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One of the proposed designs for the Iowa quarter was in honor of the Sullivan brothers. Those were the five brothers who insisted on serving on the same boat in World War 2. Their destroyer was sunk and all of them perished. It would be a safe bet that few people outside of Iowa have heard of them.
The US Mint has made a ruling on the proposed Iowa quarter to be issued in 2004. The U.S. Mint has rejected the Sullivans design because images of "any person, living or dead" are banned from state quarters. This seems harsh, but makes sense. Were it not for the ban every state with a Republican majority might have been inclined to use an image of Ronald Reagan and the motto, "E Pluribus Reagan." Or something like that. Thankfully, that's not an option.
Here's a suggestion. If they can't get Reagan's bust on Mt. Rushmore, maybe they could try New Hampshire. They have space on a mountain and a need to fill it. Looks like a win-win to me. New Hampshire regains a tourist attraction and Republicans gain a shrine.
Back to Iowa. The Sullivans are out. The Mint's ruling seems a little strict though. While the Sullivans certainly fall under the classification as "dead" the proposed design almost doesn't classify as the image of any one person- it's five overlapping profiles of a bust, and the facial image is so general it could be anyone but Jimmy Durante, Karl Malden, or Pinnochio.
On a side note, what has happened to great schnozzes? I can't think of any current media personalities that sports one. Have we become so image conscious that there's no room for the prominent proboscis? Forget Barbara Streisand, she doesn't count. She gets in under the Old Enough to be a Grandmother Clause. You don't want "Skin like buttah" on a a quarter anyway.
Back to Iowa. Not that you want to. There really isn't any "there" in Iowa. There's less "there" than there is in Oakland. The Iowa motto could be, "You can't go "there." The number one tourist destination in Iowa is the Amana colonies. That's right, the number one tourist attraction is watching old guys in black flannel suits drive a horse and buggy. People from all over go there to giggle at the Slow Moving Vehicle orange triangles. Yeah, sure, right.
Let's face it, there isn't much to do in Iowa. No mountains. No oceans. There are lakes, but every state has them, nextdoor Minnesota claims 10,000 of them. Prairie? Hardly unique, and most of it was put to the plow. You could spend a vacation just trying to find some. There are no significant natural, or unnatural, symbols of Iowa that are unique.
Most Iowans would become defensive if you pointed this out to them. They would say, "Yeah, but we're nice." Let me venture my personal opinion here. The reason Iowans are nice, is because there aren't enough of them. The reason there aren't enough of them is because the kids run like hell when they reach legal age.
Iowa has fews towns of any size. Most of them are small. Should you decide to walk down one of their main streets. You will be barraged by "hellos," "good mornings," "good afternoons," and "good evenings." You may even be stopped and find yourself in conversation with a complete stranger, because you are noticed. The whole street is a person's personal space.
While you can never be sure, you will probably be the subject of conversation when the amiable stranger gets home. You thought you were just a visitor walking down a street, to the locals you were the days entertainment. Even the larger ones, Des Moines, Cedar Rapids, and Davenport, are not very densely populated. You can walk down their mainstreets and acknowledge every person you meet.
Alright, maybe not Des Moines. Maybe not at rush hour. "Here it comes, there it goes!"
In a large city, most notably New York, people walk down the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder. It's quite impossible to acknowledge everyone. You have to pretend to ignore everyone because there is no other choice. No one enters your personal space, because the limit is your skin. And that's the Iowa secret of nice. There aren't enough of them to ignore you. They can be nice all the time.
Actually, people are nice everywhere. You just have to meet them outside of a crowd.
But back to quarters. Five Dead Guys is out, leaving us with five surviving contenders. Three of them feature a cow, pig, and cornstalk. One of them features the leaf of a.....cornstalk, inspired by Grant Wood. By the way, Grant Wood, could not be considered because he's dead, thereby running afoul of Mint regulations. The subjects of his most famous painting, 'American Gothic' are dead too, thereby.....uh huh.
Where were we? Oh yes, cow/pig/cornstalk "Feeding the World", cornstalk "Young Corn", and the remaining contender is........... a little country school house that would appear capable of pulling double duty as a church on any Sunday morning. It's motto is "Foundation in excellence." Iowa, we have schools for children built a century ago. Tuition is a bucket of coal.
Closer perusal of the designs reveals no "E Pluribus Reagan." A bit surprising since he worked at a radio station in Davenport before political ambition seized him. Like most famous Iowans, he was just passing through. In its hunger for identity any and everyone can be an Iowan. All you have to do is enter the state. All you have to do is enter its airspace. Overfly Iowa, become a celebrity, and someday the Iowa papers will refer to you as "the former Iowan."
In this era of warmer relations with Russia, airspace may be extended beyond the air. Thereby even making Cosmonauts Iowans. They may complain that they're giddy from oxygen deprivation, but really they're just overcome at becoming a citizen of the Nice State.
Ummmmmm, quarters. Nice is why no design will be submitted like- a mouth blowing a raspberry, with the motto, "Sullivans, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah." Nope, won't happen, it's not New York.
When the decision is finally made, and chances are 80% it's going to be a pig/cow/corn, there will be a statewide sigh of relief that can be heard all the way to Nebraska. That will be nice.
Publicserf
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
No post last night. I was determined to get some pictures up. It occurred to me that BloggerPro is supposed to support images, so they should have a way to upload them. Per Blogger instructions the correct FTP address is supposed to be automatically entered after clicking the "Upload" button. It was not. I wailed, I gnashed my teeth, neither did any good. I could not get it to work. Apparently it's too easy for me.
Eventually I caught myself falling asleep. It was time to give up. It would have been a miserable failure of a session except that I took a scanned picture of the wife and set it as the desktop.
Tonight, tonight we try again
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
No post last night. I was determined to get some pictures up. It occurred to me that BloggerPro is supposed to support images, so they should have a way to upload them. Per Blogger instructions the correct FTP address is supposed to be automatically entered after clicking the "Upload" button. It was not. I wailed, I gnashed my teeth, neither did any good. I could not get it to work. Apparently it's too easy for me.
Eventually I caught myself falling asleep. It was time to give up. It would have been a miserable failure of a session except that I took a scanned picture of the wife and set it as the desktop.
Tonight, tonight we try again
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
After work I went home and got the wife and kids. We went to Target to pick up Ms Pikachu's pictures. Not only did she get her pictures, but a few packs of Pokemon cards too. It was her payment for practicing piano. You can try to convince her that learning piano is good for her, that no one ever regrets learning an instrument- she won't care. You can tell her that learning an instrument will help her think- she will yawn. You can tell her it helps develop self-discipline- she will tell you she's busy enough. You can demand she stop wasting time and to practice piano- she will tell you she doesn't want to learn the stupid piano. She will not be pressured. She stands like a stone wall, Ms. Stonewall Jackson Pikachu.
It's been frustrating because she's so gifted. It was obvious from her first lesson. Her teacher frequently commented on it. After about a year of lessons her teacher could play a new piece and she could just repeat it. Gifted is gifted, whether she likes it or not. She doesn't like it.
Sometimes compliance is just a matter of finding the right motivator. She would learn for Pokemon cards. She would not be pressured, but she could be bought. That actually simplified things somewhat. If I wanted her to practice or perform an extra household duty, we negotiated the price in Pokemon cards. We also had to agree on when she'd get them. She had become quite a negotiator. She'd try anything, including demanding that she get the cards before practicing. Like I'm a fool. We could agree on a pack to start, and the balance on finishing. I've felt a little uneasy about it sometimes, but it simplified things. The upside is that she learned to negotiate. She won't be intimidated.
Today was the first day in about a year that she practiced. She had grown tired of piano, and refused to practice any longer. Ms. Pikachu had refused to negotiate. We didn't want her to hate learning an instrument so we backed off and hoped she'd change her mind. To our surprise she practiced today, and then she asked for cards. Her negotiating skills are obviously rusty. To be fair, and to encourage more practice, she got a couple packs.
I always knew I wanted to be a father. I had no idea that also meant playing both ends of an extortion racket- Godfather and victim too. It's been a lesson in labor negotiations.
the Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
After work I went home and got the wife and kids. We went to Target to pick up Ms Pikachu's pictures. Not only did she get her pictures, but a few packs of Pokemon cards too. It was her payment for practicing piano. You can try to convince her that learning piano is good for her, that no one ever regrets learning an instrument- she won't care. You can tell her that learning an instrument will help her think- she will yawn. You can tell her it helps develop self-discipline- she will tell you she's busy enough. You can demand she stop wasting time and to practice piano- she will tell you she doesn't want to learn the stupid piano. She will not be pressured. She stands like a stone wall, Ms. Stonewall Jackson Pikachu.
It's been frustrating because she's so gifted. It was obvious from her first lesson. Her teacher frequently commented on it. After about a year of lessons her teacher could play a new piece and she could just repeat it. Gifted is gifted, whether she likes it or not. She doesn't like it.
Sometimes compliance is just a matter of finding the right motivator. She would learn for Pokemon cards. She would not be pressured, but she could be bought. That actually simplified things somewhat. If I wanted her to practice or perform an extra household duty, we negotiated the price in Pokemon cards. We also had to agree on when she'd get them. She had become quite a negotiator. She'd try anything, including demanding that she get the cards before practicing. Like I'm a fool. We could agree on a pack to start, and the balance on finishing. I've felt a little uneasy about it sometimes, but it simplified things. The upside is that she learned to negotiate. She won't be intimidated.
Today was the first day in about a year that she practiced. She had grown tired of piano, and refused to practice any longer. Ms. Pikachu had refused to negotiate. We didn't want her to hate learning an instrument so we backed off and hoped she'd change her mind. To our surprise she practiced today, and then she asked for cards. Her negotiating skills are obviously rusty. To be fair, and to encourage more practice, she got a couple packs.
I always knew I wanted to be a father. I had no idea that also meant playing both ends of an extortion racket- Godfather and victim too. It's been a lesson in labor negotiations.
the Publicserf
Sunday, May 11, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Last night Super Nurse told me how her day had gone. She's a resource nurse at a hospital. She's certified in practically everything, so they can send her anywhere in the hospital they need help. Unfortunately, her work ethic is obvious to anyone she works with. So whenever she's assigned to a unit they load her up with the worst patients. She runs nonstop, rarely gets a break, never gets lunch. She comes home exhausted, but comforted in knowing her patients got the best possible care. As much as she's given to do she still finds mistakes made by other nurses, trains them to do it right, and goes to the mat with doctors as the patient's advocate. When I had my brain surgery she probably saved my life. Not for nothing do I call her Super Nurse.
Last night she had a patient who had signed a Do Not Resuccitate order. The woman had been conscious all shift, then fell asleep at the usual time so nothing was amiss. DNR and asleep. Super Nurse checked her frequently anyway. She walked in once and the patient had slid down in the bed and, probably confused, had pulled her oxygen mask off. Her blood oxygen level was low and her breathing had become agonal- bad sign. Super Nurse pulled her back up and put the oxygen back on her. Her blood ox came up, and she became conscious. Nobody dies on Super Nurse's shift. It's her policy.
Ever mindful of her patient's comfort, Super Nurse asked if she needed anything for pain. Sometimes patients won't tell you, they have to be asked. They can be terminal and still be fearful of becoming addicted to painkillers. The woman said, yes, she'd like a painkiller. Super Nurse gave her some morphine and knew she probably wouldn't make it to morning. Then she called the patient's sister and told her she should come up. When the sister got there she explained the situation.
Had Super Nurse been one of those that hangs around the Nurse's Sation to gossip, or goes outside for frequent smoking breaks, the sister would have next seen the patient in the morgue. I hope she was grateful. Super Nurse gives her profession a good name. Her patients think her quality of care is outstanding. I just wish the hospital units would stop abusing her. She's too good to be so overworked.
And the moral of the story is: If you're ever in a hospital and you like the quality of a nurse's care, say something, they appreciate it. If you're feeling expansive, write a note to the head of nursing, it helps at appraisal time. If it sucks, say something, you could die if you don't. And if you're in a hospital it's a really good thing to know a nurse that will check on you.
And another thing. Here it is Mother's Day. Super Nurse is nowhere around. Her usual schedule on Sundays is 3 PM to 11 PM. That way we get to go to church and have lunch together. Other nurses wanted the day off, so they scheduled her for 11 AM to 11 PM instead. No church, no lunch, no supper. She asked if she could go in at her usual 3 PM. She was told no, we need you 11-11. I could call up her boss and swear at her, but that wouldn't do any good.
You could get more stories of Super Nurse if you want. She works every weekend. But some of them aren't very nice- like cockroaches running out of clothing. Maggots. Ask and ye shall receive, but be careful what you ask for.
So how did my day go? Blew time with the kids. Ate at Bishops. During which time I had a decaff. Trainboy poured each packet of sugar in, creamer too. Each addition was made with seemingly appropriate construction sounds. The creamer caused a little overflow. Trainboy exclaimed, "Goodness, Goshess!" Never heard that one before.
Then we went to Wal-Mart for picking up a Mother's Day thing. Even though she won't be home till after midnight. She's always stuck for a couple extra hours. Ms. Pikachu picked out a card, Trainboy and I picked out a begonia. Because Super Nurse hates cut flowers- they're already dying. She wants a potted plant that keeps growing.
That's it for the moment. There are kids to put to bed and laundry to do.
The slightly honked-off Publicserf
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Last night Super Nurse told me how her day had gone. She's a resource nurse at a hospital. She's certified in practically everything, so they can send her anywhere in the hospital they need help. Unfortunately, her work ethic is obvious to anyone she works with. So whenever she's assigned to a unit they load her up with the worst patients. She runs nonstop, rarely gets a break, never gets lunch. She comes home exhausted, but comforted in knowing her patients got the best possible care. As much as she's given to do she still finds mistakes made by other nurses, trains them to do it right, and goes to the mat with doctors as the patient's advocate. When I had my brain surgery she probably saved my life. Not for nothing do I call her Super Nurse.
Last night she had a patient who had signed a Do Not Resuccitate order. The woman had been conscious all shift, then fell asleep at the usual time so nothing was amiss. DNR and asleep. Super Nurse checked her frequently anyway. She walked in once and the patient had slid down in the bed and, probably confused, had pulled her oxygen mask off. Her blood oxygen level was low and her breathing had become agonal- bad sign. Super Nurse pulled her back up and put the oxygen back on her. Her blood ox came up, and she became conscious. Nobody dies on Super Nurse's shift. It's her policy.
Ever mindful of her patient's comfort, Super Nurse asked if she needed anything for pain. Sometimes patients won't tell you, they have to be asked. They can be terminal and still be fearful of becoming addicted to painkillers. The woman said, yes, she'd like a painkiller. Super Nurse gave her some morphine and knew she probably wouldn't make it to morning. Then she called the patient's sister and told her she should come up. When the sister got there she explained the situation.
Had Super Nurse been one of those that hangs around the Nurse's Sation to gossip, or goes outside for frequent smoking breaks, the sister would have next seen the patient in the morgue. I hope she was grateful. Super Nurse gives her profession a good name. Her patients think her quality of care is outstanding. I just wish the hospital units would stop abusing her. She's too good to be so overworked.
And the moral of the story is: If you're ever in a hospital and you like the quality of a nurse's care, say something, they appreciate it. If you're feeling expansive, write a note to the head of nursing, it helps at appraisal time. If it sucks, say something, you could die if you don't. And if you're in a hospital it's a really good thing to know a nurse that will check on you.
And another thing. Here it is Mother's Day. Super Nurse is nowhere around. Her usual schedule on Sundays is 3 PM to 11 PM. That way we get to go to church and have lunch together. Other nurses wanted the day off, so they scheduled her for 11 AM to 11 PM instead. No church, no lunch, no supper. She asked if she could go in at her usual 3 PM. She was told no, we need you 11-11. I could call up her boss and swear at her, but that wouldn't do any good.
You could get more stories of Super Nurse if you want. She works every weekend. But some of them aren't very nice- like cockroaches running out of clothing. Maggots. Ask and ye shall receive, but be careful what you ask for.
So how did my day go? Blew time with the kids. Ate at Bishops. During which time I had a decaff. Trainboy poured each packet of sugar in, creamer too. Each addition was made with seemingly appropriate construction sounds. The creamer caused a little overflow. Trainboy exclaimed, "Goodness, Goshess!" Never heard that one before.
Then we went to Wal-Mart for picking up a Mother's Day thing. Even though she won't be home till after midnight. She's always stuck for a couple extra hours. Ms. Pikachu picked out a card, Trainboy and I picked out a begonia. Because Super Nurse hates cut flowers- they're already dying. She wants a potted plant that keeps growing.
