My first appointment was at 7:30. We figured we should leave by 3:30 to make it to Mayo on time. The Superwife woke us all up at 3:30. Uh oh. Everybody dresses and we’re out the door. Superwife drives because she has to be safer than her cross-eyed husband. I sleep almost the whole way there. She drops me off at the front of the Mayo building and she finds a place to park. I walk up to the desk on 7th floor at 7:25, that’s right, I’m five minutes early.

The neurosurgery waiting area is very nice. Tasteful, clothe upholstered chairs arranged so it doesn’t feel too crowded.

I see Dr. Uhm, a neuro-oncologist. He’s very pleasant and has a good sense of humor. We like him. He is skeptical of surgery. He thinks the problem is my high cholesterol level. Perhaps I’ve had something like a stroke that has affected the nerve.

While we’re talking to him the kids get bored and go back to the car. I’m just amazed that an 11 and 6 year-old are self-confident enough to just head back to the car. The parking ramp is across the street and connected by an underground tunnel. So it wasn’t a matter of crossing traffic, but still I’m amazed.

We fetch the kids from the car and head for the Mayo cafeteria for lunch. On the way we pass a chocolate shop. Ms Pikachu goes manic. I buy her a humungous peanut butter cup. We bag it for later. We arrive at the cafeteria. The food is unremarkable but the prices aren’t. Even a freaking egg salad sandwich is about $3.00. But it’s food, and we eat. But just a few words of advice- if you ever go to Mayo, find some other place to eat. There are plenty of them downtown within walking distance.

In the afternoon we do a consult with the neurosurgeon, whose name I forget. Dr Uhm is present also. Both doctors wonder, “Your one of Spetzler’s patients, what are you doing here?” Spetzler is in Phoenix and did my first surgery. He’s the big dog of brain surgery. These guys obviously respect him and that’s nice.

They keep asking me questions. The Supernurse keeps answering them. She knows the answers; I don’t, so it’s just as well. They ask about my recovery in Phoenix, the Supernurse gets downright technical, I have no idea what she’s saying. But the docs are impressed. Uhm tells us I have a rare kind of tumor. Well I feel special.

I ask him about the Decadron, should I keep taking it? He asks if it’s had any affect. “It keeps me hungry.” All the medical people laugh, it’s the biggest laugh I get. Uhm tells me to stop taking it.

They ask me to show them where Spetzler entered my skull. I turn my head and pull my right ear forward to show the crease. “Oh, he went under.” They sound a little excited. It’s almost like I’ve just given away a trade secret.

The neurosurgeon, who shall remain nameless because I still don’t know his name, looks at the MRI’s and says he doesn’t see a need for surgery either.

Well okay, that’s fine; just get me my vision back.

My next appointment is for tomorrow with an eye doctor. We go to the eye doctor’s unit to see if I can get in today, so we don’t have to stay overnight. The receptionist says it’s impossible, but if I want to get in earlier I can show up at 7:00 in the a.m. and wait and see. Like that’s going to happen. We can safely forget that idea and show up at the appointed 2:30.

Trainboy has always wanted to go to a Legoland. There’s one at the Mall of America. So we hop in the car and away we go.

We pull into the Days Inn across the street from the mall. It costs about $110. Hokey smokes Bullwinkle. I can’t remember the last time we spent a hundred bucks on a room. Decision time. Pay for the room, or drive around looking for something cheaper? We have a limited amount of time to spend at the mall and we’re losing it minute by minute. I pay for the room. It’s nice. The room’s nice. It has a nice pool/sauna/whirlpool. Everybody’s happy. I do not tell the Cheapwife how much it cost. That would make her unhappy. Don’t ask and I won’t tell.

We head over to the mall.

We head straight for Legoland. Because we have to make sure Trainboy gets to browse the Lego displays. And there are certainly plenty of displays showing how you can use Legos. We must blow at least a half-hour in there. Trainboy gets a Lego kit, and a Legoland flag T-shirt. He’s a happy boy.

Hungry. The decadron keeps me hungry. It hasn’t worn off yet. We eat at the Rainforest Café. It’s a restaurant that’s geared to kids. Everythings done up to look like a rainforest. There are large aquariums with saltwater fish. It’s impressive. So are the prices, but not the portions. It doesn’t matter, the wife is happy, the kids are happy. I should be happy, but I can tell it won’t be long and I’ll be hungry again. How expensive? $15 for fish and chips.

Trainboy does not like his pizza. I try it. For a kids place this is not kid’s pizza. The sauce does not taste like kids’ pizza. Definitely a gourmet sauce, how could they blow it so badly? He won’t eat fish unless the tartar sauce is the way he likes it. The tartar sauce is spicy, so he won’t eat the fish. He eats my French fries instead. Is everybody happy? Yes, they are.

We head over to the Critter Cove, or something like that. It’s an aquarium. Part of it is a moving walkway that takes you through a clear plastic tunnel where the aquarium goes overhead. So you’re virtually surrounded by fish, turtles, and sharks. Have I left anyone out? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

It’s a nice aquarium. It is. But it’s nothing compared to the one in Gatlinburg, TN.

Then it’s on to Camp Snoopy. An indoor amusement park, this must be kid heaven. The kids go on the ferris wheel. I am not going on any rides with my vision screwed up. It’s too easy to imagine blowing fish and chips all over Minnesota. We wouldn’t want them to think Iowans are rude. On the other hand I could tell them I'm from Nebraska. Naaah.

The Superwife and Ms. Pikachu ride the rollercoaster. Trainboy rides the train and a couple more rides. There are still a few points left on the ticket. Ms. Pikachu rides the roller coaster again, all by herself. She flies by, arms over her head. She’s happy, you can tell by the smile on her face.

There’s a little time left, so we go through Legoland again. Happy Trainboy.

Back to the hotel. Everybody wants to swim. Can’t swim. The pool closes when we get there. Oh well. Tomorrow we shall wake early and swim. Uh huh, yeah.

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Okay, I’m depressed. The wife picked up the MRI’s from the hospital for the trip to Mayo. We took a look. I had hoped that the tumor had somehow extended away from the brainstem in some easier to get at way. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. It’s just a little more forward than before and putting pressure on the optic nerves. Crap.


I’m grateful that it hasn’t caused the extreme trigeminal neuralgia episodes it did before. But the whole double vision thing is irritating. It’s like looking through one of those old stereo-opticon devices and not getting the pictures lined up. Driving is a pain, and is best done with one eye closed. You only try merging onto the interstate once, after that it’s just side streets. Fun, fun, fun.


The wife tells me not to worry. We’ve been there, done that. But I don’t want to do it again, because I’ve been there, done that. The brain surgery and after-effects were no fun. I was weak for weeks after I got out of the hospital.

The spinal tap was no fun either. Just a little tip here- if someone ever says you need a spinal tap- while they’re doing it exhale as hard as you can, arch your back, and try to touch your toes with your shoulders. Three times is not a charm, it’s three times the pain. Get it right the first time. No, I am not looking forward to this. But I have to do something.

So tonight, I had to do something about the car’s brakes. They’d been screeching for a while. If would be a bummer to drive up to Rochester and have the brakes fail on the way. It would be… cosmic, in a black hole comedy kind of way. So I did the brakes.

While we’re at it, how about some brake tips? Just in case you want to save a few bucks and get greasy too. Firstly, maintenance manuals will tell you to bleed the brake lines. That would be stupid, that would be making the job bigger than it has to be. Just unscrew the master cylinder cap (where you put in the brake fluid) and pump the brake pedal a few times, it will relieve the pressure just fine.

Loosen the lug nuts and jack up the side. And herein lays the days comedy. By the time I ‘d started to do this it was already late evening. I slide the jack under the car, it’s very dark under there, and I’m seeing double. But everything seems good. Remove tire, remove brake caliper. Easy enough. Remove outer brake pad, leave the inner one on. That way you can use a C-clamp to compress the cylinder by clamping down on the inner brake pad. It’s slick, it would be more work to do it any other way. After compression, remove the inner brake pad. Add new pads, reassemble, and away you go. Manly braking, screech free. So quick it’s a waste to pay somebody to do it.

Ideally anyway. Not tonight.

Because I tried to do it too fast. And I was visually impaired too. And sometimes somebody should pull my Mensa card. As you recall, I placed a jack under a car hardly able to see it. I thought it was a good placement, it was not. I did not bother to set the parking brake or block the wheels. The car was flat, and I’ve never had a problem with a vehicle rolling. It was all done too fast and too familiar.

As I was working on a caliper I noticed the jack was leaning because two of its wheels were in a seam in the concrete surface. But it didn’t seem like a big deal. I just figured, “Don’t put your head in the wheel well.” The wife came out to help. As I tried to line up the bolts in the caliper by feel, and not putting my head in the wheel well to see, she pushed on it to try to help line it up. She pushed in the direction of the jack’s leaning. The jack leaned farther. It slowly rolled onto it’s side like an elephant taking a nap. Kawunmp. Well, that was interesting. Nobody’s fault but my own, I broke every safety rule and got busted. Crap.

