"You can't make up anything anymore. The world itself is a satire. All you're doing is recording it." - Art Buchwald
According to NPR, today is Art Buchwald's birthday. Happy birthday Art, from your youngest fan.
When I was a kid in elementary school, we naturally had a history course each year. The only problem was we never made it past the Civil War. We'd start with the Revolution and trudge through the 18th and 19th centuries before getting totally bogged down in the Civil War. Right before school was out for the summer, the teachers would be busy trying to explain what a "carpet bagger" was without spitting. I guess it was a southern thing.
That was all well and good, but then you'd hear your parents talking about Watergate and Spiro Agnew and you'd feel a bit left out. For years I thought Gerald Ford and George Washington were one and the same person, due to my mother misunderstanding my question once during the evening news.
By the time I was in 5th and 6th grade, I was out on the streets, hanging out at the used book stores. Yeah. Ugly, but true. When I'd had my fill of kids books, I moved on to the hard stuff. That's when I found Art Buchwald.
I learned everything I know about the Watergate saga, Vietnam, and gas shortages from Art Buchwald. It was years later before I understood that Henry Kissinger was not really a funny man. And although I was old enough to experience the Reagan years, Art Buchwald explained all sorts of things about that era that my junior high social studies teachers didn't deem important.
Perhaps this is not the best way to learn about American history, but it certainly ranks among the most entertaining. So happy birthday, Mr. Buchwald!
"Mom! Mom! Who is Mary Jo Kopechne?"
(Yeah, I bet my mom thanks you too, Mr. Buchwald.)
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
You've seen what happens to white marble on the east side of the state where the humidity is so high you feel like you need to flush your lungs to be able to take a good deep breath?
This is what happens to marble out here on the west side of the state where the dirt is bright red and the wind and sun bake it into place.
This is what happens to marble out here on the west side of the state where the dirt is bright red and the wind and sun bake it into place.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Google Images Meme
Google the town where you were born.
Google the town you live in now.
Google your name.
Google your grandmother's name.
Google your favorite food.
Google your favorite drink.
Google your favorite song.
Google your favorite smell.
I can't remember where I orginially saw this, so I apologize for not giving credit where it is due. Try it for yourself - its more fun than lying in the dark, trying to guess the exact second the numbers on your digital clock will advance.
Google the town you live in now.
Google your name.
Google your grandmother's name.
Google your favorite food.
Google your favorite drink.
Google your favorite song.
Google your favorite smell.
I can't remember where I orginially saw this, so I apologize for not giving credit where it is due. Try it for yourself - its more fun than lying in the dark, trying to guess the exact second the numbers on your digital clock will advance.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Woman-Woman Strikes Again
Last week CaptainKatie and I went on our testosterone-free camping trip. When we got home, Katie's friend Ashley (who will grow up to be a tough chick - I really like this kid!) came over to play. They were finishing up a game of cards when I decided it was time to unload the truck. As I headed out the door, I asked them to help me as soon as they put up the cards.
I'd backed the truck in a little too close to the motorcycles, so I threw it in neutral to push it up a few inches so I could safely lower the tailgate. Bob T. Truck is admittedly a bit of a lightweight and you can pretty much push him around with one hand. Katie and Ashley don't know that. They came out the front door just in time to see me push the truck down the drive.
They were impressed.
Not being one to miss an opportunity, I said "You think that's good? Watch this!" I then pulled the truck back up the drive and pushed it down again! They were even more impressed.
"See Katie," I said. "I told you I was a superhero. And you didn't believe me!"
Well, neither Katie nor Ashley are dumb, so at this point they figured I was conning them. They came running down off the porch, determined to move the truck for themselves. I scoffed at their confidence and made a big show out of moving away from the back of the truck so they could give it a try. So intent were they on proving my ruse that neither one noticed me leaning in the cab to throw the truck back into gear.
The huffed and they puffed. And they puffed some more. Didn't move it an inch. Finally, miffed at their failure and unable to conceive how it had happened, they gave up and helped me unload the truck.
Monday morning I took Katie to school. We passed a car pulled up on the curb. Why did somebody park there? she wanted to know. I told her they probably had car trouble. Why would someone drive up over the curb and park to have car trouble? I then explained that I was sure they'd broken down on the road and pushed the car up the side to get it out of the way.
"Ohhh." she said. "That must have been really hard."
I nodded.
"I bet they wished you were there to push it for them! 'Cause you're a superhero!"
"Yeah!" I said. "Who am I?"
"You're Woman-Woman!"
And we laughed all the way to school.
I'd backed the truck in a little too close to the motorcycles, so I threw it in neutral to push it up a few inches so I could safely lower the tailgate. Bob T. Truck is admittedly a bit of a lightweight and you can pretty much push him around with one hand. Katie and Ashley don't know that. They came out the front door just in time to see me push the truck down the drive.
They were impressed.
Not being one to miss an opportunity, I said "You think that's good? Watch this!" I then pulled the truck back up the drive and pushed it down again! They were even more impressed.
"See Katie," I said. "I told you I was a superhero. And you didn't believe me!"
Well, neither Katie nor Ashley are dumb, so at this point they figured I was conning them. They came running down off the porch, determined to move the truck for themselves. I scoffed at their confidence and made a big show out of moving away from the back of the truck so they could give it a try. So intent were they on proving my ruse that neither one noticed me leaning in the cab to throw the truck back into gear.
The huffed and they puffed. And they puffed some more. Didn't move it an inch. Finally, miffed at their failure and unable to conceive how it had happened, they gave up and helped me unload the truck.
Monday morning I took Katie to school. We passed a car pulled up on the curb. Why did somebody park there? she wanted to know. I told her they probably had car trouble. Why would someone drive up over the curb and park to have car trouble? I then explained that I was sure they'd broken down on the road and pushed the car up the side to get it out of the way.
"Ohhh." she said. "That must have been really hard."
I nodded.
"I bet they wished you were there to push it for them! 'Cause you're a superhero!"
"Yeah!" I said. "Who am I?"
"You're Woman-Woman!"
And we laughed all the way to school.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Many older monuments have similar decorations and style. Have you ever wondered why? It is not just what was 'in style' at the moment. Most of the embellishments have an accepted symbolic meaning. This phote is a great example:
The drape symbolizes mortality & mourning. Roses signify victory & triumphant love. The urn represents immortality. Put it all together and you have one family's expression of faith in the future - sadness for the present, recognition of love and acknowledgement that death is not the end.
The drape symbolizes mortality & mourning. Roses signify victory & triumphant love. The urn represents immortality. Put it all together and you have one family's expression of faith in the future - sadness for the present, recognition of love and acknowledgement that death is not the end.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Things I wonder about...
I start to snicker whenever I hear the music from the Godfather. I really have no idea why. Too many bad movie spoofs and heart-breakingly terrible Brando impersonations I guess. Although you can really never experience too many bad Brando impersonations. Not really.
Thinking of bad impersonations reminds me of William Shatner. Which makes me think I should tell you I am a recovering trekkie. "Hi, my name is SpookyRach and I am a trekkie."
I always loved the original series and thought the idea of a new series was blasphemy. Sort of like growing up on the Old Testament and all of a sudden, someone suggests a New Testament. A NEW Testament? But it turned out Star Trek the Next Generation was way all better than the original. I was even more devoted. Then they started doing more and more series and more and more movies and damn. Enough is enough. I am a former fan. (Although, I just counted and there are 74 various and sundry Star Trek novels on the shelf behind me.)
Speaking of the shelf behind me makes me think of the bookshelf beside me. On top of it is a framed copy of our engagement picture. It used to be on a bookshelf in my office. I hit it with a pen that I threw across the room. The glass cracked right down the middle - right between us. Now it looks like an ad for a divorce lawyer, so I brought it home.
I was talking to someone on the phone who had really ticked me off when I threw the pen. I recommend the occasional pen toss to relieve the stress caused by suppressing the desire to kick the crud out of a really deserving individual. It is admittedly childish, but it works.
There are 86 Perry Mason books on the shelves below the Star Trek books.
It bothers me that Disney owns the Muppets. It may well be a sign of the apocalypse.
My head is killing me and has hurt for the last two days. It hurts just bad enough to make me whine about it every 15 minutes, but not bad enough for me to actually stay home from work or anything. You can imagine how thrilled my family and co-workers are about that.
I owe my parents a drawing of CaptainKatie, the fabulous stepkid. I keep forgetting to do it.
If I write something down, I generally remember it. I don't know if it typing something on the internet has the same effect, but I hope to find out.
Sorry for the rambling, pointless entry. I felt like writing, but didn't have anything to say. Better luck next time!
Thinking of bad impersonations reminds me of William Shatner. Which makes me think I should tell you I am a recovering trekkie. "Hi, my name is SpookyRach and I am a trekkie."
I always loved the original series and thought the idea of a new series was blasphemy. Sort of like growing up on the Old Testament and all of a sudden, someone suggests a New Testament. A NEW Testament? But it turned out Star Trek the Next Generation was way all better than the original. I was even more devoted. Then they started doing more and more series and more and more movies and damn. Enough is enough. I am a former fan. (Although, I just counted and there are 74 various and sundry Star Trek novels on the shelf behind me.)
Speaking of the shelf behind me makes me think of the bookshelf beside me. On top of it is a framed copy of our engagement picture. It used to be on a bookshelf in my office. I hit it with a pen that I threw across the room. The glass cracked right down the middle - right between us. Now it looks like an ad for a divorce lawyer, so I brought it home.
I was talking to someone on the phone who had really ticked me off when I threw the pen. I recommend the occasional pen toss to relieve the stress caused by suppressing the desire to kick the crud out of a really deserving individual. It is admittedly childish, but it works.
There are 86 Perry Mason books on the shelves below the Star Trek books.
It bothers me that Disney owns the Muppets. It may well be a sign of the apocalypse.
My head is killing me and has hurt for the last two days. It hurts just bad enough to make me whine about it every 15 minutes, but not bad enough for me to actually stay home from work or anything. You can imagine how thrilled my family and co-workers are about that.
I owe my parents a drawing of CaptainKatie, the fabulous stepkid. I keep forgetting to do it.
If I write something down, I generally remember it. I don't know if it typing something on the internet has the same effect, but I hope to find out.
Sorry for the rambling, pointless entry. I felt like writing, but didn't have anything to say. Better luck next time!
Friday, September 30, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Well. This ain't it.
I had a couple of nifty little pictures picked out for ya. Nothing earth shattering or particularly witty, but a couple of grins, none the less. My modem at home has decided it is better to give than to receive. I am all for that sort of altruism, but you can't do much without an ability to receive data. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Then, when I arrived at work, I discovered that my computer here is dead. D - E - D. Dead. Ka-put. My boss just told me he called the computer guys. They will be here "as soon as they can". Bossman admits he has no idea what that means.
"As soon as you can is like 'I'll do my best'. What the heck does that mean? And what if your best really sucks?"
So. We'll do more cemetery blogging next week - Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.
(Why do people even say that around here? We don't have any creeks. Just a few long and wind-y ravines that someone at the highway department likes to label as forks of the Brazos river. They aren't foolin' me, though. I know rivers are supposed to have water in them on a regular basis. So there!)
I had a couple of nifty little pictures picked out for ya. Nothing earth shattering or particularly witty, but a couple of grins, none the less. My modem at home has decided it is better to give than to receive. I am all for that sort of altruism, but you can't do much without an ability to receive data. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Then, when I arrived at work, I discovered that my computer here is dead. D - E - D. Dead. Ka-put. My boss just told me he called the computer guys. They will be here "as soon as they can". Bossman admits he has no idea what that means.
"As soon as you can is like 'I'll do my best'. What the heck does that mean? And what if your best really sucks?"
So. We'll do more cemetery blogging next week - Good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.
(Why do people even say that around here? We don't have any creeks. Just a few long and wind-y ravines that someone at the highway department likes to label as forks of the Brazos river. They aren't foolin' me, though. I know rivers are supposed to have water in them on a regular basis. So there!)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Hiss-terical
Hurricane warnings. Flood warnings. Evacuation warnings. We don't have to deal with that sort of thing much around here.
Got an email from my mom this morning. They live a couple hundred miles south of here in the oil fields.
They went to the football game last Friday night. They got a rattlesnake warning. There was some construction going on at the football field during the week and they had come across several rattlesnakes. The announcer was warning everyone to "watch yer step!"
What kind of penalty would you call for a snake bite? Ophidian foul? Illegal invenomation?
Got an email from my mom this morning. They live a couple hundred miles south of here in the oil fields.
They went to the football game last Friday night. They got a rattlesnake warning. There was some construction going on at the football field during the week and they had come across several rattlesnakes. The announcer was warning everyone to "watch yer step!"
What kind of penalty would you call for a snake bite? Ophidian foul? Illegal invenomation?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
21st Century Grandparent
Of course I'm not old enough to be a grandparent. But my friends are. They are all old, old, old. Real old. Like Old Testament old. (Sometimes I like to live dangerously.)
Anyway. One of my best friends just became a step-grandmother. For the second time. This child's parents are insistent that the child will not be calling my friend simply by her first name - although that is how Rose would prefer it.
The newly parental step-child and wife are feeling giddly and inclusive and want Rose to be labelled appropriately. Of course this has caused some tensions with the other grandmothers on both sides of the family. I don't know why, but they seem somewhat intimidated by Rose, although she is quiet and retiring - almost demure. Just like me! (Snort!) Actually, Rose is intelligent, tough, opinionated, and blonde. She never lets anyone get the best of her and refuses to take any crap. But she is still a blonde, which is why we call her Rose.
The other "real" grandmothers have already chosen their names: Nana, Mee-maw, etc. Rose refuses to be called Granny, Grandma or any other such diminuative. And truthfully, those names don't fit. So, what to do?
Google it, of course! Who would've guessed that there is an entire webpage devoted to names for step-grandparents? She decided to go international and went with the Greek term for grandmother: Yaya.
Rose is definitely a yaya. And of all the grandmother names floating around - guess which name the baby will be able to say first? My money is on Yaya.
Anyway. One of my best friends just became a step-grandmother. For the second time. This child's parents are insistent that the child will not be calling my friend simply by her first name - although that is how Rose would prefer it.
The newly parental step-child and wife are feeling giddly and inclusive and want Rose to be labelled appropriately. Of course this has caused some tensions with the other grandmothers on both sides of the family. I don't know why, but they seem somewhat intimidated by Rose, although she is quiet and retiring - almost demure. Just like me! (Snort!) Actually, Rose is intelligent, tough, opinionated, and blonde. She never lets anyone get the best of her and refuses to take any crap. But she is still a blonde, which is why we call her Rose.
The other "real" grandmothers have already chosen their names: Nana, Mee-maw, etc. Rose refuses to be called Granny, Grandma or any other such diminuative. And truthfully, those names don't fit. So, what to do?
Google it, of course! Who would've guessed that there is an entire webpage devoted to names for step-grandparents? She decided to go international and went with the Greek term for grandmother: Yaya.
Rose is definitely a yaya. And of all the grandmother names floating around - guess which name the baby will be able to say first? My money is on Yaya.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Since you asked...
A couple of you asked how to do the"ghost" picture. It involves multiple exposures and a reeeally steady tripod.
1. Set your camera to do a multiple exposure, ie. don't advance the film between the first and second shot.
2. Find the correct exposure setting for your scene. The divide the settings in half and set your camera accordingly. By doing half the expsoure time in each shot, you end up with one correctly exposed picture.
3. Take a picture of the scene, sans "ghost".
4. Take your second shot, being very careful not to move the camera. This time, add what ever the ghost is: a person walking past the camera, an object added to the landscape, whatever.
When the film is developed, you'll have a semi-transparent image of whatever you added to the second shot. Enjoy!
1. Set your camera to do a multiple exposure, ie. don't advance the film between the first and second shot.
2. Find the correct exposure setting for your scene. The divide the settings in half and set your camera accordingly. By doing half the expsoure time in each shot, you end up with one correctly exposed picture.
3. Take a picture of the scene, sans "ghost".
4. Take your second shot, being very careful not to move the camera. This time, add what ever the ghost is: a person walking past the camera, an object added to the landscape, whatever.
When the film is developed, you'll have a semi-transparent image of whatever you added to the second shot. Enjoy!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Self Portrait
Not my best work, but I really like the idea and the technique. It just needs a bit of polishing. I took this last winter in our local cemetery. (Thus the big coat.) I intended to go back during the spring to redo it, but I haven't had a chance.
5 Questions Meme
5 Things I will do before I die:
Learn to paint (pictures, not houses)
Go to Mexico and live on street food during Dia De Los Muertos
Run for public office without hope of election. (Sort of a la Kinky Friedman. I’d like to do it with Ross Pero’s money and just hang out on the campaign plane with the reporters for a year, flying around the country, causing trouble and having laughs.) (BTW-when you check out Kinky's page, stick around for the cartoon. It is so worth it!)
Have something published. (Sub-entry: actually submit something for publication.)
Own a cabin in the mountains. (Not a Unabomber-type cabin in the mountains. More of a lets-spend-a-couple-of-months-here-in-the-freakin’-summer type of a cabin.)
Get old. And wrinkly.
5 Things I say most often:
Dammit!
Have you done your 8 hours of community service this month?
Bastards!
Yeah, but its COOL!
Do you live with your wife or your girlfriend or your baby’s mother; and is that your sister in the waiting room?
5 Things I cannot do:
Cook
Sing
Act
Spit for distance and/or accuracy
Cook (Jackson said I should list that one twice.)
5 Things I can do:
Make you laugh until Coke shoots out your nose.
The Time Warp. Again.
Play well with others.
Handle whatever comes along.
Drive rental cars with wild abandon in big city traffic.
5 things that attract me to other people:
Ability to laugh, especially at themselves
A derth of fundamentalism/ultra-conservatism
Happiness
Contentment
Ability to see beyond the borders of our own little worlds
5 Celebrity Crushes:
Johnny Depp
Allan Rickman
Patrick Stewart
Janeane Garofalo
Michael Pallin
5 people who I'd like to see do this:
Do I have to pick only five? Cause there'd be more. There's Opie Capone and Gallimaufry and Captain Wow and Headless and Annie and...
Learn to paint (pictures, not houses)
Go to Mexico and live on street food during Dia De Los Muertos
Run for public office without hope of election. (Sort of a la Kinky Friedman. I’d like to do it with Ross Pero’s money and just hang out on the campaign plane with the reporters for a year, flying around the country, causing trouble and having laughs.) (BTW-when you check out Kinky's page, stick around for the cartoon. It is so worth it!)
Have something published. (Sub-entry: actually submit something for publication.)
Own a cabin in the mountains. (Not a Unabomber-type cabin in the mountains. More of a lets-spend-a-couple-of-months-here-in-the-freakin’-summer type of a cabin.)
Get old. And wrinkly.
5 Things I say most often:
Dammit!
Have you done your 8 hours of community service this month?
Bastards!
Yeah, but its COOL!
Do you live with your wife or your girlfriend or your baby’s mother; and is that your sister in the waiting room?
5 Things I cannot do:
Cook
Sing
Act
Spit for distance and/or accuracy
Cook (Jackson said I should list that one twice.)
5 Things I can do:
Make you laugh until Coke shoots out your nose.
The Time Warp. Again.
Play well with others.
Handle whatever comes along.
Drive rental cars with wild abandon in big city traffic.
5 things that attract me to other people:
Ability to laugh, especially at themselves
A derth of fundamentalism/ultra-conservatism
Happiness
Contentment
Ability to see beyond the borders of our own little worlds
5 Celebrity Crushes:
Johnny Depp
Allan Rickman
Patrick Stewart
Janeane Garofalo
Michael Pallin
5 people who I'd like to see do this:
Do I have to pick only five? Cause there'd be more. There's Opie Capone and Gallimaufry and Captain Wow and Headless and Annie and...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
The book was in the mail!
EPIGRAMS - I HAVE NOT WRIT ONE.
BUT IF I HAD, I'M SURE IT'D BE FUN.
THANKS TO KATHRYN I'M ALL INSPIRED!
AND OF THESE POEMS, YOU'LL SOON GROW TIRED!
I got my book from Mindy's Book Swap in the mail this weekend. Can I just say, I am thrilled! Thrilled, I tell ya! Kathryn of Good In Parts sent me The Faber Bood of Epigrams and Epitaphs. How totally appropriate is that?
Don't you love to get stuff in the mail? Between Amazon, Ebay, Gorey Details, and Mindy's swaps, I am a confirmed mail order disciple. Did I mention the Gorey Details? A lot of my family read this blog and they might need to know about Gorey Details for all their gift-giving needs. Yessirreebob! Find everything that someone could possibly want at Gorey Details!
Back to the book! Kathryn also included a post card of the rose window at her church. It is incredible! (Sorry FUMC ladies - their rose window puts yours to shame.) I looked up the website for the church - its like something out of a story book. If I ever manage to swim the Atlantic, I am heading straight for her county. Thanks again, Kathryn - this book is going to provide me tons and tons of enjoyment!
Has anyone else noticed that Blogger's spell checker does not recognize the word blog? What the hell!?!
BUT IF I HAD, I'M SURE IT'D BE FUN.
THANKS TO KATHRYN I'M ALL INSPIRED!
AND OF THESE POEMS, YOU'LL SOON GROW TIRED!
I got my book from Mindy's Book Swap in the mail this weekend. Can I just say, I am thrilled! Thrilled, I tell ya! Kathryn of Good In Parts sent me The Faber Bood of Epigrams and Epitaphs. How totally appropriate is that?
Don't you love to get stuff in the mail? Between Amazon, Ebay, Gorey Details, and Mindy's swaps, I am a confirmed mail order disciple. Did I mention the Gorey Details? A lot of my family read this blog and they might need to know about Gorey Details for all their gift-giving needs. Yessirreebob! Find everything that someone could possibly want at Gorey Details!
Back to the book! Kathryn also included a post card of the rose window at her church. It is incredible! (Sorry FUMC ladies - their rose window puts yours to shame.) I looked up the website for the church - its like something out of a story book. If I ever manage to swim the Atlantic, I am heading straight for her county. Thanks again, Kathryn - this book is going to provide me tons and tons of enjoyment!
Has anyone else noticed that Blogger's spell checker does not recognize the word blog? What the hell!?!
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
We're all Kindergartners at heart.
You know how you can always convince little kids that your nickel is worth more than their dime and you can make them believe you are doing them a favor by trading? What? You know you've done it! I think we all still have a lot of that little kid inside us.
So give it up, treasury department! As long as the half dollar has such significant heft, as long as it feels so substantial in the palm of your hand and makes such a satisfying ringing noise when you spin it on your desk, as long as the oversized engravings are so detailed and precise – you’ll never make a quarter-sized dollar will succeed. Keep yer stinkin’ dime – I'd much rather have a nickel!
So give it up, treasury department! As long as the half dollar has such significant heft, as long as it feels so substantial in the palm of your hand and makes such a satisfying ringing noise when you spin it on your desk, as long as the oversized engravings are so detailed and precise – you’ll never make a quarter-sized dollar will succeed. Keep yer stinkin’ dime – I'd much rather have a nickel!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Hopefully not!
(Ok. Who hasn't yet guessed that I was the yearbook editor in high school? huh?)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Abhorrent Filler Material
1. What are your four favorite beverages?
1. Really good sun tea - light and sparkly with a few mint leaves floating around the jar. 2. Dr. Pepper, of course. 3. Diet Coke with Lime. 4. Hot tea with breakfast - earl grey or English breakfast tea.
2. What are your four favorite TV shows?
The first four I can think of are: The Avengers, Trailer Park Boys on BBC America, Mystery! on PBS, Anything on the Discovery Channel that is of even mild interest,(You can listen to those shows while you do other things and not miss anything important.) and the Carol Burnett Show.
3. What are your four favorite desserts?
Lemon Refrigerator Pie - so simple even I can make it. Jello No-Bake Cheesecake. Brownies with walnuts or pecans. Homemade peach cobbler with homemade vanilla ice cream.
4. What are your four favorite hobbies?
Photography, writing, blah, blah, blah...
5. What are your four favorite musicians?
Who. Don't you mean who are your four favorite musicians? Or is it whom? There was this nifty rule about when to use who and whom. I learned it in grade school. It was something along the lines of i before e except after c, but now I can't remember it. I never had trouble with who and whom until I forgot that rule. Now I seldom get it right... What was the question?
Oh yes - musicians. It changes depending on who I have last listened to. Right now it would be: Annie Lennox, Joan Osbourne, Danny Elfman and anyone who is not Toby Keith.
I was the 422nd person to take this week's Monday Meme!
Friday, September 09, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Did you have a Smokey Bear teddy bear? I did. According to my mom, I was a little confused and called him Mickey Bear.
This is the grave of the real Smokey Bear. It is in a corner of the grounds of the Smokey Bear museum in Capitan, New Mexico. A large stone marks Smokey's gravesite under the big pine tree. The marker says: "This is the resting place of the first living Smokey Bear. In 1950 when Smokey was a tiny cub, wildfire burned his forest home in the nearby Capitan Mountains of the Lincoln National Forrest. Firefighters found the badly burned cub clinging to a blackened tree and saved his life. In June, 1950, the cub was flow to our Nation's Capital to become the living symbol of wildfire prevention and wildlife conservation. After 25 years, he was replaced by another orphaned black bear from the Lincoln National Forest."
This is the grave of the real Smokey Bear. It is in a corner of the grounds of the Smokey Bear museum in Capitan, New Mexico. A large stone marks Smokey's gravesite under the big pine tree. The marker says: "This is the resting place of the first living Smokey Bear. In 1950 when Smokey was a tiny cub, wildfire burned his forest home in the nearby Capitan Mountains of the Lincoln National Forrest. Firefighters found the badly burned cub clinging to a blackened tree and saved his life. In June, 1950, the cub was flow to our Nation's Capital to become the living symbol of wildfire prevention and wildlife conservation. After 25 years, he was replaced by another orphaned black bear from the Lincoln National Forest."
Thursday, September 08, 2005
In which I say "wonky".
I can't breathe.
Sometimes this thing happens where my ribs get all wonky and out of place and it feels like someone is prying my shoulder blade up off my back with a crowbar and then, when I inhale, my ribs stab into my lungs from the front and the back and it hurts real bad. Do you ever get that?
Or is it just me?
I've tried to cut back on my breathing to help solve the problem, but it hasn't proven very effective. I'm evidently some kind of an oxygen addict. (First Step: Admit we have a problem.) So then I tried only breathing out since that is much less painful than breathing in. No luck with that either.
This happens about every three months. Stress might be a contributing factor. Why can't I just get a headache like everyone else? Whine, whine, whine.
I usually go to a chiropractor in Big Flat City to get un-wonkied. I like him because he can take walk-ins. I go pay my $40 and sit down on the slippery leather couch. Before I've even had a chance to peruse the collection of Popular Mechanics, his assistant is calling my name. What service! But, its a 45 mile drive to Big Fat City and gas prices are making that less and less attractive.
An aside: I have to admit that my chiropractor of choice is an accused sex offender. He was accused of some sort of dalliance with a 17-year-old girl. He plead no contest to a much-reduced charge and although gossip says it was consensual until somebody got mad about something, I have no idea of the circumstances.
The reasons I use him are: His practice is evidently greatly reduced and I can walk in off the street with no prior notice and be seen within 10 minutes. His practice is in a small house converted to an office. No doors are ever closed. He never, ever, ever asks that I remove any article of clothing. (Perhaps I should be offended?) He just works around whatever you have on. And he works cheap. Their misfortune has worked out swell for me.
Anyway. This time I knew I needed to get hooked up with help here in town. Did I mention I have tried this before? We had a chiropractic office that was part of a national chain here for a few months. I went there once and a nice guy with a ball-peen hammer gently whacked my back a few times. It worked ok. But not great. And there is always a line of people willing to whack me with a hammer free of charge whenever I want, so why pay for him to do it?
Then I tried the guy with the funky old office way out of the edge of town. He had taken over the practice from a local chiropractor who retired. His name is Dr. Bert. Dr. Bert was perfectly nice, but he really wanted me to sign up for a membership to use some sort of workout equipment that he had not yet purchased. Dr. Bert was fairly competent, but his walls were pretty much falling down around him and his receptionist reminded me for Juno the caseworker from Beetlejuice.
Earlier this summer when I was again all out of whack, I called Dr. Bert's office. Dr. Bert himself answered the phone. He said: "Hellooo." I assumed I had the right number and explained that I wanted to make an appointment.
Bert: Well. I can't shee you today. Maybe tomorrow.
Me: Ookaayy. Tomorow would be all right. What time?
Bert: What time do you wanna be here?
Me: ...9:00 a.m.?
Bert: Umm... How 'bout 10:00?
Me: Fine.
Bert: Ok. Bye.
Evidently Dr. Bert had been nipping at the rubbing alcohol. I figured that since he never asked for my name, he wouldn't know who to be mad at when I didn't show up for my appointment the next day.
That left only one local chiropractor for me to call. I'd tried to see him before, but there was always at least a two week wait before he had an opening. I now know why he has such a busy practice - the franchise guys closed up shop and left town and Dr. Bert is "liquidating" his practice. When I called this time, they could get me in with only a week's wait.
I told the receptionist that was ok, but if I didn't show up, it will be because I died over the weekend. She laughed sort of uncertainly and hung up the phone. She called me back early the next morning: "We have a cancellation at 9:30 this morning! I thought I would call you because you sounded really desperate yesterday." I guess I really shouldn't make such outrageous statements to total strangers. But, hey - my ribs are getting fixed!
Breathe-in. B r e a t h e o u t . Don't sneeze!!
Sometimes this thing happens where my ribs get all wonky and out of place and it feels like someone is prying my shoulder blade up off my back with a crowbar and then, when I inhale, my ribs stab into my lungs from the front and the back and it hurts real bad. Do you ever get that?
Or is it just me?
I've tried to cut back on my breathing to help solve the problem, but it hasn't proven very effective. I'm evidently some kind of an oxygen addict. (First Step: Admit we have a problem.) So then I tried only breathing out since that is much less painful than breathing in. No luck with that either.
This happens about every three months. Stress might be a contributing factor. Why can't I just get a headache like everyone else? Whine, whine, whine.
I usually go to a chiropractor in Big Flat City to get un-wonkied. I like him because he can take walk-ins. I go pay my $40 and sit down on the slippery leather couch. Before I've even had a chance to peruse the collection of Popular Mechanics, his assistant is calling my name. What service! But, its a 45 mile drive to Big Fat City and gas prices are making that less and less attractive.
An aside: I have to admit that my chiropractor of choice is an accused sex offender. He was accused of some sort of dalliance with a 17-year-old girl. He plead no contest to a much-reduced charge and although gossip says it was consensual until somebody got mad about something, I have no idea of the circumstances.
The reasons I use him are: His practice is evidently greatly reduced and I can walk in off the street with no prior notice and be seen within 10 minutes. His practice is in a small house converted to an office. No doors are ever closed. He never, ever, ever asks that I remove any article of clothing. (Perhaps I should be offended?) He just works around whatever you have on. And he works cheap. Their misfortune has worked out swell for me.
Anyway. This time I knew I needed to get hooked up with help here in town. Did I mention I have tried this before? We had a chiropractic office that was part of a national chain here for a few months. I went there once and a nice guy with a ball-peen hammer gently whacked my back a few times. It worked ok. But not great. And there is always a line of people willing to whack me with a hammer free of charge whenever I want, so why pay for him to do it?
Then I tried the guy with the funky old office way out of the edge of town. He had taken over the practice from a local chiropractor who retired. His name is Dr. Bert. Dr. Bert was perfectly nice, but he really wanted me to sign up for a membership to use some sort of workout equipment that he had not yet purchased. Dr. Bert was fairly competent, but his walls were pretty much falling down around him and his receptionist reminded me for Juno the caseworker from Beetlejuice.
Earlier this summer when I was again all out of whack, I called Dr. Bert's office. Dr. Bert himself answered the phone. He said: "Hellooo." I assumed I had the right number and explained that I wanted to make an appointment.
Bert: Well. I can't shee you today. Maybe tomorrow.
Me: Ookaayy. Tomorow would be all right. What time?
Bert: What time do you wanna be here?
Me: ...9:00 a.m.?
Bert: Umm... How 'bout 10:00?
Me: Fine.
Bert: Ok. Bye.
Evidently Dr. Bert had been nipping at the rubbing alcohol. I figured that since he never asked for my name, he wouldn't know who to be mad at when I didn't show up for my appointment the next day.
That left only one local chiropractor for me to call. I'd tried to see him before, but there was always at least a two week wait before he had an opening. I now know why he has such a busy practice - the franchise guys closed up shop and left town and Dr. Bert is "liquidating" his practice. When I called this time, they could get me in with only a week's wait.
I told the receptionist that was ok, but if I didn't show up, it will be because I died over the weekend. She laughed sort of uncertainly and hung up the phone. She called me back early the next morning: "We have a cancellation at 9:30 this morning! I thought I would call you because you sounded really desperate yesterday." I guess I really shouldn't make such outrageous statements to total strangers. But, hey - my ribs are getting fixed!
Breathe-in. B r e a t h e o u t . Don't sneeze!!
Friday, September 02, 2005
Maybe Macabre, Never Morbid
For years people have asked why I am interested in cemeteries. I don't know why I have never formulated a sufficient answer. It is probably because there is no single reason.
I've always been surrounded by death, but never in a morbid way. When I was growing up there was a lot of death in my family. It runs in the family. (Har-dee-har-har.)
My father is a minister and of course death and its aftermath were a part of his job. When I was in high school we lived in a tiny town where death was the only booming industry. I was like an unpaid professional mourner. It was unusual for a week to go by without one funeral. There were many, many weeks with two or three. When I wasn't being the preacher's kid, sitting with the kitchen ladies at the back of the church, I was hanging out with the florist's daughter. We would load flowers and drive like hell to beat the hearse from the church to the grave and arrange the flowers around the hole in the ground.
My dad always got some of his best stories and jokes during rides in the hearse with the funeral directors. None of these people or situations were disrespectful of death or of the grief of the family. They weren't quiet and mysterious about it either. These experiences gave me a freedom of mind to be able to appreciate what might otherwise be macabre and taboo.
When I was in Jr. High I lived in a town which was planned and plotted by a wack-o genius multi-millionaire. His mansion had been turned into the local funeral home. It was a wonderful old house and of course my dad knew the funeral director. We took some friends over there one night to tour the place. The director was gone and had left his new apprentice in charge. There were no bodies there at the time, of course. The apprentice greeted us and when Dad explained that we'd come to tour the house (this was a common practice in the town - honest - everybody did it at least once) he thought it should be a full-service affair. He showed us the house. The entire house. I learned all about embalming that night.
It wasn't weird, it wasn't gross. It was just a young guy who enjoyed his work and wanted to share his interests with other people. He was respectful, enthusiastic and damn-well informative.
I've never pulled the wings off of flies or been mean to animals. (Well, ok. There was that kid next door that used to hang out at our house and we pulled the stingers off the ants. Several times. I remember sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, crying. My mom was doctoring my hands and knees and not for the first time. I remember her being a bit ticked and telling me to knock it off with the ants because she wasn't going to fix this particular self-inflicted boo-boo again.) I don't listen to death rock or wonder about suicide. I'd be a damn good funeral director but I don't want to learn embalming.
All of these experiences and others have taken some of the mystery of death away. That gives me freedom to go places and see things that I might otherwise fear. Cemeteries are mystical places for me. There is a heavy peace to them. Not heavy like a burden, but palpable. You can almost touch the calm. You can almost see the quiet. Cemeteries are contemplative places. They are the closest we come, in this part of the world, to the ruins of great cathedrals or monasteries or other such places.
And for me, navel gazing and contemplating always leads to some sort of irreverent wickedness. I began to see the odd and the funny in these places. I appreciate the beauty, I revel in the solitude, but I love the humor. Jackson and I may be the only ones who finds these things funny, but at least we entertain ourselves.
My step-daughter's mother died last week. As we drove into the cemetery after the funeral, Jackson sighed and said "I suspect we'll be coming here quite often from now on." I didn't say anything. Then he laughed and said "What am I worried about? You are the one person in the world who won't mind!"
If you have time, check out the link on the sidebar to the Afterlife. This photographer sees cemeteries the way I do. His pictures are incredible. Some of the effects are a little hokey, but some are really good. This is the music that plays in my head when I visit a cemetery.
I've always been surrounded by death, but never in a morbid way. When I was growing up there was a lot of death in my family. It runs in the family. (Har-dee-har-har.)
My father is a minister and of course death and its aftermath were a part of his job. When I was in high school we lived in a tiny town where death was the only booming industry. I was like an unpaid professional mourner. It was unusual for a week to go by without one funeral. There were many, many weeks with two or three. When I wasn't being the preacher's kid, sitting with the kitchen ladies at the back of the church, I was hanging out with the florist's daughter. We would load flowers and drive like hell to beat the hearse from the church to the grave and arrange the flowers around the hole in the ground.
My dad always got some of his best stories and jokes during rides in the hearse with the funeral directors. None of these people or situations were disrespectful of death or of the grief of the family. They weren't quiet and mysterious about it either. These experiences gave me a freedom of mind to be able to appreciate what might otherwise be macabre and taboo.
When I was in Jr. High I lived in a town which was planned and plotted by a wack-o genius multi-millionaire. His mansion had been turned into the local funeral home. It was a wonderful old house and of course my dad knew the funeral director. We took some friends over there one night to tour the place. The director was gone and had left his new apprentice in charge. There were no bodies there at the time, of course. The apprentice greeted us and when Dad explained that we'd come to tour the house (this was a common practice in the town - honest - everybody did it at least once) he thought it should be a full-service affair. He showed us the house. The entire house. I learned all about embalming that night.
It wasn't weird, it wasn't gross. It was just a young guy who enjoyed his work and wanted to share his interests with other people. He was respectful, enthusiastic and damn-well informative.
I've never pulled the wings off of flies or been mean to animals. (Well, ok. There was that kid next door that used to hang out at our house and we pulled the stingers off the ants. Several times. I remember sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink, crying. My mom was doctoring my hands and knees and not for the first time. I remember her being a bit ticked and telling me to knock it off with the ants because she wasn't going to fix this particular self-inflicted boo-boo again.) I don't listen to death rock or wonder about suicide. I'd be a damn good funeral director but I don't want to learn embalming.
All of these experiences and others have taken some of the mystery of death away. That gives me freedom to go places and see things that I might otherwise fear. Cemeteries are mystical places for me. There is a heavy peace to them. Not heavy like a burden, but palpable. You can almost touch the calm. You can almost see the quiet. Cemeteries are contemplative places. They are the closest we come, in this part of the world, to the ruins of great cathedrals or monasteries or other such places.
And for me, navel gazing and contemplating always leads to some sort of irreverent wickedness. I began to see the odd and the funny in these places. I appreciate the beauty, I revel in the solitude, but I love the humor. Jackson and I may be the only ones who finds these things funny, but at least we entertain ourselves.
My step-daughter's mother died last week. As we drove into the cemetery after the funeral, Jackson sighed and said "I suspect we'll be coming here quite often from now on." I didn't say anything. Then he laughed and said "What am I worried about? You are the one person in the world who won't mind!"
If you have time, check out the link on the sidebar to the Afterlife. This photographer sees cemeteries the way I do. His pictures are incredible. Some of the effects are a little hokey, but some are really good. This is the music that plays in my head when I visit a cemetery.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
It's good to see you're back - especially after seeing your face!
Never one to pass up a funny book, I recently acquired 1965's "2000 Insults for All Occasions". It is one in a long line of such books that I felt compelled to free from the prostitution of the garage sale lifestyle. Normally the most humorous thing about these books is how horribly out of date they are. Here are a few of bon mots from "2000 Insults":
"He had a pair of bloomers tattooed on his chest because he always wanted a chest with drawers."
"A fellow invited her into the woods to hear a nightingale and it turned out to be a lark."
"As a bathing beauty, she's hardly worth wading for."
"Girls return his letters marked 'Forth Class Male'".
You gotta admit - they do make you smile. Maybe just not for the reason's originally intended. I pulled this book off the shelf last night because I was reminded of it at lunch.
I eat lunch at work, most of the time. A few years ago I was adamantly opposed to staying in for lunch. I wanted to get away from the building and I certainly didn't want to go home for lunch - its too hard to drag yourself back to work - so I would eat out. That got old. And it got expensive. And making your lunch is way more healthy than carne guisada enchiladas. Now a whole crew of people spend lunch gathered around the conference tables in the grand ballroom. If I were anywhere else, with anyone else, I would absolutely hate it.
It is hellaciously loud. And uncouth. And unforgiving. There are always three or four conversations going on at once. Each person is expected to participate in all exchanges simultaneously. You must express your opinions in the most forceful manner available to your command. Extra points if your crossfire is loud and forceful enough to drown out one or more other conversations. It is not really conversation - more like verbal warfare. If you fire off a really fine insult or observation you are rewarded with a high-five - lofty praise indeed.
By unspoken agreement the conversation is generally rated PG-13. Especially heinous exchanges are always preceded by a warning to the lone male to plug his ears. He complies. (There is more than one man working in our office. The others just don't have the intestinal fortitude to handle lunch.)
Everyone and everything is fair game. The democracy of this arrangement helps ensure that no one gets their feelings hurt. New employees are usually astounded at first (they get a sort of free grace period while learning the unwritten rules of the game) but they soon learn to jump off in the deep end with everyone else.
Stop by sometime if you have a bag o' lunch and you don't mind being insulted. Let me know if you want to borrow my book before you come.
"He had a pair of bloomers tattooed on his chest because he always wanted a chest with drawers."
"A fellow invited her into the woods to hear a nightingale and it turned out to be a lark."
"As a bathing beauty, she's hardly worth wading for."
"Girls return his letters marked 'Forth Class Male'".
You gotta admit - they do make you smile. Maybe just not for the reason's originally intended. I pulled this book off the shelf last night because I was reminded of it at lunch.
I eat lunch at work, most of the time. A few years ago I was adamantly opposed to staying in for lunch. I wanted to get away from the building and I certainly didn't want to go home for lunch - its too hard to drag yourself back to work - so I would eat out. That got old. And it got expensive. And making your lunch is way more healthy than carne guisada enchiladas. Now a whole crew of people spend lunch gathered around the conference tables in the grand ballroom. If I were anywhere else, with anyone else, I would absolutely hate it.
It is hellaciously loud. And uncouth. And unforgiving. There are always three or four conversations going on at once. Each person is expected to participate in all exchanges simultaneously. You must express your opinions in the most forceful manner available to your command. Extra points if your crossfire is loud and forceful enough to drown out one or more other conversations. It is not really conversation - more like verbal warfare. If you fire off a really fine insult or observation you are rewarded with a high-five - lofty praise indeed.
By unspoken agreement the conversation is generally rated PG-13. Especially heinous exchanges are always preceded by a warning to the lone male to plug his ears. He complies. (There is more than one man working in our office. The others just don't have the intestinal fortitude to handle lunch.)
Everyone and everything is fair game. The democracy of this arrangement helps ensure that no one gets their feelings hurt. New employees are usually astounded at first (they get a sort of free grace period while learning the unwritten rules of the game) but they soon learn to jump off in the deep end with everyone else.
Stop by sometime if you have a bag o' lunch and you don't mind being insulted. Let me know if you want to borrow my book before you come.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
This picture is from New Mexico.
The stone belongs to Reverend F. J. Tolby. It is in the Cemetery at Cimarron, New Mexico. His murder started the Colfax County War. He was a Methodist minister who spoke out against the foreign syndicate which bought out Lucien Maxwell, owner of the largest land grant in New Mexico history. The syndicate hired thugs to run communities of squatters off the land. These squatters had lived on the land for 30 years and considered it their own.
His original stone is at the St. James Hotel in Cimarron, where it was being used as a door stop. It was "re-discovered" by one of the local ladies who attended a syposium at the hotel and the local ladies guild raised funds to purchase a new marker for the grave. You can still see the original at the hotel, leaning against a wall by the back door. At least it is no longer doing duty as the ladies room door attendant.
The stone belongs to Reverend F. J. Tolby. It is in the Cemetery at Cimarron, New Mexico. His murder started the Colfax County War. He was a Methodist minister who spoke out against the foreign syndicate which bought out Lucien Maxwell, owner of the largest land grant in New Mexico history. The syndicate hired thugs to run communities of squatters off the land. These squatters had lived on the land for 30 years and considered it their own.
His original stone is at the St. James Hotel in Cimarron, where it was being used as a door stop. It was "re-discovered" by one of the local ladies who attended a syposium at the hotel and the local ladies guild raised funds to purchase a new marker for the grave. You can still see the original at the hotel, leaning against a wall by the back door. At least it is no longer doing duty as the ladies room door attendant.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Google Fodder
I probably shouldn't post this. I don't normally write about sex. But when I came across this link, I couldn't help it. This is one of those things that make you stop and say Oh. My. Gawd. (If you have yew a good drawl goin' on you can stetch that out into "Owe... Mah... Gaawwd!")
I don't enjoy hearing about sexual escapades. But I don't want to hear about your virginity, either. Its not that I believe consenting adults shouldn't talk about sex - on the contrary. I'm also a big beilever in talking to your kids about sex. I think you should use real live grown-up words and everything.
But this seems so, well, stupid.
http://www.waitwear.com/
Explore this website at your leisure. Its all about making virginity cool again! You need to celebrate your celibacy! Wear it on your sleeve! Or your chest, as it were. (Did you experience some trepidation about clicking on the "Fun Stuff" link?) (And what exactly is a born again virgin? Is that different from your regular garden variety virgin?) According to the site "it takes courage to express the truth and not be ashamed." It must take a special kind of courage to plaster "I'm Saving It" across your breasts and then face the world.
Who came up with these slogans? "No Trespassing on this Property. My Father is Watching." Well, damn - that's illegal in this state. And how about the unfortunate arrow placement on the "Virginity Lane, No Exit Until Married" T-Shirt? (As noted in the fun stuff photo gallery.)
As you explore this website, also please note they sell "intimate wear", desperately espousing virginity propoganda. It seems to me that panties with slogans on them are going to be too little, too late.
Maybe they should say "IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE."
I don't enjoy hearing about sexual escapades. But I don't want to hear about your virginity, either. Its not that I believe consenting adults shouldn't talk about sex - on the contrary. I'm also a big beilever in talking to your kids about sex. I think you should use real live grown-up words and everything.
But this seems so, well, stupid.
http://www.waitwear.com/
Explore this website at your leisure. Its all about making virginity cool again! You need to celebrate your celibacy! Wear it on your sleeve! Or your chest, as it were. (Did you experience some trepidation about clicking on the "Fun Stuff" link?) (And what exactly is a born again virgin? Is that different from your regular garden variety virgin?) According to the site "it takes courage to express the truth and not be ashamed." It must take a special kind of courage to plaster "I'm Saving It" across your breasts and then face the world.
Who came up with these slogans? "No Trespassing on this Property. My Father is Watching." Well, damn - that's illegal in this state. And how about the unfortunate arrow placement on the "Virginity Lane, No Exit Until Married" T-Shirt? (As noted in the fun stuff photo gallery.)
As you explore this website, also please note they sell "intimate wear", desperately espousing virginity propoganda. It seems to me that panties with slogans on them are going to be too little, too late.
Maybe they should say "IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE."
Crimony!
Geeze! I really hate Blogger sometimes. If this publishes, this is one of those times. If not, it is still one of those times. (Did I spell crimony right? Everytime I hit the spell checker it takes me to yahoo mail.)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Time Flies
Its Friday afternoon. I didn't have many people to on my schedule. Now my last remaining appointment has cancelled. I tried to sound sternly diapproving when he called. Probably didn't quite pull it off.
Got some paperwork done that has been niggling at the bottom of my to-do-pile. In the process I discovered someone else's shortcut from two years ago has unexpectedly caused my work to increase to Pandoran proportions. Since it is nearly 4:00 p.m. on Friday, the chances of my finding an attorney in the D.A.'s office who would be willing to research my problem are nil. I will have to postpone this until Monday at least. I'm trying to sound sternly disapproving of this as well. Is it working?
The community service supervisor just brought me the paperwork on a conference he wants to attend. I will forward it to the bookkeeper to be paid. However, since she doesn't work on Friday afternoons there is no chance it will be done today. I may as well wait to make the reservations until next week when she is here to cut me a check. Much sterness. Vast disapproval. Trying desperately to crease my brow and wipe goofy grin off face.
I was supposed to meet with the other supervisor this afternoon to discuss caseload distribution in the wake of departmental changes for the next fiscal year. My afternoon was fairly flexible, so I told her to come get me whenever she is ready to meet. Time is short. She has been past my office door several times without mentioning the meeting. It appears she forgot. I am stern. I disapprove. I am not making eye contact in case it jogs her memory.
Forty-nine minutes until quitting time.
Got some paperwork done that has been niggling at the bottom of my to-do-pile. In the process I discovered someone else's shortcut from two years ago has unexpectedly caused my work to increase to Pandoran proportions. Since it is nearly 4:00 p.m. on Friday, the chances of my finding an attorney in the D.A.'s office who would be willing to research my problem are nil. I will have to postpone this until Monday at least. I'm trying to sound sternly disapproving of this as well. Is it working?
The community service supervisor just brought me the paperwork on a conference he wants to attend. I will forward it to the bookkeeper to be paid. However, since she doesn't work on Friday afternoons there is no chance it will be done today. I may as well wait to make the reservations until next week when she is here to cut me a check. Much sterness. Vast disapproval. Trying desperately to crease my brow and wipe goofy grin off face.
I was supposed to meet with the other supervisor this afternoon to discuss caseload distribution in the wake of departmental changes for the next fiscal year. My afternoon was fairly flexible, so I told her to come get me whenever she is ready to meet. Time is short. She has been past my office door several times without mentioning the meeting. It appears she forgot. I am stern. I disapprove. I am not making eye contact in case it jogs her memory.
Forty-nine minutes until quitting time.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging
Once again I am unable to narrow things down to a single photo. These gravestones are in a cemetery in Huntsville, Texas.
These stones belong to a husband and wife. She on the right, he on the left. They look like giant chess pieces.
I love the texture the marble takes in this environment. It doesn't come through very well in this low-voltage scan, but the brilliant white, the velvety black and all the mossy shades in between are really beautiful.
When I grow up I want to be a weird old lady living in a weird old house surrounded by this fence.
Although Huntsville is definitely part of Texas, its East Texas. I live in West Texas. We are woefully bereft of marble, moss and little green vines. This is a shot of the north east corner of a local graveyard.
These stones belong to a husband and wife. She on the right, he on the left. They look like giant chess pieces.
I love the texture the marble takes in this environment. It doesn't come through very well in this low-voltage scan, but the brilliant white, the velvety black and all the mossy shades in between are really beautiful.
When I grow up I want to be a weird old lady living in a weird old house surrounded by this fence.
Although Huntsville is definitely part of Texas, its East Texas. I live in West Texas. We are woefully bereft of marble, moss and little green vines. This is a shot of the north east corner of a local graveyard.
Google meme
Saw this on Reverend Mommy. It is hysterical! Go to google. Type "(your name) is" and paste your favorite 10 responses.
Rachel is: A gun-totin' capitalist oppressor college student with two jobs, two dogs, and no kids
Rachel is: A Bellydance troupe in San Francisco
Rachel is: A free weekly email newsletter published by the Environmental Research Foundation.
Rachel is: always always always right.
Rachel is: one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century.
Rachel is: an open-source resource loading toolkit that makes resource loading for Java Web Start/JNLP easy.
Rachel is: a means of receiving the healing grace of God.
Rachel is: an Assistant Professor at the University of British Columbia
Rachel is: inspirachel.
Rachel is: the closest city to Area 51
Maybe I should change the name of my blog to "Inspirachel". Then I could start selling prayer cloths, sneezed on by yours truly. Then when things began to lag, I post my vision that if I didn't have 10,000 hits by the end of the year, the lord is gonna call me home. And that would be followed closely by an email sales blitz for the healing holy water of the heartland - dipped out of the batistry by me personally (and clandestinely) following the Sunday service at the local church of my choice. There seem to be a lot of possibilities...
Rachel is: A gun-totin' capitalist oppressor college student with two jobs, two dogs, and no kids
Rachel is: A Bellydance troupe in San Francisco
Rachel is: A free weekly email newsletter published by the Environmental Research Foundation.
Rachel is: always always always right.
Rachel is: one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th century.
Rachel is: an open-source resource loading toolkit that makes resource loading for Java Web Start/JNLP easy.
Rachel is: a means of receiving the healing grace of God.
Rachel is: an Assistant Professor at the University of British Columbia
Rachel is: inspirachel.
Rachel is: the closest city to Area 51
Maybe I should change the name of my blog to "Inspirachel". Then I could start selling prayer cloths, sneezed on by yours truly. Then when things began to lag, I post my vision that if I didn't have 10,000 hits by the end of the year, the lord is gonna call me home. And that would be followed closely by an email sales blitz for the healing holy water of the heartland - dipped out of the batistry by me personally (and clandestinely) following the Sunday service at the local church of my choice. There seem to be a lot of possibilities...
Friday, August 12, 2005
Friday Cemetery Blogging.
Annie at New Life Rising made a suggestion earlier this week and I am taking her up on it -Friday Cemetery Blogging. It was going to be just tombstone blogging, but there are some really cool things in cemeteries that aren't tombstones.
So here is my first entry:
This stone is in the Lakeside Cemetery in Canyon City, Colorado. It is not far from an area that is mostly graves of nuns and priests. The same image is on all four sides of the stone. Here is a closeup of the face:
There is no writing on the stone and an urn is nearby which appears to have broken off the top. I have no idea what the explanation is. My first guess was that each side represented a season and the marker was a statement about the passage of time. However, each of the four faces was the same. The fact that it is in the middle of the nuns' and priests' graves makes it especially provocative. Any ideas, anyone?
So here is my first entry:
This stone is in the Lakeside Cemetery in Canyon City, Colorado. It is not far from an area that is mostly graves of nuns and priests. The same image is on all four sides of the stone. Here is a closeup of the face:
There is no writing on the stone and an urn is nearby which appears to have broken off the top. I have no idea what the explanation is. My first guess was that each side represented a season and the marker was a statement about the passage of time. However, each of the four faces was the same. The fact that it is in the middle of the nuns' and priests' graves makes it especially provocative. Any ideas, anyone?
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Take the pebble from my hand...
Somewhere I have a purple belt. Its not really a good shade. More of a turdmuckledydone purple. I wouldn't wear it, even if I found it, because its been so long that I forgot how to tie it.
The whole knot-structure-thing of your Karate belt is sort of important and means something. I used to be real good at the belt-tying. But its been a long time and I don't remember.
I was good at the kicks, too. And flexible. The best thing about Karate, aside from the whole wailing on people for fun and profit aspect, is the stretching. I used to be able to stand with my back against the wall and lift my leg straight up (with help) to touch my toe to the wall behind my ears. That was a long time ago, too.
I took Tae-Kwon-Do for a semester in college. The little bantam rooster who taught the class was really interesting. He used to strut around with his chest stuck out so far I was afraid he was going to crack a rib. And the hair helmet - ooohh golly. It was bad.
We spent the semester striding purposefully up and down the gym floor. Step. Punch. Step. Punch. Step. Punch. I didn't learn a lot, but the things I did learn will no doubt come in handy if I am ever attacked by the cast of West Side Story.
After that, I started taking Kenpo Karate at the YMCA. Sharkey was the instructor. He was an odd little man. (That seems to be a running theme for Karate instructors.) He was good though, and I paid this man to beat me up on a semi-weekly basis. You know all those blocks that you spend hours working on - blocking kicks, blocking punches, blocking anonymous phone numbers? Well. Yeah. They work, but you're still getting hit. Just not in the spot the attacker was originally aiming for. My shins and forearms were continually decorated with incredibly deep and colorful bruises. I appeared to have tie-dyed appendages.
Karate was great exercise with Sharkey. He made ya work for it. Image doing aerobics while somebody punches you in the gut.
I can't remember why I stopped going.
A couple of years later, E. and I (remember E.?) decided to take Karate classes together. We could only find one guy in town who was teaching at the time. His name was Jessie. He taught at the oh-so-appropriately-named Barnyard Academy. E. and I and her 17 year old son signed up for lessons. We thought we were signing up for a class. We weren't.
Jesse would meet us at the Academy/Barn and worked with the three of us. He taught Brazilian Ju-Jit-Zu. Have you seen the Ultimate Fighting Championship? That's the stuff. Jesse would wax eloquent, sort of, about "shoot fighting" and "UFC" and his big plans for bringing the competitions to our fair city. We would smile wanly and nod.
He taught us some pretty neat stuff. We stuck with it for a while, then E.'s son was the first to go. I don't think he was ever very comfortable grappling with his mother and her weirdo friend. Then E. lost interest and stopped coming. I came for a couple more lessons after she left. I was younger then. And single. And thin. Each lesson started with Jesse saying "Ok. Let's work on our ground moves. You get on the ground. I will get on top. You try to get up." I was not too bright, but I finally caught on. No more Jesse.
The best instructor I ever had was a med school student from the Caribbean. He was tall and lean and had a really cool accent. His med school was temporarily housed at the local university after hurricane Hugo wiped out their campus in the Caribbean. He worked out with Sharkey and often taught our class. He approached Karate like dancing and always had us
fight with music. I loved it.
One day he had us working on our kicks. He held a big pad out in front of him and we kicked the crap outta him as best we could. After the workout, he sat the pad aside, bowed, and said "Ahh, Miss Rachel - you kick like a MAN!" *sniff, sniff* That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me.
The most valuable thing I learned from all this was that to defend yourself, you have to be willing to touch the other person. And it is going to hurt. The hardest thing for me to get past was my extreme dislike of being that close to someone I don't know. Perhaps this doesn't make sense, but to be effective, you have to step in close to your opponent . You have to risk getting close enough to make an impact. You cannot protect yourself from afar. That gives your opponent too much room to prepare and to plan and to build up strength. You have to be willing to get dirty. To touch somebody.
There's probably an object lesson in that. Figure it out for yourself.
The whole knot-structure-thing of your Karate belt is sort of important and means something. I used to be real good at the belt-tying. But its been a long time and I don't remember.
I was good at the kicks, too. And flexible. The best thing about Karate, aside from the whole wailing on people for fun and profit aspect, is the stretching. I used to be able to stand with my back against the wall and lift my leg straight up (with help) to touch my toe to the wall behind my ears. That was a long time ago, too.
I took Tae-Kwon-Do for a semester in college. The little bantam rooster who taught the class was really interesting. He used to strut around with his chest stuck out so far I was afraid he was going to crack a rib. And the hair helmet - ooohh golly. It was bad.
We spent the semester striding purposefully up and down the gym floor. Step. Punch. Step. Punch. Step. Punch. I didn't learn a lot, but the things I did learn will no doubt come in handy if I am ever attacked by the cast of West Side Story.
After that, I started taking Kenpo Karate at the YMCA. Sharkey was the instructor. He was an odd little man. (That seems to be a running theme for Karate instructors.) He was good though, and I paid this man to beat me up on a semi-weekly basis. You know all those blocks that you spend hours working on - blocking kicks, blocking punches, blocking anonymous phone numbers? Well. Yeah. They work, but you're still getting hit. Just not in the spot the attacker was originally aiming for. My shins and forearms were continually decorated with incredibly deep and colorful bruises. I appeared to have tie-dyed appendages.
Karate was great exercise with Sharkey. He made ya work for it. Image doing aerobics while somebody punches you in the gut.
I can't remember why I stopped going.
A couple of years later, E. and I (remember E.?) decided to take Karate classes together. We could only find one guy in town who was teaching at the time. His name was Jessie. He taught at the oh-so-appropriately-named Barnyard Academy. E. and I and her 17 year old son signed up for lessons. We thought we were signing up for a class. We weren't.
Jesse would meet us at the Academy/Barn and worked with the three of us. He taught Brazilian Ju-Jit-Zu. Have you seen the Ultimate Fighting Championship? That's the stuff. Jesse would wax eloquent, sort of, about "shoot fighting" and "UFC" and his big plans for bringing the competitions to our fair city. We would smile wanly and nod.
He taught us some pretty neat stuff. We stuck with it for a while, then E.'s son was the first to go. I don't think he was ever very comfortable grappling with his mother and her weirdo friend. Then E. lost interest and stopped coming. I came for a couple more lessons after she left. I was younger then. And single. And thin. Each lesson started with Jesse saying "Ok. Let's work on our ground moves. You get on the ground. I will get on top. You try to get up." I was not too bright, but I finally caught on. No more Jesse.
The best instructor I ever had was a med school student from the Caribbean. He was tall and lean and had a really cool accent. His med school was temporarily housed at the local university after hurricane Hugo wiped out their campus in the Caribbean. He worked out with Sharkey and often taught our class. He approached Karate like dancing and always had us
fight with music. I loved it.
One day he had us working on our kicks. He held a big pad out in front of him and we kicked the crap outta him as best we could. After the workout, he sat the pad aside, bowed, and said "Ahh, Miss Rachel - you kick like a MAN!" *sniff, sniff* That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me.
The most valuable thing I learned from all this was that to defend yourself, you have to be willing to touch the other person. And it is going to hurt. The hardest thing for me to get past was my extreme dislike of being that close to someone I don't know. Perhaps this doesn't make sense, but to be effective, you have to step in close to your opponent . You have to risk getting close enough to make an impact. You cannot protect yourself from afar. That gives your opponent too much room to prepare and to plan and to build up strength. You have to be willing to get dirty. To touch somebody.
There's probably an object lesson in that. Figure it out for yourself.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Links-a-plenty
I have had to do a ton of proof-reading this week. I hate proof-raeding, don't yuo? The only time it was ever anything close to tolerable was my senior year in high school. Mr. Coats was the English teacher. Remember him, Kinkaid? He had just retired from the army and been recruited by the CIA as a researcher and his wife was a comic book appraiser and he could read and he wasn't a coach. Remember that?
Mr. Coats had this system of ratiocination for writing. I don't know if he devised it himself or it came out of the Associated Press Stylebook or what. But it was sort of vaugely fun and really improved my writing. I wish I still had the instructions for it...
Anyway, during my bouts of prolonged proof-reading this week I have rewarded myself with a few minutes of play time when I completed the tasks. Here are a few of my favorite toys:
Patently Silly: http://www.patentlysilly.com/ Bringing you the best of the worst of U.S. Patent Applications. No, seriously, its really funny! My current favorite is "Method And Apparatus For Identifying A Winner In A Bingo Game".
McSweeny's: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ Admittedly, I don't always get it. (I'm living in the boonies here. Cut me some slack!) But I like it!
Bloody Finger Mail: http://www.bloodyfingermail.com/ My second-most preferred form of communication.
Found: http://www.foundmagazine.com/ Ever since J. sent me this link, I find myself addicted to the find of the week. I keep picking up trash in the street hoping for something good that I can contribute. So far, no luck.
Now, back to work!
Mr. Coats had this system of ratiocination for writing. I don't know if he devised it himself or it came out of the Associated Press Stylebook or what. But it was sort of vaugely fun and really improved my writing. I wish I still had the instructions for it...
Anyway, during my bouts of prolonged proof-reading this week I have rewarded myself with a few minutes of play time when I completed the tasks. Here are a few of my favorite toys:
Patently Silly: http://www.patentlysilly.com/ Bringing you the best of the worst of U.S. Patent Applications. No, seriously, its really funny! My current favorite is "Method And Apparatus For Identifying A Winner In A Bingo Game".
McSweeny's: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ Admittedly, I don't always get it. (I'm living in the boonies here. Cut me some slack!) But I like it!
Bloody Finger Mail: http://www.bloodyfingermail.com/ My second-most preferred form of communication.
Found: http://www.foundmagazine.com/ Ever since J. sent me this link, I find myself addicted to the find of the week. I keep picking up trash in the street hoping for something good that I can contribute. So far, no luck.
Now, back to work!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Is it just me?
I've noticed a trend here in Fake Cow County. There are more and more businesses that have religious names and/or churchy sayings on their marquees. Roto-rooters for Jeezus and things like that.
For years I have groused about the chicken joint that insists on displaying the teeth-grindingly inane Jeezus Luvs Y'all type of drivel on their sing. There is a pizza place down the street that has done largely the same thing with their marquee sign, but it wasn't quite as saccharine-y.
Recently the pizza folks have taken the focus off the Kingdom and shifted to more product-oriented slogans. I hate to admit it, but they should have stayed with the Jeezus stuff.
Their first non-religious slogan made me blink and look twice, but then I thought maybe my head was just in the gutter. The sign said "You turn our ovens on!" It made me think of the lyrics to the old jazz song "Slow Rollin' Mama":
(Don't tell me current music is any worse than the old stuff! Hip Hop may be less euphamistic, but its not any more blatant in its subject matter.)
This week they updated their sign: "You put the pep in our pepperoni."
Is it just me?
For years I have groused about the chicken joint that insists on displaying the teeth-grindingly inane Jeezus Luvs Y'all type of drivel on their sing. There is a pizza place down the street that has done largely the same thing with their marquee sign, but it wasn't quite as saccharine-y.
Recently the pizza folks have taken the focus off the Kingdom and shifted to more product-oriented slogans. I hate to admit it, but they should have stayed with the Jeezus stuff.
Their first non-religious slogan made me blink and look twice, but then I thought maybe my head was just in the gutter. The sign said "You turn our ovens on!" It made me think of the lyrics to the old jazz song "Slow Rollin' Mama":
'Cause I'm a slow rollin' mama
And I need a big long rollin' pin
To get it ready and just right
For my red hot oven.
(Don't tell me current music is any worse than the old stuff! Hip Hop may be less euphamistic, but its not any more blatant in its subject matter.)
This week they updated their sign: "You put the pep in our pepperoni."
Is it just me?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Paying Homage
I don't know about you, but I do a lot of things that are an homage. This has come up a lot in conversations lately. I'm not talking about the big things - monuments, gatherings, and what have you. I'm more interested in the little things.
My friend J. is paying homage with a lamp. As long as she has it, it remains connected to the story of its previous owner. If it went to the thrift shop along with the rest of the stuff, it would still be the coolest lamp ever, but the story would be severed from it.
Reverendmother recently wrote a series of remembrances. Part of the rememberance was a bag of dirt. No more, no less. But the dirt was an homage. And the bag of dirt kept a story going. From one generation to the next.
I just bought the DVD of one of my favorite obscure movies of all time. It was a British show that was on Mystery! in 1996 or 97. Its a pretty stupid mystery but I fell in love with the story because it is all about homage. The murder itself is totally irrelevant and just a vehicle for a character to travel around Britain to honor, in mostly very small ways, all the bits and pieces of life that are important to him.
Homage, for me, is not about the big picture.
Exploring cemeteries is a partly about homage for me. I love gravestones that give you a hint about the story, instead of just a name and a couple of dates. Sometimes the story is in the items that surround the grave itself - a particular flower or a possession imebedded in concrete. A hundred years ago people wrote epitaphs. You got a small piece of the wit, wisdom or story of the life remembered. I'm beginning to see more and more contemporary stones that tell stories. Instead of a pithy saying there may be a laser cut granite portrait of the person's house, dog, truck, farm or boat. Its nice to know a little more of the story. Remeber the old saying "take a button and sew a vest to it"? I am a champion vest sewer.
What do you do to celebrate stories?
How do you pay homage?
My friend J. is paying homage with a lamp. As long as she has it, it remains connected to the story of its previous owner. If it went to the thrift shop along with the rest of the stuff, it would still be the coolest lamp ever, but the story would be severed from it.
Reverendmother recently wrote a series of remembrances. Part of the rememberance was a bag of dirt. No more, no less. But the dirt was an homage. And the bag of dirt kept a story going. From one generation to the next.
I just bought the DVD of one of my favorite obscure movies of all time. It was a British show that was on Mystery! in 1996 or 97. Its a pretty stupid mystery but I fell in love with the story because it is all about homage. The murder itself is totally irrelevant and just a vehicle for a character to travel around Britain to honor, in mostly very small ways, all the bits and pieces of life that are important to him.
Homage, for me, is not about the big picture.
Exploring cemeteries is a partly about homage for me. I love gravestones that give you a hint about the story, instead of just a name and a couple of dates. Sometimes the story is in the items that surround the grave itself - a particular flower or a possession imebedded in concrete. A hundred years ago people wrote epitaphs. You got a small piece of the wit, wisdom or story of the life remembered. I'm beginning to see more and more contemporary stones that tell stories. Instead of a pithy saying there may be a laser cut granite portrait of the person's house, dog, truck, farm or boat. Its nice to know a little more of the story. Remeber the old saying "take a button and sew a vest to it"? I am a champion vest sewer.
What do you do to celebrate stories?
How do you pay homage?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Its 4:30 a.m.
...and I have nothing to say.
Ho hum. Don't you hate not being able to sleep? My internal clock is all messed up. I keep going to bed by 10:00 p.m., thoroughly exhausted. Then my eyes pop open at 3:30 a.m. each and every morning. This is one of those mornings when I can't convince myself to go back to sleep. If my clock was skewed in the opposite direction, I would at least get to watch some cool TV - like The Daily Show or the rest of last night's Thin Man movie marathon on Turner Classic Movies. But at 3:30 a.m., if you don't care about the sorry state of your skin or how to rotisserize that damn chicken ("Set it and forget it!") there is just nothing on.
So I am entertaining myself at your expense here on the internet. Here's what I know so far:
1. I don't have to go to work today. Or tomorrow. I don't have anything I have to do or anywhere I have to go. HA!
2. I went to church last Wednesday night. I did not spontaneously combust nor did a chorus of angels greet me at the door. I might go again tonight. (Jackson, aka Mr. Cleaver, is tired of cooking supper. He claims he can feed me there cheaper than cooking. However, I plan to milk whatever saintly benefits out of this that I can. I think we will at least get our Christian cards punched. When you fill it up you get eternal life or a free video tape rental. Your choice.)
3. I'm hungry. But it seems a crime to cook at this hour of the morning.
4. My parents have recently moved to a town of 11,000 people. There are 65 churches in that town. That's one church for every some little number of people. I don't know a lot of math, but I know that is an ungodly number of churches.
5. I like this quote from Lewis Thomas: "The cloning of humans is on most of the lists of things to worry about from Science, along with behavior control, genetic engineering, transplanted heads, computer poetry and the unrestrained growth of plastic flowers."
Not being one to shy away from useless filler material - here is a vacation photo. Captain Katie, Superhero in Training and her magnetic sidekick, Opie Capone Jr. Opie Jr. is evidently paying homage to Elton John, circa 1977.
Ho hum. Don't you hate not being able to sleep? My internal clock is all messed up. I keep going to bed by 10:00 p.m., thoroughly exhausted. Then my eyes pop open at 3:30 a.m. each and every morning. This is one of those mornings when I can't convince myself to go back to sleep. If my clock was skewed in the opposite direction, I would at least get to watch some cool TV - like The Daily Show or the rest of last night's Thin Man movie marathon on Turner Classic Movies. But at 3:30 a.m., if you don't care about the sorry state of your skin or how to rotisserize that damn chicken ("Set it and forget it!") there is just nothing on.
So I am entertaining myself at your expense here on the internet. Here's what I know so far:
1. I don't have to go to work today. Or tomorrow. I don't have anything I have to do or anywhere I have to go. HA!
2. I went to church last Wednesday night. I did not spontaneously combust nor did a chorus of angels greet me at the door. I might go again tonight. (Jackson, aka Mr. Cleaver, is tired of cooking supper. He claims he can feed me there cheaper than cooking. However, I plan to milk whatever saintly benefits out of this that I can. I think we will at least get our Christian cards punched. When you fill it up you get eternal life or a free video tape rental. Your choice.)
3. I'm hungry. But it seems a crime to cook at this hour of the morning.
4. My parents have recently moved to a town of 11,000 people. There are 65 churches in that town. That's one church for every some little number of people. I don't know a lot of math, but I know that is an ungodly number of churches.
5. I like this quote from Lewis Thomas: "The cloning of humans is on most of the lists of things to worry about from Science, along with behavior control, genetic engineering, transplanted heads, computer poetry and the unrestrained growth of plastic flowers."
Not being one to shy away from useless filler material - here is a vacation photo. Captain Katie, Superhero in Training and her magnetic sidekick, Opie Capone Jr. Opie Jr. is evidently paying homage to Elton John, circa 1977.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Friday Cat Blogging
Lack of inspiration leads to imitation. Plus, I like cats.
I didn't used to. I only had dogs before I got married. Dobermans. Didn't see the use in cats. Then we moved out next to the corn field and cats became a necessity. My long-time friend, Saavik the Doberman, had died. Then I discovered gardening. So, we got cats.
Once we installed a cat door, I was thoroughly converted. Cats take care of themselves! Who knew? Early on we had quite a succession of cats. They were pretty adventurous and all chose to eventually leave and live among the coyotes, traversing the plains as mascots for the pack of wild beasts. Yeah, that's it.
Our latest couple of feline roommates have either been smarter or less adventurous. Oh, who am I kidding? They've been less adventurous and have managed to stick around for several years.
First we got Archie. Archie bites. Hard.
It's not that he's got a rotten temperament or anything. He loves people. He really does! He loves how they taste most of all. A typical dinner guest at our house will invariable say "Oh! That tickles!" at some point in the evening. Archie will have licked them on the back of the leg. Unless forcibly ejected from the room, he will continue to lick and lick and lick until he has properly prepared his entree. Then, chomp!
We paroled Archie from death row. He wasn't really guilty - probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Is that the face of a criminal? He had his sentence commuted. We think his experiences in prison may account for his unfortunate table manners.
Steve came along later. She was rescued by my good friend M2. M2 gave Steve to Jackson as his own little chemotherapy companion. She was so tiny and starved then. Not so much now.
Steve is a voodoo priestess. She believes she is a queen among men and all must bow down before her. Yes, there is a cat door. No, she is not going to use it. She possesses powers far beyond those of mortal men. No matter where you are in the house you can feel the heat from her otherworldly stare as she sits before the front door, demanding to be let in. She will bite if you are dense enough to ignore her commands, but she is more usually satisfied by a not-so-priestly application of claw to forearm or hand. She likes to hide in the houseplants and attack your ankles as you walk by. Each successful attack is followed by a disdainful flip of the tail and a baleful glare.
Cats crack me up!
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Throw 'em to the Lions!
I'm a big fan of NPR. It beats watching the local news or one of the national news shows in the morning. (Am I the only one that finds Katie Couric sort of frightening - like a character in a horror movie who started out ok but had their blood sucked by vampires and their brains transversed by aliens and they are trying to maintain the mask of normalcy but it is slipping just enough that you begin to realize something is horribly, horribly wrong?) My NPR station, like a lot of other such stations, barely has enough power to broadcast their way out of the proverbial paper bag. Clear Channel, they're not.
NPR station lies to the south of us and equidistant to the north is a Christian radio station of some ilk. Sometimes they play music, but it is mostly talk. They pretty much share a signal with NPR station. It is extremely frustrating.
I can pick up NPR in the south end of my house, but any further north than my bedroom door the Christian station totally interferes. Sometimes the interference is worse than others - like it was a couple of weeks ago.
I had been struggling to pick out the news from the static for almost a week. One morning I was busy trying to get my contacts to stick to my eyeballs and listening to the news/body count from Iraq when the static cleared and a voice rang out clearly for the first time in days. It was a preacher voice - you know the type - and he said: "I could tell the president how to run this county! I could run this country!" A moment's silence, then back to the static.
It was deeply disturbing. It felt like a brush with the demonic or Pat Buchanan or something. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The next day, I hopped in Bob T. Truck to drive to work. The atmosphere was even more uncooperative. Although there was no static, the Christian station had totally pirated the NPR frequency and was coming in loud and clear. There was sappy singing and then the syrup-y, breathy-voiced man emoted: "This is K-LOVE. I'm Kenneth in the studio today with Lori and we hope that you, personally, have a really, really, really good day."
NPR station lies to the south of us and equidistant to the north is a Christian radio station of some ilk. Sometimes they play music, but it is mostly talk. They pretty much share a signal with NPR station. It is extremely frustrating.
I can pick up NPR in the south end of my house, but any further north than my bedroom door the Christian station totally interferes. Sometimes the interference is worse than others - like it was a couple of weeks ago.
I had been struggling to pick out the news from the static for almost a week. One morning I was busy trying to get my contacts to stick to my eyeballs and listening to the news/body count from Iraq when the static cleared and a voice rang out clearly for the first time in days. It was a preacher voice - you know the type - and he said: "I could tell the president how to run this county! I could run this country!" A moment's silence, then back to the static.
It was deeply disturbing. It felt like a brush with the demonic or Pat Buchanan or something. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The next day, I hopped in Bob T. Truck to drive to work. The atmosphere was even more uncooperative. Although there was no static, the Christian station had totally pirated the NPR frequency and was coming in loud and clear. There was sappy singing and then the syrup-y, breathy-voiced man emoted: "This is K-LOVE. I'm Kenneth in the studio today with Lori and we hope that you, personally, have a really, really, really good day."
It wasn't even 7:30 a.m. I can't handle that kind of language first thing in the morning.
Oh, Lord, doesn't separation of church and state apply to the airwaves, too?
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Those who can't, critique.
Not nearly enough camping has been going on this summer, so when we ended up with an unexpectedly free weekend, we went to Palo Duro Canyon. Its only an hour from home and is the second largest canyon in the United States. Check out this website for a really detailed description. You can see the canyon for yourself if you watch the final scene of Indian Jones and the Last Crusade. They filmed the riding-off-into-the-sunset scene at Palo Duro.
We also got tickets for Texas Legacies. It is the play, now in its third season, that replaced the Texas Outdoor Musical Drama. This year is the 40th anniversary of the huge amphitheater with a canyon wall as a backdrop and the low-brow musical history show in the foreground.
I have seen "Texas" at least a half-dozen times. The show was always more of a place than a play. It wasn't great drama, it was great staging. On the other hand, there were likeable characters, athletic dancers and pleasant, if forgetable, music. The story presented a "cliff" notes version of Panhandle history told in the story of a pioneer town's patriarchs. Not bad.
This was my first time to see the new play, "Texas Legacies".
When I was in school, seventh grade included a year-long course in Texas history. We all made diaramas of the Alamo or the birthplace of Sam Houston or the Southfork Ranch. (Well, maybe not the last one.) "Texas Legacies" may well be the dramatization of a seventh grade history class research paper.
Legacies uses the same plot as the original play - tell the story of local history through reminicense of the pioneering couple who tamed the land and became benevolent cattle barrons. Then they pack in all sorts of fragments of history. None of the fragments give enough history and none of the characters have enough character. The historical snipettes are told in flashback. (I love how "young" Col. MacKenzie was actually just "shorter" Col. MacKenzie.) The non-flashbacks are flat-as-the-caprock strings of cliche that barely attempt to tell a story, they just segue to the next flashback.
We also got tickets for Texas Legacies. It is the play, now in its third season, that replaced the Texas Outdoor Musical Drama. This year is the 40th anniversary of the huge amphitheater with a canyon wall as a backdrop and the low-brow musical history show in the foreground.
I have seen "Texas" at least a half-dozen times. The show was always more of a place than a play. It wasn't great drama, it was great staging. On the other hand, there were likeable characters, athletic dancers and pleasant, if forgetable, music. The story presented a "cliff" notes version of Panhandle history told in the story of a pioneer town's patriarchs. Not bad.
This was my first time to see the new play, "Texas Legacies".
When I was in school, seventh grade included a year-long course in Texas history. We all made diaramas of the Alamo or the birthplace of Sam Houston or the Southfork Ranch. (Well, maybe not the last one.) "Texas Legacies" may well be the dramatization of a seventh grade history class research paper.
Legacies uses the same plot as the original play - tell the story of local history through reminicense of the pioneering couple who tamed the land and became benevolent cattle barrons. Then they pack in all sorts of fragments of history. None of the fragments give enough history and none of the characters have enough character. The historical snipettes are told in flashback. (I love how "young" Col. MacKenzie was actually just "shorter" Col. MacKenzie.) The non-flashbacks are flat-as-the-caprock strings of cliche that barely attempt to tell a story, they just segue to the next flashback.
Really and truely - the first play wasn't that great either. We kept going back for the scenery not the scenes. This play doesn't attempt high drama either, but somehow its outdated predecessor, with its 1950's style story telling had sort of a retro appeal, if nothing else. "Texas Legacies" updated the 1950's special effects and some of the 1950's story-telling style, but didn't replace it with anything better.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Willy Wonka! Willy Wonka!
It was awesome.
