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Monday, August 20, 2001
Please note that this particular topic occurred to me while at work today, and is in no way reflective of recent ... discussion-provoking posts I've done here... -- jd.
As a kid, I can remember the semi-regular visits of an aunt and uncle. As there are perhaps 9 or 10 people in the world who would immediately be able to identify them from any details I put up here, I'll spare them. Should any of those people read this, they'll remember, though.
Their visits were typically on Sundays, in the afternoons. Time of year didn't matter, though summer was typically more regular for their visitations. We all had some sort of instinctual knowledge of when it would happen, too. Like snow on a November wind, or geese flying south - we knew they were coming before their car buzzed into view.
My mother would, somehow, always manage to have a "special" Sunday dinner on the table. I don't know that my aunt always remembered to call ahead. Most times, I remember "oh, guess who's wandering the yard?" as our first notice. But somehow, mom would pull it off.
What was all the more surprising was that my mother was a bit ... I dunno, intimidated by her older sister. Early on, she wasn't around much (let's just say she worked out of state). After a few years, she returned, and by then, we'd seen in visits what she'd been capable of, so most of us five kids were on our best behavior when the aunt would visit - we'd also be seething, just under the surface, for a fight. If she started it, we'd certainly wade in. Politely, of course - my parents taught us at least that much.
Rarely would we get to bare claws and go at it. As the years went by, most of us pulled back our claws and basically saw that there really wasn't as much passive-aggressiveness as we'd expected. Though there were times...
My aunt would put her head back, and look through the bottom portion of her bifocals, and deliver a line - that's the only thing I can think of. She'd do it sitting, or standing, regardless of how short or tall you were. It gave her voice a rather odd quality - as if she were trying to project it louder and more forcefully at you.
Which made the occasions all the more fun. On more than a few, I was fortunate enough to wade in and point out where there were factual or logical errors in the whole process which ruined her sonorous pronouncements. As the years went on, she learned not to mess with me on the space program (especially the technical details - I could lay hands on NASA press releases to prove my points), computers (duh), and in some cases, even history and religion. Which was REALLY fun...
However, most of the time the conversations were more mundane. Less meat, and more ... well, medical procedures, to be blunt about it. Topics you never imagined discussing over food.
Both of my parents were older than average (my Dad was 41, and as for my mom's age, I'm sorry, that's classified, on a need to know, limited disclosure basis. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. And if you think that was invented with software disclosures or military secrecy, you've never seen a real "lady" discuss her age. 'Nuff said). Given that, many of their peers were roaring into those delicate years where gastro-enterology goes from one of those funny, vaguely-sounding words to a vital member of the health care team. It took a few years for me to be able to say "scope" without sniggering, truth be told.
When one is forced to listen to discussions of an intestinal disorder whilst eating a roast, it's just not a pleasant dinner. Neither is eating corn-on-the-cob when problems of a more ... shall we say delicate nature related to one's ... fundament are on the discussion menu du jour.
Given that trauma in my childhood, I am, perhaps, somewhat over-sensitive to certain dinner-table topics. Some weeks back, when a number of us gathered for an impromptu dinner out (I was helping one fellow, who was helping another, and we called a third to see if he was available for some stupid time, which he was provided he brought the kids, and then his wife decided to come along, after which another fellow's wife decided she was in the neighborhood, leaving only my wife with my kids thirty miles away saying "oh well, maybe next time"). Somehow, shortly, the conversation devolved to a discussion of the merits of disposable diapers. Over Mexican food.
I think there's a function of age which kicks in and says "you know what? You're not getting any younger - you'd best ask these questions and get this input as soon as you can, because God Only Knows when you'll get the chance again." I call it the "GOK" factor. Kids are unconcerned. For them, a two-hour nap is "forever" (for me it's more like nibbling at the edge of an oreo, which I personally find as a "bite-sized snack", but that's another story).
Sane, normal, otherwise decent folk discussing, over a nice dinner, the mechanics of this or that procedure, what was done at the last doctor visit, or, Heaven forfend, that exam that makes all men breathe a little deeper and say "well, if I have to, I hope the Doc's got fairly long, skinny fingers." (think about it).
