Definitely better than Camilla...

Even this guy does a better Heat Miser than Camilla... (props to the Moose for the alert)

Charles, R&B, and Don

this is real life. This is a true reality show. THIS ... I couldn't make UP stuff like this!

Ok, ok, ok... see it apparently all started with Rankin & Bass.

Pure genius ... that hair ... Mister "Green Christmas" ... Mister "Hundred-and-One" ... the Heat Miser! Sing it with me! (Well, on second thought, don't want to scare the cat and the concrete dog... again)

Now, things got a little out of hand a number of years later.
There's just no explaining this one. Don King thought he was inspired - we all thought he was on-fired. As time would bear out, Don's just a little screwy, just a little wierd, and we've all come to understand that. It's expected even. You see the hair, you turn of the sanity checker.

But this one ... well, it just goes BEYOND any bizarre fashion statement that I could ever have imagined. I know what they say about fashion running full circle every couple of decades, but really now...

QUICK! SOMEONE GET A FIREHOSE, THIS WOMAN'S SET HER HAIR WITH PROPANE AND THROWN A MATCH IN IT! NOTHING BURNS BLUE LIKE NATURAL GAS!

Oh mother of mumford - and Charles married that thing? Or maybe ... anyone have Charles' telly # handy? I think I know of a medical procedure to correct that problem. Maybe it was all a bad easter-egg coloring experience that got more out of hand than anyone could imagine. "But ... Mommy ... her head's so BIG ..." With a mane like that, it won't take long for a Nike swoosh to appear just off-center.

Criminy.

The spine of an earthworm

But you see ... I needed them ...

(Hey, the shirt is for my daughter, and it's signed by one of her FAVE drivers. So, this is a parenting expense!)

When one's spine goes missing

It's not my fault. Rather, it won't be.

Some people drink too much. Some people indulge in rather risky and illegal behavior. Others, still, take part in rather unhealthy practices. All in the pursuit of personal happiness (or whatever it is that they tend to believe will make them happy). Me ... I follow open-wheel racing.

Oh sure, that American adult bumper-car fascination known as "NASCAR" has its moments (2 per year, in fact, when they race on real race courses with right-hand turns and no unnatural banking), but it's completely unreliable. And let's face it folks - "rubbing" is for cleaning floors, erasing mistakes in pencil, and perhaps auto-body polish, but it AIN'T RACING. And don't call me a hypocrit - I attend the Grandaddy event of the year - the Daytona 500 - each year just to make sure I'm not missing a shift in the tide tantamount to global warming x 100...

Champ Car, IndyCar, Toyota Atlantic (evolving into ChampCar Atlantic), GP2, Infiniti Pro Series, A1 Grand Prix and of course Formula 1 (even if it does tend to take itself too seriously as of late) epitomize the real deal. Hell, I'll even take some REAL covered-wheel racing in the likes of the American Le Mans Series any day over the draft-and-dump tactics used by the good ol' boys.

So, what's a real race like myself to do when Paul Stoddart, long-time real racing insider, flamboyant F1 team owner, and acknowledged Aussie odd-ball decides to auction off some 1800 lots of his collection of Tyrrell, Arrows, Jordan, BAR and of course Minardi "bits and pieces"? 22 actual F1 cars! Front wing assemblies ... barge boards ... news and used 10-cyl Hart and Cosworth piston sets (with and without con rods) ... assorted gearbox spares ... gearbox housings ... oil resevoirs ... team shirts ... autographed visors ... official team socks (ok, that's getting a little ridiculous)?!

I could use an Arrows Lost-Boys/Red bull front nose assembly (lot 1057, but who's really taking notes?) to add to my collection of race cars. Ok, so my cars are all manufactured by Lego with labor from moi, but it's a starting point! Or perhaps some really COOL gearbox components! I mean REALLY!

Hold on ... need to dab at my mouth ...

So see, when there's this much quality stuff to be had, when you can watch the bidding live on the 'net on Saturday and Sunday, when you can have the privilege of calling in to LEDBURY, HEREFORDSHIRE, England when you are ready to actually place your bids (which are only subject to the applicable UK VAT tax, the 15% web bidders premium to pay for the auctioning firm, and then whatever minor amount it would cost to ship the lot to your home in backwoods TN), who could resist?

Well, ok, so my kids and wife do need to eat. And we are somewhat partial to the roof and the house. And clothes are a pretty nice thing too.

So, yeah, I made sure I had my priorities straight and showed some "spine". I only registered with the auctioneers so that I could WATCH the auction live. You know ... just to see how much I could have lost had I been so spineless as to engage in bidding...

There once were 5 men from Copenhagen...

Flemish ... Isn't that the language of Denmark?

How would I know? I'm a typically ignorant, globally-challenged American, kept in that style due to the whimsically current standing of my motherland in the world community. The only country we touch that doesn't speak English is Mexico, and even then most of us don't deign to habla es-pain-y'all. In Europe most everyone is multi-lingual, and they make an effort at it. No, not us Americans, unless perhaps it's Yankee and the situation involves what passes in this country for beer...

So I opened my work day today with a conference call that included 5 Danes in Copenhagen, plus one more who lives in the U.S. I wondered whether language or accent was going to be an issue, and much to my surprise (and pleasure) they understood and spoke English quite well. Of course, it didn't hurt that the topic of conversation was computer-eeze, geek-ism and bit-o-byte, all of which are clearly universal, so we got along swimmingly for 50 minutes.

My one and only challenge was Roman. Not as in numerals. Not as in noses. As in the guy, the primary programming geek, whose name was 'Roman'. He was mostly silent, contemplative (right!), and ethereal - essentially a typical geek - but at one point about 2/3 of the way through the conversation, the others asked him to weigh in. 'Yes', was the first, and woefully inadequate answer, so he was prodded further. What followed was a fluid litany of nouns and verbs, half swallowed gutturally, only somewhat resembling sentence structure, emanating power and pride. My initial reaction was to choke back a chuckle - after all, here's a Dane named Roman trying to speak English - that seems like a train wreck waiting to happen. But let's be brutally honest here - when pressed, he could adequately attempt to meet me on my own language court. I couldn't even groan in Flemish - or whatever. Roman 1, privileged American weenie 0.

And as if to drive home the helplessness of my situation, at one point I was expounding vividly on a particular techno-brain-bubble, and it was apparently running right on by the Roman legion. So, Tommi (at least I could spell his name) starts speaking in squeaks, yaks and burtles, which are rebounded by Roman with what must have been humor and eloquence as everyone on the phone starts to laugh. Except me. The village idiot. Then, as if to save me from my own self-humiliation, Tommi translates back a very astute response.

Maybe I'm being a little harsh, but it is rather sad that those of us in this country, in general, don't make an effort to learn the languages of others. We certainly don't need to be completely fluent, as Roman showed me today, but we should be able to show at least an effort to be conversational. I couldn't do that. It felt shameful.

Oh, and of course a short trip to the Wikipedia points out that I am truly ignorant - they speak Danish in Denmark (duhh....).

Air pollution

"I have to go potty," sayeth the papoose. Of course.

My daughter and I joined the moose, the goose and the papoose for a wonderful night out at the ballpark Saturday. There's something about being outside at a baseball game on what turns out to be a beautifully fair evening that's calming to the soul. "It's just so ... wholesome" quipped the moose, in between lapping up Red Ale and scratching his antlers.

I have to agree. Once the sun goes down and the air loses 5 soul-sucking degrees of heat, you can breathe clearly, relax in your chair, drink in the atmosphere, and...

"They're out of hot dogs. It's only the second inning!"

... enjoy the conversation with your kids and friends. Reticent to show off her worldly knowledge, the goose holds back that she's actually well versed in the strageties of baseball. While the moose and I gab, she's actually paying close attention to the "real" reason for attendance. As the ...

"I mean seriously, how do you run out of hotdogs?"

... er, evening progresses, though, her intelligence gives her away as the moose and I wonder about certain incidents and eventualities in the game.

Earlier, having conquered her erstwhile childhood fears, my daughter approached the local mascot, "Ozzie" and proudly presented her famous ball glove for his signature. Famous, of course, because of its destiny to catch a foul ball this night. After all, the evening really is perfect, and "wholesome" as the moo...

"They're a STAPLE for gawd's sake!
Even if there's only 2 games left in the season,
you HAVE to have them ready during the game"

Ok, ok, ok. So, perhaps not everything is perfect. See, there's this group of first-year medical buffoons that have chosen this evening to sit directly behind us, and apparently one of them simply must have a wiener. Well, perhaps I should rephrase ... he simply must be allowed to purchase said porcine/bovine/probably-equine sausage-like foodstuff for roughly 800% of it's worth on the street, and the concessioneers have run out of these delicacies. "How ROOD!" as they say on Full House, which if you happen to have an under-10 year old girl in the house is a saying that you know.

This is almost certainly what he's thinking, as it's the age he's acting. And his air pollution is interrupting my perfect communion with the -oose's! Is he even interested in the game? Are his friends? Perhaps I should...

"No, stop playing with the man's knees."

Psshtp!! (that's the drink going up my nose) OK, that's priceless ... the papoose, all of 5 calendar and 25 vocabulary years, is watching the game while gently probing and poking the knee of one of the phab physicians, so the moose, being the polite person that he is but that he cordons into the closet, is (surely) teaching the 5 calendar year old essence of the papoose some of the social norm that she's yet to digest. Good going Dad ... but too bad we couldn't just stick a Sharpie in her hand...

So as I was saying, perhaps I should ...

"So, like, I just got a text msg from
Debbie, and she's not coming.
She going out, and now she wants
to know who ELSE is going out.
Like, what do I tell her?
We don't know when this game'll be over, ya know?"

Holy sacred cheeses.

"TELL HER YOU'RE ALL COMING! RIGHT THIS MINUTE! AS SOON AS YOU'RE DONE STUFFING GASTRO-BOY HERE WITH MEAT-SHAVING-CASES FROM THE LOCAL STOP-AND-ROB!! GONNA REALLY MISS HAVING YOU BEHIND US!"

Oh, and would you be a doll and escort the papoose here to the restroom, please? She's gotta potty, and I'm thinking y'all are experts at assisting in that regard...

NOTE: No actual medical buffoons were injured in the true-life transpirings related herein. I only wish they had been. In fact, some names and order of events have been rearranged to suit the author's selfish desires. But other than those items, and the lack of hauling in a foul ball, the game and evening was superb :-)

Oooo ... Nota Bene fun!

Check out Ms. O's Nota Bene blog if you're interested in the way some composition students study and analyze freedom and responsibility - one of my personal weaknesses :-).

Mars Black Simon - a true story

Black marbles. I've heard it called "jet black" before, but the deep and solid black of his eyes reminds me of the color that my Dad's acrylic paints always called Mars Black. That's it - his eyes are Mars black marbles.

His nose, so characteristic of a pug that it can't be mistaken, lays softly against the railing, one tooth peeking out from under his muzzle. Drool, that ever-present essence of dogness, saturates the concrete below his chin. In so many ways, he resembles every domestic canine ever to grace a household.

As I pull the truck up the dry concrete driveway after work, late by over an hour because of a meeting snafu, I'm reminded of the phone call not 2 minutes earlier from my son. "Where are you?" he whines, with that "I'm hungry" tone coming through loud and clear. "I'm just turning off of the Highway - give me 2 minutes!". So as I disembark the truck, I know that my son and daughter will be bounding out the door, all transmission and no reception, assailing me with accusations of not loving them and statements of dire starvation.

Strange, though, no one's bounding...

So, I turn the corner and start up the stairs, when I see them both through the clear storm door that I'd cleaned not 3 days earlier. But the don't look hungry - they look worried. Pointing downward at the concrete stoop in front of the door.

And there he is - the Mars Black dog. We don't own a dog, much less this dog. And there's one more problem. He's graced his last household - those Mars black eyes open, vacant, and gone.

So many thoughts and emotions! Who is he? Who does he belong to? The kids discovered him - are they ok? They seem to have thought he was asleep. Was he hit and someone left him? Did he get ill and climb up the stairs in hope of finding help? He hasn't been dead long - that seems obvious. The vets are closed - do I bury him? I don't KNOW anyone with a pug... do I? The kids and my wife are starving and I have to make dinner! But ... I can't leave this poor soul.

What do I do?!

