There was room for one more.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
And for the record:
Johnny Giantface is not the neighbor mentioned in the screed two posts down. There are pigfuckers in my personal life, and there are pigfuckers in my work life. He falls within the latter parameter, as a pigfucker in my work life.
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Testing blogging from newish phone
The human torch was denied a bank loan.
Did I ever tell you the one about Johnny Giantface? That dude's a pigfucker.
Just a guy I know.
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Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Detesting thy neighbor.
(A disclaimer: Apologies if this post reads like it was written by that drunk guy from Breitbart. My writing muscles have atrophied in my extended absence from this place, but at least I'll keep off the shift-1 key.)
I'm not neighborly.
I'm an intensely private person (he said somewhat hypocritically, in spite of the fact that he keeps a blog and has a Twitter account to which he posts regularly). Still, I keep to myself. I will leave you alone, and I expect the same respect. Doesn't mean I don't like you, doesn't mean that I won't share beers or whatever with you from time to (extremely rare) time. I'm just not a social creature. I'm not going to show up on your doorstep just to hang out. Don't take offense; that just ain't me.
Long story short: respect the boundaries. In turn, you can rest assured that you won't see a description of you in this space. Cross the line, though, and you will be eviscerated. And before you get all wound up, crying about how "that mean man on that internet blog threatened to disembowel me," note that this is not a threat you need to take to the police. I believe in the magic of a kind word, and I believe in the power of the written word to cut deep. No more, no less. Put down the gun.
I tell you that to tell you this rather long-winded story.
I, unfortunately, live in a neighborhood. Most of us keep to ourselves. I've lived here for almost 9 years, and I still occasionally want to call my immediate next-door neighbor Tom, even though I'm between 10 and 20 percent certain that's not his name. I'm actually leaning toward Larry, now that I think about it, but again, I'm really not too sure.
TomLarry and I occasionally wave to each other when we're both mowing. He keeps his lawn immaculate. (As I am fond of saying, he has a lawn. I have a yard. Those of you clever enough to appreciate the subtle difference between the two know what I mean.) We spoke once, several months after I moved in. We get along perfectly.
This piece is not about him.
Conversely, I've written about other neighbors in the past in this space, using the pejorative "dumbass" to describe them. For a couple of years, I've considered redacting that term, cause it didn't seem like they were that bad, ill treatment of dogs notwithstanding. There was a time, though, when the father or the son would "drop by" on occasion, and how I hate drop-bys. Yeah, OK, the father did help me get my mower out of the muck when it got hung up a couple of years ago, and yeah, sure, the son did get on his mower and mow the back 3 acres of the palatial BT Estates on several occasions last year and this when mine was out of commission, and yeah, they did drag that dead cedar tree away. All that "good neighbor" crap that, really, I detest.
As thanks (especially for the mowing part), I gave them my old pull-behind mower so that they could mow around their pond, theirs to keep, ERV $300 at least. And I let them use the backyard for landing and launching their RC airplanes. There's plenty of room, more than they have especially since they dug out a pond in the middle of their property.
I think we're more than even.
A couple of months ago, in the July timeframe, Wife bought a cattle panel. Although we own no cattle to speak of, it doubles as a poor man's grape arbor, which was the intent of the purchase. She got it home, and it sat out in the yard for a months. I mowed around it a couple of times before managing to run over one of its corners, damaging it and fearing her wrath in the process. She talked about getting that cattle panel for about a year, and here the corner is fucked up on it.
Son of a bitch!!!
So I dragged it over to the orchard, where I mow once a year or so. Having already mowed there once this year to my satisfaction, I laid it down, where it stayed for about another month or so.
Tonight, it finally happened! She decided that tonight was gonna be the night that the arbor would be put up, so we walked across the driveway to where the grapevine laid on the ground. Once there, she asked where the cattle panel was.
Well, it's about 10 feet away under that peach tree, I said. I'll just go over there and drag it out. "Hello, cows," I said to the calves that were in a pen across the property line. They refused to speak, which isn't very neighborly.
Hmmmm.
It's not here.
I kicked around the ground a little bit, thinking that weeds had overtaken the cattle panel and hoping to kick up some metal to grab onto to drag it back out.
It's not here.
Walked around the orchard a little bit - maybe it got dragged a few feet in one direction or the other?
It's not here.
I eyed the calves penned up on the other side of the property line. It occurred to me at that point: "That's new," I thought to myself.
You don't think .... surely not.
I went up to the property line - respecting property rights and all that is one of my tenets - and peered at the panel facing my property, looking for any damage that would be an identifier. Nothing. I looked around, saw no one watching, crossed over and examined the second panel. Nothing. I turned the corner to the third, looking up and down for a broken corner. Nothing ---
There it is.
"Found it," I said to Wife.
"No, I'm not kidding."
There it was, busted corner and all, laying on the ground behind the shed that served as the fourth wall of the pen for the calves, which meant that it was out of sight to me standing where I was standing on my property. Which meant that it was not accidental, how it ended up over there.
At that point, I did not care if anyone was watching. I dragged it back over to the grapevines, and we put it in the ground. Looks like this. (FWIW, she wants it to look like this someday.)
And as we were hammering the rebar into the ground, I would occasionally stare back at the neighbor's house with a look that Wife described as the most evil she's ever seen me.
(Because, really, who would miss a 12-foot-long, $40 piece of metal fencing that you had just laying in your yard? Cause, hell, it's apparent that you weren't doing anything with it.)
