHER weekend with all limbs intact and without involuntary commitment to a mental institution. Hard to beat, I say. Time for our staff meeting right now, but in a few moments you will be regaled with long, mundane tales of fascinating banality, including Three Trips to the Soccer Park, Rain, Driving, Waiting for Mickie, Dental Work (Now with Orthodontia!), Furniture Shopping, and Other Stuff! See you in a bit. Friday, January 16, 2004
Well, I'll be
A late-breaking post here, at least for me--Reba just called on her way home and said she had just heard on the news that Auburn University President William Walker has resigned, and Jabba the Housel is preparing to make an announcement of some sort later on in the afternoon. Well, maybe somebody finally got out their copy of the Auburn Creed and read it.
Nearly there
Quitting time is rolling around pretty soon--I have no idea what I'm doing this weekend. I know that sometime Saturday is going to be soccer practice for Middle Girl, and there's supposed to be stuff at church all day Sunday, except for the brief interlude where we have to go visit pseudo-relatives across the county. Blech. At least I will finally get to see the house in something other than dim morning or evening light. I think it looks better, but it's hard to tell. I can see that the painters have left a nice sign in my yard, and have managed to leak several gallons of oil or transmission fluid onto the street in front of the house. I think whoever belongs to that truck needs to tie a bucket under the crankcase. Monday is an off-day from work for all of us at Casa de los Possums, but three of the kids get to make the trip down to the foot of the hill to the dentist's office. Which will be really, REALLY fun. OH, how could I forget?! We lately have agreed to be model parents, who show themselves to be interested in the intellectual growth of their progeny by joining with other like-minded souls whose children attend school with ours and agreeing to turn the television off one night a week for the coming month! We are encouraged to engage in uplifting and wholesome family time together--reading, talking, seeking to reach sustainable understanding, playing stimulating games of skill and knowledge. "Daddy, you have to sign this and send it back." "Will do, sugar [said to Middle Girl]--it's important that we realize that the television can have a deleterious effect on family time!" "Huh?" "Nothin'. Hmm. It doesn't ask us to say exactly when we're agreeing to do this?" "No, sir." "Well, then. I think it's pretty clear that we will not be watching any television on Sunday nights!" A somewhat confused look crossed her face, "But Dad, we're never home on Sunday nights anyway." In the immortal words of the blogosphere, "Heh, indeed." Anyway, see you all bright and early Tuesday. Have yourselves a good weekend.
298 Years Sure Seems Like a Long Time
But when you read writings by Benjamin Franklin, who will be 298 years old tomorrow, you find a surprisingly modern fellow. I found this handy list of links to all sorts of Franklin writings that could keep a person busy reading for months and months.
LUNCH!
Today is one of those abso-stinkin'-lutely blue-sky beautiful days that just makes you want to prance down the street singing show tunes. Or something. A bit windy, sky clear as water, slightly nippy but not the least bit cold, Street and San guys out blowing leaves and picking up garbage, people you don't know who nod and smile and say 'Hey' when you pass by, just one crazy guy reading aloud to himself from an imaginary newspaper, real live Mexican food, served by real live Mexican people, with real taped Mexican polka music on the speakers, and a really hot chick in a leather jacket sitting across the table from you whom you just happen to get to see naked every once in a while. A nice day.
Oh, give me a break--French official criticizes U.S. ideology
Hey, what are the odds of THAT!? [...] In a speech at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, a private research group, Alliot-Marie emphasized that Europeans had "a different sensibility" from the United States toward the Arab-Muslim world.Nice--especially in light of France's move to ban Muslim women from being veiled in public. Must be part of that different sensibility.
Well, coulda seen this one coming--Federated to close Rich's-Macy's store in Birmingham BIRMINGHAM, Ala. (AP) -- Federated Department Stores Inc. said Friday it would close a Rich's-Macy's in suburban Birmingham and four other stores nationally that aren't making enough money.Century Plaza is the mall I posted about back during the Christmas Return season. Bad news for them, because I can't think of a comparable anchor store who would want to go back in the vacated space, and it was the one large store with some tiny bit of upmarket appeal. Penney's, Sears, and McRae's don't quite make it. Not sure of the whole story of the unprofitability of this Rich's store; some is due, I'm sure, to the location and age of the mall, which has been eclipsed by trendier places. I do know from personal experience that at least part of their trouble has been stunningly poor service and a inversely proportional attitude of superiority. I never will forget receiving a flyer from them advertising a special promotion on our sterling silver pattern. It was a very good price for service for eight, and when you bought the whole set, it also came with a storage box and a nice silverplate coffee service. Since this was back when we had first gotten married and still had some money, we decided to go ahead and buy it. I went to the store over at Brookwood Village--dressed in normal clothes--button down shirt, slacks, dress shoes. I walked in to the silver 'n' china section where I was studiously ignored by the salesladies. I finally got one girl's attention by standing directly in front of her, "Hi, I saw this sales paper and wanted to get the silverware and coffee service." She didn't even look at the paper, "What sale?" Grr. "THIS one. Eight place setting of sterling, comes with a box and a four-piece coffee service." "Oh. You mean silver-PLATE." "No, ma'am, I mean the exact same thing that's in this picture right here--sterling silver--the coffee pot's what's plated." She turned without a word and went and consulted with another harpy standing behind her, "We'll have to order that." Grr. "FINE." So she grudgingly wrote it up and I paid for it. "I'll go ahead and take my coffee service with me now." "You can get it when your order comes in." Grr. "Well, seeing as how I have already paid for it, and seeing as how you have boxes of them right over there on the shelf, I think you could probably go ahead and give me one." Again, consultation with the Assistant Shrew, and a box was retrieved and placed on the counter. She then turned and walked away. I took my box and gave her a nice loud, "Thank yooooou!" I've been back to this and the other stores in the area over the intervening years, and have yet to receive any better service.
Obscure Architectural Word of the Day
BALISTRARIA. In medieval military architecture, the cross-shaped openings in battlements and elsewhere for the use of the crossbow. From the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, 3rd Edition.
Believe It or Not!--Six-legged calf heads for Ripley's museum
I'd pay good money to see a six-legged calf head!
Last night
As I was typing up a blurb for Middle Girl's school project on Mercy Otis Warren, I checked an old e-mail account I have at Birmingham-Southern. It's been a several years since I was enrolled, but the account still works. I check it every once in a while to keep tabs on what all's going on, but it's been since about the first of November when I last got my messages. Logged in, and found that I had SEVEN HUNDRED TWENTY NINE messages! In a little over two months--of those, maybe only ten were anything related to the college; the rest were spam. Spam for FAK3 VI@GR@, SPAAM BLOCKING SOFTWAR, PEN!S PATCHES, Urgent Requests for Assistance [CONFIDENTIAL], L%%K at PARRIS H TAKE IT!, HGH No PRESCITION. A bunch had files attached, which meant viruses, and I wonder how many dumb kids in the computer labs at the college keep the system infected by opening them. It also boggles my mind to think that on some level, all this junk mail has to be making someone some money, or else there wouldn't be so much of it. Took me nearly ten minutes to dump it all.
Hey! He's Back!
Fritz is back home in The Small Wonder after taking a jaunt to the wilds of Foggy Bottom. Where he saw bottoms not the least bit foggy. Thursday, January 15, 2004
Golly, you know, you would think you would get a bit more vision from the guy who invented the Internet.
Gore Blasts Bush Space Plan, Says Earth Neglected By Nichola GroomHmm. Well, that's interesting, considering this interview Ex-Vice President Gore gave to Space.com on October 24, 2000: [...] SPACE.com: When is the best time for NASA to send humans to Mars, if at all?Darn that Internet and its ability to store old interviews in which you say that sending humans to Mars must be one of the goals we accomplish in the 21st century.
Much obliged, English fellers!!--Auburn gets $3M from British tech company In an effort to boost education in wireless-energy technology, Vodafone-US Foundation has picked Auburn University as one of three schools to share $12 million in scholarships.Of all the Ginn joints...
CBS Rejects Anti-Bush Super Bowl Commercial January 15, 2004Copenhagen, eh? Whatever.
Space Exploration
I believe the boys at the Emporium share my belief that with President Bush's commitment to revisting the Moon, the next lunar rover should look like this.
Well, whaddya know.
Interesting article about local place names from this morning's Birmingham News. We've lived in Trussville for about six years now, and I never knew who this Hewitt fellow was that all the schools are named after: [...] Laggard scholars may be gratified to learn that the man whose memory is honored in the names of two Trussville schools took a break from learning at age 16. But Robert Green Hewitt, born in 1846 near Tarrant, wasn't your usual drop-out - just a typical young man of his day and time. Hewitt left school to fight for the Confederacy. By war's end, Hewitt was a seasoned soldier, fighting in the battles of second Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg and the Wilderness, where he was wounded. After the war, he returned to Alabama to start Trussville Academy. He turned down the job of Jefferson County school superintendent but agreed to serve as president of the board of education.Neat. I did a quick bit of Googling and found this entry from the Hewitt family genealogical site (I edited out a bit of the redundant information and added the links): Robert Greene HEWITT was born on 25 May 1846 in Elyton, Jefferson Co., AL. He resided in 1873 in Rockwell TX. He died in 1936 in Birmingham, AL. He was buried in Birmingham, AL. He was a Teacher; Univ Of Ala. Dictionary of Alabama Biography p806 "he received his early education at Smith's Chapel, at Massey school house, at Ruhamah Academy; he left school when he was sixteen years old and enlisted in the C.S. Army, joining Co B, Tenth Alabama Infantry, Mar 10, 1862. He served until the final surrender at Appomattox Court House, participating in the battles of Second Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, the Wilderness, and Petersburg, and was wounded at the battle of the Wilderness. After the war, he farmed for a short time, then for four years taught school. At the end of that time, he attended the University of Alabama for a year but did not graduate. The degree of master of arts was, however, conferred upon him by the university in 1881. He taught at Rockwell, Texas 1873-1875, then returned to Alabama and taught at Trussville Academy until 1884, when he became a teacher at Guntersville for three years. He was elected tax collector for Jefferson County in 1888 and was re-elected to that office in 1892, serving in all eight years. He was elected a delegate to the State constitutional convention during the administration of Joseph F. Johnston, [in 1898, ed.] but because of the repealing of the act calling the convention, was not required to serve. Upon the recommendation of the county convention, Mr. Hewitt was appointed county superintendant of education, but declined to accept the appointment. Later he served as president of the board of education of Jefferson County. He was a Democrat; a Methodist, serving as Sunday school superintendent, steward and trustee; a Mason; and a Knight of Pythias.I like Google.
One more for the Captain Renault File: Saudis discover al-Qaida training camps RIYADH, Saudi Arabia (AP) -- Saudi authorities have discovered a number of camps outside Saudi cities used for training al-Qaida militants to carry out terror operations, an Interior Ministry official said Thursday. [...]I'm sure they must have been very well hidden, and probably had big signs that said "NO A TERRORIST CAMP. PLEASE TO GO AWAY NOW!" Anyone could miss 'em.
Tuesday night I took Oldest to her clarinet practice lesson. The first part of the drive, from the house out to Main to Cedar Street Garden Shop was very quiet. Just the radio, tuned to something classical, and the sound of the van.
