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Update At 1115 In the last two weeks we've had a major car repair - which is hopefully behind us - Ann is going to be seeing the Dentist at 1 pm for what is likely to be a root canal, and last night I introduced my thumb to what was likely the spinning blade of a mini-table saw. So we've done our bit for keeping the Bad Luck Fairy fed and housed these last nearly-two years, and we're done with him/her/it. Should the BLF be sighted in your neighborhood (you know the look - big, hairy gorilla (literally) with a pink tutu (stained), a wand that looks suspiciously like a Louisville Slugger, and a suitcase covered in stickers - oh, yeah, a fake silver-tinsel halo where you can see the wire going up behind the head), you have two options. 1) Lock all doors and windows, plug any access into the home (including air and dryer vents), and hope like hell your neighbors left a door or window open, or (and this is the far, far riskier option) 2) Attempt to kill the BLF. As we all know, destruction of the BLF leads to, inevitably, the rise of another BLF somewhere else. There must always be a BLF to maintain balance in The Force, and so there shall always be a BLF. However, the current occupant of the job has become far, far too sedentary (in my not-so-humble-opinion), and must be replaced. Remember, the best ways to kill the BLF are small tactical nuclear (or as George W. Bush would pronounce it, "New-Queue-Lar", rather than "New-Klee-er") devices, a particularly nasty refried bean burrito with habenero peppers in it (though the neighborhood land values will likely go down after the implosion), or a good prang on the head with a whiffleball bat from a child who is pure at heart. Jack seems our best bet, but the whiffleball bat seems long gone. Oh well. It's worth a try, don't you think?
[Link] But part of me says "Welcome to America, land of opportunity, home of the brave, please deposit $10". The truth of the matter is that it is indeed rare for a government (or any institution, really) to collect fees from the user of a service to pay for the service. Truth is, most of the time the burdens of payment are spread out over a larger population, so that the burdens are, in theory at least, lighter. This is what is known as "hiding the pickle." No, wait, that's something else entirely. This is what is known as "sharing the burden." Yes, that's it. We share, theoretically, in the costs, because we're all due to gain benefits. Occasionally, however, government or some institution comes up with an idea so clearly, painfully, brilliantly obvious that you smack your forehead and say "Why didn't I think of that - at age four!" It's called "user fees" kiddies. Get used to them.
[Link] Ann called about 2:15 pm - she is going to get drilled for the root canal. One friend told her that she would occasionally ignore the problem. Sometimes it went away. Sometimes it exploded in her head. Frankly, exploding teeth worry me. So Ann got all filled up with the drugs and stuff to let her face numb, then another (apparently higher, or more severe, whatever) emergency patient stumbled in - so Ann was released for an hour. Back into the chair, then they inverted her (there's a medieval torture device for you - raise their feet, THEN make them bleed in the mouth. Yah. That works), did the work, and she came home only about 20 minutes late. Well, came to the bus stop 20 minutes late. We didn't arrive home until after six because we needed to stop to get her prescription filled - then there was the cookie delivery and ... well, the usual tomfoolery. When I was Rhiannon's age, or thereabouts, I had some small amounts of fun with dental surgery myself. Initially, I thought I'd gone to the dentist a few extra times, and no one had bothered to explain to me what was going on. One summer evening when I was feeling downright crappy, my mother said "well, OK, tomorrow's off." "What? Tomorrow's off? Why? What were we doing?" "Well, you were going to go to the dentist for them to fix your mouth." "Oh." It was a mark of how sick I was then that I just didn't really care that I missed a trip into St. Cloud (which was often a monthly thing - at best - when I was a kid). Nothing occurred to me other than missing the trip. But some months later, I was forbidden supper. On a school night. Where, so far as I knew, neither the mid-terms nor any other sort of report had arrived home from the teacher to have caused such a horrible punishment. "Why?" "You're going to the dentist tomorrow and he wants your stomach empty." "What? Why?" "Because he wants to check your back teeth." "Oh. Ok. Can I have a snack later?" "No, your stomach has to be empty." "Can I have milk?" "No! Water." "But I'll be hungry!" "You'll get to eat whatever you want afterwards." This was the very last time that, I believe, I accepted anything at face value. The next morning, after the Dentist did one last shot of X-rays, he came in. "We're going to have to do the surgery." "What? Not today - I have a Cub Scout meeting after school tonight!" "Sorry." My father left the room, and a rather attractive nurse started talking to me, asking me if I could be a good boy or if they needed to tie me down. I decided to behave, and not cooperate in any other way. The mask came down over my face, and the sleepy-gas flowed in. The Dentist said "now, count backwards from 100." I knew I could do this. Bill Cosby talked about it in his "Tonsilitis" routine - this was easy. "100... 99... 98..." "Take deep breaths" the nurse whispered into my ear. Gee. She had nice perfume. I took a deep breath of the stuff. Whoa, nelly, just a minute, they're gonna knock me out and cut up my mouth. Am I nuts? "97.. 96... 95... 