Wonderboy held the light. He was impressed. He said his Dad could fix anything, his Dad should be a mechanic. If he were a little older he'd know his Dad had just royally crapped it up. Sure I felt unworthy of his praise, but it was awfully nice to hear him speak so well of me.

Then I got out the scissors jack, jacked it up, and finished the job. Nobody got hurt, it was a good lesson. I promise not to be so stupid again, I can be taught. I got washed up and we took it for a test drive. The wife drove. Manly braking, no screeching. She can pound the brakes all the way to Rochester, we’re good to go. I just don’t wanna go.


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The status of things:

We have more ice cubes than we’ve ever had. If you need ice cubes you just let me know.

The brain thing. The pressure on my right eye makes me cross-eyed. Past about arms length I see double. I tell the wife it’s almost like being married to twins. She doesn’t find it very amusing. I’ll have to give up the pitch to convert to Mormonism.

The steroid I take to combat the brain swelling can cause mood swings. It sure does. I become very impatient with the kids and have to tell myself to shut up, even more than usual. The wife? I just say “yes dear” like usual and we get along fine.

At work, Don, High Sheriff and Security Grand Poobah, was sharing his thoughts re my upcoming surgery. He figures that since the problem is pressure on the eye the surgeon will just pop my eye out and Roto-Rooter around in there to clean it out.

There’s a happy image- laying there with an eyeball hanging out while a surgeon gets to practice his plumber’s snake technique through my eye socket. But wait, there’s more.

James, a co-worker, overheard this happy conversation and felt his own need to share. James used to work at the VA hospital. James said, “They’re really careful about working around the frontal lobes. They’ll probably keep you conscious so they can keep track of how you’re doing.” Thanks a lot.

Now I’m going to be laying on a table, fully conscious, and they’re going to pop out an eyeball and roto rooter my brain while saying, “How ya’ doing?” Like I’ll feel like talking. I’ll certainly have to be under some kind of anesthetic. So I’ll probably say something in a semi-delirious state like, “How ‘bout them Hawks?” and the surgeon will flinch because he’s a Gophers fan. I am so screwed. I’m really looking forward to this.
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I’ve been behind in the blogging, so this morning a little catch-up. It may have already been done to death, but it hasn’t been done here yet.

Arnold as California Guv’ner. Oh why not. Reagan showed you can go from acting on the screen to acting in real life and succeed. Not only succeed but have acolytes that would put him on Rushmore. If Ann Coulter ever has a kid it will be because she gave in to carnal thoughts while thinking of Ronald Reagan. Just don’t tell her husband, if she has one. She would certainly nickname the kid, regardless of gender, ‘Li’l Gipper.’ Remember, you read it here first.

But back to Arnold. He’ll almost certainly win. The left-wingers will beat him with everything they can come up with- nothing will be too petty. I predict, I predict, even his Aryan Marine haircut will become the stuff of punditry. Just remember I did it first.

Gray Davis? He’s dead meat. He’s going to learn how few political friends you have when you’re no longer useful. Twisting in the wind, he’s going to be a more gruesome spectacle than hanging chad was in Florida.

Of course, just because his political friends abandon him doesn't mean they'll glom onto Arnold. Which is why we may be treated to the spectacle of Arnold campaigning while Barbara Streisand and Cybil Shepherd bite his ankles. Expect Arnold to shake them off with customary good humor.

He has larger groups to deal with. A big part of California’s population is Hispanic. I’m not even going to try to get a percentage, it just seems that obvious. So it seems that the Hispanics could have a lot to say about who wins the guv’nah ship. Arnold can capitalize on his own status as an immigrant to suck up, though the Hispanics might complain they got there first. The problem might be that Hispanics probably vote Democrat, part of the whole minority “thing.” I’m not going to research that either.

I like Arnold. He makes it easy. So here’s a bone for Arnold. To get that big Hispanic vote- one little phrase. “Ich Bin Ein Hispanic.” Sure, the Hispanics might prefer it a little more correct, like “Lo soy Hispanico.” But you gotta admit, the German rings. It brings into play that whole Kennedy thing he married into.

Other contestants- Gary Coleman. Well that's different. He announced he would not accept any campaign contributions. Across the country were heard cries of anguish as check books slapped shut. It seems a little strict of him not to let the people express their free speech via contribution, but maybe he's more Aryan than Arnold.

Gotta go to work. If not more of this later, you’ll get my slant on Queer Eye. Oh boy.



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Home Improvement- The Icemaker

I finally installed a water line to the fridge, and therein lays today’s tale, as it were.

The installation had been giving me fits. There seemed to be no satisfactory answer because the fridge is in a corner. In the basement, below the fridge, is the fuse box. Yes, fuse box is correct, it’s never been upgraded to breakers. You say “So what?” Well the “what” is that building code does not allow installation of a water line within three feet of a fuse or breaker box.

Measure out three feet from the edge of the fuse box and you wind up about a foot and a half to the side of the fridge. So I figured I could run some ½ inch PVC from the washing machine line up through the floor, cap it off, and tap into it for the line to the fridge. Sure, it would work, but it would be an ugly thing to have on the kitchen floor.

The wife wanted her icemaker. So we got everything we’d need from Home Depot to do the job. One of the things needed was a basic ice-maker connection kit. The choice was plastic or copper, each kit had a seven foot length of tubing. It’s not as much as I want. It’s a 4’1/2 foot drop to the washer line. There won’t be much slack for moving the fridge.

Copper is a hassle. I picked up the kit using plastic pipe. The friendly HD friendly person said, “No, don’t use that, use copper.” And he handed me a kit using copper tubing. Dear God. But being weak-willed I assented. Now we’re going to have copper tubing stretched across the floor. Crap. Damn me for being spineless, but spineless I am.

But I can’t bring myself to drill that ½ inch hole in the floor. It would be ugly. It would be final. Can’t do it, there has to be a better way.

Maybe… Tom would know a better way. Tom is the guy next door whose initials should be DIY. He does everything- tears down cars, welds, fabricates. His day job for the city seems to be just to get money for his projects. He has a work ethic to shame an ant. So why not ask Tom?

I step outside, and there’s Tom walking up our shared driveway. Could this be a sign? Indeed. I explain my predicament; he seems somewhat amused. “Why don’t you just go to Menards and get some plastic pipe, run that through the floor and hook that into the washer line?” But if I do that to come up behind the fridge, won’t I be violating code?
“Nah, that’s just for any joints in case they leak. You’ll just be running tubing from the washer line to the back of the fridge. You’ll be okay.”

There it was, simple, beautiful, easy. I coulda kissed him, but he’s not that kind of guy.

God forbid that I should run into the same guy at Home Depot, so to Menards I go. Their installation kit has 25 feet of tubing. It just keeps getting better. We be on a roll. This suddenly feels very good.

Well it felt good for a little bit. I drill a small hole in the kitchen floor behind the fridge to make sure it’ll be ok. I want the hole at the tile’s seam, so anybody who ever replaces the tile has an easier job of it. I leave the drill bit in the floor so I can find the hole easier. I check it downstairs, nothing. Apparently all the time spent watching Star Trek has not been wasted. No doubt about it, I’ve discovered a wormhole. The drill bit goes into the kitchen floor and comes out somewhere around Alpha Centauri. I hope the Alphas do not find me rude for arriving unannounced. Hopefully they will know I come in peace, but a drill bit coming through looks kind of serious.

The house is overbuilt in its 100 year-old way. Maybe a wider, longer bit would reach. It does not. Screw this, we can go the other way. Into the basement with the drill, put it up as far back as possible, hope and a prayer, and away it goes. And may I just say here, thank God and the inventor he inspired, for cordless drills. It definitely went through something. We have to go upstairs to see now. Oh, boy, oh, boy, it’s like Christmas, only maybe destructive.

The hole is about a foot in from the wall. Dear God. Stone foundation like a freaking castle. Of course the hole is nowhere near a tile seam. Someday some guy will curse me for giving him a crappy job, but I’ll probably be dead by then, or living on Alpha Centauri.

The tubing is ¼ inch. I go crazy and go to 17/64 for that extra 1/64 of play. Oh baby, it slips through so nicely, you’d almost think I knew what I was doing.

I figure, what if I get the freak one in a million bad saddle valve and it starts running as soon as I hook it up to the water supply? Better have the fridge end hooked up first.
So next up, do the compression fitting on the back of the fridge. Snug but not too tight, don’t want to ruin the fitting. Leave the wrench right there in case it’s needed.

Then it’s time for the saddle valve on the water line. This seems kind of rinky-dink to me. You clamp the valve onto the water line, screw it in, back it off, and like magic you’ve got a water connection. Okay, but it still seems kind of rinky-dink to me. Or did I already say that?

Being married to the Supernurse the union area must first be cleaned, scrubbed, sterilized, cauterized, and swabbed with baby wipes. This is health ya’ know, sterile procedure. Clamp, screw, unscrew, and the water flows like magic. No drips, good job for me. I follow the slow flow up the tubing. Oh baby, this could be so good. It reaches the ceiling; I run upstairs to watch. You can’t get this on cable.