That's it for the moment. There are kids to put to bed and laundry to do.
The slightly honked-off Publicserf
-
Saturday, May 10, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I promised a K-19 review and you shall have it.
As the opening credits roll it says "Inspired by true events." It made me more nervous than a Russian reactor would. I'd read the book, and expected some dramatic license, but "inspired by?" As it turned out any similarity between the book and the movie was coincidental. Harrison Ford plays Captain Vostrikov, put in charge of the Russian's first nuclear attack sub. His character is cold-hearted and he walks around trying to look like a bulldog with a pout. The counter to Ford is Liam Neeson, who plays Comrade Schindler, the deposed Captain kept on as XO who is kind and paternal to the crew and tries to protect them from the evil Captain. Eventually the cold, ruthless Captain is guided into being the nice, ruthless Captain by Mr. Schindler.
The foreshadowing is just a little heavy-handed. How many times does that seaman have to tap the gauge until we finally figure out There's A Problem? Once would have been plenty, after all, we already know there's going to be a problem. And there's a running gag where a doctor handing out wetted towels has the tray of towels knocked out of his hands by crewmen rushing during an alert. It wasn't funny the first time, it never got funny, so much for comic relief.
The Russian navy has a roster of disasters too big for any rug to hide. The sub itself really was a disaster waiting to happen. The quality control during construction was nearly non-existent. They were just trying to get it built on time according to the Plan. Russia was a workers' paradise as long as you got with the Plan. That was the theory anyway. Poor materials, shoddy workmanship. The submariners were at the mercy of Mother Russia's bureaucrats, and they didn't have any.
It was touching when the Captain sent topside the men who would be repairing the reactor "to get some fresh air." He was just giving them a last look at the world before they willingly walked into a radioactive execution chamber. Magnificent acts of heroism. One thing they did get right was the men coming out of the reactor vomitting a yellow foam. Kind of strange to feel sorry for people going on station to possibly nuke New York City or DC. Unfortunately for them and their families, their graves did fit under Mother Russia's rug.
In contrast to feeling sympathy for the submariners, the viewer becomes quite uncomfortable when the Americans come into view during the calamity. As seen through the eyes of the Russians the Americans appear like vultures waiting to feed on the carcass. Certainly the Americans would want to get pictures of the sub while it was afloat, intelligence is part of the military game.
The lurking Americans become the antagonists of our heros in the sub. It would have been better if they'd trash canned the wet towel sequences and given us a few moments on the bridge of the American destroyer. The audience could have been treated to an American Captain concerned for the crew of an enemy ship in distress. The Russian Captain would have appeared to have been that much more wrongheaded to expose his crew to more radiation.
The movie opens with a shot of the sub in drydock, scaffolding, welding. It was probably an awesome shot on the big screen. There's another shot where the sub is in the background after breaking through the polar ice cap. The men are playing soccer on the icepack. Another terrific big-screen shot. But those shots are just moments out of 137 sleep-inducing minutes. Get an editor as ruthless as Vostrikov is portrayed and this thing could lose 30 useless, repetitive minutes and it could be a film worth repeating.
I'll never watch it again.
The Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
I promised a K-19 review and you shall have it.
As the opening credits roll it says "Inspired by true events." It made me more nervous than a Russian reactor would. I'd read the book, and expected some dramatic license, but "inspired by?" As it turned out any similarity between the book and the movie was coincidental. Harrison Ford plays Captain Vostrikov, put in charge of the Russian's first nuclear attack sub. His character is cold-hearted and he walks around trying to look like a bulldog with a pout. The counter to Ford is Liam Neeson, who plays Comrade Schindler, the deposed Captain kept on as XO who is kind and paternal to the crew and tries to protect them from the evil Captain. Eventually the cold, ruthless Captain is guided into being the nice, ruthless Captain by Mr. Schindler.
The foreshadowing is just a little heavy-handed. How many times does that seaman have to tap the gauge until we finally figure out There's A Problem? Once would have been plenty, after all, we already know there's going to be a problem. And there's a running gag where a doctor handing out wetted towels has the tray of towels knocked out of his hands by crewmen rushing during an alert. It wasn't funny the first time, it never got funny, so much for comic relief.
The Russian navy has a roster of disasters too big for any rug to hide. The sub itself really was a disaster waiting to happen. The quality control during construction was nearly non-existent. They were just trying to get it built on time according to the Plan. Russia was a workers' paradise as long as you got with the Plan. That was the theory anyway. Poor materials, shoddy workmanship. The submariners were at the mercy of Mother Russia's bureaucrats, and they didn't have any.
It was touching when the Captain sent topside the men who would be repairing the reactor "to get some fresh air." He was just giving them a last look at the world before they willingly walked into a radioactive execution chamber. Magnificent acts of heroism. One thing they did get right was the men coming out of the reactor vomitting a yellow foam. Kind of strange to feel sorry for people going on station to possibly nuke New York City or DC. Unfortunately for them and their families, their graves did fit under Mother Russia's rug.
In contrast to feeling sympathy for the submariners, the viewer becomes quite uncomfortable when the Americans come into view during the calamity. As seen through the eyes of the Russians the Americans appear like vultures waiting to feed on the carcass. Certainly the Americans would want to get pictures of the sub while it was afloat, intelligence is part of the military game.
The lurking Americans become the antagonists of our heros in the sub. It would have been better if they'd trash canned the wet towel sequences and given us a few moments on the bridge of the American destroyer. The audience could have been treated to an American Captain concerned for the crew of an enemy ship in distress. The Russian Captain would have appeared to have been that much more wrongheaded to expose his crew to more radiation.
The movie opens with a shot of the sub in drydock, scaffolding, welding. It was probably an awesome shot on the big screen. There's another shot where the sub is in the background after breaking through the polar ice cap. The men are playing soccer on the icepack. Another terrific big-screen shot. But those shots are just moments out of 137 sleep-inducing minutes. Get an editor as ruthless as Vostrikov is portrayed and this thing could lose 30 useless, repetitive minutes and it could be a film worth repeating.
I'll never watch it again.
The Publicserf
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Ms. Pikachu managed to pull her own tooth yesterday. The wife asked her what the tooth fairy should bring her. First she said Pokemon cards, or course. Then she decided on a dollar. Trainboy complained that he tooth fairy didn't bring him anything the last time he lost a tooth. Whoops, major mistake, how did we miss that? So the wife asked him what he should have gotten. He said, "A dime. A golden dime." Hard price. She countered with, "How about a golden dollar?" Sold to the highest bidder. He was thrilled. So excited he slept with his head under his pillow. Which is where the coin would usually go, but he got it. He carried his Sacajawea dollar around with him all day.
I tried to check e-mail when I got home. Ms Pikachu was on the computer, scanning her latest Pokemon drawings. When I walked in the room she was doing a sing-song "yeah-yeahh, yeah-yeahh, yeah-yeahhhhhh, poopy." Sometimes there are just no words. Sometimes it becomes obvious why Dad walked around shaking his head. Have kids of your own and you start to understand your parents.
The wife slipped into her SuperNurse uniform and off she went to save lives.
I grabbed the bills, the checkbook, sat on the frontporch swing, and wrote checks. It was pleasant. There were the lilacs, a cardinal singing, and the occasional car rushing by.
After a few minutes the front door opened, and out stepped Train Boy. He smiled and asked, "Did I just hear you laughing?" I said no, just writing checks, nothing funny out here. A few minutes later, again the door opens, again, "Did you just laugh?" I said no, maybe it was Ms Pikachu upstairs. He turned and opened the door. Then he exclaimed with the excitement of a great epiphany, "Maybe she farted!" Sometimes, there are just no words.
After finishing the bills I took them inside. Trainboy applied the stamps and address stickers because he likes to do that. I asked Ms Pikachu if she wanted to go along to Target and the Post Office. She declined, she was busy posting Pokemon drawings on the web. Train Boy said he'd go if the next 'Ed, Edd, and Eddie' wasn't the one where they get married to the Canker sisters. Yeah, that was a good one, I'd stay home for that too. But it was not to be, so we both went.
When we got to Target he held my hand as we walked up to the store. I love that so much. I wish it would never stop. But he's about six, and it won't be long it will be over. Have to enjoy it while I can. Every day he lines out another day on the calendar, counts the days till his birthday, and gives me the official count. Today it was 37. He's in such a rush to grow up, to be "big." How do you tell him, don't rush this, it's going by so fast, slow down, please, for me. So selfish of me.
We picked up our pictures. He made sure we got some Airheads candy for Ms Pikachu. They fight sometimes, but usually they really look out for each other.
On the way home we played one of his favorite games, "I spy." He started, then it was my turn. I don't want him to think I'm patronizing him, and I don't try to give him anything too hard. I said, "I spy with my little eye something that pumps blood, but doesn't pump blood." Sometimes it's just a matter of looking in the right direction and in this case he probably didn't. I waited, we passed it. He didn't know. I told him it was the big heart sign on the Heart Center. I doubled back to show him. I asked him if he'd had any ideas, he ventured, "Your heart." Ouch. That was too snide for a five year-old, even if he is about six. He couldn't have meant it that way, but it was a good hit. From now on it's just street lamps and signs.
Then we stopped at the Post Office. When I was a kid it was always special to put letters in the mail. So we went inside, and I held him up to the slots like always. And I handed them to him one by one like always. He pushed each one very slowly, pausing just before pushing it in, he was trying to make it last so I let him take his time.
Enough for tonight.
The Publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Ms. Pikachu managed to pull her own tooth yesterday. The wife asked her what the tooth fairy should bring her. First she said Pokemon cards, or course. Then she decided on a dollar. Trainboy complained that he tooth fairy didn't bring him anything the last time he lost a tooth. Whoops, major mistake, how did we miss that? So the wife asked him what he should have gotten. He said, "A dime. A golden dime." Hard price. She countered with, "How about a golden dollar?" Sold to the highest bidder. He was thrilled. So excited he slept with his head under his pillow. Which is where the coin would usually go, but he got it. He carried his Sacajawea dollar around with him all day.
I tried to check e-mail when I got home. Ms Pikachu was on the computer, scanning her latest Pokemon drawings. When I walked in the room she was doing a sing-song "yeah-yeahh, yeah-yeahh, yeah-yeahhhhhh, poopy." Sometimes there are just no words. Sometimes it becomes obvious why Dad walked around shaking his head. Have kids of your own and you start to understand your parents.
The wife slipped into her SuperNurse uniform and off she went to save lives.
I grabbed the bills, the checkbook, sat on the frontporch swing, and wrote checks. It was pleasant. There were the lilacs, a cardinal singing, and the occasional car rushing by.
After a few minutes the front door opened, and out stepped Train Boy. He smiled and asked, "Did I just hear you laughing?" I said no, just writing checks, nothing funny out here. A few minutes later, again the door opens, again, "Did you just laugh?" I said no, maybe it was Ms Pikachu upstairs. He turned and opened the door. Then he exclaimed with the excitement of a great epiphany, "Maybe she farted!" Sometimes, there are just no words.
After finishing the bills I took them inside. Trainboy applied the stamps and address stickers because he likes to do that. I asked Ms Pikachu if she wanted to go along to Target and the Post Office. She declined, she was busy posting Pokemon drawings on the web. Train Boy said he'd go if the next 'Ed, Edd, and Eddie' wasn't the one where they get married to the Canker sisters. Yeah, that was a good one, I'd stay home for that too. But it was not to be, so we both went.
When we got to Target he held my hand as we walked up to the store. I love that so much. I wish it would never stop. But he's about six, and it won't be long it will be over. Have to enjoy it while I can. Every day he lines out another day on the calendar, counts the days till his birthday, and gives me the official count. Today it was 37. He's in such a rush to grow up, to be "big." How do you tell him, don't rush this, it's going by so fast, slow down, please, for me. So selfish of me.
We picked up our pictures. He made sure we got some Airheads candy for Ms Pikachu. They fight sometimes, but usually they really look out for each other.
On the way home we played one of his favorite games, "I spy." He started, then it was my turn. I don't want him to think I'm patronizing him, and I don't try to give him anything too hard. I said, "I spy with my little eye something that pumps blood, but doesn't pump blood." Sometimes it's just a matter of looking in the right direction and in this case he probably didn't. I waited, we passed it. He didn't know. I told him it was the big heart sign on the Heart Center. I doubled back to show him. I asked him if he'd had any ideas, he ventured, "Your heart." Ouch. That was too snide for a five year-old, even if he is about six. He couldn't have meant it that way, but it was a good hit. From now on it's just street lamps and signs.
Then we stopped at the Post Office. When I was a kid it was always special to put letters in the mail. So we went inside, and I held him up to the slots like always. And I handed them to him one by one like always. He pushed each one very slowly, pausing just before pushing it in, he was trying to make it last so I let him take his time.
Enough for tonight.
The Publicserf
Friday, May 09, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
No post yesterday, just dashing this off before going to work.
Got home yesterday, walked into the kitchen. Fresh-baked cookies. She informed me they were oatmeal/raisin/ something/something and had lots of fiber. Gotta love a woman who worries about my colon. Ate lasagna, and watched K-19, the DVD the wife checked out from the library for me. Gotta love her, she finds stuff she thinks I'll like, even if she won't. Maybe she does like Harrison Ford. Will tell you about K-19 tonight, it won't take much.
While watching the movie it started to thunder. Trainboy was scared. Thought I'd help him confront his fear. Told him storms are really fun if you just watch them. So we went out on the front porch and sat in the swing. He lasted about a minute. Then he meekly asked, "Can we go back inside?" He did good going outside in the first place, we went back in.
The wife gave the kids a bath and I went back out on the front porch. Love storms. Lightning snapped smart salutes, and thunder sounded off. The trees howled like a crowd at a parade. It was amazing. Eventually the heavenly procession passed to the rear, and left behind was a world scrubbed clean after a pelting of raindrops, and a kindly breeze that brought the smell of lilacs to me. I was alone, but it was ok, it was wonderful.
The wife came out. We snuggled and kissed, immersed in lilac . The trees whispered like gossips. It was better.
Then it was time to put the kids to bed. The wife read to Ms Pikachu, I read to Trainboy. We read a book about trains, and another one called 'Sam and the Firefly,' because in it there is a, you guessed it, a train. Trainboy believes every good book has a train in it.
The plan was for him to fall asleep, then I'd post. I fell asleep before he did. He got the wife to read to him some more.
And here it is, the day after. Will try to post a review of K-19 tonight. Don't expect much.
The publicserf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
No post yesterday, just dashing this off before going to work.
Got home yesterday, walked into the kitchen. Fresh-baked cookies. She informed me they were oatmeal/raisin/ something/something and had lots of fiber. Gotta love a woman who worries about my colon. Ate lasagna, and watched K-19, the DVD the wife checked out from the library for me. Gotta love her, she finds stuff she thinks I'll like, even if she won't. Maybe she does like Harrison Ford. Will tell you about K-19 tonight, it won't take much.
While watching the movie it started to thunder. Trainboy was scared. Thought I'd help him confront his fear. Told him storms are really fun if you just watch them. So we went out on the front porch and sat in the swing. He lasted about a minute. Then he meekly asked, "Can we go back inside?" He did good going outside in the first place, we went back in.
The wife gave the kids a bath and I went back out on the front porch. Love storms. Lightning snapped smart salutes, and thunder sounded off. The trees howled like a crowd at a parade. It was amazing. Eventually the heavenly procession passed to the rear, and left behind was a world scrubbed clean after a pelting of raindrops, and a kindly breeze that brought the smell of lilacs to me. I was alone, but it was ok, it was wonderful.
The wife came out. We snuggled and kissed, immersed in lilac . The trees whispered like gossips. It was better.
Then it was time to put the kids to bed. The wife read to Ms Pikachu, I read to Trainboy. We read a book about trains, and another one called 'Sam and the Firefly,' because in it there is a, you guessed it, a train. Trainboy believes every good book has a train in it.
The plan was for him to fall asleep, then I'd post. I fell asleep before he did. He got the wife to read to him some more.
And here it is, the day after. Will try to post a review of K-19 tonight. Don't expect much.
The publicserf
Thursday, May 08, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
e-mail comments to: publicserf@yahoo.com
------------------------1ST POST------------------------1ST POST-------------------1ST POST---------------
Sorry, there was no post last night. My body's need for sleep overcame my ego's need for gratification. But you can always click on the "Archives" button at the bottom and read prior stuff. Sorry, but it's the best I can do today. Will try again tonight.
the publicserf
But wait, more wisdom handed down by the WebGod. I learn so much.