And if he used Keith Richards for inspiration before, this time it was Michael Jackson.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Now I just need to find a couple of good books.
I received my bookmarks in the mail yesterday from Mindy's blog swap. They're great! (Insert Tony the Tiger voice.) The ones I received, whether by accident or design, had a theme:
I received a really beautiful marker from Judy. It is a picture of Louis Comfort Tiffany's Lily Window located in the First Presbyterian Church of Hoboken, New Jersey. It is a beautiful stained glass window. I really like lilies, so I was thrilled with the book mark. Thank you!
Then I received two markers from Songbird and her daughter The Princess. They sat down at the dining room table, huffed a little Mod Podge and began tearing up tissue paper. The results were a couple of way cool book marks that look a whole lot like stained glass. Mr. Tiffany would be proud and so am I. (This Mod Podge appears to be really cool stuff. I am going to have to try it out.) Thank you!
I really enjoyed swaping with everyone. I get really excited about getting something in the mail, other than bills.
I received a really beautiful marker from Judy. It is a picture of Louis Comfort Tiffany's Lily Window located in the First Presbyterian Church of Hoboken, New Jersey. It is a beautiful stained glass window. I really like lilies, so I was thrilled with the book mark. Thank you!
Then I received two markers from Songbird and her daughter The Princess. They sat down at the dining room table, huffed a little Mod Podge and began tearing up tissue paper. The results were a couple of way cool book marks that look a whole lot like stained glass. Mr. Tiffany would be proud and so am I. (This Mod Podge appears to be really cool stuff. I am going to have to try it out.) Thank you!
I really enjoyed swaping with everyone. I get really excited about getting something in the mail, other than bills.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
I always did like John Belushi.
You are a Samurai.
You are full of honour and value respect. You
are not really the stereotypical hero, but you
do fight for good. Just in your own way. For
you, it is most certainly okay to kill an evil
person, if it is for justice and peace. You
also don't belive in mourning all the time and
think that once you've hit a bad stage in life
you just have to get up again. It's pointless
to concentrate on emotional pain and better to
just get on with everything. You also are a
down to earth type of person and think before
you act. Impulsive people may annoy you
somewhat.
Main weapon: Sword
Quote: "Always do the right thing.
This will gratify some people and astonish the
rest" -Mark Twain
Facial expression: Small smile
What Type of Killer Are You? [cool pictures]
brought to you by Quizilla
So, what kind of a killer are you?
Hang in there.
This is one of my favorite photos. I call it
Ghouls
It is actually stuffed animals hanging at the back of a game tent at the fair in the Big Town. (Big Town would really rather be called Big City. But it is a town. Even though Chicken Big the Weatherman insists on pleading for people in the "metro" to run for their lives.) This photo also reminds me a lot of this site. And if you click on that link and cannot appreciate the sheer genius of the cakes going on there, then I pity your small, pale soul.
Friday, July 08, 2005
The most recent was a squish-n-wipe operation.
Sometimes being a feminist can be damn inconveient.
Yeah, I know you already know this. And no, I've never been nearly arrested at a protest or testified in a lawsuit or had to buck the powers that be to have my talents recognized despite being female.
I was once a fill-in speaker on a panel for the local American Association of University Women group. The panel was made up of local big/medium wigs discussing how they had advanced in their careers despite the obstacles presented by our patriarchical society. Being a good 20 years younger than anyone else on the panel, all I could say was that I was greatfull for all the work they'd done before, because I hadn't had to deal with any such problems. (I think the group was somewhat underwhelmed. They haven't asked me back. Ha ha!)
There are still issues though. One is bugs. I hate bugs. I hate 'em a lot. I especially hate the crunchy/squishsy sound they make when you step on them. Eew. There are others who hate them more. One such person is my good friend ER (not to be confused with the E. of the Naked Little Palestinian Man story). She sometimes comments under the name ChevyPickup. She hates bugs a whole lot.
We work on the bottom floor of a four-story, otherwise abandoned old hotel. There are three floors of rat, mouse and pigeon droppings hanging over our heads. And there are bugs. Every morning when ER gets to work you can hear her exclaim upon entering her office: "Oh, GROSS!" I guess she must give off bad vibes or something, because her office always has the most dead bugs littering the place in the mornings.
When I first started working here she would call one of the guys to go de-bug her office. I just couldn't stand it. In defence of my gender I had to do something. I debated with her. I cajoled. I prodded. She still insisted on calling some man to rid her of the insect carcasses instead of doing it herself.
So, I came to realize that if I were to proclaim convictions, then I must work in support of them. Sort of a "faith without works is dead" kind of a thing. Now I clean the bugs from ER's office each morning and dispose of them in a trash can at the far end of the building. I still hate 'em so she pays me with a coke each time. Its a nasty job, but I am doin' my part for the movement! (Plus queching my morning thirst. Generally with a caffeine free Diet Dr. Pepper. "Cept on those days when I have a headache or things have started out wrong and I imbibe that sweat nectar of the gods - plain ol' Dr. Pepper - straight up.)
Yeah, I know you already know this. And no, I've never been nearly arrested at a protest or testified in a lawsuit or had to buck the powers that be to have my talents recognized despite being female.
I was once a fill-in speaker on a panel for the local American Association of University Women group. The panel was made up of local big/medium wigs discussing how they had advanced in their careers despite the obstacles presented by our patriarchical society. Being a good 20 years younger than anyone else on the panel, all I could say was that I was greatfull for all the work they'd done before, because I hadn't had to deal with any such problems. (I think the group was somewhat underwhelmed. They haven't asked me back. Ha ha!)
There are still issues though. One is bugs. I hate bugs. I hate 'em a lot. I especially hate the crunchy/squishsy sound they make when you step on them. Eew. There are others who hate them more. One such person is my good friend ER (not to be confused with the E. of the Naked Little Palestinian Man story). She sometimes comments under the name ChevyPickup. She hates bugs a whole lot.
We work on the bottom floor of a four-story, otherwise abandoned old hotel. There are three floors of rat, mouse and pigeon droppings hanging over our heads. And there are bugs. Every morning when ER gets to work you can hear her exclaim upon entering her office: "Oh, GROSS!" I guess she must give off bad vibes or something, because her office always has the most dead bugs littering the place in the mornings.
When I first started working here she would call one of the guys to go de-bug her office. I just couldn't stand it. In defence of my gender I had to do something. I debated with her. I cajoled. I prodded. She still insisted on calling some man to rid her of the insect carcasses instead of doing it herself.
So, I came to realize that if I were to proclaim convictions, then I must work in support of them. Sort of a "faith without works is dead" kind of a thing. Now I clean the bugs from ER's office each morning and dispose of them in a trash can at the far end of the building. I still hate 'em so she pays me with a coke each time. Its a nasty job, but I am doin' my part for the movement! (Plus queching my morning thirst. Generally with a caffeine free Diet Dr. Pepper. "Cept on those days when I have a headache or things have started out wrong and I imbibe that sweat nectar of the gods - plain ol' Dr. Pepper - straight up.)
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Ho-hum.
Vacations are good. Then you come back to reality.
In addition to longing for a job with a more casual dress code (although we're no longer required to wear pantyhose) I often wish for a job that continued in my absence. Like working as a checker at a grocery store. The same people come through the lines and they get checked out by someone else while you are gone. When you come back later, they are not all lined up in front of your register impatiently waiting for you to check them out so they can put the melted ice cream and spoiled eggs in their car and go home.
Oh well.
Amuse yourselves with spooky woods while I get back to work.
In addition to longing for a job with a more casual dress code (although we're no longer required to wear pantyhose) I often wish for a job that continued in my absence. Like working as a checker at a grocery store. The same people come through the lines and they get checked out by someone else while you are gone. When you come back later, they are not all lined up in front of your register impatiently waiting for you to check them out so they can put the melted ice cream and spoiled eggs in their car and go home.
Oh well.
Amuse yourselves with spooky woods while I get back to work.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Circumambages
I am only recently returned from a perfectly sudorific vacation. Our previous record of pluvious adventure has ceased.
Our travels included an amusement park, capable of great horripilation, and a zoo - always an effective nepenth.
And I purchased a tome - about sesquipedalation.
Translation:
I just got back from a sweaty trip. Our previous record of rainy travel is ended. We went to an amusement park and got good goosebumps. We also went to the zoo, which is good for what ails you. And I bought a book about inordinantly long words: "2000 Most Challenging and Obscure Words" by Norman W. Schur.
We traveled with Opie Capone, Mrs. Capone and their daughter, Opie Jr. No one maimed or scarred anyone else. We travel with them pretty often so the two only children that we have between us get to experience the joys of sibling travelery.
The kids had a great time at the amusement park and zoo, but probably had just as much fun in the hotel swimming pool. Kate the kid has a talent for securing playmates that must come from being an only child. Jackson relayed a conversation he overheard between her and a boy she played with in the pool:
Kid - "Is that old wrestler-looking guy your dad?"
Kate - "The one with the bald head and the tatoo?"
Kid - "Yeah."
Kate - "Yeah, that's my dad."
Kid - "Cool."
Jackson also gets the award for finding the most disturbing bathroom graffiti: "If you give the devil his due, you won't have anything left over to tip Jesus." Thanks folks, my name is Jesus and I'll be here nightly through the end of the week. And leave a little something for your waiteress, too.
Opie Jr., who just turned five, spent a lot of time trying to keep Jackson in line. She learned at an early age that her aunt, Ray-Ray (she couldn't say SpookyRach yet) was not just your average aunt, but a superhero in disguise. You can ask her "Who is Ray-Ray?" and she will tell you "Wonder Woman".
Well. Sort of. She also had trouble saying Wonder Woman, so it has become ingrained her little pink brain that I am Woman-Woman. She spent the week saying "Watch out, Uncle Jackson! Ray-Ray is Woman-Woman!"
Hear me roar-roar.
Circumambages - instances of deviousness or indirectness in speech or writing.
Our travels included an amusement park, capable of great horripilation, and a zoo - always an effective nepenth.
And I purchased a tome - about sesquipedalation.
Translation:
I just got back from a sweaty trip. Our previous record of rainy travel is ended. We went to an amusement park and got good goosebumps. We also went to the zoo, which is good for what ails you. And I bought a book about inordinantly long words: "2000 Most Challenging and Obscure Words" by Norman W. Schur.
We traveled with Opie Capone, Mrs. Capone and their daughter, Opie Jr. No one maimed or scarred anyone else. We travel with them pretty often so the two only children that we have between us get to experience the joys of sibling travelery.
The kids had a great time at the amusement park and zoo, but probably had just as much fun in the hotel swimming pool. Kate the kid has a talent for securing playmates that must come from being an only child. Jackson relayed a conversation he overheard between her and a boy she played with in the pool:
Kid - "Is that old wrestler-looking guy your dad?"
Kate - "The one with the bald head and the tatoo?"
Kid - "Yeah."
Kate - "Yeah, that's my dad."
Kid - "Cool."
Jackson also gets the award for finding the most disturbing bathroom graffiti: "If you give the devil his due, you won't have anything left over to tip Jesus." Thanks folks, my name is Jesus and I'll be here nightly through the end of the week. And leave a little something for your waiteress, too.
Opie Jr., who just turned five, spent a lot of time trying to keep Jackson in line. She learned at an early age that her aunt, Ray-Ray (she couldn't say SpookyRach yet) was not just your average aunt, but a superhero in disguise. You can ask her "Who is Ray-Ray?" and she will tell you "Wonder Woman".
Well. Sort of. She also had trouble saying Wonder Woman, so it has become ingrained her little pink brain that I am Woman-Woman. She spent the week saying "Watch out, Uncle Jackson! Ray-Ray is Woman-Woman!"
Hear me roar-roar.
Circumambages - instances of deviousness or indirectness in speech or writing.
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