Slowly, slowly it reaches the fridge. Then it’s there with a little bubbling. I’ve no problem with letting it clear air out of the line. Bubbling stops and a drip comes out. Grab the handy wrench, and a quarter turn later dry off the top, no more water, no problem.

Oh baby, this is good. Except there’s the little matter of “Does the icemaker work?” The Superwife flips the switch, nothing. It was accidentally tripped before and it made a grumbling sound, but this is nothing, not even a hum. There’s nothing to do but wait and hope it doesn’t mean a service call.

Two hours later, ice cubes! Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. They’re not really cubes. They’re more like half-slices of canned cranberry sauce. As if ice cube description is at all important. But it works. The Superwife is happy. I knowledgeably inform her that the first three loads must be discarded, system flush you know. You can read it in the manual, I did.

When I got home today she told me every once in a while she and the kids would open the freezer to see how many cubes we had. Sometimes it takes so little to make them happy. For a few days anyway, we’re living high on the hog. Tonight, at supper, to drink we had … ice water with non-cubic cubes.

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Okay no blog last night, let me explain.
The Tyranny of Pigs, and the Meaning of Life

I got home and as soon as I walk in the front door the pig whistling starts. They seem to be led by the brown and white one, Buddy Jr. (Buddy Jr. is a female and she’s…. conflicted). I make it to the kitchen, they keep whistling, I turn around to get them the greens they have become accustomed to. The wife says, “Oh no, don't do that. They were outside all afternoon they shouldn't be hungry.” They keep whistling for a few minutes.

The Superwife makes Hungry Jack casserole. Ms. Pikachu is ecstatic. If you're not familiar- Hungry Jack Casserole starts with a layer of baked beans and hamburger mixed with barbecue sauce and onions. Then it’s covered by biscuits and topped off with a layer of cheese.

All Ms. Pikachu could say was "It's just a big pile of gas material. I am going to fart all night." I told her she would fart alone. Not much to say, but it was all I could think of.

Trainboy got caught up in the excitement too. "I'm going to fart too!" Dreams of tooting like a steam engine’s whistle I imagine. “Toot! Toot! I love that sound!

After we stuffed ourselves with the stuff stars are made of the Holywife informed me some group of spiritual people were gathering at some spiritual retreat and they were going to walk a spiritual symbol in prayer. Uh huh, yeah, whatever. When do we leave?

The kids did not want to go. It was just the two of us. We went to the prayer thing, when we got there nearly everybody was already gone. Imagine that, we were late. It was on a large acreage within city limits- a nice piece of ground, it’s only a matter of time before they sell out and it's all put under concrete. That would be a conversion to a shrine to the Almighty Dollar. But you knew that.

Anyway, we headed out on the nature trail and communed with nature. The communing consisted of a deer that ran away, various wild flowers, and mosquitoes. The mosquitoes did not run away. Mother nature can be a bit bloodthirsty, even while you're trying to center yourself and achieve oneness with the oneness.

The event was to walk through a labyrinth. Think of a circle about 30 feet across with one entrance into the circle. Inside the circle is a maze with only one route that will use the entire circle.

The trail was marked by a single line of bricks and was only one brick high- easy to follow, tempting to cheat. Careless travelers had stepped on some of them, bumping them over or misaligning them. Can't have that; have to put them back where they belong. We will leave it better than we found it. As I do the wife gets out ahead of me.

The wife stops and asks, "Didn't you say that bending over makes your eyesight worse? Why are you doing that?" I tell her I am not bending over, I'm squatting, so my head stays up. It needs to be done, and I'm doing it. I continue to walk the path and it isn't long before she bends over to straighten a brick. Ah, love.

The seeker of truth turns and turns, sometimes in the direction you want to go, sometimes not. Sometimes you get sand in your shoes. When you get to the center, why you've reached it. Then you turn around and go out the way you came, spiritually thankful there's no door to hit you on the butt on your way out. Hmmm, a deep thought, this is what we came for.

There is a bell to ring. It can be rung at the start or end of the journey. Supposedly it reverberates with the oneness. Maybe so. But it seems to me that if there are eight notes there is a higher chance of striking discord. Add in sharps and flats and the odds get even worse. What about the Superwife, suppose it works for me but doesn’t for her? It would seem an awfully selfish act then. The odds for total satisfaction seem long indeed. I do not ring the bell. I will ring the bell if there’s $40 million or more at stake.

On the way home She tells me we can pick up the equipment for installing the refrigerator’s ice machine. As we near the Mecca of DIY she asks, “Menards, or Home Depot?” I tell her either will do, certain that oneness will be attained whichever way she chooses. Home Depot it is.

We get a filter, some copper tubing and a length of ½ inch PVC pipe for the water line. We’re running out of time. Our friendly customer helper asks what we need for joints. The fridge is above the main fuse box. Code does not allow water pipe within three feet of the fuse box. Quick guess, six elbows and a tee and we’re done.

On the way home I realize I’d forgotten a shut-off valve, necessary for the filter changes, and a cap- unless we want a fountain in the kitchen. We did not achieve oneness. Oneness is not achieved in a rush.

We get home and the whistling starts again. They whistle and whistle. Buddy Jr. climbs on top of her hut, stands on her rear feet and whistles like Benita Mussolini inspiring the masses. The others gather around. Benita whistles and nods. The genuflecting hairballs whistle in response. It almost sounds like “Duce, Duce, Duce!”

Needing to head off the revolt I go outside and gather dandelion and plantain greens. I place them in their boxes, and even Il Duce shuts up and eats. It’s a sad thing to admit, but sometimes achieving civil peace is nothing more than bread and circuses.

Supermom and Ms. Pikachu head off to read before bed. Trainboy watches a video. I sit on the couch to keep him company, and fall asleep before he does. And that’s why I didn’t blog last night.

Hungry Jack Casserole (The stuff stars are made of)
Brown together and drain:
1 lb hamburger
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped green pepper

Add:
¾ cup barbecue sauce
2-1 lb cans pork and beans
2 T brown sugar

Heat and pour into 9/13” pan. Top with a tube of biscuits or crescent rolls (unrolled).
Cover biscuits with 1 cup Cheddar cheese (shredded).
Bake at 375 for 25-30 minutes.

Best served with sides of Beano and acidophilus.
Airwick makes a delightful centerpiece.

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I got my vision back last night for about a half-hour, then the steroid ran out. Took another one, two a day is allowed, and got some sleep.

Today I'm at work, oh boy. Seems odd to say it, but it feels good to be here.

Tonight we blog.

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Here's the news- the brain tumor is pushing forward on my right eye. Another brain surgery is required. The first one was supposed to take care of me for life. Oh, well.

Tuesday morning I'm to get a prescription for Decadron (sp?) to relieve the swelling. Then some surgical consults will be done.

Ever get the feeling God is shaking you up? "Why aren't you listening? We used to talk, talk to me." No doubt about it, I've become a miserable excuse for a Christian.

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I haven't posted in a while, but there's a reason. I've been seeing double. My doctor wants an MRI done of my head to check for bleeding. Oh, boy. If I'm admitted I'll be at Mercy Health Center.

After church it was time to eat, and then it was time for… the train. The Frugalwife raised an eyebrow, maybe two. She asked, “Was that expensive?” Time to dance. “Kinda, but it was cheaper than buying it on the web.” Well, it was true. The shipping would not have been cheap.

Being a fairly large assembly it took a while to assemble. The track was easy to assemble. Though he could certainly do it, Trainboy let me assume the drudgework of assembly, easy as it was, while he examined the train. The boxcar doors work! Two ovals, a bridge, and he was in business. “Whoo, whoo! I love that sound.”

As the day went on we added more parts- the automatic gates for the road intersection, the tippler to dump coal in the coal car, and rocks in the tipping gondola, the unloader for the gondola.

The kids took turns controlling the train, using the other accessories and throwing the switches. We had to turn down the lights so the train engines lights could be seen.

The Supernurse went to work and I fell asleep on the couch. I slept the contented sleep of a parent with happy kids.

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As you may recall from last Saturday’s post Trainboy brought his new train engine with him when he visited cousins. The coupler was broken when he played with it there. I’d glued it and thought it worked. The glue did not hold. I have many glues, none of them worked. They apparently make the couplers out of super-anti-adhesive plastic. Crap.

After Supernurse went to work we headed for the hobby shop. Maybe they would have a replacement coupler. The lady who runs the shop was busy helping a customer so we wandered around for a while. We looked at the train layout they’re building. It has a bridge- he likes bridges. It has a tunnel and he likes tunnels too. He thought it was a fine thing.

The train I had bought Trainboy for his birthday was a Bachman with EZ-lock tracks. From the look of it the track would just snap together. From the look of it. The reality of it was that it still used connectors on each rail for the electrical contact. Trainboy prides himself on being able to do things for himself, but the track was too difficult for him. It was sometimes aggravating for me, requiring pliers to straighten a bent connector.

So I figured there’s got to be a better way. It does no good for Trainboy to have a train he can’t play with when he wants. So we looked at the train sets too. Life- Like sets use a system they call Power Lock. The tracks snap together side-ways and don’t use rail connectors. Hmm…

The set he already has is a fairly small oval. It seemed reasonable that if he liked it we’d just expand it. Buying a new system would mean the first one is either junk, or rarely used. There is such a thing as cutting your losses though and this seemed like such a time.