"You just need to lift it out of the
mundane by adding maybe one sparkling detail, like...
on the way home. Handed out blotter acid to the kids. Ate and
fell asleep."
For more such commentary go to his site, he's the link over on the right. Rons Log. Click on it and be shocked and amused.l
------------------2ND POST---------------2ND POST----------------------2ND POST---------------------------
So what happened yesterday? I'm almost glad you asked.
When I got home SuperNurse informed me she needed to get some Continuing Education Units done to maintain her nursing license. OK, keep talking. In our fair state she can now be relicensed online by taking online courses. Which makes sense, it would save the licensing agency a mountain of paperwork. Belated Welcome to the New Millenium! And good for her, because that means she can just do it all at home.
Of course that also means, a nurse can maintain her license using the equivalent of crib notes if she wants to. It would make you want to watch things real close in the hospital. But SuperNurse does not cheat. She does not have to, she is (trumpet fanfare) SuperNurse! "Hey!" you say, "Cut the crap, what does this mean to me?" Implying then, what does it mean to me? as in, me.
Well I'll tell you, because you asked. SuperNurse informed me that although her recertification can be done online she has to print paper certifications of every course she takes in case she's audited. Our printer doesn't work. It hasn't since I installed XP, neither has the scanner. XP drivers were ordered from UMAX for the scanner. It still doesn't work. Canon has never made drivers for the 5000 color printer. I sent them an e-mail once telling them if they weren't going to do XP drivers for something they should at least post that fact so people wouldn't sit around waiting. It seemed like a reasonable idea, apparently they didn't think so.
Uninstalling XP isn't going to happen. I like it too much. It doesn't crash like Win95 or 98 did. Also, the printer had been giving me headaches. So forget it. One might think the obvious solution would be to just buy a new printer. You might, but you are not married to SuperNurse. I am, and the problem is that Super Nurse's alter ego is CheapWife. She whose motto is, "Is this the best use of our money?" Up until now it had not been. But when I got home she told me of her inability to print her certificates, and she didn't know what was wrong.
So I told her in as lovingly a fashion as possible (and never said, "one more time") the printer does not work in XP. I could uninstall XP, but then it would crash and you would be staring at the blue screen of death, and the printer will only print in black and white and I'm tired of buying expensive color cartridges that may, or may not, fix the problem. She said, "OK, let's go out and buy one. But first I want the back yard mowed." The only thing worse than being whipped is not knowing you're whipped. I know I'm whipped, so it could always be worse. I'm happy. Because sometimes it's the little things.
And I was happier knowing a new printer was soon to be mine, "Come to papa!"
So, I went out back to mow the lawn. It hadn't been mowed yet this year because non-rain days didn't seem to coincide with free time. Normally, that wouldn't be a big thing, But with all the rain the grass had grown phenomenally. As I surveyed the job it was apparent it wasn't a back yard so much as it was a private prairie. I thought, this doesn't call for a lawnmower, this calls for a tractor with a BushHog. But no way could I rent a tractor, because there's no way to get one in the backyard without dismantling some privacy fence. That would upset CheapWife, and mean the delaying of my new printer. Papa's comming!
The mower was plugged in, because it's electric. Though that's probably obvious. It's worked fine for years, no complaints. However, it really slows things down if you run over the power cord. But I was carefull. And it was slow going. It kept clogging. The grass was so long it never dried out. Long, wet, grass. Anyone who has ever mowed a lawn knows that's not a good thing. It is mower's hell. Perhaps it was penance for printer lust, if you see God, ask him for me.
After the equivalent of mowing it all twice it was done. Had it only been done once it would have looked like mowing by weed-whacker. Away we went, stat!, searching for the Prodigal Printer we'd never known. We searched at Best Buy, not because it was, it wasn't. Sam's Club was $20 cheaper. How did I know this, because I'd scoped them out on the web before, hence the aforesaid penance. CheapWife didn't care about the $20, she wanted a printer. So, being the devious serf that I am, we are now the proud parents of an HP 2110 printer/scanner/copier. She got her printer, and I got a scanner too.
So what is the moral of the story? For every story must have one. I believe it means, that much friction can be avoided if you're willing to delay your own gratification until your spouse's needs coincide with your own. (No KY jokes offerred, but if you must, go ahead.) In this instance there is the added joy of knowing that when we look over the credit card statement I'll get to say, sotto voce, "Oh, there's your printer." More penance will be due. Considering how tight she is with God, it could be a real problem. Maybe SHE knows.
I know, I know, we should have gotten home by 9:30, so why no post yesterday? A pit bull you are, and an ungrateful one at that.
Well I might be devious, but I'm not clever. I thought I had an extra USB cable, and didn't bother to look. No cable. So after doing a few "family" things in general, and keeping TrainBoy company till he fell asleep in particular, it was off to SuperWalMart. You can damn that place for destroying the business districts of small towns and downtown, but when you need a USB cable in the middle of the night, you're happy it's there. Pick up a few other things, hand your money over to the friendly employee of the Mall Killer. And there was heard in the land the sucking sound of my money on it's way to Bentonville, Arkansas.
On the way home I realized I was more than a little hungry. I was manly hungry (another joke break for you, go ahead, I'll wait). So I stopped at Wendy's on the way home. And say what you will about them, and their kind, killing off the local eating establishments, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
I took it home, ate, and fell asleep so fast my mind has no recollection. One moment I was gathering together the trash, the next, no recollection. On, off. Kind of spooky really. Almost supernatural. But sleep is just a gift I have. Slept till morning, no post, but you knew that. Sometimes it goes without saying, yet it still has to be said.
Installed the printer before going to work. Came home to a happy wife. And kids running around with handfuls of their latest prints. Thank God I didn't put the photo quality cartridge in. Or I could just tell the Wife and She could pass it on, She has a better connection.
So much for today/tonight. Tomorrow is.... tomorrow/tomorrow night.
How utterly worthless.
Your publicserf
-----------------3RD POST--------------------3RD POST-----------------------3RD POST------------------
This instruction no longer applies since I rearranged the posts so they flow straight, but it's still here because I like it.
This is the third post of the day. Go down two more to "5/7/2003 7:38:24 a.m." and work back. To do otherwise will upset the natural order of things, and Maureen Dowd will try to fill up a bus full of people who hate you. Then they will park the bus in front of your place, glare, have their pictures taken, and leave. Stop quivering and go. Just go.
While getting some clothes out of the dryer it occurred to me that while I'd caught up with the prior days posts, I still owed a post for that day. And so it would go into perpetuity, accumulating hellish interest, if I didn't get caught up. What to do, what to do. So I'm back to get even. It may be attempting a fool's double-or-nothing, or as they say in Vegas, "Bill Bennett."
Alright, you caught me. I was trying to draw your attention away from that "dryer" statement, but you could smell blood. And a ruthless rottweiler you are. You snarl. Let me explain. When SuperNurse had our first child the increased demands on her caused increases in stress that were almost exponential. It seemed only fair that I do more than offer to change the channel with the remote control. So I took it upon myself to do the laundry. Just never gotten out of the habit. Do it rather well, if I do say so myself. Whipped! you cry. What's new? says I. And we'll move on.
Since I've done family already today........news this time.
Front page: Eustachy resigns as basketball coach at Iowa State after being caught drinking and cavorting, sometimes both at the same time. In exchange for his resignation Iowa State University will pay him 1 million buckolas. And the moral of that story is- if you must drink and cavort, check the severance package first, and if you can, buy everybody a round. His wife looks tearful in the picture. Some people get that way when they win the lottery.
Page 3, an AP photo of Iraqi mystic men praying in public. "Chanting, twirling their hair, and moving their bodies rhythmically in Baghdad"
From the picture it just looks like bad drugs, or good drugs, depending on perspective. Looks like guys having such a bad hair day its painful. I'm gonna have to guess blotter acid. But it's just a guess, because blotter acid is the only drug I know of that sounds funny.
Also on page 3, unsealed transcripts reveal Joseph McCarthy to be a bully who always ran away from a fair fight. Hold me up, I'm going to faint. What I want to know is- why now? The hearings were 48, 49 years ago. Why is it relevant to make a deal of this. I think we all agree his hearings were a bad thing, bad. Is it any coincidence this crap comes out after the US kicks a nasty dictator out of office and the bad guys are shaking in their boots? It just seems like an attempt to knock Uncle Sam down to where some people believe he belongs by reliving past injustices. Screw that. Let the bad guys shake. Let the weasels worry.
Nothing else much in the front section. Perhaps most notable was a lack of stories re the war with Iraq. Just the picture and a story about the Baghdad airport reopening. Apparently they're not having much luck finding Coalition atrocities. Not that the Iraq thing is over yet. It's a country that still needs to be brought up to 20th century standards. Our boys are working on it. I predict, I predict the war won't be truly finished until Iraqi's can't travel more than twenty minutes without running into another cluster of Wendys/BurgerKing/McDonalds and people start bitching you can't tell Baghdad from Basra anymore. At that point the mullahs can retire to whipping each other.
Section E. recipes, vegetable advice. Where's the bikinis? On the front page it promised bikinis in Section E. It did. There was even a small picture of a blond in an orange bikini. Not my choice of colors, but nobody asked me. What is going on here? I don't want greenbean advice, I want bikinis. What kind of a screw-up is this? Ohmigod, I've been looking at yesterday's paper- notnew news. It doesn't matter, a post is a post. And we're still even says I. But where is that Section E?
And here is is, seemingly hidden beneath some other papers. Suspicious. The babes in bikinis look.... tasty. Can't look too long though. A wife will bust you every time. It's like they always know when you're thinking of it, maybe because you always are. But......the more you look at the bikinis the more you see how young they are, I could be their Dad. That so ruins it. Crap. I'm in that awkward middle age, trapped between girls who are too young, and those in support hose. Trapped with the gorgeous SuperNurse. It could be worse.
This could be over, and it is,
The Publicserf
e-mail comments to: publicserf@yahoo.com
------------------------1ST POST------------------------1ST POST-------------------1ST POST---------------
Sorry, there was no post last night. My body's need for sleep overcame my ego's need for gratification. But you can always click on the "Archives" button at the bottom and read prior stuff. Sorry, but it's the best I can do today. Will try again tonight.
the publicserf
But wait, more wisdom handed down by the WebGod. I learn so much.
"You just need to lift it out of the
mundane by adding maybe one sparkling detail, like...
on the way home. Handed out blotter acid to the kids. Ate and
fell asleep."
For more such commentary go to his site, he's the link over on the right. Rons Log. Click on it and be shocked and amused.l
------------------2ND POST---------------2ND POST----------------------2ND POST---------------------------
So what happened yesterday? I'm almost glad you asked.
When I got home SuperNurse informed me she needed to get some Continuing Education Units done to maintain her nursing license. OK, keep talking. In our fair state she can now be relicensed online by taking online courses. Which makes sense, it would save the licensing agency a mountain of paperwork. Belated Welcome to the New Millenium! And good for her, because that means she can just do it all at home.
Of course that also means, a nurse can maintain her license using the equivalent of crib notes if she wants to. It would make you want to watch things real close in the hospital. But SuperNurse does not cheat. She does not have to, she is (trumpet fanfare) SuperNurse! "Hey!" you say, "Cut the crap, what does this mean to me?" Implying then, what does it mean to me? as in, me.
Well I'll tell you, because you asked. SuperNurse informed me that although her recertification can be done online she has to print paper certifications of every course she takes in case she's audited. Our printer doesn't work. It hasn't since I installed XP, neither has the scanner. XP drivers were ordered from UMAX for the scanner. It still doesn't work. Canon has never made drivers for the 5000 color printer. I sent them an e-mail once telling them if they weren't going to do XP drivers for something they should at least post that fact so people wouldn't sit around waiting. It seemed like a reasonable idea, apparently they didn't think so.
Uninstalling XP isn't going to happen. I like it too much. It doesn't crash like Win95 or 98 did. Also, the printer had been giving me headaches. So forget it. One might think the obvious solution would be to just buy a new printer. You might, but you are not married to SuperNurse. I am, and the problem is that Super Nurse's alter ego is CheapWife. She whose motto is, "Is this the best use of our money?" Up until now it had not been. But when I got home she told me of her inability to print her certificates, and she didn't know what was wrong.
So I told her in as lovingly a fashion as possible (and never said, "one more time") the printer does not work in XP. I could uninstall XP, but then it would crash and you would be staring at the blue screen of death, and the printer will only print in black and white and I'm tired of buying expensive color cartridges that may, or may not, fix the problem. She said, "OK, let's go out and buy one. But first I want the back yard mowed." The only thing worse than being whipped is not knowing you're whipped. I know I'm whipped, so it could always be worse. I'm happy. Because sometimes it's the little things.
And I was happier knowing a new printer was soon to be mine, "Come to papa!"
So, I went out back to mow the lawn. It hadn't been mowed yet this year because non-rain days didn't seem to coincide with free time. Normally, that wouldn't be a big thing, But with all the rain the grass had grown phenomenally. As I surveyed the job it was apparent it wasn't a back yard so much as it was a private prairie. I thought, this doesn't call for a lawnmower, this calls for a tractor with a BushHog. But no way could I rent a tractor, because there's no way to get one in the backyard without dismantling some privacy fence. That would upset CheapWife, and mean the delaying of my new printer. Papa's comming!
The mower was plugged in, because it's electric. Though that's probably obvious. It's worked fine for years, no complaints. However, it really slows things down if you run over the power cord. But I was carefull. And it was slow going. It kept clogging. The grass was so long it never dried out. Long, wet, grass. Anyone who has ever mowed a lawn knows that's not a good thing. It is mower's hell. Perhaps it was penance for printer lust, if you see God, ask him for me.
After the equivalent of mowing it all twice it was done. Had it only been done once it would have looked like mowing by weed-whacker. Away we went, stat!, searching for the Prodigal Printer we'd never known. We searched at Best Buy, not because it was, it wasn't. Sam's Club was $20 cheaper. How did I know this, because I'd scoped them out on the web before, hence the aforesaid penance. CheapWife didn't care about the $20, she wanted a printer. So, being the devious serf that I am, we are now the proud parents of an HP 2110 printer/scanner/copier. She got her printer, and I got a scanner too.
So what is the moral of the story? For every story must have one. I believe it means, that much friction can be avoided if you're willing to delay your own gratification until your spouse's needs coincide with your own. (No KY jokes offerred, but if you must, go ahead.) In this instance there is the added joy of knowing that when we look over the credit card statement I'll get to say, sotto voce, "Oh, there's your printer." More penance will be due. Considering how tight she is with God, it could be a real problem. Maybe SHE knows.
I know, I know, we should have gotten home by 9:30, so why no post yesterday? A pit bull you are, and an ungrateful one at that.
Well I might be devious, but I'm not clever. I thought I had an extra USB cable, and didn't bother to look. No cable. So after doing a few "family" things in general, and keeping TrainBoy company till he fell asleep in particular, it was off to SuperWalMart. You can damn that place for destroying the business districts of small towns and downtown, but when you need a USB cable in the middle of the night, you're happy it's there. Pick up a few other things, hand your money over to the friendly employee of the Mall Killer. And there was heard in the land the sucking sound of my money on it's way to Bentonville, Arkansas.
On the way home I realized I was more than a little hungry. I was manly hungry (another joke break for you, go ahead, I'll wait). So I stopped at Wendy's on the way home. And say what you will about them, and their kind, killing off the local eating establishments, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
I took it home, ate, and fell asleep so fast my mind has no recollection. One moment I was gathering together the trash, the next, no recollection. On, off. Kind of spooky really. Almost supernatural. But sleep is just a gift I have. Slept till morning, no post, but you knew that. Sometimes it goes without saying, yet it still has to be said.
Installed the printer before going to work. Came home to a happy wife. And kids running around with handfuls of their latest prints. Thank God I didn't put the photo quality cartridge in. Or I could just tell the Wife and She could pass it on, She has a better connection.
So much for today/tonight. Tomorrow is.... tomorrow/tomorrow night.
How utterly worthless.
Your publicserf
-----------------3RD POST--------------------3RD POST-----------------------3RD POST------------------
This instruction no longer applies since I rearranged the posts so they flow straight, but it's still here because I like it.
This is the third post of the day. Go down two more to "5/7/2003 7:38:24 a.m." and work back. To do otherwise will upset the natural order of things, and Maureen Dowd will try to fill up a bus full of people who hate you. Then they will park the bus in front of your place, glare, have their pictures taken, and leave. Stop quivering and go. Just go.
While getting some clothes out of the dryer it occurred to me that while I'd caught up with the prior days posts, I still owed a post for that day. And so it would go into perpetuity, accumulating hellish interest, if I didn't get caught up. What to do, what to do. So I'm back to get even. It may be attempting a fool's double-or-nothing, or as they say in Vegas, "Bill Bennett."
