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Last Updated : Sunday, 16 February, 2003 at 10:15 PM -0500
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 16 February, 2003 at 10:15 PM -0500 |
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Monday, February 10, 2003 |
Bush And The World
It's almost funny to watch the big fat ugly pigeons returning home to roost, crapping all over George Bush's expected victory parades.
By now, Bush would have had the whole world aligned as one against Iraq. North Korea wouldn't even be a footnote in the news, sitting quietly on the Korean peninsula, and Saddam Hussein would be blustering just as ineffectively as he had in 1990/1991. The troops would be massing, and our economy would be wavering only slightly.
Come the end of February, all hell would break loose. As summer wound up, a tough-fought battle to release the last of the prisoners would occur in central Bagdhad, and one of the last gunshots would be Saddam's own, through his own skull. Bush would ride the wave of popularity into the coming primaries and the 2004 election, and then, he'd work hard to REALLY get the money back into the pockets of those who supported him.
At least, that's how his mind seemed to be working.
With the advent of French, German, AND Russian opposition to the Bush War In Iraq, it's rather nice to see him getting blocked, at least temporarily.
Don't get me wrong. I suspect I'd sleep better at night known Saddam was buried in Iraq - or better yet, spread in small bits throughout much of the countryside, but that's a minor quibble. But the bottom line here is sure, we can replace him. What sort of hell do we invite if we do? Given the rather lunatic nature of those folks who are willing to strap explosives to their collective asses and blow themselves up, getting busloads and restaurants full of people on occasion, and only themselves on others, what's to stop a half-dozen of them from hopping on-board an ill-secured flight, an hour before touchdown consuming a bottle of juice that's been dosed with the smallpox virus, and then wandering, say, New York, Chicago, suburban Kansas City, Los Angeles, or Burnsville Center?
I'm pretty sure that Bush will, in the end, replace Saddam. I'm also equally sure that the replacement of Saddam will foster the type of resentment that will cause us to experience the type of terrorist attack that will make 9/11 look like a kid playing with matches. Horrific, yes. Terrible loss of life, yes. But it could have been so very, very much worse.
The only thing it seems to me that's going on right now is that Germany, France, and Russia are looking to distance themselves from the inevitable counter-attacks. Perhaps the best thing the terrorists could do is wait until the summer of 2004 to spring the next attack. In the middle of the next Presidential campaign, regardless of Bush's position in the polls, should another horrific attack occur, it would boost "The President's" popularity, regardless. Given the fact that the Democrats have no viable candidate of significant stature to challenge Bush right now, it might not be necessary, but you almost wonder if Bush is doing this to perversely boost his popularity at a key moment.
What's exceedingly humorous is when Bob Thompson mentions that Desert Storm (actually, Desert Sabre) was fought on American terms. Not hardly. Tactics are typically dictated by the enemy force disposition, technology, and terrain. Desert Sabre was a textbook example of a fast-moving attack with heavy armor and infantry support. Sound familiar? You bet. It's called the blitzkrieg, and the Nazis perfected it. The only thing that was American in Desert Sabre was the idea stolen from George S. Patton. "Hold him by the nose" (landings in Kuwait, where Saddam's forces were heavily invested), "and kick him in the ass" (invasions from relatively-lightly defended flanks along Saudi Arabia and north-west of Kuwait where Iraq hits the ocean cut the bulk of the Iraqi forces off from retreat). Then again, Patton stole the idea from Egyptian generals, who probably stole it from the Abyssinians.
Of course, it's important to remember that in wars, history is written by the victors. And since Saddam did achieve a victory of sorts, I guess it's appropriate that he celebrate that. For as short a time as he has left, anyway...
Uh, oops.
There are times when I stick my neck out and try to rant and rave to a purpose. Inevitably, I end up learning something I really didn't want to know. So today's word of the day is "Pansexual" which apparently doesn't mean sex with pans (one hesitates to even speculate on just what one would do - while my sex life frequently does involve pans, it's only in a metaphorical sense, as in "out of the frying pan, into the ... nope, not tonight."). It apparently suggests that the individual to whom the term is applied is rather open to and willing to try just about anything.
I don't suppose it helps to remind you folks that I'm a relatively sheltered Catholic boy who lived in farm country and had no idea of the ... well, unusual practices some of you have developed in your boredom. Frankly, folks, once the species homo sapiens is no longer involved in even numbers and we start discussing other forms of animal life, I get more than a little squeamish. 'Nuff said.
Some times I'd really rather prefer to be ignorant.
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Tuesday, February 11, 2003 |
I Know, I Know...
It's impossible for you to see what I write unless I upload what I write. I plead brain freeze, combined with erratic temperature, pressure, and weather fluctuations which have seriously affected my internal equilibrium. No? Not that? How about public drunkenness and indecent behavior? No, you're not buying that either? Technical issues? No, not that. Ah - rampant, galloping insanity. That's the ticket.
Argue with that, and I shall send the +4 Chicken Of Death to your home. Beware the Chicken Of Death... Much more destructive than The +2 Earthworm of Utter Chaos, or the +1 Killer Possum of Ennui. Trust me.
Weather, Gas, and Me
In no particular order...
Yesterday was a minus ten when we went out to get on the bus. This wasn't as horrifying as the fact that it had snowed. Typically, you need positive temperatures in order to snow - negative temperatures are just too damned cold for snow (yes, I know there are scientific reasons. I use "too damned cold" to save time - it happens). On those rare occasions when you get snow in single-digit temperature weather, you get a very dry, lightweight snow. Larger flakes, not much moisture, lots of air space. So I shoveled.
Today, we were almost thirty degrees warmer (and still below freezing), and we got snow. I shoveled again.
Today, I went to get Jack. The temps had dropped about ten degrees, the sun was behind a thick layer of clouds, it was snowing AND blowing. I didn't shovel. As Jack and I finished lunch, the sun again came out. Who knows. Who cares? It's going to do what it's going to do.
The unfortunate part is how the snow from Monday coupled with the winds of today are turning out. Some schools in the southwestern portions of the state closed early to avoid drifting and white-out conditions.
So, what's that all got to do with gas prices? Thought you'd never ask.
This morning, the TV people said "Gas prices could hit $1.80 by this weekend." Pee-shaw, says I. Then the radio people said "Gas will probably go up this week." Hmmm, says I. If both sources agree, I'd best do what I need to do.
So, after dropping Ann, I plunked in about $23 in gas ($1.559 a Gallon, but who's counting) into the tank. Granted, the way the assholes gasoline retailers here work things, it'll hit $1.799 by Thursday, and then slowly slide downward. After all, last week on Tuesday, gas prices were $1.699. At noon. By 5 pm, they were down to $1.679. By Thursday, $1.599. By Saturday morning, $1.579. Monday morning, $1.559. As they used to jerk us around on Thursday, and then (after the TV reporter figured it out and told everyone) they started the jerking on Tuesday, I figured this morning would be a good time to get gas before it shot up 24¢ a gallon. Granted, 12 gallons isn't much, but there's no point in paying $26 for something you can get for $23...
Of course, tonight? $1.759. I feel slightly better...
Get Off My Side
Poor Saddam. Granted, of all the human beings on the planet, there are few I'd more like to see obliterated, but this guy can't even beg a break.
Just as things were starting to lean in his favor on the world scene, seems Bin Laden has opened his hairy, snaggle-toothed yawp again, saying it's the duty of every Muslim to defend the Iraqi regime.
You know, while I don't always agree with him, it's interesting to contrast the pope with Bin Laden. The pope deplores violence of any kind; Bin Laden is all in favor of violence. The pope is attempting to prevent war; Bin Laden is trying to fan the flames. The pope is senile; Bin Laden is insane.
Well, you can't win them all, apparently.
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Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |
I Don't Like Wednesdays
Or maybe it's just this one.
The front of the newspaper today had the same suggestions Bob Thompson made yesterday - mostly worthless, but I suppose spending money on plastic sheeting and duct tape is yet another way to get the economy moving. Worth a try at any rate.
What's beginning to frighten me is the way things seem to be spiraling downward. Bush, no intellectual giant at the best of times, seems hell-bent on popping the leash off our "Dogs of War" - inevitably, he will be scratching his head after the end of that war, and a half-dozen terror attacks, wondering "well, just what the hell went wrong now?"
If we had a president with a bit more intellect than a four-watt light bulb, I think he or she would be able to figure a way out of this. But instead, we've got troops stacking up on the borders of Iraq, and only about two more weeks before it breaks open. We've got North Korea pushing, hard, to get some attention, because they know that if we let fly on Iraq, they're the next one on the list. Never mind the fact that it will take probably another hundred years to convince the North Koreans the asshole now leading them was, indeed, an asshole, instead of "Revered Father".
We've got a nutcase with money holed up somewhere (my money's on Pakistan), sticking his head out like the groundhog - "Oh, look, Osama saw his shadow - four more years of jihad!". We've got a boatload of paranoia in this country with people fearing various horrid scenarios that come right out of the best think-tanks, and I guarantee you that the one threat we're not hearing about is the one they'll pull. Not a fertilizer bomb in the back of a rented truck, or even a dirty bomb. I'm guessing something worse, like a fuel truck or eight hijacked, rigged, and driven into a tank farm somewhere.
Conveniently, it will drive up the price of fuel (aiding Bush's cronies), increase the level of tension, and give Shrub and Company the political reasoning (another oxymoron if there ever was one) to attack some other country.
Meanwhile, Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, would, were he sane, be grabbing for the "Jesus" bars (those handholds in most vehicles that you grab when the driver does something that makes you yell "Jesus!") and looking for a way out. Instead, he's on the same sled, riding right behind Bush. Both faced back up the hill.
"My, the view's beautiful, George."
"You bet your ass Tony. We're doing a great job."
Hindsight's like that. The view of the past is magnificent. "Look what we've accomplished!" It's the stuff ahead which can kill.
What's especially frustrating about all of this is that it's so much like watching a car wreck - but this time, we're in the back seat, not out on the street. Bush is just nuts enough to go ahead without additional international support - which is pretty-much the equivalent of signing a whole bunch of death warrants. Ours, for one.
If the United States were willing to "build consensus" before moving along, that would be one thing. Acting unilaterally, which is the diplomatic way of saying "Screw you, I'm going alone" is insane.
No Shit Sherlock
Heard on the radio and news tonight that duct tape and plastic sheeting is an absolute waste of time if you're worried about terrorism.
I suppose if you live in a climate where "airtight housing" is a joke punchline, plastic and duct tape might be useful. Certainly, it's a small boost to a small sector of the economy, which I'm sure they do appreciate. But it's not at all useful in the bigger picture. It's the equivalent of a bandaid on an amputation. If it feels good, I suppose, go ahead and waste your time. If you're looking for safety, try booking an airline ticket to a far-off, cold, isolated place. Seriously.
Germs and toxins are not respectors of plastic and duct tape. The odds of you getting it up in time to be useful (depending on the concentration of the material in question, and the incubation periods of the potential disease) is about the same as you winning the lottery - so close to zero as makes no difference. Then again, people keep buying lottery tickets, so I suppose there's something to be said.
In either case, I'd take the money I was going to invest in plastic and duct tape and buy stock in a plastic or duct tape company. Odds are they're going to outperform the rest of the market for a few weeks... At least until those munition re-supply orders start coming in.
But if you have an airtight home (like most of ours in this climate are - homes built in the last twenty years or so, including mine, are required to have a fresh air inlet on the house - a six-inch-square opening with ductwork carrying cold outdoor air from outside into the house - in our case, inside to within about 18" of both the furnace burner AND the hot water heater. Not bad planning, that), plastic on the windows and doors and sealing your air intake is as good a recipe as neurotoxins for killing you. It's called CO
Concern and fear are one thing. Deliberate stupidity and wanton disregard for public safety, on the other hand, is something that should only be government issue. Fortunately, in this case, it seems to have been so.
Banjo-pickin, cousin'-lovin, livestock-humpin Redneck Morons...
Heard another good laugh on the radio on the way home tonight.
Seems those ... fine southern gentlemen from the Great State of Virginia (named after a virgin, oddly enough, considering most females in the state rarely make it to four before defloweration, as it were) are a wee bit upset at the idea of a statue of Abraham Lincoln in Richmond, the former Confederate capitol.
Let's see. How can we put this politely?
WE WON, ASSHOLES.
Okay. Perhaps just a wee bit too blunt. But you know how it is when you deal with the ... mentally challenged. Most are quite capable of taking direction, but there are a very few of the ... shall we say "Challenged by choice" crowd that exhibit a tenacity that would impress a pyramid, if pyramids had feelings, that is.
One young fellow (from his voice he was within twenty years either way of my age, which makes him young for reasons you will soon see) was complaining about the statue. The statue commemorates a visit by Lincoln - not in glorious victory, but in quiet respect and dignity - to the city of Richmond shortly after the end of hostilities at the very end of the Civil War. Lincoln brought his son, and they looked at the devastation that war had brought, and what had come of the desire for states to challenge the Federal government.
Anyway, the "young" fellow was saying "It's a slap in the face of every one of these Confederate Veterans buried here, I tell ya, and I have a long memory where this is concerned."
Right, Bubba. While you were out romancing livestock, something happened. It was called "The Twentieth Century". That's the one between where the Civil War was fought and the one we're in now. And since I'm sure you're a grandson, at closest, to one of those buried veterans, just whose memory are you claiming?
The statue is going to be placed in Richmond for two reasons - fundraising for the group that donated the statue, and to commemorate Lincoln's visit.
But, apparently, some southerners forgot who won that damned war. There are many in the south who do not give a tin-plated damn about the Civil War as anything other than an historic event. Same goes for many in the North. But there are a few vocal morons who insist, loudly, at the top of their lungs, that the south didn't lose. They just got tired of killin' Yankees.
The truth of the matter is that while the north was outgeneraled, outfought, and outfoxed, the south just ran out of everything. Munitions, men, food, and territory. Grant was no military genius, but he did understand that any battle of attrition was bound to cost lives, and he had more men to throw at the battle than Lee did. And if your enemy is on his own soil, and retreating, and you are on his soil, and advancing, even if you lose more than he does, you still hold his territory - so long as he retreats.
Even I understand that one.
I Could Continue...
I'll spare you.
It "warmed" today. Yes, warmed. We hit double digits in the air temperature department (first time in about a week), but the wind also hit double digits. Which meant frostbite in fifteen minutes or less if you were dumb enough to be outside that long.
So, on the day when my wife merrily volunteers my ass to watch one of Jack's friends for an afternoon of ... I have no idea. Six year olds are not yet at the "rape and pillage" stage, though they seem to be doing fairly well on the second half of the activity. Further I will not speculate. I do recall at one point hearing that Jack's top bed (he's got the kids' bunk bed from when they shared a room) had come down onto the floor for ... well, fun, frankly. I've no idea why. Other than the fact that they're nuts. Insane.
And I survived. Tomorrow, God and the weather willing, I drop off and set up a server. God willing.
Of course, tonight word that more reservists are called up. I can only pray that if my friend goes, he goes to a safe spot. Unfortunately, knowing his MOS, I can only pray that he is careful. He's got one of the most dangerous jobs in the military, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.
He and his family - his step-daughter, son, and daughter - and wife - are all in our prayers. And they know that if there's anything they need, even if it's just to get out of the house for a while, we're more than happy to help.
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Thursday, February 13, 2003 |
A Well, Duh Moment
I guess I did you folks a disservice in discouraging your purchase of duct tape and plastic. It seems that adequate supplies of duct tape and plastic would be for makeshift body bags, in the event of a "The Stand"-like bioterror attack, where 10% (or less) of the population survives. The living can wrap the dead in plastic and duct tape it closed, and leave them at the curb for disposal.
If it weren't for the horrific implications, it would be almost funny.
I suppose Bush and the Chickenhawks (heard that one today on the radio) are counting on the money and vacation homes of the rich and debauched to protect them from the diseases that will kill all the little people. How nice.
One thing they aren't counting on - with all the little people dead, who's going to buy all of their shitty stocks?
No Wonder I'm Sweating
Went past a bank thermometer today. It said 37. That's positive.
At last. Something's going up faster than gas prices. Unfortunately, we know it's also going to go down. I wish I could say the same for the gas prices...
What Else Did You Expect?
Last week new State Auditor Pat Awada released a report stating that Local Government Aid (LGA) was encouraging communities to spend more on "non-essential services".
Now remember, Ms. Awada is a former Eagan Mayor, who has the ability to look beyond the headlines and read at least the first two sentences of each news story, provided they're written in monosyllabic vocabulary. In other words, she's not too good with big words. Or big ideas.
LGA is the state's way of spreading some of the fiscal treasure around the state. Some communities, notably metro ones (you can see where this is going, can't you?) pay in more than they get. Some communities, notably smaller outstate ones, get more than they pay in.
Ms. Awada's "complaint" is that the LGA payments aren't going for "core" services like public safety, roads, and utilities. Fully 40% of these payments go for "non-essential" services like parks, libraries, and other unspecified "luxuries".