I picked out a set that’s much larger than his original one. It’s a double oval almost six foot long and about four feet wide. The ovals overlap, meaning it has a bridge- a good thing. It also comes with a mountain so it has a tunnel, the other good thing. There are also loaders and unloaders for coal and rocks, moving gateways, boxcars, gondolas and the always-important caboose. Guys like toys.

He liked it, no doubt about it. Trainboy looked at me and with a very concerned voice asked, “Is it expensive?” He didn’t want to get his hopes up and then see it go back up on the shelf. “Kinda, but we can buy it if you think you would like it.” “Okay.” He was pleased, me too. In the back of my head was a little voice threatening, “How are you going to explain this?” I didn’t care… much.


When we got to the register I asked the lady who owns the store if she had a coupler for a HO scale Bachman. She told me Bachman only came in G and O scale. There were other customers waiting so I wasn’t going to disagree with her in front of them. Call me a weenie but that’s just the way I am. She told me to check the train for it’s make and get back to her to order one. Okay.

We left the store with one large train set and one happy Trainboy. We put it in the trunk and headed out of town to get Ms. Pikachu. She was not there. They’d gone to the zoo. This made me feel even better about the train purchase. After Ms. Pikachu had gotten to go to Adventureland, the zoo, and stayed over at a cousins it seemed fair that he got a train.

We went to older brother, Herr Ronald’s, and Trainboy played with his cousins. Eventually we got the call that Ms. Pikachu was back and away we went. She was happy. Trainboy was happy. They slept soundly on the way home.

-lifelike trains

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The Supernurse went to work and it was just Trainboy and me. He got out his half-his-size-but-still-only-$3.00-at-Wal Mart squirt gun. He showed me how he waters the plants with it. Each plant got three pumps.

When it got dark we went inside and watched some Cartoon Network, because there’s no such thing as too much Ed, Edd, and Eddie.

At bedtime we read ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ That was it for us.

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Bad news when I got home. The mother of the other Guinea pigs died. Apparently when they shot the video outside yesterday it got too hot.

When she’d had her litter this past winter one of the babies didn’t make it. Since the ground was frozen it wasn’t possible to bury it. The Supermom wrapped it up and put it in the deep freeze. She’d intended to bury it when it got warmer, but it just never seemed like the right time.

They held a little funeral and buried the momma with its baby. Everybody cried, Skunk was a good pet.

We took Heather back home. Ms. Pikachu brought along some clothes and stayed over. She looks forward to this. The last time she visited she was excited that she got to help clean out the chick coop. Imagine that. If she only had the same enthusiasm for cleaning up her room it wouldn’t look like a chicken coop.

It was a quiet drive home.

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When I got home the Superwife told me that she and the kids had shot a movie. They wrote it, storyboarded it, and shot it with the camcorder. It was their version of ‘The Three Little Pigs.’

They used the Guinea pigs for the actors. Costumes were made, including a hat with ears for the fox. Watching the video it was obvious they’d greatly enjoyed themselves. They even had a blooper segment.

We went to see ‘The Lion King’ at the IMAX. I’ve always liked the movie. It has some cute moments, drama, and a fine score. I was looking forward to seeing it on a huge screen. It was a disappointment.

Enlarging the picture so much often made the lines look like they were drawn on a chalkboard. Sometimes the images were so large and moved so fast I couldn’t follow them. The kids have played the DVD too many times to count, so I’m more than familiar with the film. Even knowing everything I couldn’t keep up. It became just a swirl of color. If I’m not getting the experience across think of it this way- watching TV with your nose against the screen.

But the sound was good. Not that it mattered much. I have a nice surround sound system. Part of my system is a 15-inch, 300-watt sub-woofer that can shake the floor. So I wasn’t impressed when the elephants walked during “I Just Can’t Wait to be King.” If you don’t have such a system, and you really want to feel the elephants walk, then go ahead and see it. But I can’t recommend it. The Superwife feels the same way. However, the kids liked it.

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Shortly after getting home the Superwife arrived. She and the kids had gone back to visit her sister and to bring back Heather, a niece, for a visit. In short order we headed to the Playstation for pizza and to let the kids play. The Playstation is one of those places with multi-levels of tubes and slides. The kids love it, but no parent will go in there without knee pads.

An indoor playground, pizza, pop, and lots of tokens for the games make for a good time for the kids. While they enjoyed themselves the wife and I talked. We tried to talk anyway. Near us was a ball pen for toddlers. The toddlers being entertained were as vocal as they were happy.

By the time the kids had worked up a sweat the pizza was ready. Just pepperoni for the kids. Anything besides pepperoni is picked off and discarded, so pepperoni is all we ever order for them.

It doesn’t work the Superwife or myself though. For ours I told the fellow at the counter to put on everything but bacon. No bacon for us, we eat healthy.

After we ate the kids split up the tokens and headed for the game room. By the time they’d used all their tokens they’d won many tickets. The tickets were then redeemed for prizes, in this case it was almost all candy. And why not, Halloween was almost nine months ago. A kid can only hold out for so long.

We left with the sweet booty and headed for Best Buy. The new Piglet movie is out. We now have a copy; perhaps tomorrow I can do a review. The world is waiting.

Then it was on to home, and time to Blog. The Superwife has informed me that Trainboy lost a tooth last night. He wants another gold dollar. The last time I got stamps at the Post Office I got five of them. They are nowhere to be found. It would be no good to have a disillusioned Trainboy, so it’s off to the Post Office I go.

It’s a waste that I’m not in a sleep deprivation study.

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We went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. As we entered the shrine to the twin gods Capitalism and Conspicuous Consumption we could not help but notice the latest writing on the wall- the school supply lists were in. It was decided that as long as we were there we might as well get it over with. My hopes for a surgical shopping strike evaporated like the proverbial snowball. Didn’t even melt, just gone.

Trainboy’s list for kindergarten was fairly short. I had it all within five minutes. The older the kids are the longer their lists. Ms. Pikachu must be closer to adulthood than I realize, either that or her list was put together by a teacher still young enough to have grand dreams. It was a grand list- a list suitable for an all-night scavenger hunt. A list of Homeric proportions, a list worthy of a Greek chorus supplying commentary on the search.

Some years we wander from store to store like the Lost Tribe looking for the Holy Grail. That wasn’t the problem though. We were beating the rush. It was one-stop shopping; there was no need to go anywhere else. The problem was the choices. Need a ruler? Will that be plain plastic, or should it have templates, or should it roll up, or should it fold up, should it light up? And after deciding on the model, which color? Hmmmm, light or dark?

Folders, colors, markers, pencils, pens, organizers, on and on it went. It was a creative retentive’s dream come true. The kids could almost be guaranteed to be happy. The parents could almost be guaranteed to finish so tired a good nights sleep would be their reward, unless they dreamed of overwhelming school supplies that were suffocating in number.

She needed a basic calculator, nothing fancy schmancy. That was a problem, because all the calculators in school supplies were much more sophisticated. It was amazing- for $10 you can get a calculator better than one that cost over $150 just… 25 years ago. Time flies and so does technology.

I wandered off to Electronics to find a cruder calculator, and found a mind-blowing solution. They have a basic, palm-size calculator in a variety of designer colors. I guessed purple. It cost 99 cents. How do they do that? Make parts, assemble parts, ship from China, sell it for under a buck and everybody still makes a profit. It seems beyond belief.

When I returned to the hunting party with the purple wonder Ms. Pikachu declared it just what she wanted. Even Frugalwife was impressed. Points for me. As Ms. Pikachu continued her deliberations the Frugalwife and I indulged in a little supply-side envy.

Rulers that fold up with a hinge every inch, protractors that light up when pressed- there was a lot of cool stuff. When we were in high school you had to buy a book of tables to be able to do trig problems. For $10 you can have a calculator that displays the solution as fast as you can key in the problem.

Superwife noticed they did not have the erasers that are half pink and half white. Ms. Pikachu will have to rough it with an all-pink one. Someday she’ll tell her kids about it.

While Ms. Pikachu and Supermom agonized over another choice, Trainboy asked me if he could get a toy. Why not? As we headed back to the toys he took my hand. I love that; every clasp is a golden moment. He asked, “Dad, do you love me?” How many times have I told him? How many more have I shown it? But at that moment he just needed to hear it again.

So I told him, “Yes, I love you.” Quoting from ‘Lovable Lyle’ I said, “Sometimes I love you so much I can hardly stand it.” He smiled and replied, “I love you too. It makes me happy.” I was pretty happy myself. It was a golden moment gilded.

It’s hard to say “no” after a moment like that. He didn’t try to capitalize on it though. He picked out a small set of transforming toys- it cost all of about $6.00. Trainboy asked if it was okay. I granted his boon and we headed back to find Ms. Pikachu and Supermom. After we picked up a few more things it was time to go home, happy, but tired.