Alright, you caught me. I was trying to draw your attention away from that "dryer" statement, but you could smell blood. And a ruthless rottweiler you are. You snarl. Let me explain. When SuperNurse had our first child the increased demands on her caused increases in stress that were almost exponential. It seemed only fair that I do more than offer to change the channel with the remote control. So I took it upon myself to do the laundry. Just never gotten out of the habit. Do it rather well, if I do say so myself. Whipped! you cry. What's new? says I. And we'll move on.
Since I've done family already today........news this time.
Front page: Eustachy resigns as basketball coach at Iowa State after being caught drinking and cavorting, sometimes both at the same time. In exchange for his resignation Iowa State University will pay him 1 million buckolas. And the moral of that story is- if you must drink and cavort, check the severance package first, and if you can, buy everybody a round. His wife looks tearful in the picture. Some people get that way when they win the lottery.
Page 3, an AP photo of Iraqi mystic men praying in public. "Chanting, twirling their hair, and moving their bodies rhythmically in Baghdad"
From the picture it just looks like bad drugs, or good drugs, depending on perspective. Looks like guys having such a bad hair day its painful. I'm gonna have to guess blotter acid. But it's just a guess, because blotter acid is the only drug I know of that sounds funny.
Also on page 3, unsealed transcripts reveal Joseph McCarthy to be a bully who always ran away from a fair fight. Hold me up, I'm going to faint. What I want to know is- why now? The hearings were 48, 49 years ago. Why is it relevant to make a deal of this. I think we all agree his hearings were a bad thing, bad. Is it any coincidence this crap comes out after the US kicks a nasty dictator out of office and the bad guys are shaking in their boots? It just seems like an attempt to knock Uncle Sam down to where some people believe he belongs by reliving past injustices. Screw that. Let the bad guys shake. Let the weasels worry.
Nothing else much in the front section. Perhaps most notable was a lack of stories re the war with Iraq. Just the picture and a story about the Baghdad airport reopening. Apparently they're not having much luck finding Coalition atrocities. Not that the Iraq thing is over yet. It's a country that still needs to be brought up to 20th century standards. Our boys are working on it. I predict, I predict the war won't be truly finished until Iraqi's can't travel more than twenty minutes without running into another cluster of Wendys/BurgerKing/McDonalds and people start bitching you can't tell Baghdad from Basra anymore. At that point the mullahs can retire to whipping each other.
Section E. recipes, vegetable advice. Where's the bikinis? On the front page it promised bikinis in Section E. It did. There was even a small picture of a blond in an orange bikini. Not my choice of colors, but nobody asked me. What is going on here? I don't want greenbean advice, I want bikinis. What kind of a screw-up is this? Ohmigod, I've been looking at yesterday's paper- notnew news. It doesn't matter, a post is a post. And we're still even says I. But where is that Section E?
And here is is, seemingly hidden beneath some other papers. Suspicious. The babes in bikinis look.... tasty. Can't look too long though. A wife will bust you every time. It's like they always know when you're thinking of it, maybe because you always are. But......the more you look at the bikinis the more you see how young they are, I could be their Dad. That so ruins it. Crap. I'm in that awkward middle age, trapped between girls who are too young, and those in support hose. Trapped with the gorgeous SuperNurse. It could be worse.
This could be over, and it is,
The Publicserf
Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Monday, May 05, 2003
You are, no doubt, wondering how my day went. Be careful what you pray for, because here it is.
Work was work. Left promptly at 8 1/2 hours because Ms Pikachu had the gymnastic equivalent of a recital. It was basically a bunch of beginners trying to strut what they've learned. It was charming in a kids crashing and burning kind of a way, and all the parents applauded. Except me, I was videotaping. There were kids that showed promise, and there were kids that showed nothing but enthusiasm. They were there because they wanted to be though, and had the courage to perform in front of a group to please their parents, and that's all that mattered.
After the event we stopped at the library to pick up a DVD the wife had reserved. Perhaps a DVD review will be soon forthcoming. Trainboy went in with the wife to get it. Ms Pikachu sat behind me like always. She got bored, a dangerous thing, because she then feels the need to play with me. Like a cat with a mouse. There came a quizical, "Dad?" yeah? "My butt itches." You've got fingers, use them! She laughed. Rustling. Pause. "Dad?" yeah. "Do you need some earwax?" No, not really. Another pause. "Do you need some booger? I have some." "Dad?" uh-huh. "Are you trying to ignore me." Yes, and I'm not doing a very good job.
Then the wife got back with TrainBoy. It wasn't long and TrainBoy started in. "Dad?" yeah. "My butt itches." There it was- enough evidence to convict of conspiracy to drive their dad crazy. The kids laughed like a couple of jackals.
We stopped at Petco to get the Guinea pigs some vitamins. Usually we all go in, the kids just love the place. The wife got out, I got out. The kids did not get out. I asked her if the kids were going in or not. As she started for the door she said, no, she was just running in to get the vitamins. By then she was halfway to the door, I had to nearly yell, "Do you need some money?" She shook her head and said, "No." In my best whimpering voice I pleaded, "Can I have some?"
There was a burly guy getting into his pickup adjacent to us. He looked like he couldn't believe such a pathetic public display of whipped. I hope he enjoyed it. He'll probably have to tell the story to his beer buddies. They'll shake their heads, have a laugh, and go home to be studs. If their wives will let them. But I digress.
We went to Ryan's. Ms Pikachu cut a dinner roll all the way through and opened and closed it like a puppet's mouth. "Hello, hi there, how ya doin? I don't feel too good myself." She dropped the roll onto the table. And commanded, loud enough for anyone sitting nearby to hear, "Stand back, I know CPR!" She repeatedly pressed on the roll but only succeeded in flattening it. She dramatically announced "We need to shock it. Paddles! " She pressed a fork and spoon against it. "Clear!" She tried it a couple times and pronounced a time of death. She picked it up, examined it, sunk her teeth into it, and while it was still in her mouth, exclaimed, "I have a pulse!"
Later, when I came back to the table with desert, before I even sat down the wife asked, "Why are you talking to your food?" Like I could tell her. Like it would matter to her if I did. But I didn't know that I was. The kids laughed.
Eventually the wife and Trainboy used the restroom. Ms Pikachu quickly became bored. Uh-oh. I sipped my coffee between bites of cherry crisp. "Dad?" yeah. "You're talking to yourself again. You look like this." And she proceeded to do a terribly accurate impression of a doddering old man. It did not help that it was supposedly an impression of me.
When she returned I told the wife, "Your kids are driving me crazy." She ignored me.
Then we went home. She decided to drive.
So that's how my day went. In case you're wondering, yes, it really did happen.
Your PublicSerf
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
e-mail comments to: publicserf@yahoo.com
Work was work. Left promptly at 8 1/2 hours because Ms Pikachu had the gymnastic equivalent of a recital. It was basically a bunch of beginners trying to strut what they've learned. It was charming in a kids crashing and burning kind of a way, and all the parents applauded. Except me, I was videotaping. There were kids that showed promise, and there were kids that showed nothing but enthusiasm. They were there because they wanted to be though, and had the courage to perform in front of a group to please their parents, and that's all that mattered.
After the event we stopped at the library to pick up a DVD the wife had reserved. Perhaps a DVD review will be soon forthcoming. Trainboy went in with the wife to get it. Ms Pikachu sat behind me like always. She got bored, a dangerous thing, because she then feels the need to play with me. Like a cat with a mouse. There came a quizical, "Dad?" yeah? "My butt itches." You've got fingers, use them! She laughed. Rustling. Pause. "Dad?" yeah. "Do you need some earwax?" No, not really. Another pause. "Do you need some booger? I have some." "Dad?" uh-huh. "Are you trying to ignore me." Yes, and I'm not doing a very good job.
Then the wife got back with TrainBoy. It wasn't long and TrainBoy started in. "Dad?" yeah. "My butt itches." There it was- enough evidence to convict of conspiracy to drive their dad crazy. The kids laughed like a couple of jackals.
We stopped at Petco to get the Guinea pigs some vitamins. Usually we all go in, the kids just love the place. The wife got out, I got out. The kids did not get out. I asked her if the kids were going in or not. As she started for the door she said, no, she was just running in to get the vitamins. By then she was halfway to the door, I had to nearly yell, "Do you need some money?" She shook her head and said, "No." In my best whimpering voice I pleaded, "Can I have some?"
There was a burly guy getting into his pickup adjacent to us. He looked like he couldn't believe such a pathetic public display of whipped. I hope he enjoyed it. He'll probably have to tell the story to his beer buddies. They'll shake their heads, have a laugh, and go home to be studs. If their wives will let them. But I digress.
We went to Ryan's. Ms Pikachu cut a dinner roll all the way through and opened and closed it like a puppet's mouth. "Hello, hi there, how ya doin? I don't feel too good myself." She dropped the roll onto the table. And commanded, loud enough for anyone sitting nearby to hear, "Stand back, I know CPR!" She repeatedly pressed on the roll but only succeeded in flattening it. She dramatically announced "We need to shock it. Paddles! " She pressed a fork and spoon against it. "Clear!" She tried it a couple times and pronounced a time of death. She picked it up, examined it, sunk her teeth into it, and while it was still in her mouth, exclaimed, "I have a pulse!"
Later, when I came back to the table with desert, before I even sat down the wife asked, "Why are you talking to your food?" Like I could tell her. Like it would matter to her if I did. But I didn't know that I was. The kids laughed.
Eventually the wife and Trainboy used the restroom. Ms Pikachu quickly became bored. Uh-oh. I sipped my coffee between bites of cherry crisp. "Dad?" yeah. "You're talking to yourself again. You look like this." And she proceeded to do a terribly accurate impression of a doddering old man. It did not help that it was supposedly an impression of me.
When she returned I told the wife, "Your kids are driving me crazy." She ignored me.
Then we went home. She decided to drive.
So that's how my day went. In case you're wondering, yes, it really did happen.
Your PublicSerf
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
e-mail comments to: publicserf@yahoo.com
Sunday, May 04, 2003
My comments on the news as I read the paper, not that you care, but you're getting them anyway. This is not spam, you're here of your own free will.
Two astronauts and a cosmonaut returned to earth in a Soyuz. That would mean landing on land instead of water. But wouldn't that be waterring on water? Anyway, hitting the ground in a steel capsule could be quite jarring. If they have problems with hemmorhoids have them e-mail me. I'll help as best I can. Me and SuperNurse. (see the 04/29 post)
Nine Democrats wanting to be President had a debate and argued about the Iraq war. Now let me get this straight. Saddam had committed terrible acts of torture, murder, even imprisoned children, used WMD on his own people, supported terrorists, everybody but his henchmen are glad he's gone, and it's still debatable. Oh please. The only other issues debated were the Bush tax cut and health care.
It doesn't make much sense that they want to be President and the best they can do is argue against a popular war that's already over, and whine that the public isn't paying enough taxes, and making health insurance reforms. Again, arguing against the war is a non-starter. Telling people "we want your money back" is a non-starter. Health insurance reform is nice, but who wants to pay for it?
The government tried to extend prescription coverage to Medicare recipients before. Senior citizens screamed for years they needed prescription drug coverage. The gummint finally said ok, you can have your prescription drug coverage but it'll cost you. The cost was absurdly low compared to the cost of drugs. But the seniors said hell with that, we ain't paying for it, so it was repealed. The seniors still bitch about the cost of drugs. The problem is that people don't wan't reform, they want free. So health insurance reform looks like another non-starter.
Looks to me like the Democrats have no issues and nowhere to go. Bush executes a popular war, does a trap landing on a carrier, and gets out looking like the leader you just do not screw with. He's alpha dog and everybody else will sit, roll over and play dead. He's a two-termer unless he screws it up badly. The democrats are just selecting a sacrifice to get them by until the next election. Only the most optimistic would want to be the Democratic candidate. The smarter ones would lay low, maybe they are. Not that I care. If you care to know, I have no party affiliation.
New Hamphire's Old Man of the Mountain fell. So what now, they recall all the quarters? From the picture, it looks they they could say he just turned to look into the distance and he's wearing a hat. But that wouldn't work. Not really. But where there's tourism dollars there's a will and a way. In some smoke-filled room they're screaming about whether they should pick up the pieces and reassemble it, or chisel out a new one like Mt Rushmore. I'd bet a New Hampshire quarter they decide to reassemble it.
Madonna says she still loves England. Yawn. Too many trees died for this one.
An asteroid was named for Mr Rogers. That's nice, he was the kind of guy you'd like to be your neighbor. But if that thing ever plunges out of orbit and hits the Earth there will be a lot of disillusioned kids.
May I digress? Thank you. When I was growing up we didn't have Mr. Rogers, we had Captain Kangaroo. And we got along just fine, thank you very much. No Sesame Street either. Summers were hotter, the snow deeper. It was a harder life, but we were probably better for it. I beat my chest, cough a little, and move on.
A hiker in Utah amputated his own arm to free himself after being trapped by a boulder. He may only have one arm now, but he's got both stones. Unfortunately he apparently didn't have a lot of common sense. Because after all, isn't everybody warned not to go out in the wilderness unless they have a buddy along. You don't go swimming alone, you don't go hiking alone, you don't go hunting alone, because there's safety in numbers. Accidents happen, that's why they call them accidents. Be a Boyscout, Be Prepared. He can be glad he's alive. He'll probably never have to buy another beer. He'll probably start calling me Comrade.
Congress may take action to curb spam. This can only mean one thing. They've tried to shakedown the spammers for campaign contributions and come up empty handed. Congress is going to teach them the system works. A couple dollars here and there and spam will be protected free speech. Everybody, all together, My Country tis of thee, sweet land of duplicity.
We're at page 9, but it's taking a terrible toll on my Pollyanna disposition. The OpEd and sports will just crush me. Comics, got to find the comics. And the Best Buy ad. And the Menards ad. And the Home Depot ad. I need a reason to go on living. sniff, sniff.
Got to go, the kids are watching TV all by their lonesomes. For all I know they're being corrupted by CNN.
Later,
your Publicserf
email- publicserf@yahoo.com
Two astronauts and a cosmonaut returned to earth in a Soyuz. That would mean landing on land instead of water. But wouldn't that be waterring on water? Anyway, hitting the ground in a steel capsule could be quite jarring. If they have problems with hemmorhoids have them e-mail me. I'll help as best I can. Me and SuperNurse. (see the 04/29 post)
Nine Democrats wanting to be President had a debate and argued about the Iraq war. Now let me get this straight. Saddam had committed terrible acts of torture, murder, even imprisoned children, used WMD on his own people, supported terrorists, everybody but his henchmen are glad he's gone, and it's still debatable. Oh please. The only other issues debated were the Bush tax cut and health care.
It doesn't make much sense that they want to be President and the best they can do is argue against a popular war that's already over, and whine that the public isn't paying enough taxes, and making health insurance reforms. Again, arguing against the war is a non-starter. Telling people "we want your money back" is a non-starter. Health insurance reform is nice, but who wants to pay for it?
The government tried to extend prescription coverage to Medicare recipients before. Senior citizens screamed for years they needed prescription drug coverage. The gummint finally said ok, you can have your prescription drug coverage but it'll cost you. The cost was absurdly low compared to the cost of drugs. But the seniors said hell with that, we ain't paying for it, so it was repealed. The seniors still bitch about the cost of drugs. The problem is that people don't wan't reform, they want free. So health insurance reform looks like another non-starter.
Looks to me like the Democrats have no issues and nowhere to go. Bush executes a popular war, does a trap landing on a carrier, and gets out looking like the leader you just do not screw with. He's alpha dog and everybody else will sit, roll over and play dead. He's a two-termer unless he screws it up badly. The democrats are just selecting a sacrifice to get them by until the next election. Only the most optimistic would want to be the Democratic candidate. The smarter ones would lay low, maybe they are. Not that I care. If you care to know, I have no party affiliation.
New Hamphire's Old Man of the Mountain fell. So what now, they recall all the quarters? From the picture, it looks they they could say he just turned to look into the distance and he's wearing a hat. But that wouldn't work. Not really. But where there's tourism dollars there's a will and a way. In some smoke-filled room they're screaming about whether they should pick up the pieces and reassemble it, or chisel out a new one like Mt Rushmore. I'd bet a New Hampshire quarter they decide to reassemble it.
Madonna says she still loves England. Yawn. Too many trees died for this one.
An asteroid was named for Mr Rogers. That's nice, he was the kind of guy you'd like to be your neighbor. But if that thing ever plunges out of orbit and hits the Earth there will be a lot of disillusioned kids.