I guess the quiet got to be too much, and she piped up about her drama class. She hasn't enjoyed it at all this year and has constantly complained that they don't do anything and the teacher is horrible. Now, if I had a 100 average in a class, I don't think I would get my knickers in a twist about the class or the teacher, but then again, it's been a long time since I was a 13 year old girl. Boy, I mean. Anyway, having found herself something to complain about, off she went on a fearsome tirade. "Ms. Drama is SO. STUPID! I mean, FIRST, she said SHE was going to judge us to see who was going to do which part in the play, THEN she said she was going to let SOMEONE ELSE do it!!! And THEN, she-" "Ashley, you know, it could be a good idea for her to let someone else come in and watch you all do your reading. That way, no one can get mad at her and accuse her of playing favorites, and it would probably cut down on the complaining and hurt feelings if someone doesn't get the part they want." It was if she had been pole-axed. She sat there in the seat beside me, speechless, but with her mouth slightly agape as if she were about to say something, but couldn't. It seemed like the thought that maybe her teacher wasn't completely evil and stupid just wouldn't compute and it made her operating system lock up. I waited for a second or two, hit the power switch and got her restarted--"Well, anyway, and?" "Huh?" "And? You were about to say something else that you didn't like about how she was doing things?" "Uh." She sat for a second longer and then remembered where she had been in her rant and picked it up again just like someone had hooked back up her speaker wire. "...AND THEN, she got in a BIG argument with one of the girls in class because they TOLD her that there were LIGHTS in the STAGE, and she said NO, THERE WEREN'T but there ARE, because Melissa worked on it last year and knows all about the lights and she TOLD Ms. Drama that there were lights. AND THEN, Ms. Drama said there were lights, BUT THAT THEY DON'T WORK!! And Katie told her too that she was WRONG and Katie knows EVERY. THING. THERE. IS. TO. KNOW. about the lights. EVERYTHING! And so THEN-" "Ashley, have you seen these lights working?" "-THEN, huh?" "Has anyone tried turning the lights on during class? Have you seen them working for yourself?" "No, but Katie and Melissa know ALL about them, and-" "Have they tried them out this year to see if they still work? You know, it could be that they worked last year, but something may have happened to them. You know, someone could have broken them or something. When your teacher said there weren't any lights, she might have meant that there weren't any lights that were working." Processing. Processing. Change of subject. I figure at some point she'll grow out of her adolescent, irrational, reflexive antagonism toward people with whom she disagrees. Sadly, some people don't. Wednesday, January 14, 2004
AND, speaking of Jim Smith...
Chet the E-Mail Boy just came trotting (or stumbling, hard to tell) in here with a note from the wilds of East Carolina: I never remember a resolution to two items from the past:Hmm? What? OH! Well, yes, I haven't had an update on those items lately due to the huge amount of inactivity on both accounts. Reba is still at the same old grind, still doing the same thing, and putting up with the same old crap. Still perusing the newspapers, but it's hard to do serious job hunting when you have a full-time job during the day, and a full-time job when you get home. But, all things in good time, I reckon. AS FOR THE COMPUTER--as you all fondly recall, I had bought a new printer to install on the computer for the kids, seeing that the old one (printer, not kid) had puked up several tiny springs and widgets and began imitating a dead parrot. However, the new printer, a lovely HP SomethingorotherJet, didn't have a Win95 driver, which is bad, because the computer has Win95 installed on it. So, I decided to enter the new millenium and install Windows ME. Went to Staples, plunked down my moolah, excitedly got home and began the installation process. But you see, because I am a complete computer retard, I had compressed the hard drive when I first got this computer, and couldn't figure a way to get it UNcompressed in order to install the new update software. I have found that the printer makes an excellent place to store paper, and the Windows ME disc made a festive and attractive holiday ornament. Derned kids don't need no printer no way.
What an afternoon.
Thank heavens it was nothing like the morning. After a brisk walk in the chilly drizzling rain, I had a satisfyingly unsurprising lunch of a Roly Poly sandwich with the satisfyingly surprising Miss Reba, then came back to my warm little hovel to start typing up meeting minutes as I listened to the soothing sounds of Gregorian chants by some Canadian Benedictine guys. I also called Metro Monitor to get a copy of the news report I was on back in December--I called the reporter, and apparently their technical sophistication when it comes to making copies is not quite all there, so she said I was better off ordering it. I'd pretty much decided to forget about it, but I spoke to a guy this morning at my early meeting who had seen it and said it turned out really well. Being that I live for constant positive reinforcement, I figured it wouldn't hurt to get a copy to bother people with. Anyway, back to typing.
What a morning.
Reminds me of the Far Side cartoon I have taped up beside me here. Two hard-hatted construction workers are sitting on a high girder, eating lunch. One says to the other, who listens with nervous eyes bulging, "You ever get that urge, Frank? It begins with looking down from 50 stories up, thinking about the meaninglessness of life, listening to the dark voices deep inside you, and you think, 'Should I?...Should I?...Should I push someone off?" That would make a big mess, though, and I've had enough messes to clean up today already. And to make it even better, got yet another reminder of why no one likes having to deal with bureaucrats. By sad twist of fate, I had tried to sneak out early of the second meeting I had this morning and passed my boss in the hallway talking excitedly on his cell phone with someone. He buttonholed me into what became a nice little Kafkaesque vignette. One of the many local quasi-governmental agencies around here needed assistance getting some needed paperwork processed for a land acquisition--admittedly, it was a screw-up on their part that it had become an emergency and something that had to be done immediately, but my boss likes to try to help out. They really needed to come down to City Hall themselves and fill out the paperwork and bring the actual, complete legal descriptions of the property, but Boss said we'd take care of it for them. So he told the guy on the other end of the line to send the request to one of the guys who works the counter downstairs, and to send it to me, too. "And what am I supposed to do, exactly?" (Because, you see, I have nothing to do with zoning or property descriptions or anything else like that.) "Just make sure Counter Guy gets it done." Oh boy. Following up on someone who's not even part of the same division. That makes you popular. Whatever. Rolled on back to the office--we were at a remote site this morning--and had just gotten off the elevator when I was met by the secretary from downstairs who wanted to know if I had those property descriptions yet. "Uh, well, I just got in the building Miss Lady, but as soon as I get them, I'll bring them down to Counter Guy." "Oh, Counter Guy's not here today." ::sigh:: Wuckin' funderful. Not only do I not know what I'm doing, I now have no idea who I'm supposed to do it with. Took off my jacket, ran downstairs and got a Coke, came back and was told I had a call. It was Boss, wanting to know if I had gotten those property descriptions yet. "Just got in, Boss, but Counter Guy's not here." Without missing a beat, Boss said to give them to New Guy when I got through and he would do the rest of the processing. (New Guy is not really new--I call him that because a couple of years after he got here, he made a blindingly obvious statement about how things work in the real world. I leaned over to a co-worker and said, "You know, He's new here.") Fine. So, off I go back to my desk to try to figure out some way to come up with legal descriptions. We have limited access to tax assessor's records, and to parcel information through our GIS system, both of which include a few simplified descriptions. That's the best I had, so I figured it was better than nothing. Printed off descriptions from both sources and neatly stapled them together and took them downstairs to Miss Lady. "Hey again, Miss Lady, I uhmmm, am not really sure what you need for your stuff, so I gave you both the sets of descriptions I have." "Well love, what you have to do is fill out one of these request forms--you put in the address [listed on the stuff I had printed out] and write down what the zoning is [listed on the stuff I had printed out] and the legal description [listed on what I had printed out]." "Oh. Hmm. Okay. Well, is New Guy in?" Went around to New Guy's office. He was chatting amiably with someone, the newspaper spread neatly on his desk. He finally got off and I asked, "Did My Boss get in touch with you?" No. "Did you talk to Your Co-Worker Who Sits Behind You about these certificates we need?" No. Oh boy, this is going to be good. I started explaining that we had an agency that needed this paperwork completed, and I had gotten the admittedly abbreviated property descriptions for them, and My Boss had asked if Counter Guy could do them and..."You know Counter Guy's not here today, don't you?" "...yes, and that's why I was told to give it to you, New Guy." "Well, they just need to come in and fill out this form. I'm not going to do their work for them. They came in during the holidays with a bunch of these, and I'm just not going to do them. I'm tired of doing their job. If you want to, get them to fill those forms out, and bring them back to me, and I'll pass them along to Miss Lady to process." Should I?...Should I? Went back upstairs to my office, filled in the name of the agency and their address on a form, made copies, filled in the addresses and the simplified descriptions, noted the zoning classification, and went back downstairs to give them to Miss Lady myself. Would hate to interrupt New Guy's newspaper gleaning. "Well, this looks fine--but you need to write the zoning class on THIS line here, instead of up there." Yes, that would be too difficult for Miss Lady. Wouldn't want to unduly tax anyone's faculties. Filled them out PROPERLY, and handed them back to her as she continued her conversation with her friend on the phone. I'm going to lunch now. I promise I won't be up on any girders, though. Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Work.
Blech. Gotta do some right now, as well as tomorrow morning for our twice-monthly exercise in civil servitude. And tomorrow's going to be particularly interesting in that we are moving from the lush confines of our offices overlooking Lynn Park to a different location. It promises a larger meeting space, as well as the possibility of co-eds. We'll see. Anyway, to work. See you again much later tomorrow.
Weeping Madonnas, Images of Jesus In Tortillas, and now...Owner thinks cat's marks honor Earnhardt DELAND, Fla. (AP) -- First it was the Dale Earnhardt goat, now it's the Dale Earnhardt cat.Now this is just me, and let me say first that I think it's right interesting that there's a cat with a 3 on it, but I really, REALLY think the much bigger story here is the screaming fur. Fur in the shape of something is cool, but when it screams, well, now that's just something you don't hear about every day. He told his wife of 30 years, "Valerie, we're rich."We can quit spending $500 a week on lottery tickets! Albury, a NASCAR fan who regularly watches the races on television, called up the Daytona International Speedway to see if officials there were interested. The Speedway officials suggested he call Dale Earnhardt Inc. based in North Carolina. He hasn't gotten a reply.Wow--it's just like listening to Britney Spears' mom! This isn't the first animal born in Florida bearing the number 3 since Earnhardt's death.You know, this whole deal with pilgrimages to see numbered animals just cries out for a new version of the Canterbury Tales. Someone get me that Chaucer guy on the phone!
Awww--'Umbilical Cord' Holding Mars Rover Successfully Cut
I remember cutting the cord on my own little Rover--the only one I got to do that on was Catherine. They really need to give you better instructions and prepare you for it, though, because even with sharp scissors it's pretty tough to cut. Must be all those wires and cables.
Mmm. Lunchtime!
Reminds me of a joke--two aerospace engineering students from Auburn were on their first day of internship at Huntsville with NASA. At the most critical part of the countdown of a new rocket, the boys suddenly broke out their lunchboxes and started chowing down on barbecue sandwiches and cold drinks. The supervisor yelled and asked what they thought they were doing--"Well, y'all said it was time fer launch." Thank you--I'll be here all week.
Oooooh--SHOES!!
Lifestyle Brand of Yak Leather Footwear Sells for Up to $300 a Pair By Lisa SandersMan, gotta get me some YAK! And each shoe only weighs 6400 pounds! Anyway, I don't quite know if I want Hummer participating in my life when I cover up in the sheets. I'll let all of you fill in your own jokes about knobby tire treads and go-anywhere capabilities. And the name Hummer, for that matter.
Francesca says this doesn't need to be in the comments, but out here where everyone can see it.
But then, if I did that, it would not have the hallmark subtlety that makes Possumblog so very annoying.
Stoking the literary fires
As you know, commentary on most of the world's literature can be found herein, which is why some young student just came through searching for: the enormous turnip(synopsis. Happy to be of help--see there was this turnip, and it was enormous. And speaking of great stories, this morning's Toothbrush Story was a pretty good one, if I do say so myself. It was about a gopher, whose name was supplied to me by Tiny Girl as "Gophie." Of course, Gophie was a big dumb lummox of a nutria, who had large yellow teeth which grew and grew and produced the need for Daddy to make buck-toothed chewing sounds. One day he (Gophie, not Daddy) was sittting on a bench at the park eating a bag of carrots when a very beautiful female gopher happened by. (Catherine said her name was Kasey with a K.) Kasey, who sounded like a Valley Girl with an overbite, took a liking to Gophie rather quickly (as is the way of rodents) but was shocked and appalled by his ghastly yellow dentition. She told him he needed to BRUSH HIS TEETH. It seems Gophie had never seen himself in the mirror, so Kasey showed him with her makeup compact how hideous he was, and he was VERY embarrassed that he had allowed his dental hygeine to slip so far. AT ONCE, he scurried home to his burrow annnnnnd--"BRUSHED HIS TEETH!" Yes, that's right, Catherine. He brushed his big yellow incisors until they sparkled like a brand new set of piano keys. And he and Kasey hit it off really well afterwards, and set up housekeeping in a very nice three bedroom hole. "Did they have any children?" Yes, they had thirty-eight. "Did they brush their teeth?" THAT, my dear, is a story for tomorrow.
Who knew!?--Soup: Savory and satisfying
Despite the banal title, the article actually has some pretty banal suggestions: [...] A basic vegetable soup can be made even heartier and will serve more diners by the addition of some vegetable, chicken or beef stock, water and noodles. Let the mixture simmer until the noodles are tender.And now we know where all the hot air in the Senate comes from.
Won’t you beeeeeee, my neighbor.
Obviously I’m a day late and a dollar short on commenting on this story, but whatever. Seems Howard Dean was in Iowa Sunday and was castigated by an old man for being surly and rude. The man, a Republican retiree named Dale Ungerer said Dean (and the rest of the Democratic candidates, for that matter) ought to quit attacking Bush and each other. […] Ungerer, wearing a T-shirt bearing the words "Mr Fix It," rose to his feet and condemned what he called the incivility of the campaign and the political press. He suggested Dean and the other Democratic candidates stop "tearing down your neighbor" and cut their "slam, bam and bash Bush" rhetoric.Mr. Ungerer begged to differ, which seemed to light off Dean’s burner and demonstrate to the audience exactly what he had been accused of. And then there is this strange quote- […] "It's not the time to put up any of this 'love thy neighbor' stuff ... I love my neighbor, but I'll tell you I want THAT neighbor back in Crawford, Texas where he belongs." […]I say it’s strange, because this is the same Dean who came swinging through here not long ago saying how religious he is, and how he wanted to let us folks down South know what a pious feller he was. I’m sure he thinks he is, but I fear the only religious people who are going to be enthused by his theology are the ones who believe God is a cross between FDR and Whoopi Goldberg, that Jesus is like the really cool guy you know who you can trust to hold your stash without smoking it all up, and who think the kingdom of Heaven is run like the local zoning board of adjustment. Although there are probably a good many who share his view, not a lot of them live around here. Further, the story behind all that “’love thy neighbor’ stuff,” whether Dr. Dean likes it or not, is one of kindness and compassion for your fellow man, despite any earthly differences that may separate you. Seems that there are an awful lot of Democrats out there who think such ideals are their sole province, which makes Dean’s response seem, well, un-Democratic, and much more like those filthy Republicans. Odd that a physician would so lightly disregard a lesson from the Great Physician, but then again, Jesus isn’t a caucus delegate. Anyway, according to Luke’s gospel, what happened is that a man who knew his Scripture (and wanted to test Jesus) stood up and asked Jesus to tell him what he needed to do to have life everlasting. Jesus asked him what the Scripture said, and the lawyer said that you were supposed to love God and love your neighbor, which is exactly right. But the lawyer thought he had him with that nigglingly imprecise word “neighbor,” and asked Jesus to explain exactly who his neighbor is--probably thinking that he could figure all kinds of ways to trap Jesus with whatever he said. Jesus then told them of a story of man who got robbed, beaten and left for dead. A priest passed by without helping him, then a Levite (a man of the priestly tribe) passed by without helping the man. Then along came a Samaritan, who felt compassion on the beaten man, put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and paid for his medical care, and promised to pay any other costs that might accrue between then and the time he got back from his business trip. Jesus asked the lawyer who was the man’s neighbor in that scenario. 36 Which of these three, thinkest thou, proved neighbor unto him that fell among the robbers?Some things to consider--the Samaritans were despised by the Hebrews of that day, and were regarded as little more than dogs. The men who refused to help the robbed man were of his own people, and further, were religious leaders who should have known better. To have someone so reviled behave in such a way would probably have seemed incredible to some who heard it, but to make it hit even closer to home, some believe that since Jesus said that this was a “certain man” and “a certain priest” and “a certain Samaritan” that this was no simple parable, but an actual event that was well known to the audience. The shame of not helping, compounded by the shame of who did help. And if it were an actual event, it certainly would have been much harder for his lawyer interlocutor to simply dismiss it as a hypothetical. In any event, there are a good many folks who take that “love thy neighbor stuff” seriously. If Dean wants their votes, it might be worth it for him to remember that. Monday, January 12, 2004
Up early Sunday, doze while listening to the television, shower, shave, brush, get kids up, help Cat get dressed, try to get wife up, fix little girl hair, prepare scrumptious breakfast of something out of a foil packet, answer phone (as noted last week, this is never good---and I was right this time, too. One of Reba’s uncles had to be taken to the hospital for a heart attack--he’s having quintuple bypass right now) load giant stack of Bibles and class materials in van, chase down coats for children, shove everyone out the door and into the van.
Almost immediately have to begin delicate proposition of brokering a cease-fire and enforcing a DMZ in the rear seat. Decide to build concrete wall down center of van. Get to the church building, manage to get everyone devanned and embuildinged and actually got to sit through an entire class without having to chase after anything or anyone. Good class getting started on the book of Proverbs for the young adults, and for once we had a packed classroom. (Lot of late risers in the group) On to morning worship, where I noticed a strange odd thing--it seemed that Oldest was separated from her beau of late by another person--a girl person! Oh my. This might be something terrible. Or not. Come to find out, the young fellow I have spoken of so highly in past entries--the boy who slobbered after Oldest like a whupped puppy, who pledged his undying heart to her--managed to act just like a 14 year old boy. Decided he still had the hots for some other girl, decided to break things off, decided to call around and tell everyone else except Oldest that he was going to be breaking things off before telling her, and then tried to play the “I know you probably think I’m terrible” card. Oh please. As if. Whatever. Which is pretty much what she told him. Heh. As I told Reba, the self-centered and arrogant side of her personality does occasionally stand her in right good stead--although miffed that the boy she had been linked to had acted like a heel and a cad, she was not quite so broken up as he would have liked. In fact, she was rather relieved. Of course, that relief was further helped by yet ANOTHER young man who seems to have fallen for her charms, who told her in no uncertain terms that he was sorry she had been so meanly victimized, and promised to call her with words of consolation. ::sigh:: Such plot twists. On for some lunch, then on to one of the other local congregations for the big Bible Bowl contest (senior team won, junior team came in a distant fourth), then back to the building for some more testing of some sort, then evening worship, which I spent in the fellowship hall with Catherine trying to explain why it was not a good idea to keep standing up and turning around during services, especially when her top was three inches shy of her belly button, and her skirt was likewise three inches shy the other way. (She wallows around and fidgets a great deal, causing anything she wears to head to the polar regions.) Home, sandwiches, sign report cards (all good ones this time--mostly As, a few Bs, no Cs), collapse into bed. And here we are again!
As you know…
I have been doing this bit of ongoing sociological research now for over two years--in that time, Possumblog come to be known as one of the world’s foremost authorities on any topic you can ever imagine. While I may often be wrong, I am never at a loss for an answer. The possumy oracle you see before you has been the destination for many, many querists over the past months, and each and every one has come away with something valuable, even if it is the value of knowing that something called Possumblog is not really that likely to have nekkid pictures of Norah O’Donnell. In my short time, I have seen all sorts of requests and questions and inquiries and ponderables, but now I believe I have seen it all. Just dipped into the algae-covered aquarium of the referrer logs and found this little gem: Dear mr.Google, I know Rome was not built in a day,but if it is posible (and only if) to cure Bilka's stomach? ::blink::blink:: I know Rome wasn’t built in a day, too, but please, take Bilka to a doctor, not to someplace named after an omnivorous prehensile-tailed marsupial!
Just in case...
...you have found that the amount of hard-hitting philosophical content of Possumblog has not quite been up to par lately, word just came from Brian Anderson, Senior Editor of City Journal of some hearty fare--I haven't gotten a chance to read any of these articles yet, but they sound really good: Dear Terry:I think it's probably safe to say little exists like this anywhere in the Middle East, not just Iraq. In "What Makes a Terrorist?", James Q. Wilson answers that it takes a village--even a whole culture. As Wilson shows, most terrorists belong to tightly bonded groups, whose members reinforce one another's delusions: that evil is good, wrong is right, death is life. All this might make rational-if immoral-sense if terrorism actually achieved its political goals; but as Wilson finds, it rarely does. Nevertheless, Wilson soberly concludes, little platoons of nihilistic, death-dealing unreason, cheered on by a culture of rage and resentment, wish to wipe out Western civilization and will plague us for some time to come.Indeed--simply because your enemy is terminally stupid and pathologically incapable of reason doesn't mean he's not dangerous--in fact, quite the opposite. Sadly, sometimes it's much better for all concerned to just let them take it up with God. The Winter issue also features two articles on important domestic issues:Hey, go figure. In "The Illegal-Alien Crime Wave," Heather MacDonald shows that some of the most violent criminals at large today are illegal aliens. Yet in cities where the crime these aliens commit is highest-in Los Angeles, for instance, where 95 percent of all outstanding warrants for homicide target illegal aliens--cops cannot use the most obvious tool to catch them: their immigration status. Reasons: fear of offending powerful immigrant lobbies and, even more disturbingly, the non-stop increase of immigration, which is reshaping the law to dissolve any distinction between legal and illegal aliens and, ultimately, the very idea of national borders.And citizenship, for that matter--it seems that some people are now is perfectly willing to bestow the rights of American citizenship to anyone, including to those who consider themselves our enemies. Other fascinating stories in the Winter issue include Michael Knox Beran on self-reliance versus self-esteem, Walter Olson on how the ADA has spawned a sleazy lawsuit industry,Actually, the ADA didn't spawn a sleazy lawsuit industry--it just opened up new feeding grounds for the poor, hungry, emaciated sharks who couldn't find enough ambulances to chase. Julia Magnet on the films of Whit Stillman,If you're like me, you can't read that without thinking Wilt the Stilt. It's wrong in so many different ways, but hey... Richard Brookhiser on DeWitt Clinton, and Theodore Dalrymple on Stefan Zweig.Thanks much to Brian for the note--all of you go read!
Why I don't like snow...
It seems that Nate McCord has done gone and explored the combined effects of gravity, friction, inertia, and inverted flight this past weekend. Good to hear that everyone is in one piece, Nate--anyone with some spare change, I know Nate would appreciate some of it jangling down into the tip jar.
And now…SATURDAY!! Well, this being us, and we being we, Saturday was the normal combination of trying to be everywhere at once, so that we could do everything at once.
Up early, and after high-level consultations figured we were going to have to take both vehicles, since I was going to have to haul Soccer Girl back across the county to the soccer park before the rest of the kids were through with their other activity--scrapbook. Finally got them all dressed in something warmer than tee shirts and shorts or nightgowns and headed out the door right at 9:00, and was met by some guy in a beat-up truck. Ahhhh--a PAINTER!! Stood there and jabbered with him for a few minutes to let him know what all sorts of things he would promptly forget about the moment we drove away, then hopped in the vans and off we went. Got to the building, which was freezing, and while Reba and the older two had their respective study sessions for Bible Bowl, I did my Wednesday evening lesson and kept Boy and Tiny Girl occupied with some stacks of scrap paper and colored pencils. Thankfully, it was quiet, and they pretty much stayed in one place patiently being creative--until everyone started coming out of the classrooms for break, which was just too exciting to sit still for. You know, you would figure after living with me for so long, Cat would know just how much of a control freak I am, and just how much I would prefer it if she would sit down and not run up and down among the folding chairs, happily screaming about princesses. Go figure. Anyway, it finally got close enough to time for me to leave with Bec--nearly noon, and nearly lunchtime. One of the guys had cooked hamburgers, so Rebecca had gotten a plate and was about to chow down on one, before she was stopped by her cruel father intent on keeping her from puking all over Trussville. I tried to get her to eat something lighter, but she just pouted. ::sigh:: The story of my weekend. Got her out to the van, stopped at the store to get her some Gatorade, kept trying to get her to eat some fruit or something else, but she just shook her head sadly and pouted more. You know how Andy Griffith would get exasperated at Barney or Goober or a mob of angry old women, and just fuss and shake his head. That’s what I felt like. Got to the park, let her out, talked to the concession stand guy for a while, then turned the hoity-toity opera music up, laid the seat back flat, and promptly started drooling and having really bad dreams. Which were stopped when I heard a tiny tap at the window and nearly killed myself jumping up in fright. It was just Reba--they had gotten finished and she swung by on the way home to see what all was going on. I was still sort of bleary--she leaned on the window and chatted for a very long time about all the latest gossip. This is my downfall, you know. Like the old Far Side cartoon about what dogs hear when you talk to them, with the guy who’s going on and on, ‘Oh, Ginger, what a GOOD dog you are, aren’t you! You want to go play ball, Ginger? Maybe go to the store, Ginger?’ And all the dog hears is ‘blah blah blah Ginger blah blah blah Ginger blah blah blah Ginger.’ Well, on occasion, that is me. Normally, this is a benign sort of tendency, but just to make my life interesting and justify monthly purchases of expensive medications designed to keep me from keeling over, in the midst of these streams of consciousness, actual, important, information is occasionally transmitted. It wouldn’t be a problem if there was one of those staticky warning buzzes like when they interrupt the radio for important weather information, but it comes through with the same pitch and tempo and gesticulations as everything else and just runs RIGHT BY my cerebral cortex and goes right there beside my brain stem. It’s the verbal equivalent of steganography. As I have mentioned before, after several years of such, you would think everyone would get the idea that Terry’s brain is very much like an earthworm’s, and that one shouldn’t burden it with complexly-coded hidden message things. And get angry with him if he happens to ask about something that had just been presented to him only five minutes previous. Hey! I’m a planarian!! Cut me some slack. After using my defense mechanisms of feigned mental defect and loud flatulence, I managed to extricate myself from harm’s way. And yes, it would probably be safer just to listen better in the first place--you never know when there might be an open flame, or some guy hovering around with a straitjacket. But hey, such is life on the edge. Miss Reba went on back toward home while I continued to wait for practice to get over--I flopped the seat back and went back to fevered dreams and angry French opry music. Sometime later I roused up and saw that the girls were standing around drinking hot chocolate, so I assumed, rightly, that practice was over. She got in the van and said that they had gone on a cross-country jog along the multitude of nature trails, all the way over to the old elementary school. And that she saw Mommy while they were running along the road, and that she slowed down and rolled down the window and started talking to them. (In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Reba talks as much as I blog.) Stopped by the library for a moment or two, then on to the house for a moment or two before getting us all into one vehicle for our trip to Wal-Mart. Tiny Girl needed some more school supplies, BUT before that, we had a side trip to make to the bookstore to return a gift and to let the kids use their gift certificates from my mom, BUT before THAT, we all took Boy in for a haircut. He spends most of his days with unkempt hair. The odd thing is that he LIKES for his hair to be neat and short, and gets flustered when it won’t do right. But most of the time it still looks like a cat sucked it. At least when it’s short, it’s not quite so bothersome to him, so, a haircut and he was just fine. On to the bookstore, which is never fun when you have to play zone defense. Too many aisles, too many tearable things, one little girl who likes to wander the aisles tearing things. GAAH! They gathered up their purchases, and I allowed myself a purty half-price wall calendar for the new year--365 Days in Italy. 365 architectural and artsy still-life pictures from all over Italy--beautiful stuff, even if it doesn’t have any pictures of girls or cars. Checked out, then on to Sam Walton’s Emporium, where I stayed in the van with the kids--much less stressful, believe it or not, than it is to try and ride herd on them in a place with yet more aisle and yet more tearable things. Catherine is now loaded up with some new crayons and pencils and glue and a pink-and-purple plastic box to keep it all in. She was very impressed. Home then for some supper, then time for Most Thorough Saturday Evening Toilet, consisting of baths, hair scrubbing, blow drying, ear wax gouging, nail clipping, and various made-up tales of wonder. Then to bed. Then up once again Sunday for some good ol’ churching up!
BUT...
Before we get to that, I have to run over to the hospital for a moment or two--my mom-in-law had to let the plumbers in for some one-day surgery this morning, so I've got to swing by and say hey to her. (She's fine, by the way.) Be back in a bit.
Friday--Get home to the loving embrace of my family and...LAUNDRY! Man alive, what a mess of clothing.
Got the debrief on the Fabulous Paper Trebuchet. As I had envisioned, it was broken before it ever got to class--it seems Catherine decided to pick up the carrying box sometime while she and her brother and sister were waiting in the gym to go to class, which managed to snap off the plastic soda straws I had used to hold the axles in place. Grr. Anyway, after much wheedling and digging--for some reason, Rebecca was very shy with the information--we found that even handicapped by having its poor little wheels gone, the trebuchet let fly with two fearsome volleys of sugary fury. One hit the ceiling toward the center of the classroom, and the other hit the bookcase. She explained all about it, and made one of those discoveries that changes your whole outlook when you’re young. Your teachers sometimes don’t know everything. I remember when I figured that out--I was in the fourth grade, and my teacher told us that every time you learn something, a small crease or fold forms in the surface of your brain. I knew that was total BS, even at nine years old. Anyway, Rebecca had her epiphany when the subject of what defines a machine came up. Their teacher had told them that to be a machine, something had to do work, which meant it had to produce a change in force, a change in direction, or create a change in distance. ALL TOGETHER. (It actually can be any one of them individually.) Anyway, some little smartypants kid asked Miss Teacher how the lovingly-created machine before them actually did all three of these. She figured out after much deliberation that it did indeed produce a change in distance (since the Dot candy went way far away) and she figured that there was some sort of change in force, although she wasn’t quite sure of the magic. But the stumper came in the change of direction--just couldn’t figure that one out. So, obviously children, it was not a machine, now was it? Seems that someone didn’t get that particular crease in her brain when she got her college diploma. Anyway, I assured Bec that work doesn’t have to do all three things, and that even if it did, the fact that the candy first has to go in a big, looping, circle before being released meant that it did change the direction of the object, so her experiment was just fine. “Hmm. Well, you know, my teacher said she’s not real good at science stuff.” Am our children lerning? Anyway, it’s a good thing I can figure stuff like that out, because when it comes to remembering anything else, my brain is completely smooth. We got a call later on Friday evening from one of the dads on Rebecca’s soccer team to let us know the practice for Saturday got changed from 9:30 to 1 o’clock (which was very nice to hear). What was not so nice was I had absolutely no idea who it was until very far into the conversation. CALLER: “Hey. This is [muffled--sounded like Drmlshfm].” ME: [Thinking, ‘I wonder who in the world this is?’] “Hey, man, what’s going on?” CALLER: “Awww, not much. Y’all have a good Christmas? ME: “Yeeeah. Y’all?” CALLER: “Yeeeah, I reckon so. Listen, I’m supposed to call and let everyone know that we’re going to get the team together and run Saturday at one.” ME: [Totally mystified, unable to maintain charade of familiarity.] “Okay. And, ummm, this is for…who, exactly?” CALLER: “For soccer…soccer practice.” ME: [Okay, wonder which team this is supposed to be for--not making the connection that it could only be ONE team, since Middle Girl’s is the only one practicing at the moment.] “Who is this?” [Really, I have NO clue.] CALLER: [Sounding somewhat perturbed] “This is Daryl [muffled--sounded like Donno]!” ME: “And it’s going to be Saturday? At one?” [Tiny internal doorbell FINALLY goes off, and I FINALLY figure out who this is. Decide I must continue charade of denseness to make it seem as though initial bout of brainfade was intentional for the purpose of sporting about.] “And your name is Daryl?” CALLER: “Right.” ME: “And who are you again? And this is about soccer?” [Add slight snicker at end] CALLER: “Aww, now cut that out!” ME: “I’m really sorry, but I’m not sure what sort of soccer team you might be talking about.” That went on for a little bit longer just so as to convince him totally that the whole exchange from the start had been my idea of a little joke. He either thinks I am quite the clever boy or a raving lunatic. Or quite the clever raving lunatic boy. Whatever. Anyway, that was welcome news, in that it meant Middle Girl could still go with us up to the church building to study. Which will be covered in the next installment we like to call…SATURDAY!!
AAGGGGHHHHH!
There now. All better. This morning has been interesting, in the sense of the old Chinese curse about wishing upon someone that they be born in interesting times. You know, every once in a while, the idea of going on walkabout has a certain allure, even though around here there's not really that many wild, desolate places you can walk without crossing several superhighways along the way and we all know the usual consequences which befall possums while walking near roadways. Anyway, the normal long-winded tale of the weekend will be here in a bit as soon as I can manage to douse some brushfires and beat back some alligators off of my pasty buttocks--be back in a bit. Friday, January 09, 2004
And speaking of non sequiturs...
It's nearly time to hit the road for the lovely Ville of Truss. Long weekend--soccer practice for Middle Girl is supposed to try and start up tomorrow after the aborted attempt on Monday. I really don't look for it to happen since everything is still soggy from last night's almost-winter-weather conditions. (All the kids think that a 20% chance of light sleet means IT'S GONNA SNOW!!) And also tomorrow, we have a thing at church for the kids to go and study their Bible Bowl questions, which, believe it or not, is not all that fun if you're just tagging along because you can drive. Might have to bring along some reading material. Laundry? Oh and how--last week's blessed reprieve due to getting it done during the holiday meant that the hamper started filling up on Thursday rather than Sunday--all the mounds of carelessly dropped kid clothes looks like an explosion in a Chinese sweatshop. I imagine that this will mean that tomorrow morning, there will be no early morning under-sheet wrestling with Miss Reba. ::sigh:: Housepainting? Well, ol' Mickey's crew got started right after the first of the year, hammering and spot painting in the back and...and...well, not much else. It's either been too cold or too rainy to do anything the past week, after I went to all the trouble of moving Franklin down the driveway a bit so they could get all the way around the garage doors. Oh well. I do have a big JoBox sitting out on the platform in the backyard, some ladders, some dropclothes, so it's almost like they've been working. At least I still have my money. Finally got in my tax forms, which means it's time to break out the old pencil and paper--I wonder if I bought a Curta, if I could get a deduction for it if I used it to figure out my taxes? ANYway, it's time to get packed up and head that way--all of you come back Monday, and let's see what kind of trouble we can get in!
And speaking of redheads...
Because I occasionally wax rhapsodic about cornbread, and my wife's name is Reba, I tend to get folks dropping by looking for things such as: Reba McIntyre cornbread. Well, first of all, it's McEntire--spelt the other way, it refers to Alistair McIntyre of Electric Scotland, to whom I occasionally link. Second of all, it would help if all you Googleers would do the little trick of putting quote marks around names. This keeps the name together in the search process, and keeps you from getting one of the thousands of other Reba's out there. Like, say, Miss Reba, my wife. Let's try it--"reba mcentire" cornbread. The very first result gives you a recipe claiming to be the famous singer's recipe for Mexican Cornbread Casserole. I don't know, but it reads like someone's attempt to get some attention for their own less-than-spectacular blending of Cheese Whiz, storebought mix, and canned corn. If you read on down the results page, there is also a recipe for Reba's Tennessee-Style Corn Bread on Bob Kelso's ("The Man Who Can't Cook") page--again, this is something that is somewhat less than credible as being from the hand of Ms. McEntire, in that we are being led to believe that Tennessee-style cornbread starts out with Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix--mix that is packaged in the well-known Yankee redoubt of Chelsea, MICHIGAN! Anyway, for some real cornbread recipes that even MY Reba would approve of, you can go here to Jane Linton's website, which has the best-sounding recipes for plain old cornbread. (I also tend to get a lot of search requests for revealing dress reba. I've said it before, I'll say it again, my wife doesn't have a revealing dress. Certainly nothing like Ms. McEntire has.. )
And speaking of medieval siege engines...
Today is the day for Middle Girl's big demonstration of the scientific principles behind the paper trebuchet we built. The bigger problem than construction was how to get the thing to school in without tearing it up. "You're going to have to be REALLY careful, because it's made out of what?" "Paper, Dad." "RIGHT! Paper." The way it's made, it is possible to disassemble it into three pieces, the throwing arm, the weight basket, and the frame. But, disassembly must necessarily lead to undisassembly if she was going to get any class points for it, and I don't think she has the necessary fine motor skills required to keep from making a large pile of paper. So a carrying case was needed of some sort. It stands about a foot high, and I thought at first I could find an adequately-sized shoebox from the kabillions all around the house. No such luck. Next best was a copier paper box, which we also have tons of. (If you are imagining the home of one of those people who you see on the news who hoard every useless thing and live among stacks of papers and magazines and books, well, you're WRONG! We NEED every single useless thing we have!) Anyway, got a paper box and set it on the kitchen table. Hmmm. Fits in there just fine with the box set up on one end, but it still needs something to keep the terrifyingly effective combat weapon from rolling around (we modified it a bit and put wooden wheels on it) and bashing itself to pieces. The search for an effective set wheel chocks carried me hither and yon throughout the far reaches of the garage. I thought about cutting some strips of foamcore board, but that would have involved cutting. I thought about gluing down some dowels inside the box, but that would involve gluing (and I wasn't really sure the dowels would arrest the motion). What, ho!? Ah-HAAA! Useless junk, indeed! I spied a cardboard box full of decorative Christmas cookie tins. The lid of one of the Oreo ones looked to be just about the right wheelbase and track. Popped it off, ran back in the kitchen, crossed my fingers, held my breath, lowered the model down, and...perfect! I popped it back out and put several loops of tape (the cheap guy's double stick tape) on the top of the lid to hold it the box and stuck it back in place. Slick. Of course, before putting it away for the evening, we had to make a run-through just to see if she could load it and fire it without help and explain all the subtle physics involved. The ammunition has evolved away from using marbles to something a bit less lethal--Dots candy. (As long as you don't try to eat them, you'll be just fine.) I gave her one and let her load it into the sling, draw back the arm, set the hook, and fire it off. Perfect shot, dead center in the upper cabinet doors. "Okay, now how does it work, Bec?" "Um, well, there's a lever and it has a weight and when you pull it down and the weight goes up it make po...potential energy." "And?" Blank look. So I went back over how the potential energy gets all kineticky and what sort of lever it used and how the sling makes the arm even longer and how the wheels help the weight drop down straighter which makes more of the energy go into throwing the Dot. Somewhat less blank look. "Aw, you'll do fine." She ran on off somewhere while I carefully marked a series of big black arrows all around the box. UP. (No use taking chances.) Be interesting to see how this all turns out.
[rant]
Sadly, for your first helping of Possumblog this morning, you must endure a particularly pointless bit of self-centered indignation. {WARNING: The following episode contains references to certain items commonly sold as "food", which may or may not be an accurate description. Ingestion of these substances on an unregulated, ongoing basis may lead to breathing through your mouth and watching "The Apprentice" on NBC. Remember, all food intake on Possumblog is conducted by trained personnel.} Anyway, I ran to the bank around 10 this morning in order to deposit my paycheck and stave off the sheriff for another two weeks. I skipped any sort of breakfast this morning because the kids were SO INCREDIBLY LATE getting ready and getting out the door, and it was rainy and I knew there were going to be wrecks, and I had to make an out-of-the-way side trip to mail some letters at the post office. Sometimes I will stop on the way to work and pick something up, but not today. So, by the time I got to the bank and got back a few pennies for my allowance, I was nigh onto hungry. Hungry enough to stop by...McDonald's. [insert sound of clashing organ chords] I stopped at the one right in the heart of the UAB Medical Center area--across the street from Spain Rehab, squished in between a Captain D's and an Arby's. Hmmmm. What to order, what to order--it wasn't yet 10:30, the magical witching hour when all breakfast food must be destroyed, so I figured I would get something full of good, hot, breakfasty-type cholesterol. Eggs, sausage, cheese--all wrapped up in a convenient, edible wrapper. That's right, a BREAKFAST BURRITO! [Yet again with the bad spooky music] A grainy voice came over the speaker and asked my selection. Being a Very Smart Person, I made SURE to ask if breakfast was still being served. Ahhhh. Sure was. So I ordered the Number 8, consisting of TWO Breakfast Burritos (and by the way, never has there ever been a food more insulting to breakfast or burritos--McD's are like cadaverous hunks of steaming...anyway, remember, I was hungry, so I was not in control of my faculties) and a hash brown (mmmm--FORBIDDEN CARBS!) and a Diet Coke because I have to watch my figure. The scratchy voice told me the total and to drive around to the first window. It's best to just do as they say, so I did. Waited. Waited. Waited. The car in front of me finally pulled away from the cashier and I pulled up, eagerly waiting to hand over my hard-earned lucre for something to sate my gut. "You ha the Big Breffus wit pancakes an coffee?" "Uhm, ah, ye--NO, no. I had the burritos and Diet Coke." "Oh sir, I am SO sorry, but we out of burritos. She just told me." AAAGGGHHHHH! How dare She. Well crappity-doo. I tried to figure out what else would be similar in fat and calories and artery-clogitude. "Oh, ahhhhmmm. Ahh, oh, just give me a steak and cheese biscuit with a Diet Coke. And hash browns." "You wan a steak biscuit wi a Coke." "A steak and cheese biscuit, Diet Coke. AND a hash brown." "Threethirtysevenwindatwo." Paid her my money, got back my change. Wait. Wait. Wait. Watch a pigeon pick up a french fry and drop it. Wait. Finally get to pull forward again to the Wondrous Window Two. "You ha the steakeggcheese?" ::sigh:: Whatever. "Yes, ma'am. Steak, Diet Coke, hash brown." "We ain got no hash browns--we just run out. You wan grits?" Why sure, because grits are so handy to eat WHILE DRIVING!! I laughed out loud at her question--"Nooooo ::snort:: no, no grits! I...I...uhhhh..." I tried to figure out something else, but for some reason, the whole experience had now just been all messed up for me. The mood had passed. She stood there looking off somewhere far beyond me. "Look. Just give me my money back--it was $3.37." She turned around wordlessly and consulted with someone back out of view. She distractedly turned back and said, "She say you pull up there by the cur and come insigh." You know, "SHE," whoever She might be, has really gotten on my very last nerve. I let out one of my patented exasperated ::sigh::s and angrily moved the van up to the Wait Here Because of Our Poor Ability To Serve You Your Order Quickly Line, slammed it in park, yanked the key and went inside and stood at the counter, fuming like I actually had reason to be miffed. Stand. Stand. Stand. The kids behind the counter lackadaisically throw food into paper sacks, shoving errant garbage and bits of food on the floor aside with their feet, moving at a pace between glacial and death. The Window Two Associate studiously avoids turning around, and then another girl looks out the window toward my van, then back at me, then announces, "Hey, he come inside," to no one in particular. Then, I see an employee whom I take to be She. A large, pleasant-looking young lady, moving about the crusty floor with serene ease. She wanders past the counter and barks at the Window Two Associate, "Where the receipt!?" She is handed the paper and hoves about while keeping her stern towards me, and steams majestically back to Window One. She disappears around the tip of the penisula. I stand there. Wait. Wait. Wait. Finally, her bowsprit appears around the corner, and she stands there with my money in her hand. She stops an older woman and puts the money in her hand and points up to the counter in my general direction. The old woman obediently comes up, hands out the money, "Here." Thanks. Grr. Boy, I sure am hungry for lunch. [/rant ]
I'm here!
Just too busy at the moment doing dumb old work to be able to pump out any silliness. Check back in a bit... Thursday, January 08, 2004
Oh my
Gangsta rap meets ceilidh to put purists in reel spin By: JIM McBETHNot that there's anything wrong with that... But over the past decade, ceilidh has become cool. And now it is to receive the ultimate make-over - all the way from the inner city ghettos of the United States.It's what the world has been crying out for. Dance Base, the company placing a new spin on ceilidh choreography for the show Off Kilter, believes it will forever change the world's impression of Scottish music and dance.Granted it will suck with hearty vigor, but calling the entire culture of the US "violence-ridden" is a bit much from people who play the bagpipes and eat haggis. Daisy Mackenzie, who is an international adjudicator and examiner, and one of Britain's most respected teachers of dance, said: "I'm traditional; dancing is for everyone, but the joyous nature of our dance associated with an American culture rooted in violence, is not a natural cultural mix I would recommend."Again with the violence--man, someone needs to knock some sense into these people! But Morag Deyes, the artistic director of Dance Base, said the time was ripe to "update" Scotland's musical heritage.Word up, homey. The production will premiere in Edinburgh in April before embarking on tours of Scotland and North America. Some of the show's cast of ten are expected to wear "sexy" mini-kilts.Well, with the paragraph up top about poncing lads, one certainly hopes that the minikilt wearers will be of the female variety. Ms Deyes added: "We think it's going to be sexy, funny and uplifting. There are lots of people doing things, which have moved Scotland away from its shortbread tin image."Pass de bass? Are we having a fish fry, too?! The show's producers are also planning to ask the BBC for permission to incorporate television footage of the legendary White Heather Club dancers.Yes, let's save our mockery for the violence-prone American culture, please. "It does no harm when people try to make dance exciting. If people like it, it'll take off; if they don't, it won't. But I'd feel uncomfortable if there was an element of mickey-taking."Oh good grief, now they're bringing the poor Irish people into this! That also worries Billy Forsyth, the vice-chair of the Scottish Traditions of Dance Trust.Huh? Janet Cook, the secretary of the Highland Dancing Teachers' Association, who is also a specialist in the ancient Hebridean tradition, added: "This may be an unfortunate fusion. Variation and choreography are fine, but the basic roots give dance its strength and identity."Hey, a new ad campaign for Calgon laundry soap--"'Ancient Hebridean Tradition,' eh?" Dance Base, however, is adamant that it can modernise without mockery or show a lack of respect.By all means, let us get jiggy wit it.
I don't want to disappoint Dave.
Dave wrote me a bit earlier, with no small amount of disappointment and chagrin. It seems Dave believed that I, in all of my morning's historic reveries, had forgotten one of the other world-altering occurrences that happened on this date. An event, much like the defeat of the British at New Orleans, that would thrust America into the forefront of the world stage. Lest any of the rest of you become all shook up that I may have neglected to mark this day, let me say--Ladies and gentlemen, today marks the birthdate of Elvis Aaron Presley. With humble beginnings from his small Tupelo, Mississippi boyhood home, Elvis Presley would become a world star--shaking hands with a Quaker, marrying a really hot chick, and even in his eternal rest having his own signature wine. Be sure to visit the Elvis-a-Rama Museum when you reach Las Vegas. (Free shuttle service available.)
Oh, I DO get a chuckle, alright...
You know the guy I have talked about before--the one who couldn't figure out how to do a table in MSWord, the guy who talks to me while I'm standing at the urinal, the guy who drops his pants all the way to the floor while standing in the middle of the restroom just to tuck in his shirt, the guy who thinks everything he says is an absolute LAFF RIOT--that guy? Well, he just came bumbling in here with the newspaper from sometime last week with the article about 2003's Big Stories. There's a picture of some rock singer all bent over backwards with a microphone. (Hold on a minute--he's in here again, rummaging through all the stuff on my drafting table...LEAVE ALREADY! Better now) He shows me the paper and in his best impression of a fading comedian on the Catskills circuit, points to the picture and says, "Hey, you see what we have to do to get a raise around here!" ::crickets chirping:: You must also remember that he carries around his tiny little heart right there on his sleeve, and if you ignore his moronicity and lame humor, he pouts like a spoiled baby and gets his tiny little feeling (sing.) hurt. "Boy, you don't get a chuckle out of anything, do you." Awww. "Now, come on, Moron Man--I DO get a chuckle every once in a while." What he could not know was that I was about to explode inside trying not to laugh. For Moron Man, you see, has had a thick head of gray hair for the entire eight years I have been here but he returned from the Christmas holidays with a thick head of Medium Ash Blonde #17 hair. Seems his loving wife and children had treated him to a day at the spa as a present. It's like watching the old Mary Tyler Moore Show episode when Ted dyed his hair black. And it makes me chuckle.
Children build burial mound for Keiko OSLO, Norway (AP) -- Hundreds of schoolchildren in western Norway bid farewell to Keiko the killer whale Thursday by building a burial mound of stones over the Hollywood star's grave. [...]Sounds like a barbecue pit to me...
Judge to look at media in Jackson case
Media vow to look back; both sides decide to avoid looking at Jackson for more than few seconds at a time.
Gates touts more 'seamless computing'
Proposes doing away with common CTRL-ALT-DEL key sequence in favor of built-in function tied to variations in wind direction.
Gary Hart said to be mulling Senate bid
Said to be considering whether to again taunt press to follow him; decides against "I'm Still a Chick Magnet" tee-shirt giveaway.
You know...
Despite what you might think, Birmingham and the surrounding area really is nice to look at. BUT, only when the sun's shining. It's cloudy and cold today and the whole place looks like People's Victorious Ball-Bearing Factory Collective Town #23.
Well in 1814 we took a little trip,
Along with Colonel Jackson Down the Mighty Mississip... A little reminder via the Library of Congress' American Memory collection that today marks the anniversary of the end of the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812: On January 8, 1815, Major General Andrew Jackson led a small, poorly-equipped army to victory against eight thousand British troops at the Battle of New Orleans. The victory made Jackson a national hero. The anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans was widely celebrated with parties and dances during the nineteenth century, especially in the South. [...]The War of 1812 is one part of American military history I haven't studied a lot about, aside from knowing that my great-great-great-great-great-(great?) grandfather Sabert was enlisted in the South Carolina militia during that time. At around age 72! (He also fought during the Revolution when he was around 40 or so. We have a long history of being grouchy old men and not being able to get along with anybody.) Anyway, again, my knowledge of the Battle of New Orleans is as limited as what I know of the rest of the war, and is generally limited to the details found in Johnny Horton's song. It sounds like a pretty good rout, but I was suprised to learn that the tide could very easily have turned--the British had managed to land across the river from Jackson's postion and the Kentuckians assigned to hold the area broke and ran. Jackson gave them all a very stern upbraiding for their conduct in this address to his troops, giving them the benefit of the doubt about their bravery and laying the blame for their conduct on lack of discipline and order. Jackson more fully describes what occurred in this letter to the Secretary of War James Monroe: [...] We have taken about 500 prisoners, upwards of 300 of whom are wounded, and a great part of them mortally. My loss has not exceeded, and I believe has not amounted to ten killed and as many wounded. The entire destruction of the enemy's army was now inevitable, had it not been for an unfortunate occurrence, which at this moment took place on the other side of the river. Simultaneously with his advance upon my lines, he had thrown over in his boats a considerable force to the other side of the river. These having landed, were hardy enough to advance against the works of general Morgan; and, what is strange and difficult to account for, at the very moment when their entire discomfiture was looked for with a confidence approaching to certainty, the Kentucky reinforcements, in whom so much reliance had been placed, ingloriously fled, drawing after them, by their example, the remainder of the forces; and thus yielding to the enemy that most fortunate position. The batteries which had rendered me, for many days, the most important service, though bravely defended, were of course now abandoned; not, however, until the guns had been spiked.The fog of war. Had the British stayed, they might have been able to flank Jackson and bring about a much different outcome. The source for both of these letters is the Hillsdale (Michigan)College History Department's collection of military documents. Very good resource--it also includes this anonymous account of the battle, which proves that sometimes it's better not to taunt your enemy: (Describing the scene after a British assault upon their works) [...] Among those that were on the ground however, there were some that were neither dead nor wounded. A great many had thrown themselves down behind piles of slain, for protection. As the firing ceased, these men were every now and then jumping up and either running off or coming in and giving themselves up.Don't patt your butt as you run away from armed men. Paleface is introduced a couple of paragraphs previous-- [...] The white flag, before mentioned, was raised about ten or twelve feet from where I stood, close to the breastwork and a little to the right. It was a white handkerchief, or something of the kind, on a sword or stick. It was waved several times, and as soon as it was perceived, we ceased firing. Just then the wind got up a little and blew the smoke off, so that we could see the field. It then appeared that the flag had been raised by a British Officer wearing epaulets. I was told he was a Major. He stepped over the breastwork and came into our lines. Among the Tennesseans who had got mixed up with us during the fight, there was a little fellow whose name I do not know; but he was a cadaverous looking chap and went by the name of Paleface. As the British Officer came in, Paleface demanded his sword. He hesitated about giving it to him, probably thinking it was derogatory to his dignity, to surrender to a private all over begrimed with dust and powder, and that some Officer should show him the courtesy to receive it. Just at that moment, Col. Smiley came up and cried, with a harsh oath, "Give it up - give it up to him in a minute!" The British Officer quickly handed his weapon to Paleface, holding it in both hands and making a very polite bow. [...]So there you go. Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Doc 'Forced' Dying Beatle To Sign Guitar A doctor is being sued for allegedly forcing ex-Beatle George Harrison to sign a guitar two hours before his death. Papers filed in New York claim Harrison told Dr Gilbert Lederman: "I do not even know if I know how to spell my name."Harrison's estate, which is bringing the case, wants back the guitar and two cards it says the musician signed as he was tended to by Dr Lederman, an expert in treating cancer.You know, I think Mr. Roth shouldn't have added that last little bit of info. He didn't coerce him, but let's face it--the doctor brought a GUITAR with him for this little house call. I may not be up on my oncology, but I really don't think waving a guitar around is part of the normal treatment procedure, nor could non-coercively getting your dying patient to sign it really be an effective form of therapy.
Finishing up supper last night, I had turned around to get something and heard Middle Girl and Boy giggling. Seems Rebecca's eyeglasses lens had popped out again, right onto the table and nearly into her plate. Why that was particularly giggleworthy, I'm not sure, but in any event, I told her to leave it alone and let me fix it later.
I've already tried once--the old clear-nail-polish-over-the-screw-threads trick--which held for exactly four days. After I got through eating, I got her itty bitty glasses repair screwdriver and tried to get the screw to behave and stay in place, but alas, it was all for nought. And I jabbed myself in the finger. ::sigh:: Got on the phone, found out the Vision Center at my home away from home was open until 8:30. I really, REALLY didn't want to get back out--I already had on my long-handles and sweatshirt, and it was cold. Oh well. Got my jeans back on, socks, shoes, billfold, keys and took off for the store. The nice lady put in a self-tapping screw and neatly popped the excess off from the other side of the frame, cleaned them and handed them back all nice and shiny. No use letting an entire trip to Wal-Mart go to waste, so I ambled over to the magazines to see if there was anything interesting. There was, but it was in its late-20s, balding, except for the long stringy mess that hung down off the back of his head. He was slouched over by the motorcycle magazines, with an older woman I took to be his mom. "I'm gonna get me that V-Twin magazine right there, 'cause it's got that article about the new Sportsters, and that's the one I think I'm gonna get." The woman was silent, just standing there probably wondering why it is her baby seems so interested in buying one of them fool things when he won't even move out of the basement. She slowly pushed her shopping cart on around toward the end of the aisle, then paused briefly, looking down at the bottom rack. She picked up a thick paperback book with a boldly printed cover, all about dogs and cats. He looked at what she had picked up. "What's that book about?" he asked. Remember friends, always wear your helmet.
I said, "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!"
(Yes, I realize it would be much funnier if it was Verizon instead of Sprint.)
You know, as cold as it is...
You would think that a tinfoil hat would freeze right to your head. It's really scary, you know.
First they came for our snowballs, then they came for our hockey sticks... Pupils Told to Cool It on Snowball Fights TORONTO (Reuters) - A snowball fight is almost a rite of passage for students in Canada but Toronto schools are moving to strengthen a ban on the practice they say is violent and dangerous.SNOW FORTS!? What are these people trying to do to these children!? Don't they know that building "forts" only reinforces the society's unhealthy fascination with guaranteeing its security based upon the exclusion of outsiders? And aren't forts in and of themselves manifestations of the Eurocentric colonial imperialism that destroyed the native peoples of Canada? SLEDS?! Sleds...built from wood hacked from the virgin forests of British Columbia; steel runners made from iron ore ripped from gentle Newfoundland--all to provide temporary enjoyment to those who would use Mother Earth as some sort of PLAYGROUND? How would YOU like it if someone sliced into you with razor sharp runners, laughing and acting as though it were nothing more than just a fun time for all!?
Y'learn something new every day
Even if it's about something old. Now then, I know Peg Britton and MommaBear have both used slipsticks back in the pre-silicon chip days, but I wonder if either of them (or any of the rest of you, for that matter) ever used a Curta? I picked up a copy of the latest Scientific American the other day and just got around to reading it last night--inside was an article about a wonderful little calculating device (link goes only to an article intro, not the full article) invented by a fellow named Curt Herzstark, who as a prisoner in Buchenwald came up with the idea for a small, handheld, mechanical calculator. It looks a bit like a pepper mill or a pencil sharpener, but aside from the interesting appearance, it is a wonderfully precise bit of Liechtensteinian machining and ingenuity. Mr. Herzstark, born in Austria in 1902, imagined and developed the device as a simple alternative to the gigantic, multikey mechanical desktop calculating machines used by engineers and architects. (My mother works for an electrical contractor, and they still have one of these old behemoths they keep around to look at. I think my mom and one of the estimators are the only ones who remember how to work it.) Anyway, I can barely tie my shoes, so the interaction of the fiendishly complicated working bits of the Curta and the concepts behind them haven't quite filtered into my understanding, but it is still a wonderful looking tool designed by an incredibly interesting man. Herzstark's nifty invention died off with the slide rules when electronic calculators were introduced in the mid-'70s. The article notes that they were sold in the pages of Scientific American back in the '50s and '60s for $125. A lot of scratch back then--even more now. E-bay lists several (along with various manuals and other ephemera) that range in price from over $1,000, all the way up to $3,000. I still haven't finished reading the article, but there is an even better online resource at The Curta Calculator Page, which has just about anything you could ever want to know about mechanical calculating in general, the Curta in particular, and its fascinating inventor. There is even an online simulator of the Curta you can play with if you have Flash 6 or above installed on your computer. (I don't have it here at work, so I will have to find another way to waste time.) Pretty cool stuff.
Pease porridge hot,
Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot, Nine days old. Not exactly nine days, but last night we had some of the leftover black-eyed peas we fixed for New Year's--I'd forgotten we even had any left. Let me tell you, if there's anything better than a hot mess of fresh black-eyed peas, it's having them after they've had a chance to mellow for a week. Absolutely the best little things in the world, all warm and soft and...I'd better stop now. Anyway, they were so good I made myself a plate of them to bring in my lunch today. Which I left right there on the top shelf in the refrigerator this morning as I ran out the door. ::sigh:: Oh well, I guess they'll be even better tomorrow. Pease porridge in the fridge, Nice and cold.
Okay, stop me if you've heard this--two hookers walk into a gas station in Saint Louis--one looks at the guy behind the counter and says to the other, "Hey! That's Mahatma Gandhi!"
Well, you know what they say, it takes a village to raise a village idiot. I have a feeling, though, that somehow, some way, this ill-thought-out gaffe will be blamed on George Bush. Tuesday, January 06, 2004
ENT
Obviously not an abbreviation for ear-nose-throat, but a literary reference to big, talking, slow-walking, trees. Got there on time at 1:40, didn't leave until 3. And to make things worse, Cat's left ear is still stopped up and she might have to have a tube installed if it's not clear in ANOTHER three weeks. ::sigh:: I did manage to read the equivalent of one entire Entertainment Weekly--picked one up in every room we were in and read about 20% of each one. I am now 100% stupider, believe it or not.
Oh my--short day it seems
I have to take off in a bit and go get Catherine to take her for her follow-up visit to the ENT. She was SUPPOSED to have gone last Friday, when Reba had taken a day off from work to be able to take her, but we got a message on the answering machine Thursday from a relentlessly perky scheduling person at the doctor's office who filled us in on the fact that SOMEone had mistakenly scheduled us for a Friday visit with the OTHER doctor in the office, and our doctor wasn't even going to be in the office Friday. Hee-hee! SORRY! Oh! And y'all have a Happy New Year!! Grr. Actually, I suppose it would be difficult to be too angry with someone so zim-zam zippy...nah, that's a lie--I really would liked to have done something mean to her like hide her favorite pen or leave bite marks on the individually wrapped slices of cheese in her refrigerator. But, that urge passed long enough for us to reschedule another visit for today. I suppose that it won't take long, and that I will get back to work today sometime, but I'm not real sure. Anyway, if I don't, all of you folks remember to bundle up around here--after bragging that it was 71 two days ago, it's now supposed to go down to 17 tonight. Thankfully, I have a warm coat of fur and a thick layer of blubber to keep me warm.
How very odd...
I was just perusing the referrer logs, and saw that Possumblog had two separate visits last night at 11:15 and 11:22 p.m., from two separate users in two separate time zones (Central and Pacific), both searching for James Lileks "fruit by the foot", (for which Possumblog is the only returned result.) Now what in the world is going on with that?! Some sort of radio contest? A grand convergence of sugar and Minnesotans? A sign of the Apocalypse? Two of the most bored people on the planet working on a plan to take over the Midwest?
A Caucus of Democracies
A good article from today's Wall Street Journal OpinionJournal (registration required) written by former ambassador Max Kampelman, discussing his thoughts for reforming and revitalizing the United Nations so that it more closely acts in accordance with its charter. Amb. Kampelman (by the way, the boss of one of the folks up in the blogroll above) notes that totalitarian regimes have abused the structure of the organization for years, sometimes with the tacit approval of supposedly democratic states--the most egregious example being the recent gutting of the UN Human Rights Commission: [...] The U.N. Human Rights Commission has become a travesty. Two years ago, the U.S.--which has worked diligently to make the commission an effective instrument--was replaced by Syria, a corrupt, totalitarian supporter of terrorism. This year, in spite of American efforts, Libya was elected to chair the commission, an egregious challenge to the commission's integrity considering Libya's rule by a militant tyrant responsible for the 1988 bombing of a U.S. civilian jet in Lockerbie in which 270 people were murdered. U.S. opposition to Libya was supported only by Canada and Guatemala; 33 countries voted for Libya, while our European "friends" conspicuously abstained from voting at all. In electing such states as Syria, Libya, Vietnam, China, Saudi Arabia, Cuba and Zimbabwe to serve on the commission, the ostensible guardian of human rights, the U.N. has forfeited its commitment to those values. [...]Kampelman's solution to this and other abuses is for a more vigorous engagment by representative, democratic nations: [...] At a minimum, it is essential that the U.S. take the lead in establishing and strengthening a Caucus of Democratic States committed to advancing the U.N.'s assigned role for world peace, human dignity and democracy. The recently established Community of Democracies (CD) has called for this move, a recommendation jointly supported in a recent report by the Council on Foreign Relations and Freedom House.Well, never. But then, other nations cooperating with the United States on anything is not news--opposition to the U.S. is the hot thing, you know, which is another in a long line of reasons why the U.N. has ceased to be effective at anything other than holding meetings and deforesting vast swaths of pulpwood trees to write reports. As long as the structure and framework of the U.N. rewards nations such as Cuba and Zimbabwe by giving absolute dictators equivalent status to truly democratic states, the U.N. will never be much use and will never fulfill the promise of its ideals. Calls for reform are welcome and needed, but not nearly so much as ACTUAL reform--and this effort, although well-intentioned, doesn't seem to have the necessary firepower behind it to lead to any sort of major institutional change. As reform goes, it ain't exactly Martin Luther getting out his box of tacks and a hammer.
Well, I'll be.
Just got an e-mail from Dave Helton noting that today is the the 80th birthday of one of America's great musicians, Earl Scruggs. I have to admit I thought Earl had gone on to his reward a good while ago, but he seems to still be kicking along and able to get at least three of his fingers moving. There are several sites around devoted to Earl and to his longtime partner Lester Flatt and to the Foggy Mountain Boys, but the Flatt and Scruggs Preservation Society seems to be the most comprehensive. (Martha White Flour also has a tribute to their work.) So, anyway, Happy Birthday, Mr. Scruggs!
SOCCER!!
Jim Smith and my daughter Rebecca have been anxiously awaiting the return of soccer season--Rebecca in order to see her friends and play, Jim so that he could hear of the glories of concession stand hamburgers and the Breck Girl Mom. Well, last night was the night when practices for the spring season were supposed to get underway--Rebecca was VERY excited. Jim, on the other hand, will be sorely distressed to learn that Reba already had us a bowl of soup and a sandwich waiting. Gobbled that down and started getting all the stuff together again--shin guards, socks, cleats, ankle brace, water bottle, gigantic carry bag. ::sigh:: Since it had been raining the night before last and yesterday morning, I thought it might be good to call the coach and see if we were still going to be able to practice. Called, got his son, son said that coach was not home right then, but that he had made the high school team practice earlier. Well, sounds like we're going to practice. Loaded up Middle Girl and her junk in the van and headed over to the park, which was lightless. Hmm. Pulled in to the lot, which held one lonely vehicle, parked, rolled down window and the coach said the field was a bit too sloppy to use, so, we'll wait until Saturday to try again. Rebecca was very disappointed. Back to the house by way of the gas station to fill up Moby, and for some reason Rebecca decided she needed an entire course in comparative religion. As we drove down the road to the gas station and all the way back home, she asked about every church we saw and what they believed. Predestination, transubstantiation, absolute depravity, snake handling--you know, there's an amazing amount of information in just five miles of road. UPDATE: I just hope she doesn't ask me to explain this. Monday, January 05, 2004
Why don't I like to hear the telephone ring on Sunday mornings?
Well, see, whenever the phone rings early on Sundays, it means A) someone died, or B) someone is calling to tell me that he or she can’t teach that morning. And since yesterday was the first day of the new quarter, I just KNEW I was going to have a call. Sure enough, 7 a.m. the phone rang--although since it was so early, I figured it must be the fatal variety rather than the other. Usually I get teacher calls at the exact moment we’re trying to get out of the house so we won’t be late for church. Picked it up, reluctantly, and yep--a no-show, although for a good reason. Got it covered, maybe, with the Wednesday night teacher. I’ll spring it on him when I get there. Then, an hour later, ANOTHER call--sick kid, can’t get there. Got that one covered, too--I sent them to the next class up. I fixed breakfast just KNOWING I was going to get another call as we were closing the door, but it didn’t happen. WHEW! Got there and made the necessary rearrangements, and then…nothing. All the other teachers were where they were supposed to be, on time, ready to go. That was a load off. The best thing was as I was finishing up checking on everyone--one of our usual latecomers came in with her two little boys, one of whom is going to be in Reba’s class this quarter. The mother took them to the hallway around the corner from where I was, but still within earshot, “Ooh, boys! Let’s see who your TEACHERS are going to be!” She found the one for the little one, and then came to Reba’s closed door and told the older one, “Oh, Miss REBA’S going to be YOUR teacher!!” “BUT I DON’T LIKE MISS RE-MPHH!” The second syllable was plainly quashed by a hasty hand plastered to the little dear’s piehole--I had to laugh. Reba’s taught him several times before--he’s really a good kid, but her class is apparently the ONLY place in the entire world where there is anyone who insists that he behave himself in a semi-human sort of way. I debated on whether to tell her his reaction later--there was, after all, the theoretical possibility that this could hurt her feelings. Theoretically. I told her on the way home and she just busted out laughing--“He doesn’t like to mind is what he doesn’t like!” They’ll get along famously. For some reason, I got tagged to be the greeter between Sunday school and worship--I really can’t figure out why. I’m not very nice, you know, but I rounded up Jonathan and Catherine to help hold the doors and pass out bulletins, and managed avoid the nice lady from a few months ago whose name I didn’t know. Finished up and rounded up the kids to go sit down. The normal sermon part of the service was set aside to go over the work plan for the year, which went pretty well. (Folks are always touchy when the subject of attendance and contribution come up.) On then to home for a quick lunch, some time spent reading the paper, then it was back for more meetings for everyone, then evening worship with song leading courtesy of some portly guy with a terrible case of what sounded like kennel cough. (I really need to go see the vet about that.) Back to home, supper, and bed. And up this morning much too early. Blech. Back to work.
Well, since Lileks has deadlines and no Bleat...
Allow us here at the Possumblog News Center to fill you in on all of your Land O' Ten Thousand Lakes News with our Iron Range Reporter, Toni Albani: Terry,Toni! I know I have been derelict in my duties as the Gopher State ReporterNoted in your personnel file and in your pay envelope... so I thought I'd better give you some sort of event news.What better way to enjoy gigantic frozen-water architectural anomolies? The temps were is the negative 20's the whole time the palace was on display. This year the city is hosting the NHL All Star Game so the palace is being constructed next to the Xcel Ice Arena in downtown. Now, I would link you directly to the website for the Winter Carnival [http://www.winter-carnival.com/] but for some unknown reason this site comes up BLANK!!!!! Somebody has screwed up in a major way. So instead I link you to the St. Paul Pioneer Press site for the Winter Carnival. What a glorious winter celebration (yech) for all to enjoy and the parade! Who in their right mind could turn down standing out in the freezing cold to watch a parade in January with the Vulcans running around smearing black ick on your faces.Man alive, you Yankees know how to do it up right! On the other hand there's the medallion hunt with the daily clues which mean nothing to most people unless they've lived in St. Paul for their whole lives.Thanks for that report, Toni--and yes indeed, you're back in the good graces of the entire editorial staff! (And your frigid tale of the Brutal Minnesota Winter allows me to brag on my new bedside weather station, which recorded a high temperature at Maisson d'Possum yesterday of 71.2 degrees. But we do have a cold front moving in, so it will get cold tonight.)
Dah Mall.
Went over to Century Plaza, a mall on the east side of Birmingham. It has seen better days, although it still has some good anchors--J.C. Penney, Sears, McRae’s, and Rich’s--and some pretty good infill stores, but it just has that atmosphere about it that makes it seem like it’s teetering. The design is dated, the parking lot--in addition to being badly laid out--looks like the surface of Mars, the stores have way too much obvious deferred maintenance, the food court’s pitiful, there’s too many junk joints and kiosks. But, it’s close. And, since fewer people shop there, we were able to swoop into a parking space right in front of the entrance to Penney’s! Hooray. We stopped by the counter at the front door to make our returns--some more jeans, a dress shirt, a too-small outfit. The lady was a model of indifference and torpor, with a matching sense of humor. After that task was done, I took Boy for some more blue jeans and Reba took off with the girls for girl stuff. We were done in five minutes again. The girls came back with a ton of pants for Catherine, who tried them all on and wonder of wonders, they all fit. Amazing! Checked out then went downstairs to see if I could find a couple of pairs of my special Possumblogger Haggar Plain Front, Uncuffed, Boring Polyester Pants. I looked for about five seconds, which was just long enough for the kids to overwhelm Reba’s defenses and start acting like absolute nincompoops. I broke off my pursuit of comfortable pants to come to her aid, which resulted in more loud whooping by Youngest, indifference from the middle two, and stony-faced hatred from Oldest. Man, I LOVE constant positive reinforcement! On then to the other store for a couple of takebacks--the younger three didn’t have anything to return or try on, so I corralled them beside the pitiful little wishing well fountain and engaged them in games of skill and knowledge. (Where’s that Steve Irwin guy when you’ve got THREE kids to dangle in front of a crocodile, eh?) Anyway, we occupied ourselves with I Spy (of course, I couldn’t tell them all the things I spied--they might think I was a dirty old man or something), then Rock Paper Scissors, then Odds ‘n’ Evens, and then a game they taught me that was actually kind of fun. Jonathan called it “Chinese Numbers,” but I don’t know if that’s the right name--it involves each player holding up one finger on each hand and tapping another player. The player who gets tapped then holds up a finger on the hand that gets tapped, then taps another player. If he taps with the hand having two fingers, the other player holds up two more fingers for a total of three. This passing of fingers back and forth continues until someone’s hand has all five fingers up, and that hand is retired from play. Last player with a finger still standing wins. There’s some strategy to play, too. If a player has an out-of-play hand, and two or four fingers on the other hand, he can bring the unused hand back in the game by “doubling” or giving that hand half of the fingers from the hand still in play. It’s all much harder to explain than to play, but best of all it kept them quietly busy for half an hour. Thank heavens. Mom and Ashley finally came back out after an hour-long marathon of shoppiness and it was FINALLY time to go home. NEXT: Why I dread hearing the telephone ring on Sunday mornings!
It had to happen sooner or later.
Over the past few years, I have made a habit of phoning My Friend Jeff’s office whenever Auburn would beat LSU in football, and loudly singing the War Eagle fight song into his voice mail. I just got an e-mail of the dumb ol’ "Goxe Tigers" song from Jeff-- GEAUX TIGERS!!!!!!Bite me, Bengal Boy.
You know...
The previous post was full of typos. I guess I should proofread before posting, eh? As it is, it's like one of those picture contests where you spot all the things that are wrong in the picture. Anyway, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, if you see an error, reload a couple of times and if it doesn't go away after a month or two, drop me a note and I'll fix it.
Saturday Saga, Part the Second
Up then, and got dressed and got the kids to start getting dressed, and by the time everyone was ready to go, it was almost 11:30. Time for breakfast! Cat wanted to go to Sonic, “to gets that thing, you know, with the stick, and it’s got a stick, and it’s brown, and sausage and it’s on a stick with a pancake…” “Pancake on a stick?” “…mm-hm, pancakesticks with a sausage on a stick, and that’s what I want for breakfast and we have to get that at Sonic and we can go there right now.” She said this while still wearing only her pajama top, a bathrobe, floral-patterned panties, and Mom’s houseshoes. “You know, you’re going to HAVE to put on clothes to go to the store, right?” “Yes, Daddy.” Okay, just so we’re clear on that--anyway, she’s the only one who wanted breakfast, and the only one who wanted to stop at Sonic--everyone else wanted lunch, since the day was now half wasted by our sluggardliness. “Cat, let’s just go get some lunch.” Bottom lip pooched out, Lacrimal Discharge Apparatus set to “Fake” and shoved into high gear, sound control set to #4, (one of the few settings it has, those being #1-Giggle Uncontrollably, #2-Scream in Terror, #3-Whispering Suitable for Use Only in a Foundry, and #4- BWAAAAAAAAAAAAA!). Oh for the love o’Jiminy Carter… “HUSH!” In the interest of not bleeding from my ears (which can happen when you stand too close to a jet engine or listen to her verbal manifestations of dissatisfaction) I made the command decision to make a special trip to Sonic, and then take the rest of us for a real meal. We packed the van with the stuff we had to return and took off for the Land on the Next Big Ridge to the North. For some reason, Reba had a craving for Mexican food, so we stopped by the place next to Wallyworld. Man, they were fast. That happens when they are not real busy, I suppose. I got the #4 (not the same as the #4 noted above)--very tasty for a numeral, although one occasionally wishes for some selections with decimals--I hear the #5.409 is good. Or maybe some of those imaginary numbers. I’ve heard so much about. Mmmm. Got finished, got our stuff from the van and walked on in to the Promised Land of Low Prices Always. Always. Let the little old lady check the bags and put a sticker on all the stuff--three pairs of jeans, a lovely wooden Christmas decoration that had all the earmarks of having been produced in a Chinese labor camp, a shirt, a DVD, a video game cartridge. One of the nice things about waiting a day or two before bringing things back is that you miss the huge crush of folks who come out the day after Christmas. The bad thing is that sometimes items will already be taken out of the inventory control system, so that even if your lovely wooden Christmas decoration that has all the earmarks of having been produced in a Chinese labor camp and it DOES have a price sticker from Wal-Mart stuck to it, it doesn’t mean that you can get a refund, and you are thus forced into the uncomfortable position of either passing it along to someone at next year’s Dirty Santa contest, or giving it to some charity who will take it and sell it in their thrift store where someone else will buy it and give it to you. Or, you could take out a whole year’s worth of frustrations on it with a 12 gauge and a 3 inch magnum load of 00 buck, but that would probably make people nervous around you. Got that done, and it was time to go shopping--my very pragmatic mom had given each of us a gift card. My sister was just aghast at such lowbrow gifting, but doggone it, it’s hard enough when we shop for OURSELVES to find stuff that fits right, much less to ask a little bony old woman to go traipsing about all over town trying to figure out what to get us. I told her if she wanted to do that, it was fine by me. Especially since we’re there all the time anyway. I took Jonathan and Catherine with me, and Reba took the older girls with her, and we promised to meet back in the front of the store in forty minutes. Boy, that old saying about time flying when you’re having fun is way, WAY off. First stop was to try to find Catherine a belt. She has a a couple of pairs of jeans she wears that are too loose, and she thinks nothing of walking around with plumber butt shining proud. To be so nonchalant about that, she sure is picky when it comes to PICKIN’ OUT A BLEEDIN’ BELT! “No, that one’s ugly. No, that one’s for a boy. No, that one has the wrong flowers. No, that one’s for a boy, too.” (All of these “boy belts” were in the girl clothes section--anything big and bulky with rivets she seems to think is masculine. Go figure.) Anyway, nothing came of that. I told her we’d just tie an extension cord around her. Next, jeans for Boy. Three pairs, took five minutes. And he got an Auburn sunvisor. Next, a wallet and a key case for Daddy. I have one of those cram-packed George Costanza wallets that looks like a backpack shoved into my butt pocket, and it had seen its better days. So, a new one. Too many choices, nothing like what I needed. Finally settled on a black leather tri-fold one with a neat little pull-out ID carrier. When I finally got all my junk crammed back into the new one after I got home, I discovered that I really didn’t want my driver’s license being in something that upon closer examination seemed awfully insecure. I want everything wrapped up in a nice neat bundle with nothing on the outside. But I’m not taking it back. It’ll wear out soon enough. No key cases, by the way. Lots of key rings, lots of gigantic trucker wallets with six feet of chain, lots of nothing that I needed. Oh well. On to the restroom. Then on to videos and games. Two games apiece--if there ever was a rip-off, it’s paying twenty or thirty bucks for a circuit board and a hunk of plastic the size of a matchbox whose only utility is damaging your eyesight and building up gigantic thumbs. Battle for Bikini Bottom is pretty fun, though. And oddly enough, Galaga translates pretty well to the small screen. AHHH!! What am I saying!? Anyway, somewhere in Electronics I remember that we were supposed to be meeting someone at the front of the store about twenty minutes earlier. Meandered back up and found no one, so we looked at books for a while. Catherine found a Dora the Explorer book with an annoying voice recorder on it and a Disney Cinderella book with three tubes of glitter paint. Glitter paint is the bane of my existence. Long after I am gone, archeologists will dig me up and wonder what sort of ceremonial significance the tiny flakes of sparkly stuff on my scalp could have had. Word of advice, parents--DON’T DO GLITTER! Finally the other members of the Away Team walked up--“Did you not hear our page?” Nearly biting my tongue in two to keep from spouting off the obvious smart-alecky comebacks, I simply said “Oops, no--sorry,” thus cheating certain death yet again. Finally got all finished up and checked out--surprisingly smoothly considering we were using six different gift cards. I’m sure the people behind us didn’t mind a bit. Then, on to the next place. BUT, not before forgetting that we had left film in the one-hour photo. This created its own dilemma--we were already on the interstate when we remembered. The final decision was to circle around to the house, unload the loot, then drop back by the pharmacy to pick up the prescription we were supposed to have picked up Friday afternoon but forgot, then loop back up to Wal-Mart to get the film, THEN go to the next set of stores. Fine--home, unload, Wal-Mart, interstate. Along about the exit, I turned to Reba, “You know what?” “We forgot to go by the drugstore.” “Yep.” ::sigh:: Anyway, next--THE MALL!
Who Knew II!? Annulment Of Quickie Marriage May Not Be As Easy As Britney Thinks
Who would have ever thought they would see the word "think" applied to Miss Spears?!
Hey, even Honest Abe has a blog!
Web Site Looks at Abe Lincoln's Life By CHRISTOPHER WILLS, Associated Press WriterHeh. Indeed.
So…
The first unbelievable tale is that I actually got to sleep late Saturday morning!! Although, in the technical, truest sense that’s not quite accurate, but I have come to the point where I take what I can get. Little Boy has his own alarm clock in his room that he occasionally sets--he never turns it off, and it never wakes him up, but it does go off and wakes ME up. It bleepbleepbleep…bleepbleepbleep…bleepbleepbleeps for a minute or two then cuts itself off. It did this around 6 Saturday, so I sorta woke up from that. But went back to sleep. Ahhhhh. Then later, there was some sort of crashing bump and loud giggles. Rebecca was now awake, and had gone into Boy’s room so they could practice their screaming and demolition skills while watching cartoons. I drifted back and forth between awake and dreaming about doing naughty things--I would just get to a really, REALLY good part, and then there would be another rumble and crash from down the hall. Then Reba got up--this is usually the part of the morning when I guiltily roll out of bed. She went and got Cat up to go to the bathroom, then went to the bathroom herself, then MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, she GOT BACK IN BED!! I guess it was because all the laundry had gotten done the day before and she didn’t feel the need to get up so soon, but I didn’t ask why because I DIDN’T CARE WHY! Of course, with three-quarters of the children awake, and the one of them with a freshly-emptied bladder now bouncing on the end of the bed loudly demanding to watch DragonTales, it’s not like I was going to be able to have any real fun, but it sure was nice for once to be able to wallow around and stretch and creak and pop and snuggle and doze and not have to get out from under the covers at the crack of dawn. Managed to stay that way until after 9, and believe it or not, I was the one to say we needed to get up!! Strange…BUT TRUE!! Next: Many Happy Returns. (Well, many returns, with only some of them happy.)
Yes, I'm here...
...having returned from distant lands and from meeting the peculiar peoples of those lands. I have sacks full of frightening tales of mystery and intrigue--peculiar and freakish yarns of trips to places undreamt of by our ancestors, such as the Sonic Drive-in, the Trussville Wal-Mart, the JC Penney and McRae's at Century Plaza, the CVS Pharmacy (which lives under the bridge at the foot of the hill, not unlike some sort of troll or ogre), AND, the Leeds Wal-Mart! Yes, it is a thrilling and incredible saga that some may think pure legend or prevarication, but I say NAY! 'Tis true! More or less. BUT, before you read them, I have to type something other than this silly placeholder--give me a minute or two and I'll be right back.
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