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We went back to visit cousins. Trainboy was so excited about his Super Chief he brought it along. Are you sure? Things break. He’s sure, he puts it in a soft case to bring it.

After our visit he tells me the coupler was broken. Along with his heart. He was kind of fearful when he told me. I don’t understand that. I can’t remember ever yelling or being mean to him. But maybe I have, I don't know. His fear hurts me more than his broken train could. I have to watch myself, coming to me for help should be easy.

It’s a plastic coupler. I have model glue. A little glue, a little time, and I can still fix anything. One of these days he’ll come up with something I can’t fix, but until then I’m doing pretty good.

-SantaFe Warbonnet

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Trainboy’s Hogwart’s Express electric train didn’t last long. A rod that connected some wheels broke. It was probably a mistake getting him a steam train, they’re too delicate for a six year-old. So there he sat with track and no train. What to do, what to do?

I bought him another train. He likes the Santa Fe Super Chief, so that’s what he got. The headlight/cab light works too. Kids always like getting something in the mail, it’s like Christmas for them. I ordered it over the web, figuring he’d get a surprise in the mail. We can get additional cars, like a caboose, at the local hobby shop. He’s a happy Trainboy.

He asked me to guess what his favorite Monkee song was. Think, think, think. He bounces up and down to ‘I’m a Believer.’ ‘I’m a Believer?’ “No, ‘Last Train to Clarksville.’” Slap my head, well duh, ‘Trainboy’ and ‘Last TRAIN to Clarksville.’

Parents do not have all the answers. But it can be very helpful it the kids think we do.



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We ate, then went to the library. The wife had a load of books and videos to return. While she did her returns and got her reserves I was checking out the new non-fiction and saw a book that looked possible. Flip, check it out, flip, maybe not- couldn’t make up my mind.

Eventually Ms. Pikachu came over and said, “Dad, Mom’s ready.” Uh huh, I’ll believe it when I see it. “Dad, poke, Mom’s ready. Poke. Poke.” She poked me as she said “poke.” It was funny. She knows how to get laughs.
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We watched ‘Roman Holiday,’ with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. It’s wholesome, it’s fun. One of the girls who live next door came over and watched it. Everybody loves it. It’s a movie that can be watched more than once.

We’ve also recently watched “Harvey” with Jimmy Stewart. The wife has been checking out a lot of Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart films lately. They’re all terrific.

It’s always a temptation to say they don’t make ‘em like they used to. Technically that’s certainly correct because they’ve all been black and white. But they’ve all been so good they’re timeless- 50 year-old films and they still entertain adults and kids.

I’d always liked Jimmy Stewart. He was wonderful in ‘Harvey’ and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ He flew B-17’s in Europe during WW2. He walked the walk, you couldn’t help but enjoy him for his films and admire him for his service.

I’d always liked Gregory Peck for ‘12 O’clock High.’ Seeing him in ‘Roman Holiday’ and ‘The Yearling’ I like him even more. Better late than never, I guess.

It would be tempting to say they were irreplaceable, but no one ever is. For example, Tom Hanks has done some amazing stuff. Just for fun there was ‘Big’ and ‘That Thing You Do.’ Nope, nobody is irreplaceable, but the loss is still a loss. The more of their movies I see the greater the loss becomes though. And when I snuggle with the wife and watch a movie a kiss is still a kiss. When I laugh with the kids a smile is still a smile.

Harvey
Big
ThatThingYouDo

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Well this isn't fun.
Saddam’s two kids are reported to have been killed in a gunfight. The 101st, cornered them in a house with two accomplices after being led there by a soon to be rich informant. The shootout lasted six hours, and apparently ended with a missile through the roof. Sorry, but I don’t get this. The butt-kicking 101st held off for six hours by four guys in a house? In Vegas the oddsmakers would probably have given them five to ten minutes tops.

I hope this isn’t a sign of a kinder, gentler army but it may be. Considering the Army is on a feel-good campaign we may not be getting warriors in olive drab. For example- the black beret had always been the headgear of the Rangers, an elite outfit. The black beret was made General Issue for morale purposes. What once symbolized excellence is now nothing more than a tool to make the troops feel cool, and maybe get a few recruits who want to impress the chicks.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that unit élan doesn’t come from handing out berets, it comes from training them to the point they know they’re special. It comes from shared adversity. Current training is a joke.

Instead of hardcore troops we’re getting soldiers who have undergone self-esteem classes but can’t shoot straight (you may not have heard of it, but it’s an Army scandal). If they trained them to a razor’s edge the self-esteem would take care of itself. In a firefight self-esteem classes don’t keep you alive, good training does, and that starts with being able to shoot straight.

The Army’s current promotion doesn’t make sense either- An Army of One. What kind of crap is that? An Army of One is fine if you’re Stallone playing Rambo, but in reality what keeps you alive is your buddies. The Army plays with real bullets; they should not be playing Hollywood.

I can almost here the war movie- the grizzled old sergeant yells, “Reynolds, take your Army of One and go check the left flank.” Reynolds is shaking in his boots because even though he aced self-esteem class and made corporal he knows he was pencil-whipped on the shooting range. He says truthfully, “Sarge, this Army of One isn’t big enough to do it by itself.” The sergeant grimaces and says, “Alright, take the Kowalski Army and the Preston Army with you.”

That wasn’t worth the effort to write or read, but I didn’t delete it anyway.

Part of the problem is that the military is seen as a refuge for hawks and terminal losers. That shouldn’t be the case, especially after 9/11. Remember 9/11? For months afterwards there was a groundswell of patriotic fervor. Everybody had a flag, or two, on their car. Those A-rabs weren’t going to beat us, uh uh, we were flying flags. Ever day the streets looked like another parade. Did anybody actually do anything? Besides kicking the crap out of Iraq and offending the Germans and French? Did military enlistments go up? No. The military is still struggling to get people and keep them.

Having an all-volunteer Army is a nice idea. But just to get some of the best and brightest in to play, and let everybody have some sense of civic duty and awareness of what is at stake, maybe everybody should serve two years. The military would have the luxury of discharging the unfit. It would be good for the health of the country, and just think of the money to be saved on the ad campaigns.
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I wrote this in reply to someone who thinks the war in Iraq is so wrong. I need a post so here it is.

I think butterflies are free, and if they come back then they're really yours, if they don't they never were.

And I think you should make love, not war, but that's hard when you're being run through a shredder machine.

And I think war is harmful for children and other living things, but if the kids are left in prison, they'll just have to roll with the punches.

I think this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, but it's hard to tell that when you're strapped down and attached to electrodes.

I think it takes a village to raise a child (to quote Hillary Marx), but that's hard when they're dropping chemicals on your village.

I think you should question all authority especially when it tortures and fills mass graves.

I think you should expand your mind, but that's hard when it's in a vise.

I think you should think outside the box, especially when you're chained to the inside.

I think you should free your mind when you're in shackles.

I think the Iraqi people are happy to be free just so they can sell their oil.

I think "power to the people" but Iraqi democracy may not survive hanging chads.

I think the Iraqi police needed a better PR firm. Because if it feels good, do it, and they did it. Maybe they were just trying to go with the (blood) flow. When it is all said and done, it was just about sex and violence, and those always sell.

I think when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But when in Iraq don't get on the raq.

I think de' nial is not a river in Egypt, but Iraqi war protesters float their boats there.

I think you can't trust anyone over thirty, except me.


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The other day I was driving along when up ahead was a squirrel in the middle of the road. “Run little squirrel, run” I thought. Almost by ESP, or some other cosmic link, it ran for the side of the road. Safe. But only for a moment, for it suddenly executed one of those mid-air turns with change of direction only the desperate dwellers at the bottom of the food chain can do, and it ran back out into the street.

Squirrels apparently have a memory limited by the size of their skull. Or maybe their twitchy tails are a sign of ADHD and they don’t care where they’re going, they just want to go. The only other explanation is rather dark and would seem to violate the natural order of things.

Squirrels have suicidal tendencies. They're natural recruits for Hezbollah. I've hit a few myself, squirrels I mean, and never like it. You always flinch when you feel the thud of something under your tires, as long as it's not wearing a robe and explosives. At least they rarely cause damage, and they do feed the bottom of the food chain. Being at the top of the chain it will go through a few filterings before we get to it.

The worst thing I've ever hit was a deer; everyone in my family has hit one. The deer took out the hood and some headlights. It ran away- should have hit it harder and at least gotten some meat out of it. (Testosterone rush.) Why yes, I am feeling manly at the moment.

Squirrels are a reminder that Darwin isn't always right. Massive breeding can outdo Darwin's laws. Come on guys give it a try, do it for posterity, you have to believe your uber-DNA is worth it. The hard part will be convincing the wimmin.

Maybe all those senseless rodent deaths just mean we need a new social/entitlement program to move them to the country. Give them a job and housing. The mascot could be a little squirrel with a tear running down its cheek, a PETA badge on his shoulder, a bleeding heart on his chest, and a DNC patch on his hat.

I'm crying already, where can I send my contribution, or does that come out of my paycheck?

Oddly enough, on my way home tonight I ran over a skunk. Actually, the car ran over it, but you knew that, a smart one you are.