Ms. Awada's blinders are clearly firmly bolted to her head when she suggests cutting LGA to most of the outstate areas. As one mayor noted, "when I go to compete for a company, and I say "well, the library's only twelve years old but it's closed, we used to have a public pool, but that's closed too, and so are all the parks - we couldn't afford to keep 'em up. What do you think the odds are that I'm going to convince a CEO to locate jobs in a community that doesn't have those things?"
I suppose it could be her way of encouraging the farm flight that has seen most of our out-state regions lose population, and the "Golden Football" (a football-shaped blob in the middle of the state, running down I-94 from St. Cloud to Rochester) is gaining. Of course, we all know that it's much more efficient to deliver those fancy-shmancy things like libraries and the like when we're all packed together like sardines, gasping for air because they've just cut the highway expansion projects, mass transit funding, and refused to look at any sort of expansion for light rail or other mass-transit options.
Then again, Ms. Awada might just be looking to get her face in the papers. I used to have some respect for the woman, but I'm beginning to think that she's not even a second-rate intellect in this state - and believe me, with some of the morons we've been able to elect in recent years (like that buffoon Ventura), it takes a whole hell of a lot of hard work to look dumber than that.
Happy Pre-VD
I did my Valentine's day shopping (and she who will be getting presents from the children and the other adult in the house will be pleasantly surprised. The most suggestive gift is perfume. And it's a scent she likes, too. Not bad, eh?), after carefully observing what she would like. Yes, I'm cheap, and yes, I'm pathetic, but one forgets even retail-created holidays at one's peril. If one's loved one pooh-poohs the outward displays of the day, it would take a stronger man than I (or one with a great deal less functional gray matter) to ignore the day when he is married to She Who Must Be Obeyed...
And I'm just not willing to take that kind of chance.
So good luck, gentlemen, and remember - the lingerie is for you, even if you won't admit it. Get her something nice, as well...
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Friday, February 14, 2003 Happy VD! |
My Day?
7:15 AM - Alarm.
7:20 AM - Both kids in my bed.
7:21 AM - Bathroom
7:45 AM - Out of the bathroom, yell for the kids to have breakfast.
8:00 AM - Second Call for breakfast
8:30 AM - check the kid's notes, etc.
8:45 AM - start getting dressed to go outside.
8:55 AM - go outside. It's actually warm!
9:08 AM - Bus arrives. Kids get on it.
9:10 AM - salt driveway. Go back inside.
9:15 AM - hit the showers
9:45 AM - get dressed, leave for school
10:00 AM - Arrive at Jack's classroom. Sub teacher (a friend of ours) has no idea what's up with the party. We wait.
10:10 AM - other moms arrive. I'm the only male. I'm the only one not wearing red. I'm the only one with facial hair. I'm the only one who didn't sign up to work the party.
10:15 AM - the orgainzing mom shows up.
10:18 AM - we find out we haven't got plates or bowls for the snacks (Popcorn, cheese popcorn, ripple chips, regular chips, cupcakes, suckers, homemade cupcakes, juice boxes, hard candy, M&Ms... I could go on). Oh well. We improvise.
10:20 AM - Sub teacher returns with paper plates "liberated" from somewhere - we agree to the plausible deniability idea.
10:30 AM - the party starts. After helping set up and guard the food, I help with Heart Bingo. Try helping half a dozen kindergartners find 53 on their cards - when half figure 33, 23, 32, and 35 are all close enough.
10:40 AM - Second group arrives, and we realize that a fairly large bowl of Skittle hearts aren't going to last out the game - the first batch of kids left with bulging pockets. The winner ALSO got a sucker.
10:50 AM - third group arrives. They've got glitter on them. They made heart glasses. The kid who finally wins (after close to forty numbers being called) gets a three-way - vertical, horizontal, AND diagonal. He gets a sucker too. At least two other kids would have also had bingo didn't because they ate the markers. Reminds me of an old saying...
11:00 AM - fourth group arrives. They've got glitter, feathers, and foam hearts on them. They made valentines-day crowns. Okay...
11:10 AM - fifth group arrives. We're almost out of Skittle hearts, and figure out the way to make the station move faster - cheat. When a kid gets four in a row, just call the missing one. Well, we know better for next year...
11:20 AM - Cleanup, while the kids listen to a story.
11:30 AM - snacks are passed out. I have a brief panicked moment as I go for the last table and have only three juice boxes left - there are six kids. One of the other moms stepped in to help out. Phew. Thought I was going to have to run for the hills.... It was Jack's table.
11:45 AM - The food's nearly gone, and the timing's good - Rhiannon stops by. It's lunchtime.
11:50 AM - we head down the hall for lunch.
11:55 AM - we make three complete circuits of the lunchroom (it feels like) before we get our food - and there was no line. Corndog (I think the hotdog was even less "meat" than usual - I've never had a tough hotdog like that before), seven tater tots, half an apple, and a kit-kat snack size. My daughter gets two dogs. Um, I'm an adult?
12:03 PM - I'm fairly certain I'm deaf. I know I could hear when I entered the room, but with roughly 225 kids between the ages of seven and nine in the room, I think "quiet" is a relative definition.
12:20 PM - The principal stops by. Asks a question. I look at him quizzically, then respond "It's about 12:20."
12:25 PM - The children are released to the playground. Ann and I use sign language to indicate we're going to leave.
12:30 PM - It's Valentine's Day - we head to the video store to rent My Big Fat Greek Wedding.
Sometime between 12:30 PM and 1:00 PM - Rhiannon is slugged in the head. She doesn't see who did it, and it didn't bother her that much at the time...
12:55 PM - We return home. There's a whopping 25 minutes before we should leave for Party Two. I go to the mailbox. That Kershner fellow has been at it again. It's held closed with a rubber band.
1:00 PM - Rhiannon sits down at her table in her classroom. Her glasses spontaneously snap just to the right of the nosepiece. The teacher saw it all.
1:10 PM - I finally get inside after getting all of Jack's stuff out of the car, the mailbox emptied, and so forth.
1:25 PM - I head upstairs after checking e-mail, etc., and we leave for Party Two.
1:35 PM - After circling the block, we find the last remaining parking spot. We get out of the car...
1:40 PM - We arrive in the classroom, with the "Positive, Healthful Party." Clementine Oranges, Apple chunks, fruit-flavored fruit dip, and pretzels. And Sprite.
1:41 PM - Ann departs back home to get Rhiannon's backup glasses.
1:45 PM - I manage to weasel out of conducting the Wheel Of Fortune game and the crafts.
1:45:15 PM - I realize that the only thing left is the snack table. I get to pour pop.
1:45:45 PM - on my third cup, I spill. And am not prepared. Ran, grabbed the roll of paper towels, and mopped up the three tablespoons I've spilled.
1:47 PM - First child-induced spill. Nearly a full cup, missed the girl across the table by inches. Did I mention the table is about six feet across, and he's got a spill that would dwarf that of the Exxon Valdez?
1:48 PM - First belch. From a girl. I thought the child's head would have disappeared - I haven't heard belches that loud after a half-case of beer.
1:50 PM - The first "well, this is boring." From a third grader.
1:54 PM - First knucklehead move - kid sticks pretzels up his nose. Then uses them for chopsticks. Then eats them. I pity his parents.
1:58 PM - Ann returns with books for Jack, glasses for Rhiannon, and I say "Help me, they're bored." And not just with the "snacks".
2:00 PM - Second group arrives. Ann decides to play the Geography game. You know, name a place, and the next person has to name another place starting with the same letter the first person's place ended. Alaska, Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, you get the idea. We bent the rules to allow regional names, cities, oceans, rivers, or any damned thing you could find on a map (there are four states starting with A, and something like twenty-seven that end in A).
2:15 PM - Second group leaves, wanting to keep playing the Geography Game.
2:30 PM - Third group arrives, and at least half groan when they see the snacks.
2:45 PM - Party ends, and the kids get to look through their Valentines bags. Lots of oohing and aahing.
3:00 PM - Cleanup. Jack had behaved so well that SOMEONE promised him a treat.
3:20 PM - after winding our way through school, and down the block to the car, we got in, and went to Dairy Queen.
3:45 PM - After DQ, someone in the family mentioned there was a chocolate shop next door...
4:25 PM - Left the Chocolate shop for home.
4:30 PM - stop at the liquor store for the bottle of Gionelli I forgot...
4:45 PM - Got home, got the car emptied out.
5:05 PM - Left home to take Rhiannon BACK to the school parking lot for the Birthday Party that's been scheduled for about a month now - A Trip to The Timberwolves Game tonight.
5:20 PM - Returned home...
No, seriously. That's about how it went.
Of course, if you think a nine-year-old's party at a basketball game sounds like a good idea, think again. Due to Condition Orange having been decreed by Reichmarshall Ridge, the folks at Target Center decided that nine-year-olds make horrible security risks, and have forbidden outside packages, cancelled birthday parties, and would not allow outside food or beverage into the facility.
Which makes the nine-year-old who has been looking forward to their birthday for like months sob uncontrollably. Something to remember - and another good reason for me to avoid most, if not all, major sporting events. It takes a hell of a lot of work to build fan loyalty. It takes so little at all to destroy it utterly and permanently. And the NBA already has the most overpaid, untalented, worthless louts in pro sports. Oh well. Saves me a few bucks.
And no, for the three people who thought me optimistic in wishing all of you a happy Veneral Disease, VD stands for a shorthand Valentine's Day. Those of you who jumped from VD to STD have been spending way, WAY too much time at the clinic... Ahem.
G'nite.
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Saturday, February 15, 2003 |
As a child, I probably would have been considered "Fiesty".
I'd lip off and back it up, often with my fists. Given that my neighborhood was not exactly overrun with kids my age (there were two older kids who hung around with us, the rest were younger boys), it wasn't tough to stay on top of that crowd. You didn't crowd Wayne or Danny (Wayne lived right next door and had an older brother named Jim who could and would happily pound the snot out of us for a nickle apiece, while Danny had both the best porch in the neighborhood and the best back-yard for playing baseball - behind my house, and Wayne's, was a cow pasture, but you get a little tired pulling baseballs out of cowshit after a while), and you were fine.
Once I started school, I learned "it's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog". Shortly thereafter, I learned that if you're a fiesty chihuahua, and the other guy's a rather calm Mastiff, sooner or later the mastiff will get bored with the fly and do away with it.
I, eventually, learned that arrogance would be paid for by an inevitable come-uppance, and regardless of how positive I was in my own abilities, when one is outweighed by a good fifty pounds, it matters little who swings first or how fiesty one is - one does manage to discover new ways to bleed.
And I eventually learned that humility and the ability to back up what you say are much, much more important than what you say, or your abilities. No one gives a tinker's damn if you say you can climb the tree. No one gives a tinker's damn if you climb the tree. If you say you can, and then you demonstrate, you've convinced many of the skeptics.
Unless, of course, one of the skeptics is intent on committing aggression - regardless of example, knowledge, or experience, some nitwits are hell-bent on doing harm. And those nitwits often can't be stopped. I remember one fellow who insisted on threatening to pound my rump before football one day. I came out the door of the school with all my gear in my arms, he was there, and I took the time he gave me to set the gear down. I stood up, and he charged. I sidestepped, and he slammed into the brick wall. I stepped to the side, said a few choice words to him, and started to turn for my gear.
That's when one of his buddies sucker-punched me from the side (yes, I had my helmet on - I'm not a complete idiot). I bounced off the wall and landed on the dork who had previously struck it. Some minutes later, when my vision cleared enough for me to realize where I was, I got up, gathered my things, and headed over to practice, having learned yet another valuable lesson.
If one is going to end up fighting another dog, it's wise to arrange for a couple of OTHER dogs nearby for mutual defense and protection.
It's also helpful to have a few dogs around for advice and counsel. Not yes-dogs, mind, but dogs who will pragmatically note the situation and keep you from getting your add handed to you.
In my youth, I learned these lessons, sometimes painfully, sometimes happily. Sometimes they involved blood, and sometimes simple embarrassment. All in all, I learned them, and still use them today.
It seems, unfortunately, that our president has remained ignorant of the finer points in life, and is hell-bent on finishing what Daddy started. And I, for one, do not wish to see the United States take a new position as World Aggressor - frankly, I've read a lot of history, and once someone - anyone - steps up and says "nonononono, I know what's best for you, here we are" that's the recipe for downfall.
I don't want to look back at the last fifty years of the history of the United States and say "well, we coulda been something great, but we blew it by beating up on some small little punk who deserved it".
Sure, Saddam deserves a good spanking - death, even. But let's be blunt - he won't die until a whole lot more of his people do. His death might come after a few nukes have been detonated, or it could come as a prelude to a near-nuclear winter with oil-field smoke circling the globe.
There are some cruel ironies here. We could point out that Bush actually lost the election, or we could point out that he's just finishing what Daddy started, or we could point out that he's actually cleaning up the trash left from the Reagan Administration's support of Iran's opponent in the Iran/Iraq war.
Or we could shut up and take our lumps, as we most likely will after this war. I'd rather not see that, but there's the immature, temper-tantrum-throwing way to get out of trouble, then there's the "all right, what's the damage and how can we repair it" mature method.
Sometimes, maturity sucks. I guess our president has chosen the low road...
Countdown-To-Warranty Expiration...
Last February 8th, though I did not note it at the time, Rhiannon got her first set of glasses. We got the main pair and the backup pair, because A) there was a sale, and B) she's my daughter, and if there was a two-week-stretch for me between the ages of eight and twelve that I had an untaped pair of glasses, it was unusual (explains why I had the ultra-cheap $20 black plastic frames which I see are now "trendy". God help me if I ever understand fashion). I recall a two-month stretch where things were great, then I got nailed in the head by a soccer ball which hit the corner of the glasses. Ouch.
Anyway, I suppose it would now be prudent to mention that one of the reasons we go to Vision World is the one-year warranty. Oops. One year? Yeah. And February 15 is one year and one WEEK. Ouch. Hurts, but not as much as it could. The lady took a look at Rhiannon and decided since we've been going there for twelve years, etc., etc., etc., we'd get the frames for free under warranty. Thank God for small favors.
Other than that, not much - a trip to the library (oops - a dime a day a book with two weeks overdue on eight books can really, REALLY hurt), the bread store, the mall (where the eye doctor is), and the grocery store ate up much of what was supposed to be a slow, lazy saturday.
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Sunday, February 16, 2003 |
Some - well, many - years ago, Quiet Riot released an album called "Metal Health". One song on it (and one of their few big hits) was "Come On Feel The Noize" - I've taken some liberties from the title as it appears on my copy of the tape.
Oddly, the song was one of my favorites, and was very popular in the early 80s when a number of my friends and I would regularly spend Saturday nights at the Skatin' Place, St. Cloud's only roller-skating rink.
Today, Jack had a birthday party he got to attend at the local equivalent, Skateville. We've been there many times. Today, on our way back there to pick Jack up, the radio started belting out "Come On Feel The Noize". Now I know a thing or two about rock-n-roll, and I also know that the original lyrics weren't going to appear (at least, back then) on an album released here in the States. I also know the original lyrics. So I'm singing in the car, coming around a corner in the Skateville parking lot, and my daughter hears the lyrics "Come on feel the noise/Girls Rock your boys" and she says "Girls rock your boys? COOL!"
Full stop.
Ann is nearly apopleptic with laughter (previous conversational topics in the preceeding ten minutes included castration, with a nail clipper, which might be overkill, which segued to the thought of a rather hairy friend of mine shaving certain private areas, which would be unlikely, as, other than the top of his head, it would be the only hairless patch between said top of head and the soles of his feet, waxing to remove hair in certain areas, using an epilady to perform the same deed, all of which managed to elicit from me ever-higher-pitched squeaks of phantom pain). I, meanwhile, sit calmly, considering the original lyrics, my daughter's delight at the prospect, and the mere three-foot snowbank separating my car and passengers from a fifteen foot drop to a five foot rise to a very busy freeway, and the likelihood of survivability.
Determining that I had at least a 10% chance of remaining amongst the living, and judging that was far in excess of the goal I had in mind, I simply found a parking spot and went in to fetch my son.
There is a subtle and magical bond betwixt father and daughter, I've found. The child can stop my heart with five words, occasionally less. And, as I noted to another friend earlier this week, there's a cruel irony involved in parenting a daughter and worrying how to prevent that which we only so recently were trying so desperately to commit.
It's a cruel world. Weird, but cruel.
And I state that with certainty, for tonight, when I was assisting my son to bed, he stood, lost his balance, and reached for me. In that typical six-year-old fashion, he used only two fingers to clamp firmly onto my left nipple, using it to steady himself.
Many people know that the left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, and vice-versa. This is where the comment "people who are left-handed are the only ones in their right mind" comes from.
Few know that, in the male, a good firm yank on the left nipple will cause the right testicle to retract.
To Cleveland.
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