May I digress? Thank you. When I was growing up we didn't have Mr. Rogers, we had Captain Kangaroo. And we got along just fine, thank you very much. No Sesame Street either. Summers were hotter, the snow deeper. It was a harder life, but we were probably better for it. I beat my chest, cough a little, and move on.
A hiker in Utah amputated his own arm to free himself after being trapped by a boulder. He may only have one arm now, but he's got both stones. Unfortunately he apparently didn't have a lot of common sense. Because after all, isn't everybody warned not to go out in the wilderness unless they have a buddy along. You don't go swimming alone, you don't go hiking alone, you don't go hunting alone, because there's safety in numbers. Accidents happen, that's why they call them accidents. Be a Boyscout, Be Prepared. He can be glad he's alive. He'll probably never have to buy another beer. He'll probably start calling me Comrade.
Congress may take action to curb spam. This can only mean one thing. They've tried to shakedown the spammers for campaign contributions and come up empty handed. Congress is going to teach them the system works. A couple dollars here and there and spam will be protected free speech. Everybody, all together, My Country tis of thee, sweet land of duplicity.
We're at page 9, but it's taking a terrible toll on my Pollyanna disposition. The OpEd and sports will just crush me. Comics, got to find the comics. And the Best Buy ad. And the Menards ad. And the Home Depot ad. I need a reason to go on living. sniff, sniff.
Got to go, the kids are watching TV all by their lonesomes. For all I know they're being corrupted by CNN.
Later,
your Publicserf
email- publicserf@yahoo.com
Sunday May 4, 2003, My day, such as it were
The wife woke me for church like she does every Sunday morning, with the warning that I had ten minutes to get ready. No problem. That might seem odd to most people, but she knows I was up late and wants to let me sleep as long as possible. One more reason I love her.
We had a guest speaker at church. He droned on and on. You could tell when it was time the service was usually over. It appeared the attentive, patient, congregation was being overcome by an ADHD epidemic. Just when it appeared he was finally about done he declared, "I only have three more stories to tell." And he told them. Not that it mattered, people were hardly listening. Or maybe it was just me. We left the church twenty minutes later than usual. There must have been some benefit of surviving this adversity, but I don't know what it is. If something becomes apparent I'll let you know.
Leaving the church means the wife gets the kids, I get the van. I stepped outside and it was raining. Great. Other people were running to their vehicles. I could not. Running is jarring and can set off my trigeminal neuralgia. When trudging through the rain without recourse one does tend to complain to God. Like, why was this freaking thing ever in my head, why is it still in my head, what did I ever do to You? The tumor has been a problem for years, and I've never been comfortable being angry at God over it. After all, I have so much to be grateful for. And if you slow down, you can enjoy the caresses of the rain.
Then we went to Hy-Vee for lunch. We needed a few other things anyway. It actually works out well. The food is acceptable and nobody is going to be upset because my rowdy kids are ruining their dining experience. At least they shouldn't. No grocery store is a fine-dining experience. It's food and a table, now get over it. The kids eat quickly, because they know if they do they get to go look for stuff without us. It becomes an adventure for them, and the wife and I get a little time to talk. It works for all of us.
You can sometimes tell where the kids are. It's a pretty new store with smooth, polished, cement floors. The kids like to go to the household goods area, grab plungers and stick them on the floor. Pop, smock, pop, smock. They do it with no rhythm really, just lots of enthusiasm. And laughs. You can hear it all over. It wouldn't be surprising if the help says, "Here come the plunger kids" when we walk through the door. After all, we're regulars.
Sometimes I think they shouldn't play with the plungers. Anybody who buys one is entitled to a new plunger, and we're turning them into used ones. On the other hand. What difference does it make? It's not like they have odometers or depreciation and how often do plungers wear out anyway? I rationalize. And the kids continue to make industrial music in the household goods aisle.
There's work to do on the house, and brakes to change on the car. But it's raining. So I'm just going to stay inside and play with the kids. Maybe we'll get out the plungers. Nah, that'd be gross.
Your Publicserf
The wife woke me for church like she does every Sunday morning, with the warning that I had ten minutes to get ready. No problem. That might seem odd to most people, but she knows I was up late and wants to let me sleep as long as possible. One more reason I love her.
We had a guest speaker at church. He droned on and on. You could tell when it was time the service was usually over. It appeared the attentive, patient, congregation was being overcome by an ADHD epidemic. Just when it appeared he was finally about done he declared, "I only have three more stories to tell." And he told them. Not that it mattered, people were hardly listening. Or maybe it was just me. We left the church twenty minutes later than usual. There must have been some benefit of surviving this adversity, but I don't know what it is. If something becomes apparent I'll let you know.
Leaving the church means the wife gets the kids, I get the van. I stepped outside and it was raining. Great. Other people were running to their vehicles. I could not. Running is jarring and can set off my trigeminal neuralgia. When trudging through the rain without recourse one does tend to complain to God. Like, why was this freaking thing ever in my head, why is it still in my head, what did I ever do to You? The tumor has been a problem for years, and I've never been comfortable being angry at God over it. After all, I have so much to be grateful for. And if you slow down, you can enjoy the caresses of the rain.
Then we went to Hy-Vee for lunch. We needed a few other things anyway. It actually works out well. The food is acceptable and nobody is going to be upset because my rowdy kids are ruining their dining experience. At least they shouldn't. No grocery store is a fine-dining experience. It's food and a table, now get over it. The kids eat quickly, because they know if they do they get to go look for stuff without us. It becomes an adventure for them, and the wife and I get a little time to talk. It works for all of us.
You can sometimes tell where the kids are. It's a pretty new store with smooth, polished, cement floors. The kids like to go to the household goods area, grab plungers and stick them on the floor. Pop, smock, pop, smock. They do it with no rhythm really, just lots of enthusiasm. And laughs. You can hear it all over. It wouldn't be surprising if the help says, "Here come the plunger kids" when we walk through the door. After all, we're regulars.
Sometimes I think they shouldn't play with the plungers. Anybody who buys one is entitled to a new plunger, and we're turning them into used ones. On the other hand. What difference does it make? It's not like they have odometers or depreciation and how often do plungers wear out anyway? I rationalize. And the kids continue to make industrial music in the household goods aisle.
There's work to do on the house, and brakes to change on the car. But it's raining. So I'm just going to stay inside and play with the kids. Maybe we'll get out the plungers. Nah, that'd be gross.
Your Publicserf
Friday, May 02, 2003
I'm new at blogging. Be patient, it's going to take some time to
ascend the learning curve. This site is simple, and it's never going
to be glossy. I just want to write. Stuff I've written before has been
arranged in roughly chronological order. See the Archives, they date
back to April 7th. I hope you like it.
If you want to comment or complain feel free, it's a free country.
It will only cost you time to e-mail me at publicserf@yahoo.com
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
This one is embarrassing.It's the only thing I've ever done like this. If it bothers you,
I'm sorry. Please go on to the next one where it's a little more socially acceptable.
Don't read this before, or after, eating. It's a good day to fast.
Tuesday, as I was laboring in my cubicle I couldn't help noticing that something wasn't right. My butt hurt. It was impossible not to notice. Because pain is always hard not to notice, but when you're sitting on it, even more so.
Of course my first thought was 'Uncle Al died of intestinal problems. We all die of cancer in our family. Here it goes." An outgrowth of my naturally cheerful, optimistic disposition.
Then it occurred to me that Friday we ordered pizza. When we visited the Genius's Saturday, he ordered pizza. Sunday afternoon I had leftover, you got it, pizza. So maybe it was just a serious bowel movement pending. I adjourned to the bathroom to test the more optimistic theory, and it certainly was a manly BM. One any man would have been proud of. A BM for the ages. It was glorious. And it hurt like a sunnuvabitch.
Back again to cancer thoughts. Because I'm only 46, I can't have hemorrhoids yet, can I? Better to have cancer, people don't laugh at cancer. But hemorrhoids, God, it's like you'd be on the end of every Preparation H joke ever done. Every Preparation H commercial would be like, "Hey you, yeah you, listen up. We know who you are. And you need this." Can you imagine a life where those commercials would actually become interesting? Relieves swelling AND itching? WOW! Did I get that on tape? Leave me out of it.
I tried to resume work. The BM apparently relieved pressure on the area so I thought I was doing pretty good. Didn't take long though and the pain was back. Damn. Eventually I told my boss I wouldn't be in the next day because I had to see a doctor. He said ok. He asked if everything was ok. This was the opportunity to tell him what was going on. Right. I just said I was feeling miserable, and was ineffective at my desk. Ineffective? He probably thought it was mental. Better that than Preparation H jokes though.
When I tried to go to bed that night I could only lay down for an hour. Then I thought, I'm on the web, I've got resources. So I logged on and Googled "hemorrhoids." Do that yourself and you'll be amazed at the number of sites related to that. Truly, truly I say to you, we live in an amazing age. Knowledge has greatly increased.
I expected something like, "Wear a mask over your face and yell "Unclean" to anyone near." But, unlike me, they had no shame. They were informational.
The first site I saw said a hot bath could provide relief. There ya go, ooh baby. When I had my brain tumor problems I slept many a night in a tub of hot water. Loved it. Come to Papa!
When I moved the shower curtains out of the way the metal soap dish clanged on the tub. Crap. Sure enough. In no time at all my wife the super nurse was in there asking what was going on. I told her. She said, "Let me find a flashlight and take a look." The only flashlight we could find was a big Mag-Lite. The one that uses six D-cells. Focus the beam and you could probably remove the offending tissue with a little home laser surgery.
I laid on my side. She illuminated. And declared, "Wow, these are so big I don't need a flashlight to see 'em. You've got the biggest hemorrhoids I've ever seen!" Shame to pride just that fast. But as Dad always said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right." Dad would have been proud too. I just know.
Being the good nurse that she is she found a suitable ointment to apply and applied it. If there's a greater act of love than this I don't know what it is. And she brought me some aspirin to relieve the pain and any possible bloot clots. Then I got in the tub.
This (Wednesday) morning, Trainboy woke me up and told be to get out of the bathtub. My sleeping in the bathtub seemed to annoy him. Like he knew there are things you do, and don't do. And sleeping in a bathtub is just against the natural order of things. I got out. Though not happily. Because it had provided relief, and I do like sleeping in the bathtub.
After getting Ms. Pikachu off to school the wife asked me if I wanted to see the doctor, or if she should just call the doctor's office and ask for prescription strength Anusol. I don't know, this is a manly size problem, does it come in a manly size? Oh call the doctor. So she did, and she got me in. Wish I would have heard the phone call, or maybe not.
"My husband's got hemorrhoids and he needs relief stat!"
"Need an ambulance?"
"Only if he can lay on his stomach."
So I went to the doctor's office this morning. The wife wanted to come along, but could not. Trainboy leaves on the afternoon bus, and she didn't want to subject him to the exam. Which is not to say I wanted to be subjected to it either. But sometimes the manly thing to do is just gird your loins and bend over. Or whatever.
The nurse that ushered me back to the room was professional of course. She tried to keep it professional, but I could tell it was hard for her. Behind that poker face was an Ed McMahon wanting to laugh at everything I said. She told me to remove the clothing from the lower half of my body and handed me a drape. What, no grass skirt?
The doctor came in. She sat down with an ease that told me she did not suffer from hemorrhoids. No matter how sympathetic, she could not feel my pain, not that that was important. It's not like we'd be sharing war stories anyway, she has other things to do.
She asked me to tell her my tale. I laughed, tale, tail. Then she realized why I was laughing and she laughed also. Then I told her my tale and she laughed some more. It's not quite so humiliating if you get to make a joke of it.
I then laid on my side as instructed. And she really did feel my pain. Ouch, and that hurts. She declared, "You really do have some prize winners there." It was nice she could inject a little levity with her finger.
She inquired about what, if any, self-treatment I'd had. And what I'd received from the wife. She said it was all perfect. She gave me a slip to give to the boss so I wouldn't be sitting on them all day. Cuz no way am I sitting on one of those dougnuts all day. No way. It would be a perfect ring-target for jokes, and my butt would be the bull's eye. Hmm, bulls are manly. But I still ain't gonna do it.
And she handed me a prescription for industrial strength Anusol, just like the wife said. She's really good.
I gave the medical leave slip to my boss. The doc just wrote, "Under medical care 4/23-25." He was concerned and asked if I was ok. It was another chance to explain what the problem was, but no way was I going to talk about it. He couldn't tell what the problem was. I wasn't walking bow-legged. I wasn't bent over. And I wasn't telling.
So did I learn anything from all this? Like I needed to. Well, I'll never eat pizza three days in a row without eating a lot of fiber too. If I can't get any fiber, I'll have another piece. Because I don't just want a prize, I want the gold. USA, USA, USA!
Your Publicserf
Here's some of a reply from Ron at RonsLog, http://www.rbgilbert.com/log/ronslog.html There are years of experience displayed, much wisdom offered. Listen and learn. Truly he is a WebGod.
It's the vague glance at your body that is essential. Consciously or
not, your boss will read your body language and think you are
referring to that part of your body. You could massage the left
side of your chest with your right hand while saying "I'll be
under doctor's care," and he'll visualize a great big arterial
blockage right at your heart.
Take a deep breath, sigh, and glance downward and they'll "know"
it's lung cancer. Do not turn your head mysteriously to the
side...he'll think it's mental disease. Can you generate teary
red eyes on demand? Always effective.
Or a falsely upbeat approach could be effective. Say brightly,
"I'm sure I'll be back in on Wednesday! My whole congregation is
praying with me!" Soon your co-workers will be praying for your
vague disease.
If none of these things work, then they just don't care about you
and you ought to be counting the days until early retirement
comes to you.
I'm sorry. Please go on to the next one where it's a little more socially acceptable.
Don't read this before, or after, eating. It's a good day to fast.
Tuesday, as I was laboring in my cubicle I couldn't help noticing that something wasn't right. My butt hurt. It was impossible not to notice. Because pain is always hard not to notice, but when you're sitting on it, even more so.
Of course my first thought was 'Uncle Al died of intestinal problems. We all die of cancer in our family. Here it goes." An outgrowth of my naturally cheerful, optimistic disposition.
Then it occurred to me that Friday we ordered pizza. When we visited the Genius's Saturday, he ordered pizza. Sunday afternoon I had leftover, you got it, pizza. So maybe it was just a serious bowel movement pending. I adjourned to the bathroom to test the more optimistic theory, and it certainly was a manly BM. One any man would have been proud of. A BM for the ages. It was glorious. And it hurt like a sunnuvabitch.
Back again to cancer thoughts. Because I'm only 46, I can't have hemorrhoids yet, can I? Better to have cancer, people don't laugh at cancer. But hemorrhoids, God, it's like you'd be on the end of every Preparation H joke ever done. Every Preparation H commercial would be like, "Hey you, yeah you, listen up. We know who you are. And you need this." Can you imagine a life where those commercials would actually become interesting? Relieves swelling AND itching? WOW! Did I get that on tape? Leave me out of it.
I tried to resume work. The BM apparently relieved pressure on the area so I thought I was doing pretty good. Didn't take long though and the pain was back. Damn. Eventually I told my boss I wouldn't be in the next day because I had to see a doctor. He said ok. He asked if everything was ok. This was the opportunity to tell him what was going on. Right. I just said I was feeling miserable, and was ineffective at my desk. Ineffective? He probably thought it was mental. Better that than Preparation H jokes though.
When I tried to go to bed that night I could only lay down for an hour. Then I thought, I'm on the web, I've got resources. So I logged on and Googled "hemorrhoids." Do that yourself and you'll be amazed at the number of sites related to that. Truly, truly I say to you, we live in an amazing age. Knowledge has greatly increased.
I expected something like, "Wear a mask over your face and yell "Unclean" to anyone near." But, unlike me, they had no shame. They were informational.
The first site I saw said a hot bath could provide relief. There ya go, ooh baby. When I had my brain tumor problems I slept many a night in a tub of hot water. Loved it. Come to Papa!
When I moved the shower curtains out of the way the metal soap dish clanged on the tub. Crap. Sure enough. In no time at all my wife the super nurse was in there asking what was going on. I told her. She said, "Let me find a flashlight and take a look." The only flashlight we could find was a big Mag-Lite. The one that uses six D-cells. Focus the beam and you could probably remove the offending tissue with a little home laser surgery.
I laid on my side. She illuminated. And declared, "Wow, these are so big I don't need a flashlight to see 'em. You've got the biggest hemorrhoids I've ever seen!" Shame to pride just that fast. But as Dad always said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right." Dad would have been proud too. I just know.
Being the good nurse that she is she found a suitable ointment to apply and applied it. If there's a greater act of love than this I don't know what it is. And she brought me some aspirin to relieve the pain and any possible bloot clots. Then I got in the tub.
This (Wednesday) morning, Trainboy woke me up and told be to get out of the bathtub. My sleeping in the bathtub seemed to annoy him. Like he knew there are things you do, and don't do. And sleeping in a bathtub is just against the natural order of things. I got out. Though not happily. Because it had provided relief, and I do like sleeping in the bathtub.
After getting Ms. Pikachu off to school the wife asked me if I wanted to see the doctor, or if she should just call the doctor's office and ask for prescription strength Anusol. I don't know, this is a manly size problem, does it come in a manly size? Oh call the doctor. So she did, and she got me in. Wish I would have heard the phone call, or maybe not.
"My husband's got hemorrhoids and he needs relief stat!"
"Need an ambulance?"
"Only if he can lay on his stomach."
So I went to the doctor's office this morning. The wife wanted to come along, but could not. Trainboy leaves on the afternoon bus, and she didn't want to subject him to the exam. Which is not to say I wanted to be subjected to it either. But sometimes the manly thing to do is just gird your loins and bend over. Or whatever.
The nurse that ushered me back to the room was professional of course. She tried to keep it professional, but I could tell it was hard for her. Behind that poker face was an Ed McMahon wanting to laugh at everything I said. She told me to remove the clothing from the lower half of my body and handed me a drape. What, no grass skirt?
The doctor came in. She sat down with an ease that told me she did not suffer from hemorrhoids. No matter how sympathetic, she could not feel my pain, not that that was important. It's not like we'd be sharing war stories anyway, she has other things to do.
She asked me to tell her my tale. I laughed, tale, tail. Then she realized why I was laughing and she laughed also. Then I told her my tale and she laughed some more. It's not quite so humiliating if you get to make a joke of it.
I then laid on my side as instructed. And she really did feel my pain. Ouch, and that hurts. She declared, "You really do have some prize winners there." It was nice she could inject a little levity with her finger.
She inquired about what, if any, self-treatment I'd had. And what I'd received from the wife. She said it was all perfect. She gave me a slip to give to the boss so I wouldn't be sitting on them all day. Cuz no way am I sitting on one of those dougnuts all day. No way. It would be a perfect ring-target for jokes, and my butt would be the bull's eye. Hmm, bulls are manly. But I still ain't gonna do it.
And she handed me a prescription for industrial strength Anusol, just like the wife said. She's really good.
I gave the medical leave slip to my boss. The doc just wrote, "Under medical care 4/23-25." He was concerned and asked if I was ok. It was another chance to explain what the problem was, but no way was I going to talk about it. He couldn't tell what the problem was. I wasn't walking bow-legged. I wasn't bent over. And I wasn't telling.
So did I learn anything from all this? Like I needed to. Well, I'll never eat pizza three days in a row without eating a lot of fiber too. If I can't get any fiber, I'll have another piece. Because I don't just want a prize, I want the gold. USA, USA, USA!
Your Publicserf
Here's some of a reply from Ron at RonsLog, http://www.rbgilbert.com/log/ronslog.html There are years of experience displayed, much wisdom offered. Listen and learn. Truly he is a WebGod.
It's the vague glance at your body that is essential. Consciously or
not, your boss will read your body language and think you are
referring to that part of your body. You could massage the left
side of your chest with your right hand while saying "I'll be
under doctor's care," and he'll visualize a great big arterial
blockage right at your heart.
Take a deep breath, sigh, and glance downward and they'll "know"
it's lung cancer. Do not turn your head mysteriously to the
side...he'll think it's mental disease. Can you generate teary
red eyes on demand? Always effective.
Or a falsely upbeat approach could be effective. Say brightly,
"I'm sure I'll be back in on Wednesday! My whole congregation is
praying with me!" Soon your co-workers will be praying for your
vague disease.
If none of these things work, then they just don't care about you
and you ought to be counting the days until early retirement
comes to you.
Monday, April 28, 2003
I'm new to blogging. I wrote this 2/3/03. A few old things will be posted as I find them. It won't hurt you a bit.
SHOOTING CATS
We've been having problems with the neighbor's cats.
I like to feed the birds. Even have a heater in the birdbath so they always have water. The birds like it in their bird-like way- lots of them come around to eat and sing. We get bluejays, cardinals, nuthatches, chickadees, woodpeckers, and way too many sparrows. Most birds travel in flocks, sparrows travel in mobs.
Unfortunately, the neighbor's cats like the birds too. It's one of those food chain things. But I don't care about the cats' needs, I just want to watch the birds. That's hard to do when a cat sits under the bird feeder. That may weed out the seriously stupid birds in a Darwinian kind of way, but it keeps the rest away.
I had complained of this to the wife, just to complain. She told me the cats keep the local mouse population down, so there's an upside. But that doesn't get my birds back. And actually I don't even mind the mice much.
Because one night, after we got the kids asleep, we were snuggling on the couch, watching idiot box with the lights down low. And suddenly out from nowhere scurried a little mouse. It stopped between us and the TV, sat up on it's back legs and looked at each of us as if he was introducing himself to his new neighbors. Then it brushed it's whiskers as if suddenly concerned it wasn't groomed properly for proper introductions. And it dashed away as suddenly as it arrived.
I never thought I could be charmed by a mouse, but charmed I was. The next day I bought some trap-and-release traps. When I caught it, and some of its kin, I released them down the block. Where they could charm the neighbors. But I digress.
Ms. Pikachu told me the name of one of the cats was Mei-Mei, the others are... something like Ting-a-Ling, and Poofy Snoofer. Say cute names like that around some people and they'll get wide-eyed and babble like a new parent. I didn't care. Give a terrorist a name and he's just a terrorist with a name.
I have chased the cats out of the yard. They obviously didn't take me too seriously, they almost sauntered out, and they were back right away. So fast it was insulting. It wouldn't surprise me if they laughed through their cat whiskers as they went over the fence.
I had contemplated the cat problem for a long time but couldn't come up with a solution. I have tried squirt guns. But distance is a bit of a problem. And a squirt gun in winter is a cold proposition anyway. Slingshots seemed a possibility, but the neighbors wouldn't appreciate any collateral damage. The same would be true of a bb-gun. What to do, what to do. No answer came. But motivation came, big time.
The wife took the trash out the other day. When I got home she angrily informed me the back yard was looking like a litter box. She said that we don't have pets in the back yard so we shouldn't have to deal with a problem like that. She had considered picking up the droppings and throwing them in the neighbor's back yard. Did I say she was angry? She told me the cats must die. Quite a change in attitude, but one I was comfortable with. Funny what a little cat poo can do.
So death was an option.
I considered poisoning the cats. But that wouldn't be nice, and I didn't want to offend my neighbor. I didn't want them dying under my porch one stinking mess at a time anyway. Nope, poisoning really wouldn't work. So if they got to retain their nine lives something else needed to be done. Something to keep them out.
I decided I needed to strike unholy terror in the hearts of the cats. Firearms were out of the question. None of the other options tripped my trigger, so I bought a paintball gun. Since there's no gunpowder involved I am assuming it's legal to shoot it within city limits. And I'm comfortable assuming that. To get it ready for each shot you have to pump it like a shotgun, chuk-chuk. Feels downright manly in a pump-action kind of way.
Then came the hardest part- the waiting. Words cannot express my joy at finally seeing one of the little fur-bearing terrorists in the back yard. Poofy Snoofer was sitting in the door of the garage. I loaded up, and opened the back door. The garage is not attached to the house, it's at the back of the yard. The cat looked at me across the distance with it's usual contempt then pretended to ignore me. Surely it knew from experience I was too far away to be a threat.
I shouldered the instrument of wrath, and it was then I discovered the design flaw, and it must be why it was so cheap- on clearance at Wal-Mart for $15.00. The paintball feeder is in the middle of the barrel on top. So you can't sight straight down the barrel. Aiming accurately is impossible. But there was no stopping now. I was unlocked and loaded.
Chuk-chuk, pop. And with amazing speed a little orange paintball exploded high and to the left. The cat looked at me with utter contempt, like it couldn't understand why it had to live outside while I could live in, but wasn't. I could have shouted "Birds!" but it wouldn't have made a difference. Besides, the trespasser wasn't due an explanation, just retribution.
Remember to compensate for the last shot, chuk-chuk, pop. Just above kitty's head. And Snoofer got the message. It ran for the fence- not close to it but across the yard. Then it ran the length of the fence- in my direction. It was so panicked that if there was anything above the cat in the food chain nearby the cat would have suffered its own Darwinian fate.
As it ran along the fence there was a steady chuk-chuk, pop. Snow sprayed around the cat. It ran faster. And I believe that if a cat could curse there would have been a lot of it. It scrambled over the fence with no dignity whatsoever and I laughed so hard I doubled over.
I haven't seen that cat in the back yard since. But there are more of them to teach. The wife saw another of them spray the van. She's angry again. She offered to put a turkey carcass out back to lure them in. I appreciated the thought, and always remember not to get her mad. Perhaps this summer when I have time off I'll stalk the wild cats. I have a lot of paintballs.
Wear bright colors and stay low.
SHOOTING CATS
We've been having problems with the neighbor's cats.
I like to feed the birds. Even have a heater in the birdbath so they always have water. The birds like it in their bird-like way- lots of them come around to eat and sing. We get bluejays, cardinals, nuthatches, chickadees, woodpeckers, and way too many sparrows. Most birds travel in flocks, sparrows travel in mobs.
Unfortunately, the neighbor's cats like the birds too. It's one of those food chain things. But I don't care about the cats' needs, I just want to watch the birds. That's hard to do when a cat sits under the bird feeder. That may weed out the seriously stupid birds in a Darwinian kind of way, but it keeps the rest away.
I had complained of this to the wife, just to complain. She told me the cats keep the local mouse population down, so there's an upside. But that doesn't get my birds back. And actually I don't even mind the mice much.
Because one night, after we got the kids asleep, we were snuggling on the couch, watching idiot box with the lights down low. And suddenly out from nowhere scurried a little mouse. It stopped between us and the TV, sat up on it's back legs and looked at each of us as if he was introducing himself to his new neighbors. Then it brushed it's whiskers as if suddenly concerned it wasn't groomed properly for proper introductions. And it dashed away as suddenly as it arrived.
I never thought I could be charmed by a mouse, but charmed I was. The next day I bought some trap-and-release traps. When I caught it, and some of its kin, I released them down the block. Where they could charm the neighbors. But I digress.
Ms. Pikachu told me the name of one of the cats was Mei-Mei, the others are... something like Ting-a-Ling, and Poofy Snoofer. Say cute names like that around some people and they'll get wide-eyed and babble like a new parent. I didn't care. Give a terrorist a name and he's just a terrorist with a name.
I have chased the cats out of the yard. They obviously didn't take me too seriously, they almost sauntered out, and they were back right away. So fast it was insulting. It wouldn't surprise me if they laughed through their cat whiskers as they went over the fence.
I had contemplated the cat problem for a long time but couldn't come up with a solution. I have tried squirt guns. But distance is a bit of a problem. And a squirt gun in winter is a cold proposition anyway. Slingshots seemed a possibility, but the neighbors wouldn't appreciate any collateral damage. The same would be true of a bb-gun. What to do, what to do. No answer came. But motivation came, big time.
The wife took the trash out the other day. When I got home she angrily informed me the back yard was looking like a litter box. She said that we don't have pets in the back yard so we shouldn't have to deal with a problem like that. She had considered picking up the droppings and throwing them in the neighbor's back yard. Did I say she was angry? She told me the cats must die. Quite a change in attitude, but one I was comfortable with. Funny what a little cat poo can do.
So death was an option.
I considered poisoning the cats. But that wouldn't be nice, and I didn't want to offend my neighbor. I didn't want them dying under my porch one stinking mess at a time anyway. Nope, poisoning really wouldn't work. So if they got to retain their nine lives something else needed to be done. Something to keep them out.
I decided I needed to strike unholy terror in the hearts of the cats. Firearms were out of the question. None of the other options tripped my trigger, so I bought a paintball gun. Since there's no gunpowder involved I am assuming it's legal to shoot it within city limits. And I'm comfortable assuming that. To get it ready for each shot you have to pump it like a shotgun, chuk-chuk. Feels downright manly in a pump-action kind of way.
Then came the hardest part- the waiting. Words cannot express my joy at finally seeing one of the little fur-bearing terrorists in the back yard. Poofy Snoofer was sitting in the door of the garage. I loaded up, and opened the back door. The garage is not attached to the house, it's at the back of the yard. The cat looked at me across the distance with it's usual contempt then pretended to ignore me. Surely it knew from experience I was too far away to be a threat.
I shouldered the instrument of wrath, and it was then I discovered the design flaw, and it must be why it was so cheap- on clearance at Wal-Mart for $15.00. The paintball feeder is in the middle of the barrel on top. So you can't sight straight down the barrel. Aiming accurately is impossible. But there was no stopping now. I was unlocked and loaded.
Chuk-chuk, pop. And with amazing speed a little orange paintball exploded high and to the left. The cat looked at me with utter contempt, like it couldn't understand why it had to live outside while I could live in, but wasn't. I could have shouted "Birds!" but it wouldn't have made a difference. Besides, the trespasser wasn't due an explanation, just retribution.
Remember to compensate for the last shot, chuk-chuk, pop. Just above kitty's head. And Snoofer got the message. It ran for the fence- not close to it but across the yard. Then it ran the length of the fence- in my direction. It was so panicked that if there was anything above the cat in the food chain nearby the cat would have suffered its own Darwinian fate.
As it ran along the fence there was a steady chuk-chuk, pop. Snow sprayed around the cat. It ran faster. And I believe that if a cat could curse there would have been a lot of it. It scrambled over the fence with no dignity whatsoever and I laughed so hard I doubled over.
I haven't seen that cat in the back yard since. But there are more of them to teach. The wife saw another of them spray the van. She's angry again. She offered to put a turkey carcass out back to lure them in. I appreciated the thought, and always remember not to get her mad. Perhaps this summer when I have time off I'll stalk the wild cats. I have a lot of paintballs.
Wear bright colors and stay low.
Originally 02/18/03
I started typing and this happened. I make no excuses, it's my fault. But be forewarned- I wrote it, it's about family. Read at your own risk.
The Wife said she wanted nothing for Valentine's Day. Yeah, right. There's a guilt trap waiting to be sprung, no matter how lovingly laid. I knew she wanted the soundtrack to 'The Majestic', but Best Buy didn't have it when we were there. After she went to work, and the snow storm had started, I went off to find one.
Went to Barnes&Noble, because they have have some odd stuff. Didn't have it. But they did have stuff by the guy named on the DVD. But seeing his CD it was obvious he's a trumpet player. TheWife wanted the piano boogie/swing stuff. The clerk recommended a CD by a local artist who used to have his own jazz club, until the local Streets Dept. put a street through it. So I bought one because I believe in supporting local artists/businesses, especially when their business is under pavement I drive on.
Then I went to Wal-Mart for Guinea pig supplies. And I thought, no harm in looking. And sure enough, they had the soundtrack. So I bought it too. Gave them both to her when she got home. She was happy. No, no. No applause please, but thank you, thank you very much.
Before Christmas we had gotten a catalog in the mail from a hobbyshop in California. Probably because I subscribe to Fine Scale Modeler and my data got rented. Not that I minded this time. The catalog not only had plastic models, but train sets also. That was of great interest and delight to Train Boy.
He noticed the "Night Before Christmas Train." He has always wanted a Christmas train to run around the Christmas tree. Mfg list was $335.00, but on Special for $169.00. I didn't even bother asking TheWife, I knew it wasn't going to happen.
But it was a nice train set. A Bachman G Scale- good, and big. A steam locomotive with an elf holding a lamp sitting on the cow-catcher, Santa Claus and a couple more elfs, operating headlight, smoke out the stack, speed-synchronized sound, and a 5'x4' track oval that would be just fine for running under a tree. A train that would make a Train Boy happy for many years. But at $169 it wasn't going to happen.
But Saturday I needed to do something with Trainboy. Thinking they might have something more reasonably priced in a smaller scale available, we checked out their web site. Train Boy had a good time scoping out a lot more trains. And then, there it was. The Christmas Train. On seasonal close-out for $99. Train Boy was excited, so was I. But I told him we had to talk to his Mom first, because it was still a lot. And I told him I'd save it to "Favorites" so we could go right back to it.
Sunday after church he told Mommy he had something to show her on the internet. We got on-line, and he said, "Alright Dad, go to Favorites." Two clicks, and there it was again. Mommy said, "Nice train, but that's still a lot of money." End of discussion. But not the end of it.
Today I went back on-line and ordered that thing. I told TheWife later, she didn't mind. We agreed it will make a wonderful present for a Train Boy's birthday coming up. He'll be happy, and she still loves me.
But I haven't mentioned Ms. Pikachu yet. This is family, and no one gets left out. It's that Lilo & Stich "Ohanna" thing.
Since today was a legal holiday I was home, of course. We went to Ryan's for lunch. Eventually, Pikachu the Blonde needed to amuse herself. She put her mood ring on a string. Swinging it back and forth in front of my eyes she intoned, "you are getting sleepy, sleepy. You will win the lottery and give the money to me."
I sternly informed her I was becoming something, but I wouldn't describe it as as sleepy.
Again the ring was swung before me, this time with the dramatic command, "you are becomming irritated, irritated." What can I say, it didn't work again, I was laughing. She can always get me to laugh.
On days like today I feel embarrassingly rich.
I started typing and this happened. I make no excuses, it's my fault. But be forewarned- I wrote it, it's about family. Read at your own risk.
The Wife said she wanted nothing for Valentine's Day. Yeah, right. There's a guilt trap waiting to be sprung, no matter how lovingly laid. I knew she wanted the soundtrack to 'The Majestic', but Best Buy didn't have it when we were there. After she went to work, and the snow storm had started, I went off to find one.
Went to Barnes&Noble, because they have have some odd stuff. Didn't have it. But they did have stuff by the guy named on the DVD. But seeing his CD it was obvious he's a trumpet player. TheWife wanted the piano boogie/swing stuff. The clerk recommended a CD by a local artist who used to have his own jazz club, until the local Streets Dept. put a street through it. So I bought one because I believe in supporting local artists/businesses, especially when their business is under pavement I drive on.
Then I went to Wal-Mart for Guinea pig supplies. And I thought, no harm in looking. And sure enough, they had the soundtrack. So I bought it too. Gave them both to her when she got home. She was happy. No, no. No applause please, but thank you, thank you very much.
Before Christmas we had gotten a catalog in the mail from a hobbyshop in California. Probably because I subscribe to Fine Scale Modeler and my data got rented. Not that I minded this time. The catalog not only had plastic models, but train sets also. That was of great interest and delight to Train Boy.
He noticed the "Night Before Christmas Train." He has always wanted a Christmas train to run around the Christmas tree. Mfg list was $335.00, but on Special for $169.00. I didn't even bother asking TheWife, I knew it wasn't going to happen.
But it was a nice train set. A Bachman G Scale- good, and big. A steam locomotive with an elf holding a lamp sitting on the cow-catcher, Santa Claus and a couple more elfs, operating headlight, smoke out the stack, speed-synchronized sound, and a 5'x4' track oval that would be just fine for running under a tree. A train that would make a Train Boy happy for many years. But at $169 it wasn't going to happen.
But Saturday I needed to do something with Trainboy. Thinking they might have something more reasonably priced in a smaller scale available, we checked out their web site. Train Boy had a good time scoping out a lot more trains. And then, there it was. The Christmas Train. On seasonal close-out for $99. Train Boy was excited, so was I. But I told him we had to talk to his Mom first, because it was still a lot. And I told him I'd save it to "Favorites" so we could go right back to it.
Sunday after church he told Mommy he had something to show her on the internet. We got on-line, and he said, "Alright Dad, go to Favorites." Two clicks, and there it was again. Mommy said, "Nice train, but that's still a lot of money." End of discussion. But not the end of it.
Today I went back on-line and ordered that thing. I told TheWife later, she didn't mind. We agreed it will make a wonderful present for a Train Boy's birthday coming up. He'll be happy, and she still loves me.
But I haven't mentioned Ms. Pikachu yet. This is family, and no one gets left out. It's that Lilo & Stich "Ohanna" thing.
Since today was a legal holiday I was home, of course. We went to Ryan's for lunch. Eventually, Pikachu the Blonde needed to amuse herself. She put her mood ring on a string. Swinging it back and forth in front of my eyes she intoned, "you are getting sleepy, sleepy. You will win the lottery and give the money to me."
I sternly informed her I was becoming something, but I wouldn't describe it as as sleepy.
Again the ring was swung before me, this time with the dramatic command, "you are becomming irritated, irritated." What can I say, it didn't work again, I was laughing. She can always get me to laugh.
On days like today I feel embarrassingly rich.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
I was mad and it shows, if you want more humor, keep going.
originally 9/25/02
Talk about insanity. I watched "Blackhawk Down" last night. Technically it was fine. It won two Academy Awards. But it was disturbing, really ruined a night's sleep. It was too graphically violent for me. I don't need to see the last living moments of a guy blown in half. I know war is hell, you don't have to rub my face in it. And I wanted to scream at the General on screen, "You idiot, don't you have a backup plan if it all goes to hell? How can you assume you're going to inject troops into an urban civil war and everything is going to go like clockwork? This isn't a video game, it's war!"
Everybody thinks it's going to be easy. They don't bring enough ammo, don't bring enough water, don't bring enough medical supplies, don't bring enough of anything. Isn't there anybody in this unit who has any combat experience and knows that the God of War is really named Murphy? But even if the troops are green their leaders should know better, supposedly they've got experience. They should be checking to make sure everything is done right.
Fairly early in the film the responsible General moans that the politico's in DC won't let him have a Spectre gunship. Sure that'd be nice. But it's not like he didn't have alternatives, a couple miles down the road was an outfit with tanks. Hey, those might be useful when the shooting starts! But no, he sent them into a war zone in Hummers and trucks. Sure they've got machine guns on top, but they have all the armor of a Chevy. There are more bad guys than good guys and they have machine guns too, and rocket propelled grenades, oh my! Good guys die, big surprise.
The officer in charge on the scene is a Colonel in a helicopter. He keeps sending the convoy down roads that can't get them to their destinations due to roadblocks. Obviously the guy is flying so high he can't see a thing but the road grid because he doesn't want anybody to shoot at him. But then he can't see the roadblocks and is worse than useless by sending them on wild goose chases. You want to scream "Get your butt down there where you can see something and help your men find their way! They don't need a map reader, they need a guide! Aaaaahhhhh!" If fingers could get hoarse mine would be.
And a tank would be really fine for dealing with the roadblocks.
I have nothing but respect for guys who put their lives on the line, especially when they get run through a grinder when their superiors don't think straight, or refuse to put themselves at risk if that's what it takes to save their men's lives. Then you want to cry for the dead, and the survivors, and all their families.
You have to give credit to the soldiers though. For a total loss of nineteen killed they supposedly killed about a thousand. That's kicking butt big time.
The whole operation seemed unnecessary though. Considering they wanted Aidid out of the way. It would have made more sense to just bomb the damn building and not risk all the troops. Nothing like a tactical airstrike to put the fear of God into the unfriendlies anyway. Everybody runs when the fast movers come in. Nothing inspires fear like overwhelming air power.
But it was like Viet Nam all over again- limiting rules of engagement that only encouraged the unfriendlies and then you had to start taking a beating before you could do anything. And poor planning and execution. It was so depressing I turned the sound off to reduce the trauma and read the captions. A fine movie, and I hated it. Don't we ever learn?
Sorry, that wasn't so much a movie review as a cry of outrage... such as it were.
I haven't been so pissed at a movie since Titanic. "Blackhawk" was about an awfull event. Titanic was just an awfull movie. Don't get me started, I still feel the pain of that one. And only recently have I regained all feeling in my buttocks.
originally 9/25/02
Talk about insanity. I watched "Blackhawk Down" last night. Technically it was fine. It won two Academy Awards. But it was disturbing, really ruined a night's sleep. It was too graphically violent for me. I don't need to see the last living moments of a guy blown in half. I know war is hell, you don't have to rub my face in it. And I wanted to scream at the General on screen, "You idiot, don't you have a backup plan if it all goes to hell? How can you assume you're going to inject troops into an urban civil war and everything is going to go like clockwork? This isn't a video game, it's war!"
Everybody thinks it's going to be easy. They don't bring enough ammo, don't bring enough water, don't bring enough medical supplies, don't bring enough of anything. Isn't there anybody in this unit who has any combat experience and knows that the God of War is really named Murphy? But even if the troops are green their leaders should know better, supposedly they've got experience. They should be checking to make sure everything is done right.
Fairly early in the film the responsible General moans that the politico's in DC won't let him have a Spectre gunship. Sure that'd be nice. But it's not like he didn't have alternatives, a couple miles down the road was an outfit with tanks. Hey, those might be useful when the shooting starts! But no, he sent them into a war zone in Hummers and trucks. Sure they've got machine guns on top, but they have all the armor of a Chevy. There are more bad guys than good guys and they have machine guns too, and rocket propelled grenades, oh my! Good guys die, big surprise.
The officer in charge on the scene is a Colonel in a helicopter. He keeps sending the convoy down roads that can't get them to their destinations due to roadblocks. Obviously the guy is flying so high he can't see a thing but the road grid because he doesn't want anybody to shoot at him. But then he can't see the roadblocks and is worse than useless by sending them on wild goose chases. You want to scream "Get your butt down there where you can see something and help your men find their way! They don't need a map reader, they need a guide! Aaaaahhhhh!" If fingers could get hoarse mine would be.
And a tank would be really fine for dealing with the roadblocks.
I have nothing but respect for guys who put their lives on the line, especially when they get run through a grinder when their superiors don't think straight, or refuse to put themselves at risk if that's what it takes to save their men's lives. Then you want to cry for the dead, and the survivors, and all their families.
You have to give credit to the soldiers though. For a total loss of nineteen killed they supposedly killed about a thousand. That's kicking butt big time.
The whole operation seemed unnecessary though. Considering they wanted Aidid out of the way. It would have made more sense to just bomb the damn building and not risk all the troops. Nothing like a tactical airstrike to put the fear of God into the unfriendlies anyway. Everybody runs when the fast movers come in. Nothing inspires fear like overwhelming air power.
But it was like Viet Nam all over again- limiting rules of engagement that only encouraged the unfriendlies and then you had to start taking a beating before you could do anything. And poor planning and execution. It was so depressing I turned the sound off to reduce the trauma and read the captions. A fine movie, and I hated it. Don't we ever learn?
Sorry, that wasn't so much a movie review as a cry of outrage... such as it were.
I haven't been so pissed at a movie since Titanic. "Blackhawk" was about an awfull event. Titanic was just an awfull movie. Don't get me started, I still feel the pain of that one. And only recently have I regained all feeling in my buttocks.
Friday, April 25, 2003
originally 5/12/01
Wednesday morning went to the doctor cuz of the pain recurrences. She basically told me to take more pills and see if it helps. She was happy with my blood pressure though, 129/80, guess that's ok. The next cholesterol check isn't until July.
I'm trying to do better about that. Thursday I had the Jones for sourdough at lunch. Yes, really. So I got a Western burger at Hardees. I removed the bacon. Didn't want to. But I removed the bacon. Didn't eat it after removing it, I'm not a lawyer. No, the bacon was actually trashed. Still didn't eat it, cuz I'm not Bill Clinton. At this time it is either in the landfill, or the janitor.
Thought I'd be better Friday and have a salad. But when I called Panera to order one, it listed their soups automatically. The last one was corn chowder with green chili's. Couldn't resist, so I ordered the Pick Two and got half a salad and the chowder. It's not easy being weak, but I am well-fed. Only one problem, they gave me a fork, but no spoon. The chowder was thick, but not that thick. Had to walk back to the conference room to get a spoon, proving that no matter how inconsequential, you will get at least one bitch per e-mail, guaranteed.
And nobody else, nobody else, will guarantee that. Admittedly, some may do better than that. But the guarantee has a certain je nais se quos, whatever that is.
Thursday we had a terrific storm, funnel clouds and golfball size hail. At least a dozen dents per vehicle. I would have slept through it but Trainboy was so scared he sat by me and screamed and screamed and screamed. Between sleep deprivation and all the pain pills I was in La La land, wherever that is. I don't remember cuz I was asleep. Had the hail pierced the roof and hit me, it would not have hurt. Such are the marvels of modern medicine.
But having come out of my near-coma, I sized up the situation immediately. He needed comforting and strength, so immediately I slipped into a John Wayne impersonation. I patted the little feller on the head and said, "Don' chu worry lil' pardner, momma will be home soon." And lapsed back into my coma. Comforted and inspired, he girded his loins (as well as a 3 year-old can), poured himself a tropical juice, kicked back, and turned on Cartoon Network.
Actually, I carried him around the house and showed him there was nothing to be afraid of. But sometimes the truth takes a hit when there's a better story to be told.
I know. You're saying, "Cut the crap Dale. What are you getting The Wife for Mother's day?" I was hoping to avoid the point. And you ask it so bluntly it hurts even more. For I took my wife at her word. She has said, "Don't buy me anything, I want services." So today I mowed the lawn. You laugh in derision, you sneer in contempt (for how else does one sneer?)
But I ask for a little understanding. After all the rains we've had it was not a mowing so much as a first cutting. Everything had to be mowed twice to get it even, a job more worthy of a combine than a mower. The backyard now looks completely green-mulched. It looks like the next step is baling it. I would much rather have bought her some opal earrings, and left the mowing for her to do. But I did not. So you see, the way of love is not easy. Because if she wants it raked she can do it herself.
If you're here, you read the whole thing, and need to find something better to do with your time.
Wednesday morning went to the doctor cuz of the pain recurrences. She basically told me to take more pills and see if it helps. She was happy with my blood pressure though, 129/80, guess that's ok. The next cholesterol check isn't until July.
I'm trying to do better about that. Thursday I had the Jones for sourdough at lunch. Yes, really. So I got a Western burger at Hardees. I removed the bacon. Didn't want to. But I removed the bacon. Didn't eat it after removing it, I'm not a lawyer. No, the bacon was actually trashed. Still didn't eat it, cuz I'm not Bill Clinton. At this time it is either in the landfill, or the janitor.
Thought I'd be better Friday and have a salad. But when I called Panera to order one, it listed their soups automatically. The last one was corn chowder with green chili's. Couldn't resist, so I ordered the Pick Two and got half a salad and the chowder. It's not easy being weak, but I am well-fed. Only one problem, they gave me a fork, but no spoon. The chowder was thick, but not that thick. Had to walk back to the conference room to get a spoon, proving that no matter how inconsequential, you will get at least one bitch per e-mail, guaranteed.
And nobody else, nobody else, will guarantee that. Admittedly, some may do better than that. But the guarantee has a certain je nais se quos, whatever that is.
Thursday we had a terrific storm, funnel clouds and golfball size hail. At least a dozen dents per vehicle. I would have slept through it but Trainboy was so scared he sat by me and screamed and screamed and screamed. Between sleep deprivation and all the pain pills I was in La La land, wherever that is. I don't remember cuz I was asleep. Had the hail pierced the roof and hit me, it would not have hurt. Such are the marvels of modern medicine.
But having come out of my near-coma, I sized up the situation immediately. He needed comforting and strength, so immediately I slipped into a John Wayne impersonation. I patted the little feller on the head and said, "Don' chu worry lil' pardner, momma will be home soon." And lapsed back into my coma. Comforted and inspired, he girded his loins (as well as a 3 year-old can), poured himself a tropical juice, kicked back, and turned on Cartoon Network.
Actually, I carried him around the house and showed him there was nothing to be afraid of. But sometimes the truth takes a hit when there's a better story to be told.
I know. You're saying, "Cut the crap Dale. What are you getting The Wife for Mother's day?" I was hoping to avoid the point. And you ask it so bluntly it hurts even more. For I took my wife at her word. She has said, "Don't buy me anything, I want services." So today I mowed the lawn. You laugh in derision, you sneer in contempt (for how else does one sneer?)
But I ask for a little understanding. After all the rains we've had it was not a mowing so much as a first cutting. Everything had to be mowed twice to get it even, a job more worthy of a combine than a mower. The backyard now looks completely green-mulched. It looks like the next step is baling it. I would much rather have bought her some opal earrings, and left the mowing for her to do. But I did not. So you see, the way of love is not easy. Because if she wants it raked she can do it herself.
If you're here, you read the whole thing, and need to find something better to do with your time.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
originally 9/24/00
Usually I try to have some laughs when doing this. Not in the mood yet. In
the paper it said some yo-yo (my term, not the papers) went on a rampage in
Virginia. He went to a gay bar and dispensed his justice with a gun. The
only time that ever appears to be a good idea is when you're judge, jury and
executioner. And though there are times you can sympathize with vigilante
justice, capital punishment should be reserved for capital crimes.
Shooting up bar because it caters to gays makes no more sense than a Cyclone
fan shooting up a Hawkeye bar. Nobody was getting hurt until the
self-righteous yo-yo walked in the door. There may have been people in the
bar who deserved to die but the shooter couldn't have known who, or why.
It would not make me happy if the shooter claims to be a fundamentalist
Christian and doing the work of God. Guys like this give God a bad name.
There are a number of reasons he couldn't have been doing God's work. I know,
you already agree with me, but I'm not going to stop till I'm done.
First, God does not send individuals to be judge, jury, and executioner. I'm
not aware of one instance in the Bible where he does that.
Second, Jesus said "Judge not, lest ye be judged." In one famous incident he
saved an adultress from being stoned. She was guilty, certainly was guilty.
But he refused to allow a personal morality crime to cause a punishment with
death. It makes sense, you can't repent and be saved if you're dead. And God
looks at the big picture.
Third, in the Bible it clearly says ,"All have sinned and fallen short of the
glory of God." In Christianity 101 you're taught we all deserve to die, but
Christ paid the penalty so we might live. So, if he wanted to be
theologically sound, he should have just walked down the street and shot
everyone he saw, men, women, and children, and saved the last round for
himself.
The last part always gets me. How many times do you hear of some flake
killing his family, fully intending to kill himself last. They almost always
lose their nerve when it comes to themselves. Killing the wife and kids was
easy. But looking down the barrel and pulling the trigger is just too
personal. To get rid of him is going to take 20 years of appeals while he's
on death row.
And there you have it. A good case for capital punishment. And you'd have to
agree, if killing a family warrants death, so does killing somebody who just
went out to have a beer.
You may be thinking I'm taking the death of a gay kind of personally. Well, I
am. Because before I married The Wife, or even dated her, I was frustrated
and decided to attend a singles' dance in Rock Island. I don't know Rock
Island very well at all. And as I was walking down a block trying to find the
dance a car full of guys drove by and started yelling at me.
They yelled in mass quantities, most of which I couldn't understand, but
"faggot," and "queer" were pretty recognizable. There wasn't anybody else
around I could have been associating with. Looking back, I'm glad it wasn't
dark, and that they didn't have bats or guns. Because there was no doubt in
my mind they were quite hostile towards me.
I have never been offended by a gay. Straights have hurt me mucho, but I
don't hold it against them. I have never heard of carloads of gays cruising
to beatup straights. Or gay-supremacists holing up in Idaho. Or gay-cultists
drinking poison kool-aid.
While we're at it, may I say I disagree with prisons? Because I do. In the
Bible God's people do not have prisons. If you're guilty you pay restitution,
or in a capital crime you die. A much simpler way to do things, and it ends
punishment creating a harder, more vicious, and knowledgeable criminal. Saves
the State mucho bucks also.
So the gay-killer in Virginia should be shot, since it's impossible to pay
restitution to a dead man, and prison time isn't going to help him. On the
other hand, prison time may give him a new perspective on the gay life-style.
He may completely change his attitude the first time he's called
"girlfriend."
Well it's late, got to end this. Will e-mail you again later. That's a
promise, not a threat. Actually, that depends on your attitude. Even so it's
not a jailable offense. So sue me.
Usually I try to have some laughs when doing this. Not in the mood yet. In
the paper it said some yo-yo (my term, not the papers) went on a rampage in
Virginia. He went to a gay bar and dispensed his justice with a gun. The
only time that ever appears to be a good idea is when you're judge, jury and
executioner. And though there are times you can sympathize with vigilante
justice, capital punishment should be reserved for capital crimes.
Shooting up bar because it caters to gays makes no more sense than a Cyclone
fan shooting up a Hawkeye bar. Nobody was getting hurt until the
self-righteous yo-yo walked in the door. There may have been people in the
bar who deserved to die but the shooter couldn't have known who, or why.
It would not make me happy if the shooter claims to be a fundamentalist
Christian and doing the work of God. Guys like this give God a bad name.
There are a number of reasons he couldn't have been doing God's work. I know,
you already agree with me, but I'm not going to stop till I'm done.
First, God does not send individuals to be judge, jury, and executioner. I'm
not aware of one instance in the Bible where he does that.
Second, Jesus said "Judge not, lest ye be judged." In one famous incident he
saved an adultress from being stoned. She was guilty, certainly was guilty.
But he refused to allow a personal morality crime to cause a punishment with
death. It makes sense, you can't repent and be saved if you're dead. And God
looks at the big picture.
Third, in the Bible it clearly says ,"All have sinned and fallen short of the
glory of God." In Christianity 101 you're taught we all deserve to die, but
Christ paid the penalty so we might live. So, if he wanted to be
theologically sound, he should have just walked down the street and shot
everyone he saw, men, women, and children, and saved the last round for
himself.
The last part always gets me. How many times do you hear of some flake
killing his family, fully intending to kill himself last. They almost always
lose their nerve when it comes to themselves. Killing the wife and kids was
easy. But looking down the barrel and pulling the trigger is just too
personal. To get rid of him is going to take 20 years of appeals while he's
on death row.
And there you have it. A good case for capital punishment. And you'd have to
agree, if killing a family warrants death, so does killing somebody who just
went out to have a beer.
You may be thinking I'm taking the death of a gay kind of personally. Well, I
am. Because before I married The Wife, or even dated her, I was frustrated
and decided to attend a singles' dance in Rock Island. I don't know Rock
Island very well at all. And as I was walking down a block trying to find the
dance a car full of guys drove by and started yelling at me.
They yelled in mass quantities, most of which I couldn't understand, but
"faggot," and "queer" were pretty recognizable. There wasn't anybody else
around I could have been associating with. Looking back, I'm glad it wasn't
dark, and that they didn't have bats or guns. Because there was no doubt in
my mind they were quite hostile towards me.
I have never been offended by a gay. Straights have hurt me mucho, but I
don't hold it against them. I have never heard of carloads of gays cruising
to beatup straights. Or gay-supremacists holing up in Idaho. Or gay-cultists
drinking poison kool-aid.
While we're at it, may I say I disagree with prisons? Because I do. In the
Bible God's people do not have prisons. If you're guilty you pay restitution,
or in a capital crime you die. A much simpler way to do things, and it ends
punishment creating a harder, more vicious, and knowledgeable criminal. Saves
the State mucho bucks also.
So the gay-killer in Virginia should be shot, since it's impossible to pay
restitution to a dead man, and prison time isn't going to help him. On the
other hand, prison time may give him a new perspective on the gay life-style.
He may completely change his attitude the first time he's called
"girlfriend."
Well it's late, got to end this. Will e-mail you again later. That's a
promise, not a threat. Actually, that depends on your attitude. Even so it's
not a jailable offense. So sue me.
Monday, April 21, 2003
Originally 09/12/00
It's true. I'm back, grayer, but just as foolish.
May I start with a few humble thank you's.
To Bill, who befriended me when I feared there would never be another. Thank
you. Swift, strong, deadly. Your aim is true, your foot is large.
To Ron, who took the trouble to find me, and reminded me it's important to
laugh everyday. Who expanded my horizons by taking me on bike rides with his
writings. And told me I say "alot" alot, and alot isn't even a word. I'll try
to keep ahold of that truth. Thank you, alot.
To Randy, my artistic brother, who inspires many with his work. And has
helpful hints, like, "if a fingernail splits seal it with super glue." Don't
laugh, it works. But I liked the resulting gloss so much it made me uneasy.
Thank you.
To Mavis. For Saturdays filled with coffee and laughter. My weekly oasis of
sanity. Thank you.
By the way, Mavis had a helpful hint of her own I'd like to share. My glasses
were turning my temples green, and my watch was turning my wrist green also.
Were I younger I would have been content to sit on fashions cutting edge. But
I am not, so I was not. Besides, a razor is no place to park your butt. There
are probably Public Service Announcements about it, or there should be.
Anyway, Mavis told me to get some clear nail polish and coat the offending
articles. It worked.
Some of the more cynical and snide of you are speculating I was tempted to do
my fingernails at the same time, or at least my toenails. Not really, because
I tend to go overboard when I do things. First the nails, then I'd be looking
through the Wife's closet. Be realistic, I'm a foot taller and a 100 pounds
heavier, nothing of hers is going to fit. With her clothes and this beard I'd
look like a hooker from Jersey.
That was in terribly poor taste. Wish I could say for sure it won't happen
again. But I can't, so I won't. Sorry. Let's move on.
But not too far. More about me. Sunday morning, on the way to church, I
noticed the car was wet, and there were tree branches laying in the street.
Immediately, my clever brain recognized the significance so I asked the wife,
"Was there a storm last night honey?"
Her reply was somewhat exasperated. She informed me there had not been a
storm that went through, but two storms. Neither she nor the kids could sleep
for the pounding hail, and the cannon-like thunder from the lightning that was
so close she almost felt like a lottery winner thank you very much. As you
can surmise from this story, I slept through it all. My talents tend to be
worthless to society, but they work for me.
The only other gift I have is world-class snoring. It's not really useful either,
not even to me. But my neighbor alledges he has seen it make bats flee the
attic. We need another witness to make that legal. My snoring is so vigorous it aparently causes my ribs
to bruise. The Wife has complained my snoring makes it hard for her to sleep.
Personally, I think it has more to do with her carpal tunnel syndrome, and
sore elbows. Who can say, I'm not a doctor and it's pure speculation. But
I'm sure she loves me. On the other hand, she gets kind of cranky when she's
tired. But enough about me. Let's move on again.
In the news lately, have been some animal right activists from Canada. This
one kind of hurts, because you always knew, "When this country goes to hell
I'm heading for Canada." We are apparently losing that option. The walls are
closing in and I'm finding it very hard to breath, just because of those
activists.
To explain, in case you haven't heard. A bunch of hosehead activists freed
14, count 'em, 14,000 minks from an Iowa mink farm. An Iowa farm, so how
does that usually go? Put a piece of grass in your teeth and your thumbs in
your bibs and say: It rained last night,near-catastrophe, but it was good for the minks.
Or, Yeah, it's hot, but it's good for the minks. Get your minks in yet? ...
How do you farm minks? I don'tknow. Here's an idea, send me your best
mink farm joke and I'll giggle andpass them on. They've got to be better than mine.
And doesn't that make you feel just a little better about yourself?
Minks. Back to the minks. So they released 14k minks. About half have been
recaptured, like fugitive felons. The other half were hit by cars. Which is
kind of crazy, because it's a rural area. There couldn't have been that many
cars. Were the drivers trying to score full-length coats? Were the minks so
disoriented or grief-stricken they were throwing themselves in front of cars?
Is it possible they were actually lemmings, counterfeit minks, and they just
naturally laid down in the road en masse? I don't know, and the media aren't
telling. I smell coverup. It could make a terrific state slogan though,
"Iowa, Better Road Kill Than Beverly Hills." But I digress.
Upon being told of the massive loss of mink life, the head of the organization
that did it (Great White PETA?) said the minks were going to die anyway. Cold
comfort to the surviving minks. I think the guy and his followers should be
hunted down and shot. It wouldn't be a great loss, they're going to die
anyway.
That was a long trip around a small barn.
In the news today it was said the same gallant band of idiots freed a ...
bunch of pigeons. Mucho of them died. (are you happy Ron?) The owners are
trying to catch the rest before they too die. Because there aren't enough
statues in the area for them to survive. The Gallant Band of Idiots may
profess to love mother nature, but they do not know her ways.
(Everyone nod soberly)
I could have sworn I was going to cover more ground than that. But it's too
late, and the bats are getting rowdy. Sometimes a man has to do what a man
has to do, and the wife doesn't get any sleep.
You clean your mind up right now.
Good night all.
It's true. I'm back, grayer, but just as foolish.
May I start with a few humble thank you's.
To Bill, who befriended me when I feared there would never be another. Thank
you. Swift, strong, deadly. Your aim is true, your foot is large.
To Ron, who took the trouble to find me, and reminded me it's important to
laugh everyday. Who expanded my horizons by taking me on bike rides with his
writings. And told me I say "alot" alot, and alot isn't even a word. I'll try
to keep ahold of that truth. Thank you, alot.
To Randy, my artistic brother, who inspires many with his work. And has
helpful hints, like, "if a fingernail splits seal it with super glue." Don't
laugh, it works. But I liked the resulting gloss so much it made me uneasy.
Thank you.
To Mavis. For Saturdays filled with coffee and laughter. My weekly oasis of
sanity. Thank you.
By the way, Mavis had a helpful hint of her own I'd like to share. My glasses
were turning my temples green, and my watch was turning my wrist green also.
Were I younger I would have been content to sit on fashions cutting edge. But
I am not, so I was not. Besides, a razor is no place to park your butt. There
are probably Public Service Announcements about it, or there should be.
Anyway, Mavis told me to get some clear nail polish and coat the offending
articles. It worked.
Some of the more cynical and snide of you are speculating I was tempted to do
my fingernails at the same time, or at least my toenails. Not really, because
I tend to go overboard when I do things. First the nails, then I'd be looking
through the Wife's closet. Be realistic, I'm a foot taller and a 100 pounds
heavier, nothing of hers is going to fit. With her clothes and this beard I'd
look like a hooker from Jersey.
That was in terribly poor taste. Wish I could say for sure it won't happen
again. But I can't, so I won't. Sorry. Let's move on.
But not too far. More about me. Sunday morning, on the way to church, I
noticed the car was wet, and there were tree branches laying in the street.
Immediately, my clever brain recognized the significance so I asked the wife,
"Was there a storm last night honey?"
Her reply was somewhat exasperated. She informed me there had not been a
storm that went through, but two storms. Neither she nor the kids could sleep
for the pounding hail, and the cannon-like thunder from the lightning that was
so close she almost felt like a lottery winner thank you very much. As you
can surmise from this story, I slept through it all. My talents tend to be
worthless to society, but they work for me.
The only other gift I have is world-class snoring. It's not really useful either,
not even to me. But my neighbor alledges he has seen it make bats flee the
attic. We need another witness to make that legal. My snoring is so vigorous it aparently causes my ribs
to bruise. The Wife has complained my snoring makes it hard for her to sleep.
Personally, I think it has more to do with her carpal tunnel syndrome, and
sore elbows. Who can say, I'm not a doctor and it's pure speculation. But
I'm sure she loves me. On the other hand, she gets kind of cranky when she's
tired. But enough about me. Let's move on again.
In the news lately, have been some animal right activists from Canada. This
one kind of hurts, because you always knew, "When this country goes to hell
I'm heading for Canada." We are apparently losing that option. The walls are
closing in and I'm finding it very hard to breath, just because of those
activists.
To explain, in case you haven't heard. A bunch of hosehead activists freed
14, count 'em, 14,000 minks from an Iowa mink farm. An Iowa farm, so how
does that usually go? Put a piece of grass in your teeth and your thumbs in
your bibs and say: It rained last night,near-catastrophe, but it was good for the minks.
Or, Yeah, it's hot, but it's good for the minks. Get your minks in yet? ...
How do you farm minks? I don'tknow. Here's an idea, send me your best
mink farm joke and I'll giggle andpass them on. They've got to be better than mine.
And doesn't that make you feel just a little better about yourself?
Minks. Back to the minks. So they released 14k minks. About half have been
recaptured, like fugitive felons. The other half were hit by cars. Which is
kind of crazy, because it's a rural area. There couldn't have been that many
cars. Were the drivers trying to score full-length coats? Were the minks so
disoriented or grief-stricken they were throwing themselves in front of cars?
Is it possible they were actually lemmings, counterfeit minks, and they just
naturally laid down in the road en masse? I don't know, and the media aren't
telling. I smell coverup. It could make a terrific state slogan though,
"Iowa, Better Road Kill Than Beverly Hills." But I digress.
Upon being told of the massive loss of mink life, the head of the organization
that did it (Great White PETA?) said the minks were going to die anyway. Cold
comfort to the surviving minks. I think the guy and his followers should be
hunted down and shot. It wouldn't be a great loss, they're going to die
anyway.
That was a long trip around a small barn.
In the news today it was said the same gallant band of idiots freed a ...
bunch of pigeons. Mucho of them died. (are you happy Ron?) The owners are
trying to catch the rest before they too die. Because there aren't enough
statues in the area for them to survive. The Gallant Band of Idiots may
profess to love mother nature, but they do not know her ways.
(Everyone nod soberly)
I could have sworn I was going to cover more ground than that. But it's too
late, and the bats are getting rowdy. Sometimes a man has to do what a man
has to do, and the wife doesn't get any sleep.
You clean your mind up right now.
Good night all.