I ran over the skunk and it stunk so badly, all the way home. Forty-five minutes to home. The kids were already sleeping so they didn't notice. But sleep isn't a good option when you're driving, so I drove, and smelled. My nose I mean, but you knew that, like a whip you are.

Eventually I thought wow, that stink doesn't go away, its strong and relentless, that’s kind of manly actually. And as I thought of it that way it became less and less offensive, it became skunk musk. Women may be strong enough for Irish Spring, but even a woman on steroids can't handle Skunk Musk.

Knowing the wife would never share my enthusiasm for my new air freshener I stopped at a car wash and tried to wand it out. That's right, tried to; it still stinks, just not as badly.

It also occurred to me that my attitude change might give a little understanding as to why people have trouble training their dogs. The dog craps, the owner rubs its face in it. The dog sniffs, his eyes go wide, his ears perk up and he thinks, "Hey, that's good! Since you like it I can make some more. Bring on the Kibble and I'll doo-doo this place right."
Female dogs are easier to train.

It's a theory anyway.


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Time to hit Wally World again. They must get such a huge chunk of sales I’d rather shop elsewhere just to keep the competition alive. Target is the only chain in the area that really competes with them, but you only have to drive by their lots to see Wal-Mart is clearly ahead around here.

In contrast K-Mart always looks like dead retailer walking. So I go there when I can, anything to keep another competitor open. For a while they had some self-check-out terminals. Then those were closed with a sign that said, “Closed so we can add more checkouts to serve you better.” That made no sense, of course. There were still a dozen checkouts and no more than three are ever open at a time. Spin is everywhere.

To be realistic, what else are they going to say? “We aren’t making enough money to maintain the new terminals, so we’re just shutting them down?” They haven’t pulled them out, they’re just blocked off and they’re used as a storage area. That chain has problems. I wonder if they’re in a death pool, and what the odds are.

One thing the kids and I like about K-Mart is that they have an Icee machine after the registers. Pay for the cup with your other stuff and fill it up on the way out. Trainboy and Ms. Pikachu each get one. They have to alternate filling it up between the red and blue. While they have official flavors of raspberry and cherry that’s just a comfort mechanism. Truth in advertising would be to just call them Red and Blue.

Back to layers of Red and Blue. Sometimes when you suck it up through the straw you get lines of both colors and the same time. That’s kind of cool. When you get near the end the colors start to mix, and that’s when anyone can see that Red and Blue make Purple. So there’s an art lesson to be had too.

But we went to Wally World anyway. Because if you’re going shopping with kids and need food, pet bedding, auto supplies and anything else needed for daily living you only want to get out of the car once and just get it over with. Wally World is good for that.

-icee

We went to see the latest Rugrats movie. It’s playing at a small theatre in a nearby town. Two adults, two kids for $11.00. We loaded up on pop, Milk-Duds, and Dots for a couple more bucks. Small-town living may seem boring, but it’s cheap. The Cheapwife likes that.

After about a half-hour I blinked and failed to un-blink. The next thing I was aware of was being nudged with a “Dad, wake up.” It’s not my fault, once you learn how to sleep sitting up it’s like riding a bicycle. So’s snoring, hopefully it wasn’t so loud it bothered anyone. I didn’t ask, they didn’t tell.

I also didn’t ask how the movie ended. In a few months we’ll probably have it on DVD and I don’t want it spoiled. So I’ll be in suspense for a few months, if it seems I’m a little tense you’ll know why.


RugratsGoWild

I finished ‘The Hunt for Bin Laden,’ an excellent book. It’s a chronicle of the Green Berets that were dropped into Afghanistan after 9/11. Conventional forces take months to mobilize, Special Forces take days. For a fast response they were it.

They would link up with the local rebels, plan attacks and call in air support. The Taliban had had it all their way since the rebels of the Northern Alliance didn’t have the hardware to mount an offensive and take ground. Once our guys were in the bombs started to fall and they kicked butt from one gutter to the other and back again.


It’s a thrilling read, page after page you want to cheer and say, “You guys kick ass.” The Berets actually rode to battle on horseback singing ‘The Ballad of the Green Beret.’ That’s the kind of stuff that if it were fiction critics would say it was just too far. Forget Hollywood, these guys were bigger, and real too.

There are odd things, like when you find out the Alliance and the Taliban know what radio frequencies the other uses. Security anyone, anyone? Perhaps they figured people switched sides all the time, or there were plenty of spies, but it would still make sense to try to keep the other side from overhearing you.

There are funny moments, like when a Beret is talking to a weapons officer in the Spectre flying overhead. An Alliance commander hears the voice of the female officer and seizes the opportunity. He tells the Taliban the US has so little respect for them they send their women to fight them. Then he patches her through and she talks to them. She says she’s there because of the terrible way they treat their women- quite an extreme insult in itself. She becomes known as the Angel of Death.

They brought 5,000 patches from the NYPD and FDNY with them, many of them embroidered with a name from the slain. When they conducted a raid, or just pounded them into the dust, they’d leave patches- to let them know it was payback for 9/11. One time they had a sizable number of Taliban cornered and the Alliance commander tried to negotiate their surrender. A Beret said, forget that, we want to kill them all; it was payback with a vengeance.

I don’t recall any Beret being killed by Taliban, but there were some who were killed in friendly fire accidents- such terrible wastes of our nation’s finest. But accidents happen, especially in a war zone.

They were able to kick the Taliban out of Afghanistan with about a hundred Green Beret in a couple of months. Since the Berets would take care of the population when they weren’t fighting, when the Taliban were gone, the Afghans weren’t just glad the Taliban were gone, they often became pro-American.

It’s a book that makes you proud of the men who fight for this country, and grateful that they do. There are so many terrific stories it just screams for a ‘Band of Brothers’ treatment.

Is it a detached, objective book? No. Around 1964 the author trained with the Green Berets and then wrote ‘The Green Beret.’ He’s their friend and squarely in their corner. He’s an enthusiast, and that’s the perspective it’s written from.


TheHuntForBinLaden

We watched ‘Mr. Smith Goes To Washington,’ another wonderful Jimmy Stewart movie. It’s a sweet movie with some rough edges suitable for family. There are several opportunities to have discussions with the kids- ethics, government and civic responsibility can be started with the pause button.

The dramatic culmination is his filibuster of the Senate in the face of overwhelming odds. Trivia question- Who holds the record for longest filibuster? Answer- Strom Thurmond.
Apparently he had a lot of stamina. Question- Is it time for a nasty comment about his reputation as a ladies man? Answer- No, that would be rude, we speak only kindly of the stiff.

It was a lot of fun to watch a good movie with the family, the bonding thing is a good thing, good.



-MrSmith

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Worked late. Got home. Superwife changed into Supernurse. Doing my manly hunter/gatherer thing, I went to Wendys to grab something for everybody to eat. Ate. Supernurse went to work. I fell asleep. Not much to say, some days are like that.

Oh all right. When I get home the guinea pigs start to whistle. Even before I open the door. They apparently hear my footsteps on the porch. They whistle because they want to be fed. Five whistling guinea pigs, the only thing missing are the impatient cries of "garcon!" Because they are French Guinea pigs.

So anyway. Before I come into the house now I have to grab a couple handfuls of weeds to feed them. Being the insolent diners they are, they have no appreciation for the effort, they expect it. Little do they know the contempt I have for them, they get the service I give and nothing more. They prefer dandelions, sometimes they get them, sometimes they only get plaintains. They are pigs. They are swine. It's like having five more kids, only they're penned up, and they can't hit me up for money.

That was hardly worth it, but the wife's at work and the kids need tending to.
Your link to guinea pigs-

guinea pigs
Wendys
Later

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The Cheapwife was at Target earlier today. She noticed some men’s clothes on clearance she liked. So away we went to Target. If you want to see what a woman likes in men’s clothing just look at her husband. That may not be absolutely true, but it’s close enough.
After two bags full we were done and headed for Royal Fork to get something to eat. Shopping really makes me hungry. Well, that and not eating for a long time.

Ms. Pikachu was acting so normal it was spooky. Trainboy apparently decided to pick up the slack. He said, “Hey, look” and opened his mouth to display a filled-to-capacity quantity of mashed potatoes and gravy, which he then slowly pushed out like some sort of parent’s nightmare play-dough fun factory.

Ms. Pikachu complained that Trainboy “can’t say a sentence without fart or poopy in it.” I told her that he was only copying her, and if she didn’t like it she should stop it herself. She looked like, “what, it’s my fault he acts like me?” Actually it’s mine, but saying that isn’t going to help anyway.

After everybody sitting near us is either grossed-out or offended it’s time to go home. Funny how I never have a belly-full until my belly’s full. Or maybe it isn’t.

So we got home and I thought, I am so overdue to Blog, got to Blog. The wife told me she’d checked out ‘Twelve O’clock High’ from the library and wanted to watch it with me. That’s right, not only will she go to air shows and military museums with me, she’ll check out military movies and watch them with me. God I love this woman. Blogger will have to wait.