I call the vets in town - of course in vain as they've been closed for over an hour. Emotionally, I'm exhausted from the day: this just happens to be the day that my wife was diagnosed with Diabetes (somewhat expectedly, but nonetheless a real change in diet and life begins today for her and us all), I'm late, and now I'm at a point where there has to be action taken, but I don't know what. AHHHH!

With some sage advice from my wise Mother, I climb in the car and drive to the street behind mine where I've seen pugs before. No luck though - a talk with one new neighbor and another that's long in the tooth as well as the gab inform me that those pugs moved away last year ("good RIDDANCE!" I hear). So, I start back and drive my neighborhood. Stopping neighbors along the way, two sets tell me of one couple with a pug, "But he doesn't go out of the house" they both say. So, I arrive to announce my search, the bearer of the worst news.

In short, yes, their blind dog Simon does appear to be out of the house - they haven't noticed. As I bring the owner to the house, I try as gently as possible to break the news, and it's taken well - especially after confirming that it's his 6 year old pet. He's been acting wierdly the past few days, and he went blind suddenly within the past 6 months. We surmise that he may have simply passed away, not knowing where he way.

He probably found my steps, and was hoping it was his house. How could he know. His eyes had failed him. Those gentle Mars Black eyes. RIP Simon.

Can we just get this out of the way, once and for all?

Yes. Same spelling. Ha ha - never heard THAT one before....

Unclogging the drain

That was it. Simply writing the previous post has unclogged a series of topics for me to consider in the future...

• Heritage. Family. Nature v Nuture as I've noticed in my life.
• Heritage. When dredging up your past brings you face-to-face with a horse-drawn covered wagon (non-fiction)
• Struggles over what's really important to get across to my kids, and the Blog that no one else (until now) knows about 'cause I haven't made it public.
• Writing as an interest. Why, oh WHY, is it that I have loathed the thought of writing most of my life, yet I'm now finding it a compelling pasttime?
• Real management. I never wanted to be a manager, but it's a part of my work-life now, work that I can luckily say that I enjoy, and I think not wanting to be one is a plus. There's a cliche I'm trying to stay away from here, but neverthless...
• Changing ones mind. Why in the heck is it so taboo, in politics or in normal life, to have a considered change of heart on important topics? Why is personal revelation so hard to believe? Consider: without personal revelation and back-tracking, there's be no New Testament of the Bible beyond the Gospels. So, if we can accept that Paul the Jewish tax-collector can justly also be the Apostle Paul, writer of most of the New Testament, why can't we at least consider changing our minds on important issues as we move through life? (This idea promises fireworks)

Blogger's block

What do you do when you don't know what to blog?

What does it mean if you don't know what to blog?

It's been almost a week since my last entry here, and I'm not really sure why. When I started out on this blogging journey, I told myself that I would sit down each night, think through the day, and dump out the most "ponderous" and "interesting" point of the day. I've not failed there - and frequently there's something of note.

But for the past 5 nights, nothing. Hmm.

I suppose, if I'm to be honest with myself, then this itself is the topic that's come to mind - what does it mean that nothing stands out for blogging?

• Am I working too much (I told myself I would not write about work issues directly, though the human aspect of work is fair game, as I've already written on twice)?
• Am I finding some other outlet for my thoughts?
• Am I suppressing something?
• Am I too damn busy? (There's something there, but I'm not convinced that's all of it)
• Is global warming shutting down synapses? (We're teetering on the bleeding edge of viability with this topic...)

My grandfather, a respected English professor in his lifetime (seen in caricature at left), used to tell me in regard to writing: "Get in, say it, and get out. Let style handle itself. But by all means, just WRITE!" In a pre-Nike-enlightened world, this was tantamount to "Just do it." For a type-A mathematical mind, this was sage and understandable advice, and the most permanent scholarly (though not most important) impact he had upon my life. It successfully got me through a major in Philosophy and the hazards of having to write for the professional work audience.

But what do you do when writing is the whole point, and there's no topic jumping out at you?

My answer, then, is this blog entry. I'm writing about my lack of knowing what to write about. And in the process, I've found a small topic (my grandfather). I searched the Web to find some kind of "visual" representation for his scholarly life, looking primarily for covers of one of his 4 books (Amazon doesn't have pics, but does have his books listed). But instead, I found mention of the gift of his library and the above bookplate, which I'd never seen before. I think it's pretty cool - I reached out into the ether and discovered a hidden area of my personal past.

Pretty wild. Probably not terribly fascinating blog-stuff, but who knows?

Hans Island gets it's own Blog!

Check out the links to the right ... there's SO MUCH important news on the arctic front that it demands it's very own blog.

Pacman?

What kind of a name is "Pacman" Jones?

And, if I were a professional football player, why would I and my agent act like doofuses if I were called "Pacman"?

I suppose I get it, to an extent, but ... sigh.

Got Guts? I'm a little short...

Well, ok, that was perhaps a little "over the top" for introducing a fund raiser for the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation, but hey, at least it's factual.

I've never been very good at fund-raising - I just hate to ask anyone for their money - but this one hit close to "home." I have Crohn's, and a co-worker of mine does also. She mentioned a week ago that there was a 5k fun WALK through Edwin Warner Park in Sept, and would I like to join her team. "SURE", I think, "5k can't kill me." And that's true. Even my darling-est daughter agrees, as she's decided to join me. My wife and son, as I predicted, have decided to participate as avid cheerleaders from the air conditioned comfort of home :-)

It'll be fun, and it'll be the first involvement I've had with the CCFA. I've known of them for a long time, but haven't been officially a member in over 12 years.

So, if it floats your boat, feel free to contribute to the cause. I'll also mention how much I love my sister - the first contributor :-)

Cecil Tomkey Gnome - legal advisor

I was recently made aware of the existence of a great new service industry and one of its greatest service vendors - EULA analyst and advisor, Cecil Tomkey Gnome.

Why read text that's so small your eyeballs shrivel? Legal rants aren't fit for human recognition (or comprehension for that matter). Enter the gnome!

Leave the analysis to the small one! He's infinitely patient, and ensures that you are "adequately" covered concerning all legal interests. As can be seen in this picture, Cecil Tomkey has a secret to his success - hint: it ain't gardening! Seasoned through years of appropriate "mental adjustment", Cecil knows how to cut through the cra... er, refuse to make out the pertinent points. Usually, he'll just handle it for you, and you'll never even hear about the issue!

Fine teeth are also a top quality of CT's. Keen research reveals that he's recently been endowed with his third set of choppers, and that important when you need your documents run over with a fine toothed gno... (ok, ok, I couldn't resist, and in fact, I stole the line)

If life imitates art ... I'm a Jackson Pollock

How long has it been since my last entry? Much too long. Unfortunately, I know why this is: work. Well, and then there's Scouts. Well, and then there's the Sunday school thing I got myself into (we're doing Galatians and Thessalonians ... I think it'll be pretty cool). Well, and then there's ...

The durnmoose has even been diverted to pasture a few times now for work and other such. It's not as if there hasn't been plenty to discuss - I simply HAVE to blog about Catherine, but that'll have to come after I meet her tomorrow - but there's also not enough time. I think I've complained about that a lot too.

Anyway - so I'm feeling like there's just too much going on, and not enough time again. It doesn't all run together neatly - it's scattered all over, yet it forms the "whole" that is my life. Jackson Pollock - I think that fits.

Jumping off cliffs

Why in cheese's* name would anyone teach an adult sunday school class?

If the class is covering a Bible study - well, how impossible is that? It's not as if you, as the teacher, could make up the content of the study. No, it's pretty well documented content. Content that's been around about 2000 years. Not a lot of "creative license" room there.

And you know, funny thing is, students will come in with their own ideas about the content. Get out! When you teach in primary or secondary schools, generally students come in knowing little or nothing about the material. In adult sunday school, if the people show up they usually did the homework, or at least have an interest in the material. So, this isn't necessarily a maleable audience.

No, in fact, sometimes people show up not wanting to hear anything but their own ideas. Yeah - that's the kind of environment someone should volunteer for!

Then there's the question of "language" ... KJV, NKJV, NIV, RSV, NSRV, NASV, NEB, NJB, NLT, ABCPDQ... right! That's makes it so much EASIER to get a single message across when everyone reads from different rosetta stone. Sure, all the rosetta stones were cut from the same cliff, but why'd the cliff have to be so big?!

That's why I took that leap of faith and jumped off that cliff today ... b/c it makes perfect sense, to volunteer to teach an adult sunday school class. Piece of cheese-cake.

_____
* As is so often the case - quoth the durnmoose.

Where does the time go?

[Warning: The following is a vent and rant session paid for be the owner of this blog.]
["I'm Spenser, and I approve this rant."]

I swear - a few seconds ago it was "suddenly" 5:00 PM at work, and now it's 10:00. Where the heck does time go anyway?

All I wanted to do was sit down for a short while tonight and do nothing. Maybe read. Instead, let's see...

• Drive home
• Get gas
• Clear kitchen
• Make dinner
• Help clean up
• Fix up new phone for wife (instruction manual challenged)
• Take out laundry
• Bathroom
• Fix TP holder that is only barely held onto the wall
• Cull through mail
• Pay bills for week
• Call homeowners grass cutter to cut foreclosed house that mortgage co isn't handling
• Notify other HOA board members.

And then ... it's 10:00! Sigh... and with other meetings Wed and Thurs night after dinner, there's not too much chance that it'll get "simpler".

Ok ... I've bitched enough ... I feel slightly better now.

Cats and hairballs: it all makes sense now

(Yaaackkk!)

I hate this sound. If you have cats, you do too. My 17 y.o. male cat makes this sound on average once a day. It's inevitably followed by this:

Eww! (Rip... that's the paper towels)

Why do cats do this to themselves? I could go into that rant, but it's to banal. BUT ... today I've been introduced to the secret of the hairball and why cats simply must react the way they do. I would too if I read this explanation.

Beware ... the answer may not be what one would think.

The big Four-Oh

Rather than posting racy pics of Danish elves, I guess I'm supposed to be remarking upon the passing of my 40th birthday today. Yay Rah. There, I celebrated it.

The first 40 years have been great! I was "setup" incredibly well for life by my parents, and I've fallen into a wonderful life with my wife and kids and friends. But I'm not getting exactly what the usual "dread" is about this passage point in life.

You makes your choices and you move ahead. I've had plenty of challenges, but in all I won't complain about the past. Sure, I think a lot more about the end of my life than I used to, but frankly that's just because it's time to do so. I don't sense any lamentations, perhaps because there's still so much out there to do and try and see and enjoy. I won't get it all done, and the rest of my life won't be perfect, and there isn't as much time as there used to be, but history shows that what's ahead will almost certainly NOT be whatever I think it'll be, and so long as I don't worry about it, it'll probably be fun. (And apparently, run-on sentences will be written...)

We don't look backward (too much) -forward is the next 40 years...

Concrete "Magic", or Bulldog Redux

Magic

This is the hallowed name bestowed upon the Concrete Bulldog by its damsel in distress. (See Tueday July 19.)

The mind (ok, MY mind...) flutters through myriad a possible rationale for why the Bulldog's named Magic. It will magically come to life one day? It appeared magically. All these ideas flowing in the space of 800 ms.

"So, why Magic honey?" I ask in that typically lame Dad voice.

Shrug. "Idunno."

Sigh. Women.

What a difference $25 can make

My son has been begging to have a yard sale to sell some of his stuff. Of course, this is the last thing Dad wants to organize.

But then, there's eBay.

Joshua was a little reluctant, but he placed 350 prized, but redundant, Pokemon cards on the auction block. We did some research, and put them out there for bid, or Buy It Now! for $25. Nothing for 3 days.

Then Joshua calls me at work. "Daddy? Did someone buy my cards? I can't find them on eBay." Et viola! A no doubt discerning youngster from WV has plucked them up. We pay the charges from the proceeds, and our S&H calcs appear to have been accurate - he clears a little over $25.

So why do I write about this? Because I'm ever so stunned at how HAPPY he is, and what he seems to have learned. We researched to find an appropriate price. We talked about what costs he would have. He had to work WITH me to pack and pay for the shipping label. And from it all, it appears that he feels he earned the money. That's cool, and is also what I'd like to see him get out of the experience.

Next I think he wants to sell his sister. Hmm....

What price, Pokemon?

A milestone was passed in my household today. Pokemon are, dare I say it, passe.

My son approached in all seriousness this afternoon to announce that, after some 3-4 years of elevated importance rivaling only his Lego's, he wanted to sell a majority stake in his Pokemon collection in that bastion of personal flea markets, eBay.

I never believed this day would come.

You see, I'd come to believe that Pokemon cards were an intrinsic pattern of the rug in my children's play room. You know - neutral khaki with a Pokemon weave. "Gotta have 'em all!" and all that. (These of course, were the cast off "bad" ones, or the ones that belong to my daughter, who seems to really only be interested because her brother is)

I'd burned them into my oh-so-male "visual ignore" database. What's the point ... they'll just be strewn about tomorrow in some card game that even this ex-DnD player can't grasp.

No, my son looked me straight in the eye and said "I want to sell them all!". I almost got downright giddy at the thought of how clean his room would be without them!

'Til he told me he wants to buy Star Wars stuff with the proceeds...

Steve ... Don't eat it!

Buckle up and log on to the Steve Don't Eat It! website. Be sure you're in a space where R-rated websites are "appropriate" (I wouldn't have the kids around), you can guffaw loudly, and it's acceptable to fall out of your chair. Props to the the DurnMoose for this one (the Moose lives!).

Concrete Bulldog

Why would anyone make and sell a concrete bulldog?

My dearest daughter loves dogs. She is, nonetheless, deathly afraid of them. Even the yip of the neighbor's chihuahua sends her running for the house. She wants a dog ... just not if it's going to, you know, "mess" with her. Ahh, the joys of youthful innocence.

So, when the CEO of my company mentioned that the concrete bulldog hanging out in the mailroom could be had for simply the price of carrying it out the door, I jumped. This is a "dog" that won't "mess" with my daughter.

She's happy! It guards the door to her room! I'm sure it'll have a name of its own soon.

But I got to wondering ... just WHO comes up with the idea to actually build and sell a concrete bulldog in Middle Tennessee? Perhaps in Georgia for the UGA fans, but in TN? "Dude ... we just gotta get a bulldog mold! " But with their natural good looks and slim physique :-> ... well, I guess I just don't get it.

And who BUYS concrete bulldogs? Let's observe the fact that his bulldog was the "invitation" to come to an event put on by a company with "Bulldog" in their name. I guess that makes (a little?) sense. It's certainly provokes thought - yeah, that's it. But, and again let's ignore the random UGA fan, who BUYS such a thing that it would command need to create a mold? I'm simply at a loss.

For now, though, my daughter's a happy camper. Her room is guarded by a concrete bulldog and a 3-ft tall Nutcracker the like of which was all the rage this last Christmas.

Just who thought up the Nutcracker idea...??

Harry Bosch at it again

Just finished reading The Closers, Michael Connelly's latest Harry Bosch book. I enjoyed it. I wouldn't call it one of the best I've read, but not disappointing either. Maybe it's just me, but it seemed to take a little too long to get to the "point" of the plot. Perhaps I'm just too impatient. Nice plot twists though. I'd recommend it.

What was REALLY cool was at the end, when ... ok, guess I shouldn't give it all away :-)

Baseball, hot dogs and apple pie...

Ok, maybe not the apple pie, but the rest apply.

Went to the Nashville Sounds baseball game tonight with the whole family, courtesy of my employer HealthStream. Dinner was provided alone with drinks, ice cream, a goody bag with peanuts, Big League chew, a spinning-light-toy-thingy, cracker jacks, and a glow stick to go around the kids necks once the sun went down.

I haven't been to a baseball game in a long time, and even though I didn't know any of the players, it really was a lot of fun. Joshua wasn't very excited before going, but I believe he had a good time too. Kelly Anne of course liked it ... we even saw a pitcher get ejected from the game for intentionally hitting a batter, and then the manager got the boot for arguing and he made a huge, oh-so-typical mess-up-home-plate-with-dirt show of his anger. Kelly Anne, ever the elegant observer, labelled this activity "wicked cool"!

So it was very much fun, and perhaps we'll do it again. I guess it goes to show that, even though we don't follow baseball at all, sometimes you just have to get out and just do it :-)

Oh, and I lied earlier ... no one had hot dogs, we all had burgers, which once again were labelled "wicked", but "good" this time.

Embarrassed

In a previous life I worked for the Space Shuttle program at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. Most everyone whose ever worked for the Shuttle program, especially if they were directly involved in flight support as I was, will tell you that it's the most personally satisfying job that you can have. Working for the government sucks, but the work itself is really great.

So it's with great embarrassment that I read today that, one day before the return to flight of the shuttle after the Columbia disaster from foam that broke loose from the ET, a window cover weighing about 2 pounds breaks loose on the launch pad, falls 60 ft., and damages 2 tiles. Sheesh.

NASA states that they change out tiles almost every day and it was a routine and simple fix, and this I can attest to as true. But gee whiz guys - this is almost precisely the problem that you had originally! I'm sure it was a simple and unfortunate oversight, and it would not otherwise have had any bearing upon the launch since those covers are removed before launch, but from a public confidence perspective ... ugh.

Quoth the DurnMoose ... Le Sigh.

Idiocy: Customer "inspiration"...

It occurs that I haven't captured the inspiration for that recent "Internal customers" post, so here it is for reference sake...

Have you heard the "I believe..." series on NPR? Where people get 3minutes to talk about what they believe to be true about life? Well it's 9:30 AM, and I'm ready to write my speech for NPR:
I believe in idiocy. I'm not sure where the founding fathers placed it in the Declaration, but I now believe that it is a truth to be held self-evident. We Americans, frequently in the form of "customers", believe in the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of idiocy. The lessons of yesterday are lost on the stresses of today, and if money is paid for a service, it is self-evident that this service shall include the right to conveniently forget those lessons. Idiocy will keep us safe ("job security"). Idiocy is a blessing bestowed upon the diligent who suffer the tyrrany of reason...

Or something like that...

Internal customers

(Of course, the following is satire, or perhaps more accurately "exaggeration", but it makes me feel better...)

You know, the people you have to work with that get a check from the same people you do? Recent events have reminded me that this paycheck-thing is all some of them have in common with me and that they are really more "customers" than "internal". They definitely don't KNOW more than an external customer, even though I would nigh-on expect them to have some semblance of intelligence. At least within the realm of the business that we commonly conduct. And in particular when the topic is NOT technical!

I've also discovered that the written-communication word is (apparently) no substitute for telling them the same thing verbally 5 times in rapid succession over consecutive business days. While beating said internal customer with a Big Bertha golf club. Repeatedly. Apparently there's something in the physical abuse that commits concept to memory. While I'm confident that the internal customer can "read", I'm quickly coming to grips with the fact that "basic comprehension" was apparently a graduate-level course that many didn't take...

Home from vacation

Spent the day travelling from Hope, AR back home. No problems, thankfully, except for a young one with a smallish bladder. Kids were well behaved today (except for the same one who thought she could steal my broccoli).

Cats are happy we are home ... deaf and blind Weeble can't stop meow-ing to make sure we haven't left again. Zeb is very happy ... he promptly threw up for me within 15 minutes of getting home.

It's good to be home.

Travelling...

Heading home after being in Houston for roughly a week. Great people, great food, crappy weather. Too dang hot. Not enough time to see everyone either :-(

Woke up rather late, took our time, and travelled in the afternoon mostly. Stopped in Hope, AR for the evening. Will travel the rest of the way to Fairview tomorrow, after a stop at Graceland to see the jets and the cars that were missed on the trip down.

Rolling, rolling, rolling...

Getting started - from Houston no less

I've always wondered whether a "public diary" would be something that's interesting and fun, and after coming across a friend who uses a Blog for a specific purpose, I thought I'd go ahead and start one. We'll see what, if anything, comes of it.

I write this as we, the family, are winding down on a week in Houston where we used to live a decade ago. It's been good to see friends and eat great food, but the weather in Houston is "not so good". Ugh - 103 degrees each day with the heat index making it 110.

So it's been a fun trip, but I'll be looking forward to heading home tomorrow too. I never though high-90s would be something to look forward to, but I guess that's just the way it is. :-)

First blog!

Just testing... not very interesting to anyone but me...