I'm not sure how far this "trend" goes back, but I'm also nearly certain that while I value other folk's perspectives, knowing where the doctor stuck the latest gadget is not my idea of dinner-table conversation. Certain topics just shouldn't be discussed in polite company... Especially over rump roast.
And with that, we roar into another week like a gopher out-running a lawn mower. Or trying very hard to. Tonight's dinner with the realtor went well - well enough that we're actually STILL considering buying a home! We like the woman we're working with - well, I like her, and Ann's opinion is that we've upgraded from glass of stuff to bucket of stuff... Oh well. It's all a mess. You that have purchased homes know this. We're finding this out. The way I look at it is that there are far more people living in houses than are in apartments. If it were so painful, they wouldn't buy. It's just that simple.
I did have an idea which we're going to work on - a short one or two page letter (with photos) to include with the dull, dry, boring stuff the seller receives - might improve our odds of getting the house a bit.
And just a short aside to that Alan G fellow - I personally feel the economy will benefit from, and not be overheated by, a full two percent reduction in ALL interest rates. By all means, while I think it's a bold move, it's also a worthy experiment I'm willing to watch... 'Kay?
Some good news this morning from our realtor - it's a wee bit more, and less complicated than we'd expected with our pre-approval process. The fellow working with us hasn't been ignoring us - he's been taking care of a new baby. Gee, haven't I heard that from somewhere else recently? ;-)
So, short version is that he's working as fast as he can - we'll get through the mill. Our interpretations of the pauses between contacts were that he was hesitant to work with us - nope; it's called Labor and Delivery. One less thing to sweat.
I've been in my new cube all of about four weeks now. I've noticed that the sun is definitely falling in the sky. My building's one of those designed and built in the early seventies when we were first applying brain-power to the idea of "energy conservation" - we've got tall, thin windows with overhangs (you might call them eaves, but since I'm on the third floor of a four-story building, it's an overhang to me) that are calculated to keep direct sunlight out during the hotter summer months, and allow it in during the cooler winter months.
I did actually write yesterday - however, I ran out of gas before I could get it onto the internet. It's there now.
Though I saved the best of yesterday for today. Yesterday afternoon, when I was with the kids in the car waiting for their mother (here at the Dominik Hovel, we don't believe in locking children into a car without ventilation. We include an adult for good measure), outside a bookstore (yet another SOP - if we all go in, we all come out with books - multiples. When the budget isn't structured to support such purchases, we instead send only one person in. As it is also the one who pays the bills, we rely on her good graces to not overspend the amounts we've previously budgetted), I was flipping radio stations. There was precious little worth listening to on the standard stations, and I got no reaction from the back seat, so I decided to change to scanning for stations. And I found one. A polka station.
After a few minutes, I looked into the back to see if I had two children willingly choking themselves into oblivion, or if they were enjoying it. They were, in fact, playing quietly. So, in my infinite wisdom, I asked "how's the music?"
"Yucky" says Rhiannon, immediately. I turn to look over the other shoulder. "Jack, what do you think?"
"It's freakin me out, man" came out of his mouth, in one of the best Cheech & Chong impressions I've ever heard... From a four year old, at any rate.
So Polka goes onto the forbidden list in the household - fine by me. I'm only going to miss the old "Beer Barrel Polka" - which leads to today's funny conclusion, if you want to call it that...
When I was in high school, which spanned fall of 1978 to spring of 1982 (omigawd - twenty years ago I was a senior in high school - what in the hell happened HERE?!?!?!) I was quite musical. Well, I was a percussionist. But during my last three years, I was a member of the "pep band". Pep band played at all of the high school pep rallies, plus typically one or two events per week during the year to increase attendence at games and events. Of course, then we went to all of the tournament games we could make (starting with sub-section, section, district, region, and state).
Every fall we'd spend from the beginning of the year until homecoming working on pep band music and the homecoming field show. After that we'd work on the fall concert music.