We watch the movie. She gets to admire Gregory Peck’s acting abilities. Say that “Gregory…. Peck.” I get to watch a war movie with real B-17’s. It was filmed in ’49. You never see more than about a half-dozen B-17’s at a time. And they crash one of them. It belly-lands and takes out a couple of tents. They were war-surplus back then, sold for scrap. If you could find one to buy now it would cost millions. The crash is almost jaw-dropping extravagant watching it now.

It’s a great movie. In college one of my business instructors was a WW2 pilot, he used the movie as a lesson in management. We watched it in class for class. It was my favorite class. He was my kind of guy. Watch it with an eye on management lessons and it teaches a lot.

Ms. Pikachu asked “Why they didn’t shoot it in color instead of black and white?” I don’t know, maybe for evoking the feel of the era. “But they’d already done ‘Wizard of Oz’ in color before the war.” Dig up Selznick and ask him. Leave me alone.

After the movie the wife said, “Maybe I’m not managing the kids well enough. Maybe I should get more out of them.” Well okay, but I’m a little uneasy at the idea of being married to Gregory… Peck, even if she is playing General Frank Savage. Maybe she can be General Francine Savage. There, that’s the ticket.

No wait, I’ve never really cared for Francine, how about Rebecca, General Rebecca Savage. That’s better, but Savage really sounds kind of … savage, how about General Rebecca Niceperson? It’s working. But General is kind of ostentatious around the home, how about Corporal Rebecca Niceperson.

I’ll just be referred to as “Captain,” or maybe “Sir.” Yeah it all works for me. Get down and give me twenty.

Have your people call my people and we’ll do lunch. Shooting starts next week after we do a rewrite and polish the script some more.

Sorry, sometimes they’re like a runaway engine.

Links:

12 O'Clock High
Gregory Peck
Wizard OF Oz

We went to a Cedar Rapids Kernels baseball game. They're the local minor league team. Don't ask what league or level, I neither know nor care. We arrived late, of course.

It was already the second inning and the locals were already losing. The visiting team, the Beloit Snappers, was at bat. I saw that name on their jerseys and thought, what were they thinking? Snappers? Is that the turtle? Were they once the Indians, but out of racial sensitivity renamed the team for a fish- the Red Snappers? Is their first love football, but they aren't big enough? Questions, questions, and it just distracts from the game. Focus, gotta focus. Are they a team of casual photographers? Are they zipper challenged? Stop it, stop it, make the voices go away.

A Snapper hit one deep. Maybe he... snapped it. He rounded first and headed for second. When he got there he slid. I would swear he was already going vertical when the throw came in. The ump called him out. He protested most strenuously. The ump could be glad such robbery cannot result in prosecution. Had they called the cops nobody but the victim would have seen a thing. Who, me? I was in the can with about 4,000 others. Such is the home field advantage- big cans.

Call me cynical, but it seemed to me the ump was just trying to keep the game reasonably close for the home crowd. Because it's a new stadium and you have to keep the crowd there so they'll keep buying. It would do no good if everybody left early during a blowout, the place needs to be paid for. There’s a lot to pay for. It even has a big-screen over center field where they run video of the game and crowd shots.

They run replays frequently. But they didn't run a replay of that, uh, questionable call. If it WAS a bad call, there was only one reason to replay it, and there were lots of reasons not too. An ump is kind of like a wife- make it mad, and you will so regret it. All you'll have left is your clothes. The ump put up with the Snapper’s tantrum like an indulgent mother. He just told him to go to his dugout and think about how his temper affected others, and stay there till it was time for supper, or something like that. I made that up. When I lie I’m honest, it’s policy.

The bad call was never significant to the game. All it cost was a double to the hitter, and much pop/beer and hot dog money from the crowd.

The only things you're allowed to bring into the stadium are your wallet and appetite. The Cheapwife informed me a can of pop is $2.75. Right there you knew that the game had better not go into extra innings or we'd risk starving and dehydration. I'd ask the owners if they'd ever heard of the Laffer curve, but they'd probably reply with their own question, "Ever heard of mortgage payments? Guess how much on a multi-million dollar facility, plus salaries and operating costs?" Even so, they'd get no more than sympathy from the Cheapwife. Sympathy is always free.

The game was almost incidental to the whole experience. If the pitcher isn’t winding up something is being played over the speakers. It seemed that at every changeover there was some contest or gimmick going on. They want you to enjoy the experience and bring every pop swilling, hotdog-scarfing kid you’ve got time and time again. They want to pay the place off early.

They had a contest to see which section could do the best chicken dance. Like I would participate in that. You think I’m gonna do the chicken dance? Not in this lifetime. I could barely conceal my scowl, and amusement. There was a line of exuberant women in front of us. They gave it all they had. Cindi Lauper was right- girls just wanna have fun. Of course, we won. Oh joy. Whoopee. Will they see me on ESPN?

Some fine young men came by and gave everyone in the section a coupon for Chick-Fil-A. Excuse me, why are you giving me this? “Because you’re in the section that won the chicken dance.” Well I’ll be plucked.

The wife returned with Trainboy. He’d wanted to go into one of the kids’ amusement ‘things.’ She informed one of the fine young men that she was a ticket holder for this section and had performed the chicken dance back at the kids’ area. She was regretfully informed that only those sitting in the section at the time of the contest got the coupons. Life is not fair, even if you participate. She got the joy of the dance, but she was plucked.

After the Kernels lost there was a fireworks display. The stadium is like a parabola that reflects all the noise. It hurt the ears. We had enough. We headed out and the grand finale started. We got out of there before the traffic jam could start.

Two for two. I’m batting a thousand this month for getting out before the traffic jams start.

Links-

Cedar Rapids Kernels
Beloit Snappers
Cyndi Lauper

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So what has been keeping us busy? Well…

After church Sunday we went to the airport for a little air show. You had to park at a nearby school and take a bus to the show. It was a twenty-minute wait in 90-degree heat for the bus. But there were planes. Not a lot of them, but an interesting selection. There was a Ford Tri-motor, a Spirit of St Louis replica, a Stearman, two F-16’s, a B-17, and a B-24. Those last two were WW2 bombers.

It was hot- around 90 degrees. We wandered around and looked at them, but the kids quickly tired of it. Trainboy claimed his brain was melting. Ms. Pikachu hit me up for a buck, bought a bottle of water, and poured it over herself and Trainboy. They were happy.

Rides could be bought on most of the planes for $40. The bombers were $400 for a half-hour ride. The Wonderfulwife said I should get a ride on a bomber. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn't do that for myself. $400 is a lot to spend to get happy for a half-hour. But there it was- the ride of a lifetime, and one of the seats was for me. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

Which one to ride? The B-17 is the more famous of the two. But the B-24 was a better bomber. It carried more bombs, was faster, had a longer range. Nobody gets excited about the B-24 though. It never got the PR it deserved, never developed an aura. It’s the only flying B-24 left, there’s five B-17’s. Can’t resist, I still tell him I want the B-17.

I took Monday afternoon off, picked up the Wonderful wife and kids and away we went. It was a no-go. They were replacing the elevators on the B-17. Do I want to ride the B-24 instead? Nah, I can wait till tomorrow. In the meantime we go through both bombers- family is free with a paying rider.

Trainboy loves it. Ms. Pikachu has no interest; she stays in the car and reads.

On Tuesday it’s raining. Call the flight crew, they expect the weather to break about 1:00, be there. I take off the afternoon again; grab the family and away we go again. We get there and the new elevators are on, but the trim tabs aren’t. Not good. They have to be balanced; it has to be test-flown before taking any passengers up. I tell Jim, it would be okay to fly the B-24 instead. He’s happy.

I get a B-24 sticker to wear to let everybody know I’m a passenger and I’m out on the flight line with the wife and Trainboy. More rain. Crap. We go through the bombers again, take pictures. We wait in the car a while. Trainboy notices there is hair on his legs. “Does this mean I’m becoming a man?” “Should I shave my legs?” Never a dull moment. Eventually the rain stops, the clouds break, and it is sunshine. Oh baby, here it comes.

We get a quick briefing, seat belts to take off and land. Don’t step on any hatches. They were built to breakaway to make bailing out easier. Nice safety feature- if you’re wearing a parachute. Once the plane is airborne you can go anywhere but the ball turret, and the turret on top. No top turret? That's a crimp, but since it’s hydraulic they probably don’t want to have to fix it. It still leaves the waist guns, and the tail-guns, and the nose gun/bombardier. This could still be fun. Oh yeah.

We board through the bombay, climb up on the catwalk and find a place to sit. I get a rear-facing seat at the bulkhead behind the bombay. Buckle up. It’s a primitive 40’s seat belt but who cares? The engines start up 1, 2, 3, and 4. They rev up. It’s loud; you have to yell to be heard. Leaning back against the bulkhead it hums with the vibration.

Looking back through the tail of the plane you can see it rock back and forth and round and round. It’s like an old dog wagging its tale, still wanting to play. Every guy on the plane wants to play. Come on, let’s play. Let’s see things move away from the tail. Let’s get some air beneath these wings. Let’s go.

