Movement of the Durn One

It's been, oh, WAY too long since I've posted here, but in case anyone's still checking, you really need to check out the new DurnMoose Journal at http://www.durnmoose.com/. The Blog is currently the most active part of the site, but there are big plans, yes BIG plans to come :) Seriously, it's a great read with content updated daily.

I'm particularly taken with the Shorter the destination serial story...

MM - Sermon savior

My son is wont to try and go to sleep during the sermon at church on Sunday's. Rainy day, sunny day; boring or interesting sermon; small or large breakfast; grippers or boxers; it doesn't matter, he wants to sleep through the thesis of the morning.

His Mother and I have tried a number of strategies to get him to pay attention, and have given up on that in deference to simply finding ways to keep him awake. After all, it's somewhat embarrassing to hear the snoring over the listening. And today was no different... until...

As if suddenly pounded by a 30-mph sub-freezing zephyr, I was struck by a clarity of direction that I knew would work for today, and I wasn't let down. There is one current event, a recent revelation, that needed input and skill the likes of which my son (and even my daughter, whom I KNEW wouldn't leave this alone without contributing herself) was particularly inclined toward.

Given that my kids always bring spiral notebooks to write on in church (hey, at 11 and 9 my objective is simply to keep them there without obnoxious wailing), I pulled my son's out from under his hunched over shell of a conscious self, jerking him into annoyed awareness. Opening his pen, I wrote....

Draw me a picture of a NEW superhero, "Mighty Mike" - blaster of PADs! PADs = Predatory Antigood Dudes!

This was big. And important! You see, my son's Godfather (who should remain nameless to protect his public identity [but I won't - Michael Laws]) had recently revealed to a few of his closest confidants that he, in fact, was a latter-day Superhero of epic proportion, recently bestowed of the name Mighty Mike.

He's not, of course, possessed of the same constitution as Bob the father in The Incredibles - after all, Bob had a slight eating disorder and slightly-too-strong chin. No, MM was rather more of a clandestine and reluctant superhero, in the vain of Batman without the bright, outgoing personality...

But MM didn't have a look, an image, a sense of couture! This, must be remedied, and my son during this church sermon was the man for the task. Well, ok, and so was my daughter, who at that moment was leaning clearly too far into my son's personal space for his usual liking, but he let it go this time because he was enthralled with the assignment.

Time was not wasted; ideas were not considered: an immediate moment of brilliant insight produced the below from my son, master of that process called thinking outside the box...


Behold the Grandness of his image! The esteem with which MM is so obviously held! There's no human image in which the great MM shall appear to evil-doer's and raw PADs ... only a 4-armed multi-segmented insect body with fanged teeth and a quick draw will suffice! He's now left searching for appropriate vendors for the tights, who can accommodate appropriately the rather enlarged feet , the source of which seems the only detail left to the imagination.

My daughter, on the other hand, found this rendition something short of the greatness due this mighty greatness, and proffered the below.

Despite her understandable misreading of the instructions in thinking that the superhero was "Mighty Milk" (perhaps apropos in some situations, but that's not a topic for this missive), she delivered a - powerful -image too. From the threateningly slender toe-like appendages to the no-corner-too-square head-covering, this is obviously NOT a superhero to be dismissed. HE BLASTS PADS! Never a more true statement has been uttered.

And with this most important issue completely covered, with a respect and reverence appropriate to the subject, the sermon ended. Multiple missions accomplished, smiles on all faces, and everyone awake, we made our way to the hymnal...

New Miser sighting

Here we go ... a website to honor a REAL American classic, which happens to demonstrate what Don King must be trying to emulate, the Heat Miser...

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.