With the stage set, I vividly remember the beginning of "political correctness" in my high school. It came after a subsection tournament girl's volleyball game (conveniently, at home in our gym) when several school board members attended the game. Strange that no one had ever bothered to do so before, but maybe they did without their hearing aids. Anyway, I digress.
The drill went something like this - we'd arrive about 45 minutes prior to the start of the game, get seated in the bleachers, and warmed up (it's relatively easy to get into a high school sports event when you're carrying a drum bigger than some of the ticket takers. Works every time, trust me). Then we'd play for about 30 minutes prior to the start of the game, play the national anthem, the school song, and hang out until halftime, when we'd play again for however long that took. During volleyball games, we were a bit more on our toes, as we played during timeouts and between matches. But that was about it.
Our band director had file folders with the song names written large on them. Of course, some were corrupted or abbreviated. One of our songs was "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple. Ever the artist, our band director had written "H20" and drawn a squiggley line above it (which was supposed to be smoke - you can see we didn't concentrate exclusively on music - we also worked on signs and signals ;-).
Some of our other songs were "Birdland" and "The Horse" and "Beginnings" (the Chicago version), and a few favorites such as "The Stripper" and "Beer Barrel Polka".
I was standing in the band director's office the morning after the game, when he got a phone call - which was odd enough. After that, he came out to talk to some of us.
Seems the school board had held a telephone conference and discussed the rather inappropriate nature of having the catholic high school play songs that celebrate drinking, lewd and wanton conduct, and drug use (apparently they thought "smoke on the water" was about something else - it wasn't until I was in college that I learned about a hookah - so I was sheltered - so sue me ;-).
I'm not quite sure how they justified the whole "no beer barrel polka" and then going out for beers after the school board meeting... Allegedly. Oh well. I'm sure it makes sense somewhere...
Tuesday, August 21, 2001
Oh, kripes... We'll start with the funny first. You'd think these spammers would learn.... This arrived (or was excreted) with the topic "Real University Diplomas!"
UNIVERSITY DIPLOMAS
Really! Wow. I'da thought you'd have to go to, like, skool or somethun. Guess they fooled me, eh?
Obtain a prosporous future,
Hmmm... lots of power to grant a piece of paper. Then again, I do it with a paycheck, so there ya go. I
think I know what "pourous" is, and I know what prosperous is, but I'm not sure what "prosporous" is. Perhaps
it's a professional pourer. I dunno.
money earning power,
Is that "money-earning power" or are we bestowing on money the actual ability to earn power? If so,
what kind? Nuclear, political, mechanical, horsepower, or plain old
electric? If it's electric, shouldn't
you be selling this shite to California? I think they could use it.
and the admiration of all.
Gee. I thought my sparkling wit, good cheer, stunning good looks, hard-body physique, and large sexual organs
did that. Oh well. Four of five ain't bad... Okay, three. Two? All right, at least leave me one... Ah,
damn.
Diplomas from prestigious non-accredited universities
First of all, there's the whole "non-accredited" bit. I'll bet that costs a LOT of money to get that little
designation... heh. And - Didja ever notice the word "diploma" has the word "dip" in it? Also, the word
"loma" but then again, outside of places like "Loma Linda" (which I presume is somewhere near "Yorba Linda"
unless this "Linda" person really got around - physically, I mean. Oh, I mean geographically. Oh, hell
with it. You know what I mean. Anyway), diploma has a dip in it. As do the purchasers of this shit,
which could well make them a "dip-shit". Hmmm... Scarey.
based on your present knowledge and life experience.
Really! Wow. A degree in ... oh, I dunno. General obfuscation, ignoring FUD, stubborn persistence in the face of
overwhelming odds and factual evidence, miraculous results in minimal time, supreme effort on the behalf of a
completely lost cause, and towering intellect... That would look good on the wall. Of course, I'd have to get
a bigger wall. And make sure it was firmly attached to it so that when I run out of toilet paper, someone doesn't
mistake my diploma for "Charmin™"
No required tests, classes, books, or interviews.
Really. No proof at all that you've even got a brain in your head, or elsewhere on your anatomy, come to think of it.
I should get one of those for my cat. Then again, he's probably an accredited faculty member with full tenure there...
Whyinhell he's not paying rent I've yet to understand... Unless feline excrement is actually a form of currency...
Oh, no, wouldn't that just suck?
Save thousands on tuition fees.
I should think so. Since I'd be paying for an education, and instead I'm paying for paper - hell, I can get a copy of
anything for a nickle at the grocery store. So this should cost me, what, a nickle plus postage? Assuming, of course,
you're an "honest" business-person. Ahem. And since I'm paying you in "feline currency" you should be quite happy...
Bachelors, masters, MBA, and doctorate (PhD)
Wow. Fancy that. I could get the full gamut and be a well-respected doctor of ... what, I dunno - stupid stuff? No, I
know - "observed moronic tendencies". Yup. And my thesis was on "self-abusers who have gravitated to electronic-mail
marketing to increase their social stature and sexual prowess." Sheesh. I should be able to pile that higher and deeper
without a powered shovel... or a lot of effort.
diplomas available in the field of your choice.
Ah, there's that "dip" again. As to the field of choice, there's one just off I-94 south of St. Cloud that looks
pretty nice. Could I get it there? Why not? How about left field, Tiger stadium? Wembley?
No one is turned down.
I should think not - finding a sucker this stupid takes an awful lot of work, you certainly wouldn't want to deny them
the opportunity to squander hard-earned wealth on such an important collection of ... well, stuff.
Confidentiality assured.
Oh, I'm sure of that. I wouldn't want it getting out that I did this in my parent's basement, either.
CALL NOW
Right. What's wrong with an e-mail? Oh, that's right. They shut your ass down as soon as they catch you, and
mom and dad don't get the phone bill until next month. Right. Clear as glass.
to receive your diploma
And again with the dip comments... Unless it's some sort of secret mating call. Dear God, I could be attracting
them just by saying it! RUN!
within days!!!
I suppose waiting this long is likely to make me impatient. Right. Besides, the three exclaimation points assure
me you are most certainly a well-respected business-person. Only creeps use two.
1-212-465-3248
You call. Me, I'm not that desperate. For a diploma. Oops. Here it comes again. Where's my pointed punji
stick?
Call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week,
Call any time! My folks will answer for you if it's after my bed time. And it's likely that this is a voice-box
which is picked up from elsewhere, thus confusing the responsible person further - my hunch is they'll tell you to
fedex cash or a cashier's check, or certified funds, and they'll get you your paperwork the same way, thus avoiding
the "using the mails to defraud" intent of the law there...
including Sundays and holidays.
Ah. No life. Schmucks.
While I do know that people with more than one office frequently want to have multiple copies of their diplomas (I once was in a Dentist's office where he had three diplomas on the wall in each examining room. Weird, but hey, that works for me), I can't see any legitimate reason whatsoever to order such a diploma. And you can take that straight to the bank, said John Dominik, BA, BS, MA, MS, MBA, Ph.D., Ll.D, CFU. See, I've got a laser printer and some certificate stock, so I ... never mind. ;-)
(Full disclosure - we've a friend who works for the state government's revenue department - Ann also works in a building dominated by the state attorney general's offices - that said, you've been warned)
And while we narrowly avoided a government shutdown by the elected idiots in this state earlier this summer, we're barreling for one anyway. Politics often seems to me the art of exploring the possible, discussing the likely, and then selecting a jackass to drive the bus over the cliff. Since it's a self-inflicted jackass installation, I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. On the one hand, we certainly get a double bang for our bucks - entertainment AND state services. On the other, well, it's tough to sit by and watch people suffer...
The story goes like this - governor gets elected without a fundamental understanding of the workings of government. Nothing wrong there as long as old chrome-dome listens to reason. Oops, small problem - he's packed his ears with sand - ah, wrestling. Doesn't realize HE sets priorities for spending, etc. First budget year he makes deals and then renegs on them, happy as a clam. Legislators, who agreed to and sold deals, sit in the clam stew, and stew themselves with fantasies of stewed Goofy.
Second year (bonding) does nothing to upset the apple cart. Governor grumbles along, vetos some things, stating they should be budget items. Passes out second round of tax rebates. More happy clam-like noises. Big surpluses predicted, etc., and he moves on. Complains loudly as school districts have to fork over large raises to teachers (who've had their pay and numbers cut for the last few years), and yells very loudly about balanced budgets (as it's a requirement that most governmental entities here have them).
Third year (his second budget) submits to legislature a budget with "broad outlines". Forgets, or neglects, the fact that he's got some 30,000 people who are about to re-negotiate a contract. Does nothing to push a raise for his state employees, whom he also represents as the head of the state's largest employer.
Now, one short disquisition. In the last year I've spent more time than average in face-to-face consultations with these state workers, for various reasons. One fellow working in a very, very data intensive job as he sat across his desk from me - his thirty-years of service award obvious for all to see on the cube wall behind him. Stacks and stacks of paper. Could you find a computer in his cube? Nope. "we share - eight of us."
This from the state that's refunded nearly a thousand dollars to me in the last three years via the "sales tax rebate" method. His pen was chained to his desk because he only got so many to last the year. When I asked if they were going to computerize the process we were going through, he looked at me as if I were mad. "Nope. They can't even pay us. I haven't even kept up with inflation over the last eight years."
No wonder it takes eight to twelve weeks to transfer my picture from a digital camera to a plastic card, laminate that card, and put it in an envelope and mail it to me. Sheesh.
Mind you, over the last eight years, "inflation" has been minimal - nearly non-existent. And yet we're expecting quality service from these people who are chaining pens to their desk with string they're bringing from home so they don't have to buy more because they can't afford them due to the pay cut they've endured the last eight or nine years. . .
Back to the main story - Governor goofy sends budget to legislature, and provides minimal - nearly non-existent wage increases. At the same time, he's increasing the employee contribution to their health care - in effect, cutting their pay.
"But," you say loudly, "these are 'public servants'! They shouldn't get rich on the work they do!!" Damn straight. They shouldn't. But they should be able to feed their families, clothe them, and be able to survive day in and day out, and maybe get ahead a little. We're not talking the lottery here; we're talking 30,000 state employees who have been getting screwed for the last eight years.
Look at it a different way - state workers who are below the poverty line qualify for ... public assistance - which is my tax dollars times two (one buck to give to the poor fellow, and another buck, or forty-eight to administer it), or more. So instead of paying them a living wage, Gov. Goofy decides "we don't need to pay decent wages, dem bums can get dem part-time jobs here in dat dere store dere."
"Besides," says Governor Goofy, "I just told dem school districts dey can't approve contracts dat will put dere budgets out of balance. I can't go out of balance on the state level after yelling at the schools!" Right. So what did you budget, you cheap SOB? 3.5%. "With performance incentives, we're talking almost 5%" says the state commissioner of employee relations. Right - for a few people. Some of the time. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
So, here we sit - Governor on one side, calling up the national guard to staff vets homes, other state facilities. State employee unions on the other, watching, remembering how this governor was going to "furlough" them rather than "lay them off" when the government shutdown was about to occur - key difference? "lay them off" means "can get unemployment" whereas "furlough" is a new term not covered in the various legal definitions/contracts/etc., and, it was argued, could be done without paying those who used to work benefits or unemployment compensation because other elected officials didn't do their damned jobs on time.
The deadline is, conveniently, just after labor day. Just after school starts. What a wonderful way to show kids how economics and social studies and labor and industry relations and governmental affairs and psychotics behave in close proximity to one another.
Could be worse, I guess. We're still about three weeks from the "oh, no, that *IS* snow!" season.
In the "too stupid to parent" category (sorry, Keri, skip to the next section), some parents here took a one-year-old child inner-tubing. This is a fairly innocuous pastime where the participants sit or dangle on old-fashioned inner tubes as they float down some fairly calm river. Guaranteed sunburn, if you're not careful.
Seems this family, completely bereft of anything approaching common sense, laid the one-year-old baby girl onto the father's lap. Shortly thereafter, they encountered rapids. Small ones, but rapids nonetheless. A wee bit of bouncing later, and the infant bounces out. They found the body a half-mile downriver.
There's a tough question here. Should there be some sort of IQ test when one leaves the hospital with an infant? I don't think so, but fools like this make it a tough point to argue.
Getting back to humor (or humour for those folks from "across the pond" who can't very well spell the King's english, for crying out loud ... Yes, it's a joke), Mr. Bilbrey put me on the floor this afternoon with today's post. Though as I was told, the sign said "tires or testicles - they both should stand up to a kickin'". Ouch. Good humor, that.
Speaking of other daynoters, Mr. Thompson notes that Excite@home's quickening proximity to toes-up status. That's just not good news. You see, here in the land of the dial-up, we watch city council meetings and note the frustration the city council members have with Meredith/MediaOne/AT&T BroadBand, as they've morphed down through the timeline. The mayor noted she'd been promised 1-1-2001, which has now rolled around to "Starting work spring 2002". The disappearance of another broadband provider's just not good news for us, as it behooves the others to slow expansion even more just to make sure they're not going too far, too fast.
And just to add a few more skewers to the carcass, there were reports the other day which said that Microsoft is looking to team with some other players to outbid AOL/TW if AOL attempts to buy AT&T Broadband.
Which leaves me in the utterly disgusting position of attempting to decide who to cheer for - AOL, who seems to at least be moving, AT&T, who is here, just not close enough to be useful, or Microsoft, whom I hate only slightly less than AOHell. Heck of a world, isn't it? Ah well. Necessity is the mother of strange bedfellows, and I need broadband. I'm sure someone somewhere is laughing body parts off as they read this... But I'll tell ya; next time I need a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" example, I've got one. Sheesh.
On the housing front, things are progressing smartly. We're doing it bass-ackwards, I know, but I do not want to be sitting across the table from someone and say "oh, and this is all dependent on getting stuff stacked in exactly the right order, facing Mecca, and folded properly". This, too, shall pass. I hope.
I'm off to research why my eyelids seem predetermined to meet my cheeks at earlier and earlier times lately. This will require hours of careful examination of the internal surfaces of said eyelids for just exactly what's going on here... Wish me luck... G'nite. ;-)
Wednesday, August 22, 2001
Wednesday. At
least this week it's a Thursday for me, because tomorrow, Thursday to the rest
of you, is Friday for me. I know, cruel to rub it in, but you're not
paying the high price I am - I'm going to South Dakota. No, only for a
weekend, and yes, I believe in time off for good behavior. Which means if
I behave, we'll leave early on Sunday. After all, we're talking 6-7 hours
of drive time. One way. Ugh.
First up, some indirect correspondence;
From a gentleman of the English persuasion who's confidentiality I'll
respect, mostly because it was quite fun to figure out who he REALLY
was... Seems that dastardly concocotion of deep-fried candy bars
I mentioned Sunday isn't an
"invented here" item, thank God. We only put it on a stick. Hmmm. Says
something about those of us who live in this state. Seems the
arrival to this planet of deep fried candy bars came, natively, from
those unusual folks from Scotland. While I WILL some day visit the
Scottish countryside (dour though it is reported to be), I use unusual
in the sense that these folks invented the process of deep-frying candy
bars. Not in that it would be unusual that they'd eat them, of course.
Hell, they eat Haggis, which as any good student of the film
Highlander knows...
sheep's stomach, filled with meat and barley.
And
what do you do with it?
You eat it!
How revolting!
Next, Mr. Beland has been kind enough to explain just what in the heck I've gotten myself into. I decided, after years of relying on Mr. Gibson's "shields up" evaluation, to instead download ZoneAlarm (again) to see if it will feed me even more information on my anemic internet connection. Shortly after getting my computer connected to the internet, ZA managed to disconnect IE from the net. Couldn't load a damned site, including my own ISP's. IE was allowed to connect, but with high security...
Lots and lots and lots of high-number port scans later (about one every forty seconds), Mr. Beland assures me that while it's not nice to see those high port scans, I've got bigger fish 'afryin. This will require some research. Mr. Beland will poke, and I will read, avidly, the results. And then, he's talking about building his own linux firewall for his folks... I'm gonna try and copy his work, if'n he lets me, so I'll have a good hardened wall for my own home network later on.
Seems Dr. Pournelle is being assailed by the same twits who were bothering me last March... I took my info to the State Attorney General's office - who gave me this web site to check and make sure I didn't go there and get suckered.
And it seems that SQL Server will have me and my lunch. At work, I struggle with it not behaving and driving me to drink, and in the hunt for a new home, Ann finds that occasionally, the home finder site will crap out with various MS SQL Server errors... Oh, dear. Stop laughing, you. It's not ironic, it's that damned Bad Luck fairy.
He of whom my wife and I exchanged e-mails with Mrs. Beland about. Should you happen to see a gorilla in a pink tutu wandering your neighborhood, you've been warned. And no, I don't want him back.
43560 Square feet in an acre. Why can't I remember that? ;-)
I know. Because I've got a headache. Too much PITA stuff going on. No, that's not as in bread, that's Pain in the Anterior regions. Ahem.
Seems summer's returned. Mid-sixty degree dew points, temps in the mid eighties - and we didn't turn on the air. Hmmm... G'nite.
Thursday, August 23, 2001
Rough day. Not a
rotten one, mind you, but rough enough.
Of course, with a face like that in the house, one needs to be careful how one awakes, and know just exactly what you're getting into. Not that he's sure, mind you, but someone's got to remain out of trouble to provide bail should there be a need for it. I know, ever the practical one. I've been forced to it by ... shall we say less sane house-mates.
It doesn't help any that he's nearly more muscular than I - I don't mean in size - he's still a third as big. I mean in proportion. I can hold him by the ankles, inverted, and he'll do sit-ups. Which, I am sure, will guarantee me a serious can of whoop-ass later in life. So it goes.
Given that, it's no wonder why I sleep lightly, lately. Opening one eye to that sort of look is likely to cost one the same eye. Which actually makes a pretty good argument for opening only one at a time.
Anyway... In the "public service" department, a wee bit o'history for ya. A hundred years ago, a young, dynamic President of the United States came to the Minnesota State Fair. During a speech at the Fair, he uttered a line, prophetic in so many ways.
"Speak softly," said Teddy Roosevelt, "and carry a big stick."
Many took it to be a pronouncement on foreign policy and TR's ideas on military might.
We, here, in Minnesota, thought differently. When the state fair comes around, we put food on sticks. We're a little weird that way. It could be worse, of course. If you've never had a pancake on a stick or pizza on a stick, you're in for a treat. Of course, there's also alligator, deep-fried cheese on a stick, pronto pups, corn dogs, pork chops, corn on the cob on a stick, and that ancient Scottish Favorite - Deep Fried Breaded Candy Bars on a stick.
Say it with me now. EEEEEEEEEEWWWwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww... urk.
I offer you several excuses for the lack of content here this evening...
And so I came home to nap, and tonight, pack up the car to head out tomorrow morning, bright and early, for my trip to South Dakota.
Posts will be non-existent until we return...
Yippie Skippie it's...Friday!, August 24, 2001
Move along...
Saturday, August 25, 2001
Keep moving...
Sunday, August 26, 2001
We're back,
bushed and bushwacked. But they don't get much better than that.
Short version - we left about 8:10 am Friday, and made it through mostly haze and mist to Sioux Falls prior to 12:30 pm. The good-news/bad-news surprise of the day was that the gas prices of the ... well, damned, went to $1.799. We had been paying $1.399 about two and a half weeks ago. Last week the gas popped up to $1.599, and then Thursday morning we started down the road with very consistent $1.799/gallon prices - occasionally we saw $1.699 in the Amoco and Spur stations. I dunno why. But in the little town of Trimont, Minnesota, I found $1.519. Of course, we were quite happy to top off the tank, saving twenty-eight cents a gallon - which made about $2.80 difference in the budget. Whoo hooo. Yawn.
Anyway, got to Sioux Falls, made it past there and through the 11 miles of road construction to Mitchell. Where, believe it or not, they have a Cabela's. No kidding.
I suppose here I should pop in a brief explanation of just exactly what the heck we did. The whole story starts back in May of 1966, when a fifteen-year-old sophomore girl was conducted to the spring dance by her nineteen-year-old boyfriend of several years. He was, as noted, nineteen. And, in 1966, one had many opportunities to see the world. Most of the opportunities involved military service. And his particular choice was the United States Marine Corps.
His duty station, post-basic, was the one you'd expect. South Viet Nam. No one knew what would happen, and so their "leave-taking" took one of the oldest forms. While I romanticize it a bit, the fact is that, some months later, on March 3, 1967, I was extremely fortunate that the woman I love was born. I was even more fortunate that, in a cruel yet wonderful twist of fortune, the baby girl that then-sixteen year old gave birth to was adopted to a family in Iowa, where she grew up and eventually came to the College of St. Benedict, where I met, and proposed to her.
For a few years after we married, Ann had mentioned the possibility of seeking out her birth mother and father to find out what sort of medical history she had. Nothing more than that. You see and hear all sorts of stories - some wonderful, some horrifying, of separated-at-birth-and-then-rejoined stories, which you just don't want to think of.
When Rhiannon was one and a half, we finally got the paperwork completed, and during a labor-day visit to Iowa in 1995, we dropped it, and the filing fee, off at Catholic Charities in Dubuque. Thinking we'd find out a few years down the road what happened, we were shocked to get a call a little over a month later (another story which must wait for a better time) to get the phone number and address of a couple, married, who'd had three more kids - all boys, and had been interested in keeping in touch - so interested they updated the file annually with a letter.
That's where we got Donna and Al, Reggie, Clarence, and Bret. My spare in-laws, and Ann's second family. She didn't grow up with them, and she certainly didn't expect it, but we've been welcomed with open arms and hearts. But this was going to be our .. shall we say "public unveiling." It's a little tough to be known about town as "Al, Donna, and the three boys" and suddenly this fiery red-head pops up out of nowhere and they say "here's our daughter." Uh, yeah, how's that again?
The pre-wedding preparations went ... shakily. We were met regularly with "oh, OH, so YOU'RE..." which was disconcerting. You spent a lot of time wondering what they'd been told. However, by the end of the weekend, we were pretty happy with everything. Everyone got along well, everyone said "we gotta do this more often."
Lots of old stories to us were told to new audiences. Lots of their old stories were trotted out, and we all laughed.
And the best news of all, at least to me? While my lovely bride insists on cheering for those Damned Bears and Packers, at least two of my brothers-in-law have a favorite team. And that team? Wears purple and has horns on the helmets. Yup. Somewhat embarrassing, however, to find out that the fellow who's been hopping from Oklahoma to Guam to California and other areas has a better grasp of the Vikings players (and it's still pre-season, damnit) than I do - And I work less than ten miles from their facility.
I promise you pictures tomorrow. First I've got to get them off the laptop, and since either my network's kaput or my brain's fried (hey, this is Microsoft stuff, I've got ninety cents to a dime that it's the first, and it's not because I've had a whopping 8 hours of sleep in the last 72). We'll just see how it goes.
My only advice to you from my "wild weekend"? Never, ever, ever look at an old Marine with a stack of fifty drink tickets in his vest and say "whatever you are, old man" when he asks "what you drinking?" Between that and the older two schmucks impugning my honor when it came to finishing a single beer, I really, really, REALLY regretted that.
All I can say is anyone who regularly drinks Crown Royal straight or over the rocks has no taste buds to speak of, and shouldn't be asked their opinion on any foodstuff unless it's got well over the minimum of capsaicin. Otherwise, their tongue is at best fit to judge the usefulness of sandpaper. I know mine was pretty much sandpaper when I finished.
Oh well. Discretion being the better part of valor, and age and treachery and all of that had me consume plenty of water, several aspirin, and took my time this morning. I arrived at the church prior to the baptism (one thing about far-flung military families - they tent to combine lots of events into a short space of time - we had a wedding, two baptisms, an adoption/baptism, and a gift opening all in one weekend) to listen to Al complain of queasiness and other side effects - I was fine. Gotta love those moments. ;-)
I promise more tomorrow.
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