It starts to get quieter. The crew chief sticks his head in and tells us to unbuckle and get out, we have to wait a while longer. The tower has decided it isn’t quite VFR conditions again. It looks good to us. You can see almost all the way to the horizon, the bottom of the clouds look plenty high enough. Come on, let’s go. We aren’t making the call; we have to wait for the tower.

We wait for an hour, it’s not getting any better. We talk to the fellow who runs the ground operations for the airport. He’s an interesting guy, good stories.

Look up, and it’s just getting darker. This is not good. You don’t have to tell me, this is not good. The pilot comes around and says the weather service will make another call in ten minutes. This does not look good.

Ten minutes comes and goes, it still isn’t clear enough to fly. The storm has stalled, it’s backing up and it’s getting worse. It didn’t take a meteorology degree to see that. It isn’t much longer and the fellow handling the bookings says that even if conditions clear up there won’t be enough time to get in the ride and then get to their next destination.

We have been waiting 4 ½ hours for a thirty-minute thrill, and we aren’t going to get it. What we do get is a refund, a lot of time walking through both bombers, and a few minutes with my back pressed against the bulkhead, feeling the old plane shake to life, and hearing the roar of those four engines. So frustrating, yet so wonderful.

Had I said “yes” to switching the day before, the B-24 ride would have been a fond memory. I could have gone with a sure thing, and instead rolled the dice without knowing it and lost. Oh well. Just sitting in it with the engines revved up is more than I had before, so that’s something. I can’t wait till it comes around again.

You can see the bombers and their schedule at
collingsfoundation
-

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For the 5th, while the Supernurse did her thing, we went back and visited Big Brother. His printer tanks needed refilling, and so they were refilled. I tried to be careful and still got ink on my fingers. My fingers were suitable for text and photoquality. We bitched and moaned about life in general, a good time for bitchers and moaners.

The call came- Ms. Pikachu was back in town, over at her cousins. Away we went to pick her up and head for home. Trainboy had been up all day and would normally have slept all the way home. Having Ms. Pikachu back he was too excited to sleep. Much more calm about returning, she promptly fell asleep in the back seat and slept all the way.

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For the 4th Ms. Pikachu was with a cousin at an amusement park.

We went downtown for the F-16 flyby. They were late, which was okay, so were we. One pass and they were gone, certainly heading for the next scheduled town.
The 4th must be the one day a year where their navigation and timing skills are put on display. They got here, but were 10 minutes late; .500 isn't bad if you're swinging at baseballs. Practice, practice, practice, they have 364 days to get it right for next year.

My is-it-worth-it rule is that time spent at a destination should be more than the time spent getting there. The flyby was under 10 seconds. We walked farther downtown to see what festivities there were. You couldn't help noticing blankets staked out along the river to reserve spots for the fireworks. Apparently the absent owners did not fear goose doo-doo. There were plenty of geese.

There was a robot tournament where two, count 'em two, competing robots tried to push the most canisters over an incline. It would be a fair guess that those in attendance were family and classmates of the competitors. There was a tent where a pancake breakfast was held earlier, and a banner for the start/finish of a race held that morning. That was it.

Most of the activities have been moved to a rural college campus. It would seem to be time to move the rest of it. There is no reason to shut down the main road through downtown for an empty tent and a crowd too small to get arrested for unlawful assembly.

It didn't seem worth the time. But Trainboy thought the robot with pincers was cool. So it was worth it for him.

Time for lunch. Trainboy says he wants pizza. To Chuck-E-Cheese we go. Pepperoni pizza, games, what more could a kid want. We returned home bloated with cheese products, and leftover pizza. What a deal.

The wife and I planted some flowers in the planter. It was partly cloudy, but still very bright. It rained on us anyway. Trainboy thought it was hilarious.

The wife changed into her Supernurse costume and away she went to save life, liberty, and buttheads from themselves. Before leaving she reminded me that fireworks were at 9:45. It was up to Trainboy and me to amuse ourselves in the meantime. I did laundry, he did Cartoon Network.

Sometimes it amazes me how much laundry needs to be done. Clothes, sheets, towels, it's an unending cycle. The Circle of Laundry. Why aren't more women depressed? Why hasn't there been an explosion in nudist colonies, where everybody sleeps in a sleeping bag, showers, and air-dries?

Cavemen only showered when they were caught in the rain. They bathed when they went fishing. If they only had one greasy bearskin they were happy. Cave women thought the men were manly and they too were happy. At least until they decided they needed a newer, more fashionable fur.

What am I doing here? Haven't a clue. So, uh, back to the narrative.

I tire of laundry and want to get out. I check the tablet on the fridge for things to get. There are things. Trainboy and I head to Hy-Vee to get them. We get tartar sauce, Kraft's, Lemon Herb. I put three of them in the basket. Trainboy gets thoughtful, "Dad, I think we need another one." No arguing with that, it all gets used. A fourth one into the basket. Grab a bottle of Lea and Perrins for me, and we're both happy.

We head back to dairy and get a gallon of chocolate milk. You might say, "Isn't it cheaper and easier to just buy white milk and add Nestlé’s Quick?" You might. I would have to say that if my milk-averse kid only wants chocolate when it comes out of the jug that way, I'm not arguing with a six year-old. I'm surrendering faster than the French. It's peace at any price, in this case, $3.09 a gallon.

I like the fruit and yogurt parfaits at McDonalds, but you have to go there to get one, and how often is that? Not often enough if you like them and you only go there if they're offering a toy in the kids' meal the kids want.

Sooooo, as long as we're in dairy, into the cart goes a 32-ounce container of yogurt. Then it's off to frozen foods for frozen fruit, get some trail-mix, and we are set for some serious yogurt bingeing.

A bag of Doritos for Trainboy. A bag of toffee-covered peanuts for me. Works for us, time to head back home. Forgot paper plates, and whatever else was on the list doesn't matter either, we got the important stuff- our stuff. We are guys, guyly guys.

Back to doing laundry. Have to get it out of the dryer before it wrinkles. May I just digress a moment here, may I? This may not matter to anybody else. This may be laboring under suspicion no more founded than trickle-down-economics. Be kind, don't laugh. But I prefer to dry clothes on the 'warm' setting rather than 'hot.' If left unattended it seems they don't wrinkle as quickly, or as badly, that way. It also means the clothes finish drying just ahead of the washer finishing. It makes for a much more efficient operation imho.

Don't wait for the awkward silence to pass; it won't unless you keep reading.

Around 9:15, toiling upstairs with another load of laundry to put away, it was obviously getting dark outside, and the fireworks thing came to mind. A half-hour till fireworks seemed like plenty of time to me. Put on the shoes and away we go. Guys are like that.

A half-hour seemed like plenty, it most certainly was not. The area had probably been packed for hours. What to do, what to do. I pulled into a business and parked in a no-parking area. They weren't open, I didn't care, so call the cops, and you think they aren't busy already?

We walked two blocks to a bridge with a nice view and inserted ourselves into the crowd. The bridge walkway was full of people in lawn chairs who were still trying to maintain their space. Forget that. We'd just got there and had no need of being comfortable for a few hours.

There's a space wide enough for my knees, and there I stand. Trainboy goes up on the railing and my arm stays around him. The people on either side of us scoot to even out their spaces. I don't care; it's just Trainboy and me on the bridge.

People shoot their own fireworks. When they drop to the water he declares, "It made fish sticks!" He says it every time; he always thinks it's funny.

"Oprah, Umah. Umah, Oprah." That still isn't funny. But I digress again.

Another rocket into the river, another "fish stick" comment. I tell him that if he caught one, and had tartar sauce and bread he could have a fish stick sandwich. "Ha, ha. Good one dad." I've just been patronized by my six year-old son.

The fireworks start. It's a good show. It's timed to music broadcast on the radio. The car is blocks away. Usually you can figure that at these things there's always a teenage boy who's plowed all his burger-flipping money into a giga-watt sound system that worth more than the mini-car it's in. He's proud to show it off, and it's the one day a year you don't mind. No such luck tonight.

It’s fireworks without music, we tough it out. How did the pioneers do it?

After about thirty minutes of a pyromaniacs dream Trainboy notifies me his butt hurts and he wants to go home. That's my boy. We walk back to the car, and from the sound of rapidly succeeding explosions the grand-finale must be starting. Get in the car, turn on the radio, hear the last few bars, and we are out of there before the traffic jam can even start. Trainboy had wonderful timing. Sometimes it's all in the buttocks.

We're home in a few minutes. We kick back to toons, chocolate milk, and fish sticks.

Supernurse gets home, and resumes her disguise as mild-mannered Superwife. She shares pizza with Trainboy- he's a growing boy. I fall asleep on the couch- it's just a guy thing. Some might call it a weenie's camp-out.

And that was the 4th.

Publicserf

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HodgePodge for $50.

A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.

When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.

Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.

It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.

I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.

There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.

Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.

To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.

But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."

On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.

The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.

I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.

That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.

Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.

If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf



-

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This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.

-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.

As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.

Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.

Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.

When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”

And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.

It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.

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I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.

Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.

Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.

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Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.

Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.

After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.

To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.

I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.

Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.

Mow the front lawn.

Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf