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Last Updated : Sunday, 6 April, 2003
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| Daynotes On a Budget Hosted By... Last Updated : Sunday, 6 April, 2003 |
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Monday, March 31, 2003 |
Update At 2030
Howzzat?
Well, now. Let's see.
Mr. Peter Arnett was in Baghdad over the weekend. And, for some reason, felt it appropriate for him to give an interview. What is it about reporters in the Modern Mass Media these days? I remember the good old days when the reporters REPORTED the story, and were not at all a part of it.
Anyway, Mr. Arnett gives an interview. In the interview, he blathers about things not within his area of expertise (given that he is in Baghdad right now, and not in Central Command's bunkers), and people take him seriously. Right. This is the same fellow who got tossed for claiming the US used Saarin gas in Viet Nam (we didn't, Arnett got his facts wrong, CNN retracted the story, and tossed Arnett and his baggage into the street).
So Arnett opens his mouth. In reading the transcript, it's about what I would expect some boot-licking sychophant Modern Mass Media Reporter to say when captured and in the grip of his enemy. Okay. No biggie, right?
Then NBC (which stands for Never Believe Confirmations, in this case) issues a statement that they stand by Arnett. Admirable, given the poor fool's stuck in a rapidly-degrading enemy capital. However, much like any third-world country when the Prime Minister issues a statement of "complete confidence" in the Minister of Dumplings when he insists on live television that the Gravy industry for his country is underperforming, and that, not sub-quality dumplings, are the problem his dumplings aren't selling, that "complete confidence" from the weekend crew becomes "whoa, get your feet out of that pile, it really stinks" comes Monday morning.
Or does it?
After all, FoxNews, one of the best organizations in the world for fabrication, fiction, sheer balls, and "opinion-as-news", starts playing the Arnett interview. Wonderful stuff, I suppose. Next comes the quality folk from MSNBC and NBC who show the courage of their convictions and the backbone of a canned soup noodle, and pull their support.
So, can we count the screwups here?
'Nuff of the screwups. Now, on the cowardly, dastardly, malicious, and ... well, words fail me, but I'm sure the pathetic folks at Foxnews have been called worse. Liars, cheats, and even ... well, Fox News People comes to mind.
Geek Moments
I was going to crow mightily on about a database I'd built the other day, but I fear most of you would be bored. Simply - I downloaded a list of Vikings players since the team began, and then put that list into a database. I added some fields to show what years a player was on the team, so I could do a lookup for example by position, and see all the quarterbacks, in order, that played for the team, or all the kickers, or all the running backs, etc.
Or I could just select a single year and see who played that year - and how far their careers spanned in either direction. Fun, fascinating, weirdly geeky stuff, I suppose. Here's one example...
Those are the Viking Head Coaches through history. Norm Van Brocklin, 61-66, Bud Grant 67-83, 85, Les Steckel, 94, Jerry Burns 86-91, Denny "The Dud" Green, 92-2000, and Mike Tice (who has two records in the database, one as a player, and one as a coach), 2000-present.
Interestingly, for the record, the Vikings are one of the few teams never to have changed coaches in mid-season - until Green. He left with one game left in the 2000 season, and Mike Tice took over. Thus there are two head coaches listed for the year 2000.
Another way the report works...
I can click on a single year, and have the database list me all the players who played for the Vikings that year, PLUS their career spans. For example, in the image above, you might almost be able to work out that it was near the middle of Matt Blair's career. It was the last year for cornerback Bobby Bryant, but early in the careers of both Greg Coleman and Tommy Kramer.
But if I go on much longer, I'll bore the two of you still here to death... Sorry.
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Tuesday, April 1, 2003 |
Update At 1030
Eat Hot Sand, Geraldo
Why anyone employs Geraldo Rivera after his "Al Capone's Vault" stunt is beyond me. The man is more interested in BEING the news than reporting it - but such is the way of life for a Modern Mass Media Reporter (MMMR, which is pronounced "Jackass").
Yesterday, Geraldo squats in the sand, and rather than do what he should have done, he drew a picture, and showed where he was and where he was going. Okay, sandlot football works like that all the time. But in Geraldo's case, he did it in front of a camera, as an embedded reporter with the 101st Airborne. He's lucky that "embedded" didn't refer to either his anatomy or carcass.
While he was bashing MSNBC and others for poor judgement, Geraldo was about to be booted for his indiscretions. Well, there's the pot/kettle thing, but there's also the whole "takes one to know one" business, as well.
Is it any wonder that the MMMR is held in such low regard? I mean, by those of us who have an education beyond fourth grade, can read, type, and walk upright?
Makes you wonder just what kind of country and world we'd have if the news people suddenly stopped pontificating and combining news and editorial, and just reported facts. Newscasts would be about twenty minutes long, and public opinion polls would really go funky.
Weird world, ain't it?
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Wednesday, April 2, 2003 |
Update At 2230
Oh, Shit...
Many of you know that I've lived my entire life in the state of Minnesota. Yes, I've gotten out, regularly. Wisconsin, regularly, into the Dakotas (unwillingly), Iowa, and on rare occasions farther than that.
But one of the nice things about being around here for that long is you know when there's a real "oh shit" weather moment. It happened this evening.
The local weather-caster noted with some glee that we're below normal for snowfall this winter. Just a wee bit. About 20 inches worth.
That's the "oh" part.
Then he goes into the part about the approaching winter storm. There's the pause.
And to put the nails tightly into the coffin on the "shit" portion, do you want to know last year's snow total for April? I knew you would.
Twenty inches.
Shit.
There's something horribly wrong about discussing the upcoming home baseball season opener along with snow, freezing rain, sleet, and the fact that we're twenty inches below normal for snowfall this year. That's a bit like waving a red flag in front of the Haki Lunda snowgods, and daring them to dump on you. Snow gods are simple beings. You say "ah, it'll never happen". They love that. Simply love it.
Time to tune up the snow shovel. Twenty inches is nothing if the snow gods feel the appropriate dumping didn't occur in March, and I, unworthy that I am, said to someone just yesterday "well, we made it through March without any seriously bad blizzards."
My bad.
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Thursday, April 3, 2003 |
Update At
Why So Quiet?
Well, couple of reasons, actually.
First of all, I had a friend push, very hard, on an issue that I wasn't at all unclear about or willing to compromise. I finally had to unleash the vaunted Dominik Stomp, which is something akin to a "Weapon of Mass Destruction" in personal relations. Painful, yes, but sometimes I need to learn.
Secondly, a mild form of panic is starting to set in. I'll spare you the details. Suffice to say that a nine-month job hunt is not something I ever thought would happen - nor the number of resumes I've sent out without nibbles. Clearly, my technical skills, while formidible, aren't near those of others who are hunting down jobs at this time. So it goes.
Third, other projects which have demanded my attention - which I'm not doing well at. My daughter is preparing for her Brownie Troop's "International Tea". Briefly, this is where different Brownie troops select a country and make food and display facts on various other countries. As a matter of sheer good fortune, the woman coordinating the Tea managed to reserve the favorite country (Mexico) for our troop. So I've been researching Mexico - ancient Mexico, with the Aztecs, Olmecs, Toltecs, and the like.
Fourth, the weather. We're bobbing up and down the temperature scale with no mercy. Monday was so warm we were out in tee shirts. Tuesday the temps were cooler, but the sun was nice. Wednesday, it looked warm and inviting. The winds were horrible, and while the thermometer said 60 in the sun, you stepped out into something like 39 before windchill - and a thirty-mile-an-hour "breeze" definitely has a wind chill.
So yeah. I'm flustered. This, too, shall pass, and I will prevail. Of course, it might only be a temporary condition.
I did find a job in a firm so close I could practicially walk to it - less than a mile from home in a straight-line trip. I'd love to get that one, but we'll see. I've got my fingers crossed.
There's One
I'm going to start keeping a list of phrases with which to stop conversation. Either on-line or in person.
The first I ran into today. A friend of mine and I were conversing on-line, when she said "gotta trim the anal fuzz". She was speaking about her dog, but there's no easy way to take that one, you know?
Sports-Legal Wire
Well, Kirby Puckett was pronounced innocent of all charges today in the case where a woman insisted that he pulled her into a men's room and groped her. I don't know what to think.
On the one hand, there's the SI article, and all the other gossip about Puckett.
On the other hand, there's the reputation he's built. I'm an adult, and fully aware that sometimes things aren't always as they seem. But I have a tough time believing that someone like Puckett would spend the extra time out by the fence in Spring Training, making sure all the kids got autographs, and then bitch about hospital visits because he doesn't like the kids.
Actions speak louder than words. And I think that Puckett's a good guy. Not great, but good.
Flashbacks
I went to the mailbox today, and unloaded the usual assortment of bills, advertisements, and crap. Down on the bottom of the pile was the Catholic Newspaper put out each week by the Diocese. Yes, that newspaper.
On the cover was the picture of an upset Marine, seated on the ground. On his lap, in a little pink sweater, was a baby - probably under the age of fifteen months. The caption told the story. The infant had been a member of a family used as human shields by the Iraqi troops who used the family to escape. The infant had been wounded. Her mother was killed.
The revulsion in my stomach nearly made me vomit right there.
As a child, I grew numb to the images of war. At the age of four or five, I was watching the nightly news in black and white, and looking through magazines for pictures of astronauts and spaceships. Many of those magazines also contained images of the war in Southeast Asia. Many of those pictures remained in my head. The image of the naked girl running from the napalm bombing of her village, other images of death in the jungle, and horrid news reports of death and pain from the front lines.
While I in no way experienced even a small fraction of what the troops over there did, I saw enough so that images of pain and death didn't really bother me growing up. They were so much background noise. Yes, people die, in war, and in other ways, every single day. I'm fortunate that it's entirely likely that if I do die, in an accident, there will be property damage that will far exceed the average annual income for most of the world's inhabitants.
But along the line, I guess that callus flaked off. I had children. I became a parent, a Daddy, and a responsible individual.
Looking at that image, of the little girl, with blood on the arm of her sweater, the Marine, his head bowed and obviously upset, and thinking of the hell the child had experienced, two thoughts chased one another through my head.
The first was "Ain't gonna study war no more." Stop the wars. All the wars. Prevent children from being shot, from being killed, by men with body armor and tanks and guns that blow holes the size of your fist in a body. Stop all of the killing, all of the brutality, and all of the death and destruction. Send the armies home, send the boys back to their parents, to their schools, to their quiet lives of learning, of peace, of hope and freedom, and let us all stop killing one another and live in peace.
Nice work, if you can get it. But the other thought followed, near-instantly.
That family was used as a human shield. That family was used so that cowards so desperately pathetic that they had to hide behind women and infants to survive. That family was harmed, and a mother killed, because the life of the little weenie with a gun was more important than the life of a mother with a child.
This war might not have started for the right reasons, and it might not be fought by what the rest of the world sees as the right mix of soldiers, but there's a bunch of families throughout the rest of Iraq that have lived under a bully long enough. And, as bullies have a way of doing, this one is retreating, trying to hide, trying to bluster, and trying to convince the other thugs that are his friends, and the poor folks he's bashed into submission, that he's still in power.
One question - if he's such a bigshot, why's he hiding? Didn't he come out and greet childrend during Gulf I? Wasn't he all over the television then?
Oh, yeah, that's right. We blew up the broadcast studios. And his scraggly, brutal ass.
Works for me. Now, lets get the rest of the thugs lined up and shot.
Actually, that's unfair. How about instead of Nuremberg-like trials, let's hold the trials in Baghdad. Let's make it quite clear to the Iraqi population, post-war, where the leaders are being held - right down to the cell number. Let's make it a practice to walk them to court (rather than drive), and let's publish the route ahead of time to be sure that people will know to get out of the way.
And let's make sure the accused is walked to and from court, escorted by a couple of big, burly, nasty Marines.
Who are hooked to him with fifty-foot chains. Just in case he tries something.
Now, if you're innocent, you've got nothing to fear. If you're not, God help you, because no one else will.
That REALLY works for me.
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Friday, April 4, 2003 |
Update At 2330
Tools
Yeah, I know. 'Tis spring, and this man's thoughts turn to things one can do woodworking with...
I've got three projects pending right now in the hopper that need to be addressed. First, Rhiannon's closet needs a second clothes rail installed under the existing one for her shirts. Weird. I grew up with a closet that was all of two feet wide. This kid's got a five-foot deep by eight foot wide closet. Not big enough, sadly. I've got to split the hanging section, add a new rod, and make it look nice.
Then there's the monster project to be attended to this weekend - the "Dutch Door" construction for the Laundry-room kitty door area.
Finally, there's a workbench, somewheres, with my name on it. I'll get there.
But what has me excited today is my router. Yup. First router. Well, not precisely. My father has a Craftsman monster that's spent most of the last twenty years (what the heck, nearly all of it's lifetime since before I moved out) in a router table for making moldings for picture frames, etc.
The other day I stopped by ReTool and picked up a cheapie Black & Decker 1-horse router with some rust and wear on it for about $12. I was lucky enough to stumble into a clearance at Menards and picked up some router bits for $10 for a set of twelve.
I also stopped and looked through the "bargain bin" for lumber and picked up a couple of 29¢ pieces of wood (about two feet long, six-to-eight inches wide, most with cracks here and there in 'em). The wood became test pieces, and I started working with the router.
Aside from some difficulty in getting the bits on and off (there's supposed to be two wrenches, I think, and only one came with the router. Hey, it was $12, I can't complain too much), I think I really was missing something. When I was working on Rhiannon's loft, there were a number of edges and corners that I rounded using a file and sandpaper - I could have done a better, more consistent job for under $25.
Boy, I'm hooked.
Image Update
For those of you who might wonder just how wrenching that image I referred to yesterday really is, check out the latest issue of People magazine - it's on Page 59. The medic looks about as upset as I felt.
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Saturday, April 5, 2003 |
Update At 2245
I Did A Bad Thing...
I forgot to note two big mistakes I made yesterday.
The first was picking Rhiannon up after school. With the dog.
Imagine, if you will, a dog that is very, very much a herding dog. She wants nothing more than for her herd to be compact, safe, and well-behaved.
Imagine, then, that practically anything mobile can constitute a "herd".
Now, place yourself outside a grade school at release time, with over six hundred kids charging out for their buses on the first week back from Spring Break.
I could see the look in Daisy's eyes as I held her from going nuts. "The horror. The chaos. The disorganization. Why won't you let me HELP!"
Poor dog.
The other mistake was in letting my son play black-light indoor minigolf. The phrase "Klingon Golf" came to mind, but needed to include both contact aspects, as well as the placement of landmines and other explosive devices.
We didn't need that. We had Jack.
Velly Intelesting...
Some weeks back, Sports Illustrated had a cover piece on Kirby Puckett. Frank Deford, a sportswriter I respected, did a nice writeup on the secret side of Puckett's life. The story from his ex-wife, his girlfriend, and other people happy to dish dirty on Puckett contained not one word from Puckett, or those rising to his defense.
Then again, defense doesn't sell tickets. It's the high score that wins, and it's a hell of a lot easier in pro sports to pick people to score than it is to pick people who will stop them. And that includes Deford and his ilk.
Out of curiosity I looked at the Sports Illustrated site connected to CNN's news site. And there's not a single mention of Puckett's acquital. Not one mention of the conclusion of a story that rated the cover and eight and a half pages inside the magazine. Not one word about how the man was found "Not Guilty."
Sure, there's substantial doubt that Puckett is "innocent". But the going-over that Puckett got from SI shows again just how bitter and frustrated some people can be when faced with someone who may, might, possibly be better than they are at something.
Bone-Haid
Pulled up to the yard guard shed at Menards this afternoon to pick up my door. My chauffer, my friend who has the big pickup truck, was driving, and he held the receipt I'd given him out the window.
Guard comes out of his hut. "This isn't a proof of purchase. Doors are in DE down at the end there." Turns, walks away.
I look at my friend. "Well, the receipt's still attached, he's a bit daft. Let's get the door and go home." We head off, and with no small amount of difficulty, we acquire said door. Menards SKU 409-6159 - a solid-core, flush, exterior door with oak veneer. We return to the gate.
"I'm sorry, this isn't a proof of purchase" says our friend the gate guard. "What do you mean? I've got the receipt right here!" He covers his mouth. "I need a store manager to the yard gate right away - I have a customer who is refusing to obtain a proof of purchase." "Right. Get the manager here right now so we can get this straightened out."
We waited five minutes whilst Einstein let a few other vehicles out, and then I flagged him down. "What's this, some sort of change?"
"You need the pink slip. They have it down there."
"When did that change?"
"It's been this way since I started here two years ago."
"What do you mean? Last week I bought a 2x4. Drove in, showed the guard the paperwork, picked it up, drove out."
"You must have said you would pick it up later. The checker wrote "Prepaid" on the slip, and kept the pink copy. We need you to sign the pink copy confirming you purchased and picked up the door."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"I did."
Heavy sigh from me. "Never mind. What do I need to do?"
"The fellow back at DE should have your pink slip. Get it from him."
So we drive BACK to DE. Find the first available face.
"Hi, I need a pink slip to go along with this yellow one. Mr. Personality at the gate couldn't take the five seconds to explain it during our first pass."
"I'm sorry sir, I'll help you out."
"Does the gate guy do that often?"
"About twice an hour so far today."
It was about six this evening when we went through there.
Well, now we know. And we'll stick to Home Depot or the smaller lumber yards, for the most part.
Cow-ard
Coward: To show ignoble fear in the face of danger or pain.
Yesterday, Jon Sturm said "It used to be that someone who sacrificed their own life for the sake of their fellows in warfare was Brave and often received a medal."
Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps it is, indeed, a most noble calling to strap explosives to oneself and, through deception and deceit, attempt to approach the enemy close enough to possibly kill a number of them as I blow myself out of existence.
Certainly, I could be wrong. Many, many brave men and women have relied on deceit and lies to earn the respect of their fellow combatants, their leaders, and the people they defend, along with a greatful free world. Many a suicide bomber has enjoyed a ticker-tape parade down the main street of their home town once the deed had been accomplished.
Patton must have been wrong when he said that the objective was to make the other poor dumb bastard die for his country. It certainly worked out well for the Kamikaze pilots of World War II; I guess the Japanese colonies in China, The Philipines, and most of the western Pacific are really doing well, aren't they?
And, certainly, it teaches us that those who explode themselves so highly value all human lives including their own, that they are willing to kill themselves to show it. I guess I'm just stupid.
Yeah, that must be it. I mean, really now, we can almost punch people out of the mold these days via a photocopier, so why the hell not shove a little dynamite up their asses, light the fuse, and watch the little suckers go "boom" like so many crappy little fireworks. Go ahead, burn 'em up, we'll make more. I just don't understand the logic of a suicide bomber. I'm just some twisted, sick, dysfunctional bastard of a Politically-Correct society run amok that hasn't made the new-aged leap to the new disposable human.
Uh, yeah. Right. After all, many a desperate society has arisen anew from the ashes of blowing up women, children, and using human shields to again dominate the rat-infested stinkholes of the world. They've got to be right, haven't they? I mean, look at the large number of people migrating to the Middle East today to seek their future, their fortune, and their freedom through the fortunate use of explosives. Aside from the current, temporary relocation of some 350,000 folks with a rather odd penchant for wearing certain tans and greens and discharging heavy weaponry at all hours of the day and night (incidentally, lowering the real estate values in the bargain, I might add), doesn't the Arab world have one of the highest inbound immigration rates?
Hello, folks - reality here - it ain't happening like that. All the hollering in the world isn't going to change it, either.
I will, happily, remain locked in my "Politically-correct" version of hell and rest assured that my twisted dysfunction will insure long, long bouts of psychotherapy and much rehabilitation before I re-enter "polite" bomb-wearing society where people are valued solely upon the number of innocent corpses they bring along with to their own supposed version of Valhalla.
Hopefully, any such reorientation treatments I may be required to receive will include extensive and repeated bouts with alcohol of various potencies and flavors, in the off chance that enlightenment could be found therein. Hey, it worked last time I was in an "educational institution"... But I was much younger, and needed help back then.
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Sunday, April 6, 2003 |
Update At 1600/2230
Sunday, Indeed...
You know how you've got all those plans for a weekend? Well, here it is, a bit after 6 pm now in the Central Daylight Time zone, and the weekend's pretty much shot. Of course, few if any projects on the "to-do" list moved ahead through the weekend...
Well, I started the above four and a half hours ago. I've since finished the top item on the todo, and feel pretty good about it. If it works, it could turn into a house-payment-a-month type of thing - in other words, a basic "bare-minimum" income. Which would be a relief.
Not much is going on. We're starting to get a wee bit concerned about Daisy's left (her left) ear - it's the only spot she growls and whimpers about when she scratches. Since there is a forthcoming dental appointment for the girl in the near future, we'll have the vet take a look in there as well. Can't hurt.
And, of course, late this afternoon, she starts dragging her butt along the grass. Wonderful. I'm told that could be a sign of tapeworm. How nice. She eats nothing but the food we give her, and we've tried to give her good-quality food (along with table scraps on occasion, which I figure are at least as good as the dog food), but her butt's annoyed. Wonderful.
Well, tomorrow, I hack away at a door. A $53 door. Gulp.
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P. Dominik. All rights reserved. No reproduction without express
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