94..." I think I got to the mid seventies - I don't know for sure. I remember thinking 76 a lot. At one point, I started to wake up. I tried to close my mouth and swallow - couldn't. I opened my eyes because there was this odd buzzing in my head. I focused on a silver rocket rising above the horizon, trailing a black plume of smoke. Hey, cool. Way cool. I wish the sun wasn't in my eyes, though... Then I realized the hand of God had grabbed the rocket, and was turning it around. It was going to crash! The shock of this did something to my brain (unfortunately). The eyeballs kicked from "half-asleep" to "panic mode" and I realized the hand of God likely didn't wear latex gloves - and it was the dentist, sewing up my mouth. No drugs were needed to knock me out the second time around. About three hours after we started (and about an hour and a quarter after that incident, I was told), I wobbled into a sitting position on a vinyl-covered cot. I looked out the window, somewhat impressed that I was at least nine or ten stories up in the air (St. Cloud's highest buildings at that point, excluding water towers and grain elevators and the like, were an office building and the Paramount theater (with the St. Germain hotel above it). The office building topped out at about nine stories, I think, while the Germain hotel went to ten or eleven). I could see most of the roofs of the buildings around me. And they were moving. Or sure looked like it. And someone had washed their socks in my mouth. And left them there. I knew this, because I couldn't even close my mouth to swallow the vile stuff that was in my mouth. I tried to pull out the filthy rags they'd left, and the nurse was right there. She wasn't quite as pretty as I'd thought. My first experience, at ten, with the effects (And after-effects) of mood-altering substances. No wonder the beer goggles never worked on me. Or for me, come to think of it... "No, sweetie, you need to leave those in your mouth, because they're soaking up anything that leaks out." "leaps oud?" "That's right. You've got about fifty stitches in your mouth." "Fitty! Ow!" And "ow" it did. Dad and the Dentist shortly arrived. Then the Dentist started the travelogue of my mouth. No cavities (still none, come to think of it), but plenty of problems (well, mostly brain-related, these days). They had removed a baby tooth which had gone rogue and refused to release. They'd also removed two molars which were utterly non-cooperative with the rest of my head, and behind the baby tooth, they rooted out a "bud" - the only thing I got to keep - which was a "proto-tooth" according to the dentist. It had been blocking an adult tooth, which was going to come in. In about three hours I'd gone from having a mouthful of teeth (a nice feeling, after the previous three years) and I had three rather large gaps - two in back and one right in the front. Lovely. No dates for me any time soon... "Well, no sharp foods for a while until the stitches come out." "Sharb foods?" "That's right. No potato chips, cut down on your salt because you have open wounds, and make sure you take your medicine." "Mebisin?" "Yes, antibiotics." Lovely, the pepto-pink super-strong Penicillin. I'd had this stuff before. I knew what it did, too. It would upset my stomach, and I'd be crapping like a goose with diahrea on a bean-burrito diet. Wasn't until years later that I learned that the antibiotics killed all the good bacteria in my intestines. "Would you like to pick a prize?" "Yesh, pleashe" Hell yes, the only decent part about going to the dentist was some worthless trinket mom and dad would never buy for me. "We've just started a new thing - you can pick TWO toothbrushes!" I think it was there, for the first time, that I used vulgar language in front of both a lady and my father. Due to my Marlon-Brando-like cheek stuffing, I'm sure what I said sounded like "Sob ob a bish" or something similar. Perhaps "Fup". I dunno. All I do know is that by the time I'd finished first grade, I had a full command of every single word Carlin felt he couldn't say, and at least eight others that would have me in front of the principal's desk if overheard by the nun. There were at least thirty other terms which would just get me a dressing down in front of my compatriots on the playground. Command of the language is a wonderful thing, in a child - especially the vulgar portions. I needed two toothbrushes But I managed. The dentist came out to tell us goodbye, and told Dad to take me for Ice Cream. No joy there, we went home. I did get two chocolate shakes and applesauce for supper. Combine this with the penicillin, and I don't think I was more than twenty feet from the toilet for the next week. I begged and begged for graham crackers - anything solid - ANYTHING to slow the speed of the ejection stream - no joy. I did set a few unofficial speed records, of course. None you'd care to read about, unless your day job consists of improving the strength of porcelain fixtures. I even had to go to school the next day. Of course, back then, every day was bag lunch day, and I brought in a cheese sandwich. Oh, the excitement. One of the kids offered me potato chips. Yes, OFFERED. The holy grail of a bag lunch. I got a sandwich and cookies - day in, day out. Slice of bologna, buttered white bread, two cookies. No more, no less. A snack in addition to the sandwich? Good heavens, yes! ... no, sorry. I nearly cried the entire recess. I had to turn him down. I'd snuck one the night before - and if the burns on the backside from the diahrea hadn't already had me in tears, the pain from the salt certainly finished me off. Snap forward ten days. I was back in the dentist's office. The pretty young Dental Assistant was gone. In her place was a battle axe who most closely resembled George Washington - on a bad day, in a fog. Clearly, she had come straight from the farm to work - or had stepped in a large pool of excrement on the sidewalk, for the smell was obvious from looking at her formerly white, now dark brown in spots shoes. "Let's get those out, this won't hurt a bit." Before I could even say "how are you going to do it" my mouth was held open by some diabolical device, and she was in there with the biggest pair of scissors anyone's ever used in my mouth. My backside, still tender from the penicillin runs, was looking to bore a hole in the seat and get away - and it was painfully apparent that Nurse Shitty Shoes was going to follow me where ever I went. Apparently, these stitches were gold, and she HAD to have them. "AIK!" I squawked, trying to tell her to wait. Nope. Some other device went in, and my tongue was immobilized. Hold on, I thought to myself, I have hands... But no. Somehow, the evil woman had put a bar across the arms of the chair - and I couldn't work my arms free. Her tray was resting on it. And I knew that if that tray went flying, those three cups of ice and water were liable to land on me. And I was going back to school whether I wanted to or not. Some three minutes later, a small pile of black thread on the tray, she dumped out the ice water into the drain. "I'm thirsty!" "Sorry, those are dirty. I'll bring you some fresh stuff." Ten minutes later, we left - no water. And my wife wonders why I hate the Dentist. |
Update At 2200 Sheesh. Yesterday the Governor here and other local politicians with increasingly apoplectic speeches held a rally at the capitol. "We must stop gay marriage!" was the theme. But no one has yet given me a good answer as to why. I've heard a couple - not good, just reasons. It undermines the sanctity of traditional marriage. How? Do they come into your bedroom and participate in your sex acts? Is that the problem? Or is it the fact that you're worried that you might be forced to see someone who loves someone else as an equal? Every marriage involves two, and only two, people. If they love one another and care for eachother, what's the difference? All the other problems seem to be in your mind. Your, perhaps filthy, mind... Gay and lesbian people are an abomination. Well, can't help you there. I don't understand what an "abomination" is. I understand "disgusting" and "gross" and "icky" - but I don't understand "abomination." I'm sure that you have Bible verses, and that's nice. There are plenty of wackos at sporting events with Bible verses as well - and that, to me, is a pretty good definition of "abomination". If you mean that you find what Gay and Lesbian people do to one another disgusting, well, that's your perogative. I personally find myself very uninterested in other people's sexual practices - because I don't care what they do to get off, so long as it doesn't involve children. Or non-consenting adults. Or, for that matter, non-consenting animals. Other than that, they're adults, and what they choose to do is their problem. If it's a problem for God, He will take care of it in His own way. Gay people don't deserve the same rights. Oho! We'll play our game, then. As we all know, any - and I do mean ANY - deal can be evaluated for fairness simply by turning it around. Replace the object of the deal with your name, or any group's name. Getit? Aha! I see that you do! We have a three-dollar word for people who say that. It's "Bigot". And it's not a compliment. Marriage is about having children. Gay and lesbian couples can't have children. Ah. Okay, so they can't in the old fashioned way. What about the Millers down the street, who had to do in-vitro fertilization in order to have little Mickey - are they not married because they had to resort to a lab to get pregnant? What about the Smiths a block over, who adopted the three kids from Colombia? They're OBVIOUSLY not married, because those kids are most obviously NOT their biological children, and they were never even involved in the birth. Good grief. In this day and age of children being abandoned, of entire generations of children becoming orphans in Africa due to AIDS, we're going to limit who can become a family by limiting who can get married? And finally - Gay and lesbian people are evil. They don't believe in the same things we do. I say this as a man who has watched a close friend go through a divorce because the woman he married decided she was gay after fifteen years of marriage. I say this as a man raised in fairly strict Catholic doctrine. I say this as a man who is the father of two children - grow up. Evil is preventing two loving parents from becoming a family. Evil is saying to someone "YOU are EVIL" simply because of what one presumes they do. Evil is pre-judging before knowing. Evil is, pure and simple, bigotry and hatred based on stereotypes that were outdated long before they were popular. Evil is condemnation. Evil is bigotry. Evil is deliberate discrimination.
[Link] But the company comes down and says "look, we've had a difficult year. No one's going to get a raise. Well, okay - 1%. Oh, and your health care? I know you've got a wife and a kid, but we're going to have to double your health care costs. That's just the way it is." You're pretty bummed out. Then you overhear the big corporate guy talking to the store manager. "Look, you had a great year. Here's a 16% raise." Now you're BEYOND bummed out. Then the corporate guy comes back. "Look, I forgot something. You folks who are looking to join the company? The work's going to get worse, but we can't offer you retiree health care any more. I know, I know, you will be uninsurable after spending twenty years on your feet all day, but that's the best we can do." You've now gone about seven miles past livid, and are absolutely, completely, utterly out of your mind pissed. Now, let's change that occupation from "convenience Store Clerk" to "Bus Driver". Sure, you get to sit for well over eight hours of your shift. In a bouncing seat. You spend a lot of time spinning a wheel in front of you. The occupational hazards are very well known. Back problems, shoulder problems, neck problems, plenty of repetitive-stress injuries in unusual (for a technology society) places. Add to that the fact that a number of your clients aren't exactly well-behaved - let's be honest; if you ever want a really good overview of the state of the mental health care in this country, ride a bus. Odds are good that at least one person on that bus is seriously disturbed. That's not an indictment of the bus system - it's a fact of life that those who are suffering are usually lower income, and don't have their own vehicle, and have to depend on the bus. Other than that, those facts above? That's them. The union was offered a one percent - that's right, ONE PERCENT - raise. Add to that the fact that their health care costs would DOUBLE. THEN add on the part about new hires being unable to get retiree health care - after using a person up, they'll toss 'em out. Oh, and the current retirees? Their costs are gonna go up as well. Lovely. So what about management? Locally, the Metro Transit management (picked by an appointed, rather than elected, group) averages $75,000. Which is, I believe, before 16% raises for last year. So yes, the Metro Transit management got 16% raises. The drivers got told "bend over, here comes the banana." I can't imagine why the drivers aren't thrilled with the offer... Oh, yeah - </SARCASM> |
No Update |
Update At 1315 snowbird (SNO-bird) noun See, even I learned something. I didn't know there were groups of real birds called snowbirds... Oh - and the number 6 and the letter D. Just for good measure...
[Link] I have five or six more pens I hope to finish and drop off tomorrow morning before the whole thing starts up, which would add roughly $200 to the box (the lower end of the line was grossly under-represented), so there's that. I also "whacked up" a display case, as the one I ordered was backordered. This one isn't much. Well, to be honest, it's a bloody disaster, but we won't mention that I made it, will we? It's 1x4 poplar with a masonite bottom, a 1/4" plywood liner with dowels glued on to form channels, cloth placed over that (and stapled down), and pens on top. It's got a hinged top with a plexiglass window, and a latch. There's a minute and a half of my time wasted describing the thing - it did not turn out how I wanted, but it works, which is about all I really need to say. Other than that, yes, some of you are still waiting patiently for pens - those will start going out on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday... And so on, and so on. You get the idea.
Only a brief nap for the wicked, apparently...
[Link] In the spring of 1984 (spring being the technical name for it, as college called it "spring semester" though it started in February), I went back to college. In 1982, I'd graduated high school, and then moved directly on to college - but I was that oddball freshman.
My school required freshmen to either live on campus, at home, or meet with the Vice President for However, the summer before college started, I finally decided to attend a retreat program my friends were raving about. While there, I had a good experience - and I met a lot of cute girls. Hey, I was eighteen, nearly nineteen - women were FAR more important than religion at that point... The fact that religion was even on the radar probably made me weird (like that was the only reason - ed.), but what the heck. But the "spring" of 1984 was particularly difficult for me. I had not yet managed to come up with the money (damn Student Loans) to live on campus, and the spring semester of 1984 I spent commuting. I was, however, attending classes. And writing regularly to a slew of girls. Sad to say that a fair number of them had relationships with me - well, in my mind they did. Let's just say I had an active fantasy life, and leave it at that. One young lady and I, however, were quite friendly (no, that's not a euphamism). We were close friends until one night when another young man of our acquaintance started hitting on her. She had recently gotten out of a rather controlling relationship with a young man who was rather violent, and she wasn't really looking for a high-pressure relationship. Which is what this guy figured her for. "Help me out here, would ya?" she asked, a bit frightened. We'd talked about what she wanted, and what he wanted, and the two were utterly, totally, mutually incompatible. "Well, you could tell him you were going with me." I suggested, trying incredibly hard to make it sound like an off-hand comment. I'd not had a steady girlfriend since the summer of 1982, and that relationship had ended in a disaster that ... well, let's just say it sank quicker than the Titanic did. I'm sure I managed to hold it together long enough for her to say "That's a great idea - I will!" Then, of course, the male stupids - er, hormones - flooded back in and all was lost. I do not recall if we spoke, face-to-face, regarding whether or not we WERE going together or we were just PRETENDING to go together. She was a senior in High School, and fairly mature for her age (most girls are, I've found). I was not yet legal to consume alcohol, and didn't - which made me a rarity almost as odd as, well, the religion thing did (yeah, religion and no alcohol - he's soooooo weird - ed.). The final nail in the coffin of the relationship - her parents - BOTH - liked me. So yes, I'd fallen - hard. The faults in her that I'd overlooked then are faded memories - still there, but faded. If I concentrate, I can see them clearly - her inability to reach a decision, her dislike of disappointing someone with a decision that they might not like, her dislike of confrontation (I'm a confrontation avoider, but she was in a whole other world compared to me). Even the little things - We'd go out to dinner and she'd use her fingers on non-finger food, or laugh with food in her mouth and her mouth wide open. Yeah, petty, small things - stuff you'd overlook if you were in love. Then, I couldn't see the trees for the forest. I thought she was the one - she most certainly wasn't. I was lucky. But this was in the future. We got to be pretty close as the spring evolved. I spent lots of time driving out to the town she was from for various things. We didn't do Spring Formal, or Prom, or whatever it was called, because she just didn't want to do that sort of thing. We did go out for dinner that night, if memory serves me right. I even took her to the airport to say goodbye to an exchange student who had become a very close friend of hers. I'd gone from a friend's 20th Birthday Party (where he consumed much alcohol and slept it off in the barn - I remained sober - someone had to be available to drive in case one of the assembled idiots wanted a chili run or something. I went from that to her house, and slept in the guest bedroom, to be ready to go early the next morning. Spring turned to summer, and I was bitten hard. That spring, the "old gang" of mine started to pair off. There were about eighteen or twenty of us that hung out together. I didn't believe it at the time, but looking back now, I and two other friends formed the core of the group - we still do, in some respects. But come the end of the school year of 83/84, about sixteen of them were engaged. I was one of the oddballs. Actually, make that fourteen - two were engaged, broke up for the summer, and then got back together in the fall - and they're still married. We'd gone out to dinner to celebrate the end of school - her high school career, the rest of us having survived the college finals. And me, celebrating completion of my freshman year - yes, it took two years - so what? I know of some people who took ten to get a degree - and they were FULL TIME STUDENTS... Anyway, this is about the summer of 1986. Well, not precisely, but we'll get to that shortly. The summer of 1986 was shaping up (from the summer of 1984) to be a doozy. If the schedule held, we were looking at a May wedding, three June weddings, a July wedding, and an August wedding. Yes, those were the ones I needed to rent tuxes for. As it turned out, one of the June weddings moved to January, when one of the couples apparently miscalculated in that age-old way. The July wedding moved to March, because the bride-to-be wanted to walk down the aisle ahead of the rest of them - which didn't happen, because of the June-to-January move. The August wedding moved back a year to accomodate the groom replacing the bride with a different young lady - a smarter move all the way around. But there were still five weddings. Mine? No dice. In the fall of 1984, my female friend moved to college. Our phone calls and letters, while regular, changed. She was having a difficult time adjusting, and I, having suffered through the same thing (twice - I failed the first time and dropped out), encouraged her to make more friends in her class who WEREN'T from her home town. Silly boy. I forgot there were men, as well as women, at the school. And she met a fellow. Isn't that usually the case? So, one night, after consuming just enough of some cheap crappy booze to impair my judgement and not enough to utterly destroy my handwriting, I wrote her a letter. Oddly, the letter was the verbose version (from me? Whoda thunk?) of the more succienct conversation I would have with my then-future-wife not some then-four years hence - "Where is this relationship going?" Sadly, instead of asking, I said "because if it ain't..." And then I mercifully forgot the rest. She didn't. I got a phone call from a mutual friend some days later (seems in my inebriated state, I was able to find both an envelope, a stamp, address said envelope, and walk half-way across campus to find a mailbox in which to drop the letter. Doh. So, somehow, a relationship I'd spent almost two years building imploded - partially my fault, of course, and partially because she was rather ... indecisive. Because of that, I "gave up wimmens". I'd had it. I'd been strung along by at least three or four others in the intervening period, and was quite fed up with the entire arrangement. I figured if I was still single at thirty, I'd go join a monascary (not Monastery, Monascary. There's a difference). January 1 of 1986 rolled around. Wedding 1, with couple A came along. Being both dateless and working an overnight shift in a grocery store, I figured I'd be a gentleman. I called the young lady who would be part of Wedding 4, and asked if she wanted to come with. Sure. Her husband-to-be was stuck in Germany on Active Duty with the United States Army, and wouldn't be home for his wedding until about ten days before. So I took her. We made it through that wedding. Wedding 2 was out of town (by about four hours) and so I skipped the obligatory "and guest" portion of the entertainment - though I did wear my cumberbund on my head for a photo. Wedding 3 rolled around in May, and the couple from Wedding 1 showed up - and we were planning a picnic for the next day. As they were leaving, Couple A from Wedding 1 said "see you tomorrow." "Hope not" was my reply. "Why not?" "You're two weeks overdue - I hope you get that baby out!" At 5 am the next morning, I got a call. "It's a girl!" "Great - I'm an aunt. I'll talk to ya later." I staggered back to bed. Wedding 4 promised to be one of the better ones. It had Miami Vice tuxes (back when those were cool - hey, black may be slimming, but after black, gray, and black, a blue tux with white pants was pretty spiffy, if you ask me), and I had managed to talk a friend of mine (who was kinda-sorta interested in me, and I likewise) into going as a couple. I had a good time - with the exception, of course, of the young lady who came with me who spent the entire evening chatting up her new boyfriend. Day late and dollar short, once again. So who do I run into at the reception? Looking spiffy in my white shoes, white pants, white shirt, blue cumberbund, bow tie, and jacket? The young lady whom I'd blown off two years before. I was gentlemanly and held the door for her, then she stopped, looked, and grabbed me. "I've missed you!" she said excitedly. Oh, how cad-like, I thought. Date A, meet ex-girlfriend B. Oof. Ever helpful, the groom from Wedding 5, just a week later, said "hey, you're coming to my wedding, right?" "I've got a freaking tux to wear, so what do you think?" "Bring her!" Oh, boy. That worked well. So she and I chatted, and she agreed that she'd come the next week. I couldn't get in touch with her that entire week (yes, I tried, about five times), and so the day came and I drove to the next location (about 45 minutes the opposite direction of my presumptive date's home, also 45 minutes away), and suffered through yet another wedding. This one in 95 degree heat, 85% humidity, and black tuxes. Yeah. The coup de grace came later. One of the other groomsmen introduced me, again, to his now-fifteen year old sister. Said child, the previous spring, had come out to my college residence, and within two hours of arrival had somehow bamboozled a kegger into occuring - a toga kegger. And yes, she was often mistaken for much older - perhaps her poise, perhaps her looks - screw it - DEFINITELY her looks. "Since you didn't bring a date, you can be hers." Oh, great. I'm watching the younger sister who looks like a Playboy centerfold already and she's quite a few years under "ethical" - and at least a year below what I'd consider "legal". And she changed between the wedding and the reception. At the wedding, she wore this nice white dress with a lacy-like cover to it - give me a break, I didn't major in "fashion" in college. Very tasteful. At the reception, nearly the same dress - slightly shorter, with cutouts between the solid parts of the lace - and in black. I watched at least six grown men gnaw fingers off watching this young lady. And I'd been tasked with her because I was "the safe one". Meanwhile, I'd realized that much of what I often felt in the presence of many particular young ladies wasn't love - heck, often it wasn't even lust. It was infatuation - infatuation with the ideal that I might someday, if I was lucky, attain. I was so desperate to find it I was probably driving it away at light speed. But I survived. I was fortunate. Of the six weddings in 1986, and the two others in 1987 (one I skipped over), just three of the eight are still together. Two of those three will be together truly until death does part them - though there are days when I wonder if homicide charges might preceed the funeral. Oh well, they say if you can still fight, you've still got the passion. But I was fortunate - I didn't marry the object of my infatuation. I just gave up on the idea. I'd given up, entirely, upon women. Clearly, they could not see a good thing when it stood before them (assuming I was that good thing), and if that was the case, !%$%!#$ 'em. Friends - fine. Dates? Not likely. It was a waste of good money. If I wanted dinner and a movie, I'd get dinner and a movie - without the companionship. Sure, it was lonely. All my other friends had someone to turn to. I had no one. But I survived. It was a long winter, and a longer spring. Summer wasn't much better, but the Twins were in the playoff hunt. And then, in the fall of 1987, I met Ann. The rest, as we say, is history. The Twins won the pennant, and on the first day of the 1987 World Series, I attended yet another wedding. More friends. And me with no date. The Twins ended up defeating the St. Louis Cardinals. Won their first, and Minnesota's first, championship trophy in a major professional sport. And by the spring of 1988, Ann and I were engaged. I started this pen business with the idea that I.T. had left me behind, and I was going to strike out in a new direction. Today, I got a phone call from an old resume. Someone else wants to see me. I'll definitely go through the interview. But I'm not going to get myself overly worked up. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, I can build the pens (and other stuff I've got coming down the pike) into a viable business. Will it make me rich? I highly doubt it. Will it make me comfortable? I doubt that as well. It might allow me to squeak by, and every month will likely be a struggle. But it's better than nothing. And if I do, by some miraculous chance, end up with a full-time job AND a business? Well, that's just fine by me. I can do both. After the last two years, I'd much rather have too much work than be bored. |
Update At I've borrowed a Kodak DCX4900 from a friend of mine. Aside from being rather small (I prefer a camera big enough to get my fat mitts around), it eats batteries like candy - and is rather particular about the flavor. For example, I bought a package of Eveready Maxand a package of generics. The generic and Eveready Max both cost about the same. The difference was that I got twelve of the generic whereas only four of the Eveready. I shot about twelve pictures of the pens with the Evereadys, and the camera was pissing about needing new batteries (it only uses two, whereas my big old monster, also a Kodak, uses four). So I slugged in two of the generics. The camera takes a picture then notifies me that the batteries are low. So, yes - external power source, rechargable batteries - definitely on the list when I get the next camera.
[Link] After cranking on pens most of this week to get that boxload out, I went back last night and cranked out five more. Last night, Ann had a church thing from 11-midnight, so I waited up for her. She got home fine, and we crashed out. As per usual, 6 am comes mighty early some days - and today was one of 'em. Up and at 'em, I figured, so I was up and out and got the kids to Chess Club this morning. Came home and decided to take a shot at "crushed velvet" acrylic. Sometimes referred to as "pearlized" it looked fascinating when I looked at the blanks. While it was on the lathe, I did one of those rare things I do every once in a while - I read the instructions. I've done a few acrylic pens, and for the most part, I've been ignoring the advice to wet-sand them. I dry sand, then polish, and they look beautiful. But, this crushed velvet stuff was pretty unique. I had to use epoxy, not super-glue, I had to watch the temperatures when drilling it, and all that. So I figured I'd give wet-sanding a try. Mind you, water and sand only belong together (in my mind, at least), on the beach. I'm not one of the auto-body kids, so I didn't do a whole lot of wet sanding. While working drywall, I did do some wet sanding there, usually in a remodel job in a residence where the people weren't moving out of the way. Helped to keep all that nasty fine dust down. Anyway, I have my normal sanding routine. Start with 150 grit, 180, 220, 260, 320, 400, 600 - then it gets fun. With Acrylics, I use "the Sponge Kit" I picked up. Pads of 800, 1500, 2400, 4000, and 12000 grit. Then I polish it with scratch-removing polish. This time, I cheated. Because I was using sharp tools on the acrylic, they were already past the first four steps in my routine - probably the first six or seven. But I sanded anyway with the 320 in spots, then put an old towel down on the lathe bed. I brought out a cup of water, and started up the lathe. I dipped my fingers into the water, and then drizzled it onto the blank. I then started with the 400-grit wet-or-dry sandpaper. It seemed to work. By the time I'd gotten to light blue (4000 grit) I was beyond sold. When I finished the blank off at 12,000 grit, I was sold. I wiped the blank down - and kept wiping for five minutes, until I realized that the blank WAS dry, it was GOING to shine like that! <ASIDE> Yes, Dad, I know - when you wet-sand, your abrasive doesn't come from the paper or whaever you use - it's the slurry which the water becomes when mixed with the increasingly smaller particles which actually does the polishing for you. </ASIDE> So that was fun. Then, of course, I came in to take pictures before tearing off to deliver said pens, and ... the camera started pissing and moaning. I came down here to upload, and more pissing and moaning - some from the camera, more from me. Following that I ... well, I fell asleep. Upright, in front of the computer, for almost two whole hours. No wonder my neck is stiff...
[Link] I see where you don't want a user to get through an on-line experience without seeing an ad for Microsoft. Boy, are your people failing utterly in my case. Then again, I
So, Mr. Balmer, your marketing staff is failing utterly. I suggest you hire me to go to work figuring out how to engage people like me. I estimate that the research should be done in three or four years, at a cost of roughly four hundred million dollars.
[Link] Should you ever be offered a ride by a male of the motorcycle-riding persuasion, stop for a moment. Especially if said motorcycle is one of the "crotch-rocket" variety which causes the male to lean forward to nearly a prone position (putting the likelihood of said male fathering quality offspring in doubt, fortunately). You will most likely be riding behind said male. Your position will be best approximated by you standing up, placing your feet about six inches past shoulder-width apart, then bending at the knees as if you were going to sit. Once in that position, lean forward and grab your ankles. Yes, ladies, that is your ass hanging out back there. Now some of you have rather fetching hind parts, which we males do tend to spend inordinate amounts of time admiring. But some of you show a rather appalling lack of ... shall we say discretion. Now, ladies, I've been informed by rather dubious sources (such as fourteen and fifteen year old boys, music videos, and the like) that having one's underpants show above one's pants is a desirable thing. Indeed. Might I direct you to the many periodicals of the 1980s which covered extensively "punk" fashions. Some are still rather popular, while others, including multiple piercings and rather stupid haircuts, have undergone the ridicule they so richly deserve. With that said, ladies, might I merely suggest that a black thong under white cotton pants - thin white cotton pants, at that - might not be the message you wish to send? Clearly, the young lady on the motorcycle in the lane next to me was willing to send such a message this evening. Granted, the numerous near-accidents behind her didn't bother her, or the driver, too much. And yes, dear, my interest was purely professional. Even my son commented "what's wrong with her butt? Did she forget to wipe too?" It's a mark of parenthood, I suppose, that I fixated for at least a minute on the "too" portion and not the "her butt" portion. |
Update At Not figurative, mind you - literal. Wednesday, my sister came over to pick up her Girl Scout Cookies (made of the finest, freshest Girl Scouts, I swear it), and brought over this week's "bag of crap". There's usually the "what the heck is this?", the "that's not mine", the "I've never seen this before", the catalogs from ten years ago with an item at a price I could really use, and the occasional genuine jewel - and the more-often-found toxic waste. I speak, of course, metaphorically. But this week's bag of crap had all of that, and more. I won't bore you with most of the first grade and other papers, or the father's day card I'd made for my dad (what goes around comes around, sadly). The near-jewel, of course, was the page from the St. Cloud Times dated sometime in 1972 which had an article noting those boys from Cub Scout Pack 11 who had received awards at a recent pack meeting - including "John Dominic" - which made my daughter smile, because the DI shirt she worked so very hard to get has her last name misspelled in EXACTLY THE SAME WAY. The real jewel, for me, was the complete copy of the St. Cloud times, dated July 21, 1969. Yes, friends and neighbors, the front page is completely covered by the Moon Landing. That find sat on top of the bag's bit of toxic waste. I pulled out an old school assignment. Apparently, like Jack does now, I had to write several sentences for homework. This one was simple.
When I grow up, I want to be an Astronut, because I like the Space and the Moon and planets. You need to know lot's of enginer stuff and math and other stuff. I don't think I will get there because I'm too lazy to do the hard work it will take." Underneath, in red pen, was written "What are you going to do about this difficulty?" I was never abused as a child. I was never unduly punished, and I think I was probably indulged just a little bit. Hell, more than a little. But there was something about that over-thirty-year-old piece of paper which caused me to really stop. Both of my children, when asked, know they can be just about anything. They're told they are smart. In fact, one of the worst insults in the house is "you're dumb/stupid/lazy" - because that gets BOTH parents down on the screamer at once - with severe consequences. No, they're old enough that we don't spank too often any more (I can't remember the last time either of them got a whack on the behind), but we do take away priveleges a whole lot more - that, they really understand. My children know they're smart. Even Jack knows that the problems with his ADD are not a problem with his thinking process - after all, he knows that many of the great inventors and artists were probably afflicted with ADD (Leonardo da Vinci and Thomas Edison, to name two). I don't know if it was the environment, or something mis-wired in my brain - but seeing that piece of paper wasn't exactly a positive experience, as you may well imagine. Oh well - onward and upward. |
Update At 2240 A Phil-Hough™-like Sunday, for a change... I arose early-ish - prior to 9 am Mass, and in enough time to get myself and Rhiannon (who had to sing) there in plenty of time. Sadly, the rather rapid departure from the house did not allow for a quick shower (stop it, you - I showered TWICE on Saturday - once BEFORE the woodworking, and once after, as my wife's theory that "the rash" is from wood dust is gaining credibility. Argh), and only a fast wet-comb through the hair. My wife continually ... well, bemoans the state of her hair versus mine. "Yours is so nice and thick, while mine's so thin" is the continual wail. Right. So if I go out of the house with hair sticking straight out on one side of my head and it's tougher to smack down than a fifteen year old male's morning ... ahem, anyway, yeah, it sticks out - and you WANT this? So I was the freakazoid in church this morning. Fortunately, I didn't select a front pew and put myself on total display. Other than that bit of social activity (Ran into two different groups asking where Ann was, and one set of parents from the recently-concluded DI team, and we compared notes. "Gee, I was at a complete loss this weekend - no running around for practices!"), I came home. Ann had plopped a pork loin (that's likely to leave a mark) into the crock pot for a six-hour slow cook, and Jack was ... well, Jack.
Rhiannon changed, and surprised me by wanting to go back to church with her mother (who was sitting Perpetual Adoration from 12-1 pm today. Ah, yes, you in the back? Perpetual Eucharistic Adoration - lessee if I can do the short version. During the Roman Catholic Mass, a wafer of water and flour, essentially, is believed to be trans-substantiated into the body of Christ. No, it's not a cannibalistic rite, it's a breaking of bread and a mingled meal which the rite memorializes. This "Body of Christ" is also known as the Eucharist. During non-Mass times, said Eucharistic leftovers are typically stored in a tabernacle - usually a heavy ornate box kept in the church. Those of you even vaguely familiar with the Roman Catholic rite may know of the term "Catholic Calesthenics" - otherwise known as the "kneel-sit-stand-sit-stand-sit-stand-sit-stand-kneel-stand-kneel-stand-kneel-sit-stand-go home" routine. You can see where the CC acronym beats hell out of KS I, meanwhile, perused the want-ads (such as they were - the list was short and somewhat disappointing this week, but then again, we're closing in on "spring break" time), and got feedback on the Expo. Sadly, the $1300 worth of exhibited material will come home without a single order - only one pen sold (and this despite the fact that I'd told the exhibitors NOT to sell any - oh well, fortunately, it wasn't one that had already been sold), so there's that. I'm waiting for Bubba - er, Major Peters, that is - to get off his dead arse and reply to a rather query-filled e-mail from me, and if he can answer successfully, I'll have a sizable order to crank out. Fortunately, Friday afternoon, without much extraordinary effort on my part, I was able to turn out six pens, including one in the new "crushed pearl" material (it's an acrylic). I was ... slightly underwhelmed, but there you go. Anyway, for those of you who want to see what's up, I've posted two new pages. One low-bandwidth version and one high-bandwidth version of all the pens - including some new ones. And, for those for whom Mother's Day is a challenge, I do have another gift up my sleeve, which will be rolled out tomorrow... Yes, I am a pain in the ass, aren't I? Anyway, after that, I went back upstairs and made breakfast. You really don't want to know. Oh, well, all right. Scrambled eggs. Yes, with sauted onions and bits of ham, and a fair (well, excessive for some) amount of spice. How much, you ask? Well, there's the 1/2 tablespoon or so of Prudhomme's "Hot And Spicy" stuff, then there's the 1/4 Tbsp of Cayenne flakes, some chili powder, garlic powder, and habenero powder - to taste (or about 1/4 TSP each). Add in a dash of milk, mix well, pour into the heated pan with onions and ham bits, push down the toast, and pull out the Bleu Cheese dressing. Yum. I finished 9/10ths of it, and fell victim to my own brown-eyed-girl's sad and drooling looks. She likes bleu cheese and spicy eggs as well, though I fear that Ann will blame tonight's dogfarts on the eggs and not the two chunks of pork loin and gravy the dog got this evening. Oh well. Anyway, after Ann came home, I felt tired and lazy, and so did she, so out came the pillows, and I plopped onto the white couch while Ann crashed on the hide-a-bed, and we stared at the TV. As I recall, it was something about woman's suffrage in this country. They got it, and it took a hell of a lot longer than it should have, but that's history for you. Then we had dinner (pork loin with some spices - good. I wouldn't want it every weeknight, but once every week or two would be fine - though the mashed potatoes required less liquid. My idea of mashed potatoes are those firm enough to mold into the mountain hideaway for the gravy... Oh well), and now I'm down here. With any luck, soon I'll be in bed. And yes, asleep. Unlike my children... |
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