DOAB Week of July 8, 2002

Disclaimer
The opinions and such expressed below are my own opinions. Feel free to agree or disagree as you wish, and I might publish e-mails to me that I like, and ignore those I don't. If you'd rather I didn't, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. And Thank You for stopping.

Anyway, how would he know if the recording industry is racist? I took a look at the picture with him and Al Sharpton in the article linked above - I thought it was Al Sharpton and Ozzie Osbourne, at first.

Mr. Thompson
If you can spare a moment, think a good thought for Bob Thompson and his mother - Bob's mom fell yesterday and apparently broke her leg, which, at any age, is painful. At Bob's Mom's age, it's also a pretty big health hazard. And of course, Barbara just left on a long bus trip, too.

Query Response
Well, let's see. From the bottom up, let me thank Mr. Scott for answering the third question yesterday (Ken's answer - well, yeah, Sidious/Palpatine did start the army, Fett's a mercenary, so it's possible the bidding on his services went up, and figuring out the machinations of Sidious/Palpatine is not for us mere mortals), and Mr. Mendes AND Mr. Barkman for letting me know that "corn" isn't ALWAYS the yellow stuff that grows on stalks here in the states. And Felix, good call - it was a British (Penguin) translation done in the 1950s for the Peloppenesian war version I've got. And Mike, good to have you back (even if it is what you folks laughingly call winter down there - You and Sturm need to get this winter stuff worked out - Winter requires SNOW, man...), and I had no idea that the New Zealand version of Cornflower used wheat... Which reminds me, if that's the way things work, I've got some prime farmland in central Florida... Just kidding).

And the answer to the second question I posed yesterday? Dr. Danjuma Bello, from Lagos, Nigeria, answered it indirectly. Greed and stupidity. Combined. If it works for the Nigerians, why on earth wouldn't Greed work for the fine folks busting their humps for a telecommunications company based in Mississippi, an oil company based in Houston, or any of a dozen other towns with an appalling lack of mental health care, ethical education, and a large percentage of dishonest people? Well, what would you call it?

Yeah, I know. Nostalgia. But I look back on it, and most days, I got up about the same time my father was leaving (we were a one car, one driver, one income family despite having five children), and watched dad disappear down the road. Then I'd eat a leisurely breakfast of peanut butter toast (along with something to read), and then proceed on to the meat of the day.

As most of the kids in my neighborhood were a little ... unusual (my sisters and I managed to make up a majority of the kids home for the summer, being 5/8 of the neighborhood, unless you factored in "the front kids" - who rarely came back that far - and since one became a anti-reformed priest (he doesn't acknowledge Vatican II, and speaks German better than most natives), and the other went... well, we'll just say the other way, that left a whole lot of middle ground. After we showed up, it was still pretty empty - we're a weird bunch, but you probably guessed that already), I ended up making up my own fun.

I'd grab some clothesline and nail it to a heavy block of wood left over from the remodel job (when I was 11, my parents added a 24x26 foot split-level addition to "Grandma's House" and we moved from a cramped three-bedroom rambler to a slightly-less-cramped four-bedroom house on nearly two acres right on the Mississippi river), and tie that rope to a tree at the top of the riverbank and play mountain climber.

Or I'd feel like Daniel Boone and attack the overgrown corner of the yard with a hatchet, axe, and/or swede saw to eliminate as much of the sumac and chinese elm as possible. I'd maybe even take my fishing pole out (without a hook - once the dam really started working in Sartell, you could catch bullheads or the occasional really ugly scum-eating catfish - Bullheads were dangerous, I was told, as the spines near their mouths would sting your hands and numb them, while catfish were fit only for nailing heads onto posts or burying in the garden for fertilizer) and cast into the river from my "root-seat" - a tree root that had become exposed over the years due to bank erosion because of the dam.

After lunch time, when I'd go back in and dwaddle because we had air conditioning, I'd bail out again. Mom usually took a nap in the afternoons, which meant no noise in the house or near it outside. This meant doing something in the shade away from the house. I tried building tree houses (most of our oaks had branches starting thirty or more feet off the ground - a bit tough to start with for a tree house), flying kites (we had a large, 80-200 acre wheat field (depending on where you measured it) which usually sat empty most years in front of the house). I'd ride my bike down the trail back into the thick woods and try to find the headwaters of the creek that came out near the neighbor's house.

When I got older, some of the duties changed. I had to mow the lawn, which in the spring was a very regular thing - every week to two weeks. In the fall, not so much - nor in the shadier parts of the lawn. I could also use the tools in the garage, which was where I got into woodworking. For a while, my mom was hoping to go into business selling dollhouses, but the only thing I ever made of any worth was a shadowbox room with a cherry-legged wing-back chair - one inch to the foot scale, with working lights (hid the battery pack in the base I'd made from stacking pine boards together after running them through the router table to get a fancy edge going).

One summer, I also started on a concrete "reflecting pool" which mom sort-of wanted - I dug the hole, that was about it. There were lots of projects which started with a roar and great energy, and ended with mostly a whimper, if at all. Sometimes they were just ignored to death - sort of like Mom's dollhouse business.

If the afternoons were brutal between the bugs, the heat, and the humidity, I'd go in the house and quietly read a book or two.

I look back on those "boring" days now, when I could tell you how many games out of first the Twins were, just what combination of wins/losses it would take to get them in the series by the end of the season, the amount of time it would take to mow the parts of the lawn that needed it, the number of good-quality walking sticks I'd had drying out behind the garage in the shade (Chinese elm grew straight and fairly quickly, too), and all the rest.

And I especially remember listening for the cicadas. They were small insects I never really saw well, but they'd start their buzzing in late July around St. Cloud, with a quiet buzz which would get progressively louder and last for sometimes thirty or more seconds at a time. More than anything, I dreaded those, for they were the death-knell of summer.

Those cicadas sound earlier here in the south (about 50 miles south of where I grew up). I heard one last weekend. I've heard it said that they only mature after a certain number of very warm days, which would make sense, but it's still a very sad sound to me.

Sure, it was only during the late summer that they'd perform, but late summer was also that special time filled with the Back To School ads - and Back to School meant school, homework, shorter days, darker mornings, only weekends to goof off. And then, the weekends were too short for goofing - you had work to do - mow the lawn because soon you'd be raking, then shoveling, then shivvering, and then, semi-miraculously, the ice would melt on the river, it would disappear in great thundering roars, and spring would start again.

When I look back on it now, I want to kick myself for being bored. I wish I could go back and bottle up a couple of those "boring" afternoons listening to the Twins playing an out-of-town afternoon game somewhere, watching the river flow past as I cast, again and again, into the river - no hook, just the spoon on the line, casting out, and reeling back in, just for fun.

My life more often seems to be a series of events that take me from one crises to another, with little time in between, to enjoy what I've managed to collect. I suppose on the whole, it could be so very much worse, but it sure would be nice to recapture that time - no worries, much wonder, and time for sitting in a tree, taking a nap on the river, or reading through an entire book without being interrupted.

Back when we signed up for our gas and electric and all of that, the local gas service company (used to be called Minnegasco, dunno what the name is now) also offered a deal called "Service Plus". For a certain additional amount each month, we could call them if one of our major appliances (Washer, Dryer, Furnace, Water Heater, Stove, Fridge) went on the fritz. We considered it very cheap insurance, as the alternative was finding a handyman, hoping they could do something about it, and then paying for their services - this way it's included.

My lovely bride decided to bake some cookies. Yes, I know, hot outside and she wants to use the oven. I pick my battles, and this was one I didn't want. Sure, dear, the house is cool, but it takes energy to keep it cool - to cool it with the oven running requires more energy... Picking my battles, I know. I've learned with her. Some day I'll learn with my kids. I hope.

Anyway, she started the oven, and left for a few minutes to deal with laundry. I kept right on wandering back and forth, doing dishes and watching TV. She ran down the street with the kids to get some home-made snow cones (dixie cups with crushed ice and Koolaid - fifty cents a cup - what a deal). Came back. The oven hadn't yet started. I dunno where the gas was going, as there was no smell of it.

So she called, and next saturday, between 8 and 1, we'll see someone to look at the oven and hopefully fix the thing. Here's hoping.

No, Really - Gyro Pizza
Yes, I know. Just reading that line has those of you of Greek, near-Greek, or wanna-be Greek heritage (other than the grape leaves, eggplant, olives, and ouzo, I could almost get to like the idea - of course, having once been forced to consume six healthy shots of what was termed ouzo and should have been called "keep coughing, damnit" during a class (Greek philosophical discussion - don't ask - no, we weren't naked. Yes, we were quite spongy around the edges - and right through the middle, too - we all passed on the day's mystery meat in the cafeteria luncheon) wanting to hurl.

But the nearby pizzaria promoted such a combo with a coupon, and since both Ann and I were quite wiped out tonight, she decided pizza would be the ticket. So we tried it.

Honestly, it was really quite good. They skipped the red sauce altogether, and used lamb and raw onions to break up the two or so pounds of cheese (we had them leave off the tomatoes). It was VERY good. Even the cats liked the smell of it (one of the knuckleheads knocked the pizza off the table after dinner, before I'd had a chance to clean up).

Anyway, if you're in the neighborhood, Maggios pizza, order the gyro, then go pick it up - they charge extra for delivery, they'll quote you 45 minutes and deliver in an hour and fifteen. Ah, the good old days of Dominos drivers killing themselves to get the pizza to me in 30 minutes or less... Oh well.

Oh well
Seems my wife and Mr. Beland are hell-bent on taking the fun out of Star Wars by relating it to bits of known history. Sheesh. Don't they know my mother already did that? When I was a kid, she said "if the great plots aren't in the bible, then they're in Shakespeare. Read both, you'll be able to see all the other stories in that light."

Great. So you know what? She was right. Oh, sure, now and then a new and novel plot twist comes out - and you know what? It's usually a combination of plot elements Shakespeare.14 and Bible.98, or something like that.

Speaking of my wife, guess who's back again? Yup. Reports of her demise have been greatly exaggerated. Reports of my decline, on the other hand, have been hushed up to allow for more insurance coverage.

Return of The Stupids
Yes, indeed. Stupids. Last night's news had the anchor commenting over a story about a young lady from Kansas who was in Pamplona, took a bull's horn through her thigh, apparently, and was tossed for a couple of flips round the old bull's head.

No, I'm not at all in favor of stopping the running of the bulls. In fact, I think we should adopt the practice over here in certain cities/areas. I think, though, that we could certainly improve on the whole thing.

For example, let's set up a fake old-world street like they have in Pamplona. Doorways, window wells, all the rest. And then, let's set 10% of the doorways up to explode if you step into them (it would be unfair using the buildings to hide from the bulls, after all), and another 10% have an ejector-seat-like ride in them - you step in, they boost you about 100 feet into the air, and then you get to land nearby, hopefully on the soft spot as planned.

Then we could take one percent each and have the doors made out of heavy sheet steel, reinforced, and spring-loaded. One percent would be hinged on the left, with a spring on the right - one percent hinged on the bottom, spring on the top, one percent hinged on the right, with the spring on the left, and one percent with the hinge on the top, spring on the bottom. The odds are one in three you'll get a nasty, perhaps fatal smack, but then again, there's a one in four chance the door could just try to swat you over the wall across the way.

And then one in a hundred doors would be set to just shove you at about 150 mph across the "street" and into the opposing wall, where you'd become a "named smear". Yup. A brass plaque would commemorate your demise.

And yes, I have other plans for other traps as the victims - er, participants - wise up. Remember, I was a dungeon master who was once called (rightly) "Monty Haul" - call a DM that once, and they tend to get beyond nasty. They, or we, as the case may be, are a little funny that way. So it goes. Imagine a tripwire-with delay trap - knee height from the front, chest-height from the back, and then drop the ceiling. Saving throws? You ain't got no chance of avoiding a sixty-foot long slab of granite dropping from ten feet high.

Anyway, back to the bulls - Of course, there would be sharpshooters on the roof of the "buildings" to insure no one who is injured gets out alive. After all, we wouldn't want to ruin the experience for everyone else.

I'm thinking for product development, I'd use a couple of ex-CEOs and the entire auditing department of Arthur Andersen. After all, they'd probably be grateful for even temporary employment...

Class Act
Here's a story we don't hear often enough. Or, rather, one we hear too often, depending on your viewpoint.

I think this guy should have received the medal long ago. But now's better than never.

The Minnesota Twins have bitched and whined about the Metrodome for about ten years now. A few years ago, a bill passed to promote the building of a new stadium, dependant on the selected city's voters to vote positively for the tax increase. St. Paul voted no. And that killed any chance of the Twins getting a new publicly financed ballpark.

Now, apparently, greedy old Carl Pohlad has lost whatever tenuous grip on reality he might have had and is flushing his final chance down the tubes. Which is likely where Carl deserves to be buried, I'm thinking.

Here's how the deal works. The Twins put up a chunk of change - $150 million - in an account which is used to finance the bond sale. The state, using their higher credit-worthiness and bond rating, sells the bonds to finance the new $300 million stadium. The Twins would pay rent on the new stadium until it was paid for.

Now, locally, the only two cities with large enough tax bases right now to take such a project on are Minneapolis and St. Paul. As Minneapolis is currently expanding it's convention center, doing some downtown redevelopment, and still paying for the Target Center (home of the Timberwolves), there's little room for them to go it alone - and it seems the legislature thought they shouldn't even try - when Minneapolis came to the table with a plan that partnered their Hennepin county board, the lege wrote the law to exclude partnerships, so only single municipal entities could get involved.

Which leaves St. Paul. Apparently, tearing down the old Civic Center and replacing it with the new XCel Arena wasn't enough for the leadership of the Capitol city - they want the Twins, too (and frankly, they need it - St. Paul's downtown goes on life support most evenings after the business-folk leave, outside of the 40-odd home hockey games, and the occasional concert).

St. Paul has a fairly reasonable request - they want to raise the money for a get-out-the-vote campaign and put the higher-tax referendum on the fall ballot. They really do. But they don't want to get burned again, so they want Pohlad, et. al., to sign an agreement to deal exclusively with St. Paul in the run-up to the referendum. Seems reasonable - after all, it's possible that some nearby suburb could go all goofy, offer up free land or something just to get Pohlad, and after St. Paul goes through the difficulty of having, and possibly approving, a referendum to raise taxes, Pohlad and Co. might run somewhere else.

Let's face it folks, trusting a baseball owner is about the equivalent of handing a CEO like Bernie Ebbers or Ken Lay your wallet and saying "sure, I trust ya." And Pohlad's done just about everything he could to encourage the active distrust of the community - after all, this is the fellow who's pissing and moaning about losing money, all the while making loans to his other baseball buddies (in violation of the baseball rules of operation, as I understand it).

Of course, with Nincompoop Carl's refusal to deal with all of this comes a deadline - July 23 the St. Paul City Council needs to approve the referendum ballot items - if Pohlad doesn't pull his balding, pointy head out by then, the ballot opportunity disappears. As does the chance for a new stadium (the bill expires if not approved by the end of this year, apparently). And there goes another long winter of "gee, will the Twins be here?"

Frankly, I'd really, really like to see Pohlad AND Bud Selig drop dead suddenly of some rare tropical disease. Couldn't happen to two finer scumbags. It's no wonder the players think the owners are scumbags.

I tell ya, only in America could you feel sorry for a bunch of guys making on average $2 million a year because they were getting screwed by their bosses. Of course, only in America could we evolve a setup as screwy as professional baseball, where one of the owners becomes the commissioner, responsible for arbitrating between the owners and the players. Right.

Kennesaw Mountain Landis (baseball's first commissioner) is probably getting a gavel AND shovel ready to dig his way out of where ever he is - and when he does come back, I'd hate to be Bud Selig. Really.

Oh, The Horror
One of the many, many indignities heaped upon you as you're growing older is that moment when you're standing in the grocery store, holding a package of ... well, we'll just call it "Medicated pads" - thinking to yourself that that product just might be the ticket, and then the pretty young college girls walk past, home on summer break.

I'm telling you, shopping in a Groucho glasses and nose wouldn't help much any more. I think pride peaks about eighteen or so, and then starts a swift plummet after that.

You can just imagine how bad I'm going to be when they institutionalize me, can't you? At the present rate of decline, I'm thinking some time in early March, 2003... And that's if I catch a few million lucky breaks...

Sickie
That's me. Took the day off because of generally crappy, unwell feeling - and the inability to spend more than 30 minutes awake away from the bathroom, of course.

Oh, I see Mr. Barkman's managed to train snow to stay on mountains only - great idea Mike. If you can get me the manual, I'll try it here. Uh, are the mountains required? If so, the idea's dead-on-arrival here - our nearest "mountains" (leaving aside the morraine country downstate, and the edge of Superior upstate) are a couple thousand miles westward... Which means our snow's liable to just sit on the flats. Oh well.

I see Baseball, not satisfied with blowing their own feet off, has proceeded to shoot themselves in the testicles - assuming Bud Selig has them still, I mean - calling the All-Star Game because you're out of players is a bit like saying "We're tired, we're going to take September off" in the baseball season. What could have been a great moment - a TIED All-Star Game in Extra Innings going to conclusion, instead becomes yet another reason Bud Selig should be feeding fishes. With his corpse.

And our Governor's in the hospital. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Of course, as I understand it, embolisms are air pockets in the blood - which can kill you.

Doesn't help any that he stuffs his mouth with cigars nearly every opportunity he gets, though.

And Valerie Bertinelli and Eddie Van Halen are splitting up. Figures. Would everyone in a celebrity marriage stand up, please? We're auctioning off the next "Paul Newman/Joanne Woodward Married Til Death" prize in a few years - if you're interested, let us know - but there's only one, and for my money, Tom Hanks has a pretty good shot at it. Then again, I thought Cruise/Kiddman had a run at it, as did ... well, lots of other folks.

I guess I'd rather see them note the anniversaries, than the breakups. Oops, that would be good news, which doesn't sell a whole lot of papers, would it?

And Apple's at it again. When I was working regularly with Macs, this sort of thing would be quite ... well, boring, truth be told. Sane, normal business people don't buy bleeding edge, they buy middle-of-the-pack machines. If you're supporting developers, engineers, people who NEED real horsepower, then yeah, you go for bleeding edge (and hang the cost). But Apple seems to have forgotten that there are about 15% of any group that wants the bleeding edge, 60% that wants mid-pack, and the rest are looking for a really good deal...

Linky Bits
I was feeling marginal until I read this. Unfortunately, Selig and Company have all the credibility these days of, say, Ken Lay or Bernie Ebbers. In other words, they could tell me the sky was blue and I'd head outside to look up.

And probably bring a can of blue paint, just in case. Of course, on the news behind me here was a story just a bit ago about St. Paul throwing in the towel. That Bastard Pohlad says he can't agree to the new stadium stuff because he doesn't want to tie the team down because he's looking to sell. I really hope his corpse or ashes are placed somewhere where there's a guard, or so help me, I'll find his grave and pee on it. I will, I swear it, if we lose the Twins.

And for those, like me, who don't understand how things in the corporate world have gotten so scummy, this article gives you a bit of insight into Kmart's collapse. Which isn't surprising, of course.

And then in the Fox Watching the Chickens department, we have Bush and Cheney, continuing the age-old White House part-time job - getting your ass sued or investigated.

Locally, we alsso have a big disappointment for a lot of people as a judge with the Hennepin County court system (which did more to delay contraction in baseball than anything else) is keeping documents private instead of releasing them as requested to the news media. Boy, they aren't going to like that, and might appeal. Heck, I'd like to see what's in some of them.

And, for those of you waiting breathlessly for a weather update, yeah, my home town of St. Cloud got a bit damp yesterday. Figures. Back in like 1987 the Twin Cities got literally hammered with rain - I spent a couple months some years later working in the basement of Southdale in a store down there that had flood waters half-way up the walls. So now, St. Cloud gets nailed. Figures. I'm thinking we'd gladly ship the water where it's more desperately needed...

This, however, is painfully, painfully stupid. The facts, in brief, are these. Young kids, getting ready for college, enjoying an evening out in the Twin Cities, head home. Encounter alleged asshole on freeway. Alleged asshole doesn't like something about vehicle or whatever, gets in front of vehicle, and hits breaks. Second vehicle skies right over top of first vehicle, lands upside down in road. People start to get out, and are creamed by oncoming traffic.

Don't be dumb, kids. It's a half-ton or more of deadly weapon. Be smart - let the asshole be an asshole, and if it becomes dangerous, back off, use the cellphone, and call 911. They'll dispatch a trained officer to deal with the situation.

Of course, you could get lucky, like this woman did. Can you say "whew"? I knew you could. I'm sure she didn't say "whew". I'm sure, whatever she said, she also did.

And one last comment on the great act of stupidity - 1200 pound bull - 250 pound man (if you're beefy). Odds of winning contest of brute force? Well, let's just say I'm betting for the fellow with testicles the size of canned hams...

Speaking of such things, my wife asked me today if I performed a testicular self-exam. "Not any more." "Well, starting in puberty you should have been doing it monthly." "Hell, honey, in puberty, some kids I know were incapable of doing it LESS FREQUENTLY than once an hour." Oh well. Something else to worry about.

And, apparently, if your world cup team turns out with mis-matched purses for a penalty kick, you follow it up with this. Though I think a designer and someone who could teach the footballers color coordination would be better off...

And one for all you Jerry Springer fans out there. You know who you are. On the one hand, we should thank this man for exposing the worst of us so we can try to be better people. On the other, if that theory were working, Springer would be running out of show material. Sadly, it appears he could move into nearly any trailer park in the country and get a year's worth of episodes without repeats...

So now what? We leave the thing as it stands? Or we just drop it and keep "Under God" in the pledge after all?

Gee. I dunno. I suppose this one's in the realm of "let the slow kid get caught when the baseball goes through the window". Of course, we could let the whole thing drop, breathe a sigh of relief, and move on with our lives. Too bad we'll probably head that route.

Oh well. I'm too tired for this crap right now. I'm sure others will weigh in on this with more mental capacity than I've got right now. I've got to get to bed. G'nite.

But First
No, that's not how I enter a room, contrary to popular (and my wife's) opinion...

No, I say "but first" because I'm finally able to introduce you folks to the outfit that host this outfit - Factory55.com. I could waste your time promoting them by telling you the good things, but I'll instead tell you this - I used to worry if this site was going to survive. I don't. That's a simple fact. I sleep better.

Linkie Bits
I hope what the boys do on-field can erase what's going to happen off-field. Although this does my heart good to see the Expos trying hard to succeed. We know, locally, that Torii Hunter and Doug Mantkiewicz (pronounced "Man-KAY-vich") will most likely leave - as will Guzman, Guardado, and the other good, but over-minimum-price, players. Baseball's problem isn't that it has money issues. The problem is that the owners are greedy bastards who aren't willing to field a competitive team. Because they can field a bunch of minor leaguers for much cheaper, ALMOST make enough from ticket sales alone, and then blame the players for putting them out of business. What a bunch of ... Well, you know. Of course, we've been through this before. And, believe it or not, baseball has too.

Happy, happy - remember, it's Friday. Let's see. This ALMOST cheered me up. Only if it had been Norm Greed's house, though. And for you latecomers to the show, Norman Greed (spelled "Green" elsewhere, but always pronounced "Greed") is the fellow who led the "Southern Rush of professional hockey by taking the hometown team (might I add that the pro hockey hall of fame is in this state?) to Dallas, where they're known now as the Dallas Stars, instead of the North Stars. Oh Norm. If you'd only laid in front of a moving semi-truck like we'd asked...

Oh. I see George Michael has a new video out. I must be a fud. Haven't seen it. Of course, our cable system doesn't carry channels that show videos any more. Just MTV and VH1.

Damn. Forgot there's a Trek convention in town this weekend. Led by the folks at Creation who are good at profiting (and avoiding local taxes, I should probably add, given my experience with a dealer's room where we were told "just write the check to cash"), the local guests are (according to my wife, who gets to read the paper when we do get it) Jimmie Doughan, Walter Koenig, and Nichelle Nichols today. Tomorrow, Bill Shatner and Lenoard Nimoy, who will sit on-stage and reminisce. Damn. Nearly $40/person for tickets tomorrow. That would have been fun.

Of course, I once shared a room with Brett Spiner (Data) years ago when TNG was just finishing their third season. Then again, so did about 1200 other people... Oh well. Anyway, this looks like fun.

Ladies, I apologize for this, and if you wish to hie thee off elsewhere, like to the next section/site in your routine, feel free. This is liable to get downright disgusting. But some of these pigs need some correction.

All right, you bastards. There's a large number of you out there, judging by my informal poll, who are in such a hurry these days that you're not only willing to risk your own health, but that of your family AND co-workers, for the sake of saving a few seconds. Yes, you know what I mean - washing your hands when you're done in the bathroom.

Look, fellows, it's not that tough. If we survived asking girls out on dates, biology classes, flinging animal poop at the neighbors, and handling the occasional unusual and potentially diseased reptile or fish, what in the hell is so difficult about a little soap and water? Please? It's not like you're about to wreck your dainty skin with

Now, not having done such a survey in a ladies' room (they were busy watching Oprah on the big-screen TV, I couldn't sneak in), I'm somewhat hampered in my diagnosis of the relative pigishness of people in general. But I have to admit, given a recent ten-minute stay in the nearby stalls of the damned (one toilet in three overflows when flushed. Three stalls. Wanna guess the odds?) during a recent lunch period (okay, it was today), I've got to admit that of the eight of you foul bastards who availed themselves of the facilities (assuming it was seven other different people, and not the same dumb bastard seven times), two of you dorks actually managed to find the sink - and I was one. And the fellow who had almost enough time to get his hand under the water before he shut it off? I'm counting you as a "wet-hand" even though you didn't do anything even close to a thorough job.

You see, gentlemen (and you too, pig people), the trick is that germs - these little crawling things that make people sick - not too much beer and buffalo wings, though that will do quite well in a pinch, I'm afraid - are everywhere. Nowhere more prevalent than in a public toilet, where, judging by your hand hygiene, I'm afraid some of you are over-due for your decennial bathing experiences (it IS warm enough outside now, trust me), and are perhaps crawling with germs. Though I hazard the correct expression might be "disease-ridden filthy bastard", were we seeking some sort of descriptive accuracy.

So, why am I so concerned? Well, I'm often called on to stop over and check out someone's computer. Now, mind you, I'm not afraid of dirt and germs per se. What does not kill us makes us stronger (and those that sell over-the-counter remedies for various ailments much richer, but I digress). But some of you foul and disgusting pigs are ... well, let's just say judging from the abortive novels started and ending horribly (typically five lines or less) on the restroom walls, you people need to maintain your current careers, as your writing skills are sadly lacking. Your imaginations are liable to get you an extended vacation at state expense, talking to people with many degrees, who might, in the end, write lots of books about your linguistic (and scatological) skills, but that's neither here nor there.

My problem comes from the fact that I might have to lay hand(s) on your keyboard and mice, and I know where your hands have, and have not, been.

Now, gentlemen, and you too, pig people, listen up. If you can sing happy birthday to yourself, you can save your vacation for those days when you really want to, and only use sick days for bottle-induced ailments - right, like you don't have those. Go on...

Simply put, fellas, wash your freaking hands. You could also stand to bathe regularly and yes, even wash those "naughty bits". The less you smell like a buffalo, the better your chances are of finding a woman who doesn't look like one, OK?

Dat's Enough About Dat
Tomorrow is another "let's see if we can make decent ribs" day - mow the back yard tonight, then watch Monk, then the front yard tomorrow, and relax by the grill - I hope.

Sunday's supposed to warm up markedly. And Monday? Yup. Oven-like, again, with suitable humidity. Yeah, I know. Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. Piss and moan. That's me.

Monk
Friday night television is pretty grim, and I had low hopes, but Monk is pretty good. There are moments I had to walk away, as his phobias were just a bit much, but on the whole, it's definitely worth watching.

Up First...
Yes, before even decent people get up. I mean, 8 am on a Saturday? There ought to be a law.

Of course, before I reached coherency this morning, the phone had rung, the boss had answered, then whacked me with a crowbar. "Get up. Service plus is coming and you haven't wiped down the counters or stove." The things these beings remember. I'm telling you, women are not the same species as us guys. If they were, they would be incapable of coherent thought/action for a good half-hour after waking. I know I am.

So, anyway, at 8:20 the young fellow from Service plus pulls up, investigates the stove, and a bit later, pulls away. We're left with a box about 2x3x6" long, containing the old igniter, which, frankly, eventually wears out. We were also left with a service record. And, because we pay $16 a month for the privilege, we paid nothing else. Free repair, nearly. Gotta love that. And the best part? Weather's not supposed to get back to "blast furnace" until Monday. Can you say "fresh cookies tonight?" I knew you could...

And, whilst searching the net, I ran across this particular site - which is a heartbreaking journey through a beautiful young girl's struggle with leukemia, and what her family goes through as well. It's easy to get bogged down with all the other details of life. It's easy to forget what these kids, and these families go through.

Then we got out, got going to the "grand Opening" of the Farmer's market (hush, now, just because we've been going most weekends since Father's day doesn't mean they can't hold the grand opening later), bought more meat, more fresh veggies, and then hit the grocery store for ice, sandwich meat, and then accidentally picked up one of those $20 plastic outdoor tables for $8 (since the top had a "dip" in it. All the better to collect spills with, my dear...).

Back home to unload the ice, smack our foreheads, and back to Target for a litebrite bulb and papers. $69.90 later, we came out with about $150 worth of stuff (okay - the playdoh was about the only thing we paid full price for - I finally got a bag of Scott's Turf builder +2 for this fall, a second grill rack for the grill (this one has edges that flip up, which make it much easier when I barbecue), a couple of balls to run the kids ragged with, and ... well, a few other things I've forgotten about.

Oh, yeah. First time since we were married we can finally field an eight-plate set of semi-matching plates. Whoo and hoo, I suppose. You see, women think this is important. Men think that as long as the plates don't leak, collapse, or add crunchy bits to the food, they're fine. Yes, we are partially pigs...

From: Mark Thompson
To: John Dominik
Sent: Saturday, July 13, 2002 10:21 AM
Subject: pig people

> John--
>
> Regarding your comments on handwashing--why is it
> that restroom doors always open inward, so even if
> you wash your hands, you have to grab on to the
> door handle recently used by the filthy boar hog
> who didn't wash? What is with the architects, anyway?
>
> Mark Thompson
>

Hi Mark -

I figure the office bathrooms have been designed by people
with small bladders. They're in such a hurry the second-and
-a-half delay it would take to grab the handle and pull out
is critical. That's why I end up throwing out the extra paper
towel in the trash can in my office. Cough cough.

Architects : I've got a friend who worked as a laborer on
construction sites. All he heard was "Damned architects."
So he went to school to be an architect. Then he started
with "Damned contractors". Now he's working in the marketing
department of a construction firm. He can't say anything
bad...

And in a completely contrary moment, there's Rhiannon. Perfectly timed by my wife. The picture, that is.

And a most deceptive shot. If you look close below Rhiannon, you can see the foam of her hitting the inflated tube at the end. Jack, who appears to be quietly sitting there behind Rhiannon, is actually sliding (and trying hard to stop).

And another reason I need at least a megapixel camera. Jack sitting there, shivering and pouting that no one's playing with him. And giving me a dirty look.

Copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 John P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express written permission. Opinions expressed herein are my own, and my fault. For further information, check out my other home page.


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