So they just came over and took it. They perhaps saw me moving it one night while mowing. They saw me lay it down underneath the fruit trees several feet off the property line. They came over at some point between then and now, picked it up and FUCKING TOOK IT.
Fucking thieves. Fucking thieves!!!
So I took it back.
Here's the thing. It isn't just the stealing that gets me, though I am more than irked by that point of fact. It's the fact that they forced me to be neighborly. They came over, without asking, and mowed the backyard several times last year. (LEAVE ME ALONE. Don't make me owe you. Cause I've got too much pride to ask for anyone to do anything for me, and I don't want to be in any real or imagined debt to ANYONE.) They dragged that cedar tree away without asking (even with an ulterior motive - to put it in their pond so that it'll act as a reef-like thing or something - fuck, I don't know, I'm not a marine biologist).
So that gives you the fucking right to walk over onto MY property and just help yourself.
Really.
And off the point entirely, but just out of curiosity, are YOU the reason I had to move the deep freeze out of the garage and into the house a couple years ago? Cause I had blamed the missing meat from it on an entirely different family of assholes living out by the highway.
I do suggest that going forward, y'all just keep to yourselves, just as I do and will continue to do. Because of your blatant "they won't miss it" thievery, I have zero use for you anymore, and time may come when I respectfully request that you restore the fence dividing our two properties. Good fences and all that.
Fuckers.
I'm not neighborly.
I'm an intensely private person (he said somewhat hypocritically, in spite of the fact that he keeps a blog and has a Twitter account to which he posts regularly). Still, I keep to myself. I will leave you alone, and I expect the same respect. Doesn't mean I don't like you, doesn't mean that I won't share beers or whatever with you from time to (extremely rare) time. I'm just not a social creature. I'm not going to show up on your doorstep just to hang out. Don't take offense; that just ain't me.
Long story short: respect the boundaries. In turn, you can rest assured that you won't see a description of you in this space. Cross the line, though, and you will be eviscerated. And before you get all wound up, crying about how "that mean man on that internet blog threatened to disembowel me," note that this is not a threat you need to take to the police. I believe in the magic of a kind word, and I believe in the power of the written word to cut deep. No more, no less. Put down the gun.
I tell you that to tell you this rather long-winded story.
I, unfortunately, live in a neighborhood. Most of us keep to ourselves. I've lived here for almost 9 years, and I still occasionally want to call my immediate next-door neighbor Tom, even though I'm between 10 and 20 percent certain that's not his name. I'm actually leaning toward Larry, now that I think about it, but again, I'm really not too sure.
TomLarry and I occasionally wave to each other when we're both mowing. He keeps his lawn immaculate. (As I am fond of saying, he has a lawn. I have a yard. Those of you clever enough to appreciate the subtle difference between the two know what I mean.) We spoke once, several months after I moved in. We get along perfectly.
This piece is not about him.
Conversely, I've written about other neighbors in the past in this space, using the pejorative "dumbass" to describe them. For a couple of years, I've considered redacting that term, cause it didn't seem like they were that bad, ill treatment of dogs notwithstanding. There was a time, though, when the father or the son would "drop by" on occasion, and how I hate drop-bys. Yeah, OK, the father did help me get my mower out of the muck when it got hung up a couple of years ago, and yeah, sure, the son did get on his mower and mow the back 3 acres of the palatial BT Estates on several occasions last year and this when mine was out of commission, and yeah, they did drag that dead cedar tree away. All that "good neighbor" crap that, really, I detest.
As thanks (especially for the mowing part), I gave them my old pull-behind mower so that they could mow around their pond, theirs to keep, ERV $300 at least. And I let them use the backyard for landing and launching their RC airplanes. There's plenty of room, more than they have especially since they dug out a pond in the middle of their property.
I think we're more than even.
A couple of months ago, in the July timeframe, Wife bought a cattle panel. Although we own no cattle to speak of, it doubles as a poor man's grape arbor, which was the intent of the purchase. She got it home, and it sat out in the yard for a months. I mowed around it a couple of times before managing to run over one of its corners, damaging it and fearing her wrath in the process. She talked about getting that cattle panel for about a year, and here the corner is fucked up on it.
Son of a bitch!!!
So I dragged it over to the orchard, where I mow once a year or so. Having already mowed there once this year to my satisfaction, I laid it down, where it stayed for about another month or so.
Tonight, it finally happened! She decided that tonight was gonna be the night that the arbor would be put up, so we walked across the driveway to where the grapevine laid on the ground. Once there, she asked where the cattle panel was.
Well, it's about 10 feet away under that peach tree, I said. I'll just go over there and drag it out. "Hello, cows," I said to the calves that were in a pen across the property line. They refused to speak, which isn't very neighborly.
Hmmmm.
It's not here.
I kicked around the ground a little bit, thinking that weeds had overtaken the cattle panel and hoping to kick up some metal to grab onto to drag it back out.
It's not here.
Walked around the orchard a little bit - maybe it got dragged a few feet in one direction or the other?
It's not here.
I eyed the calves penned up on the other side of the property line. It occurred to me at that point: "That's new," I thought to myself.
You don't think .... surely not.
I went up to the property line - respecting property rights and all that is one of my tenets - and peered at the panel facing my property, looking for any damage that would be an identifier. Nothing. I looked around, saw no one watching, crossed over and examined the second panel. Nothing. I turned the corner to the third, looking up and down for a broken corner. Nothing ---
There it is.
"Found it," I said to Wife.
"No, I'm not kidding."
There it was, busted corner and all, laying on the ground behind the shed that served as the fourth wall of the pen for the calves, which meant that it was out of sight to me standing where I was standing on my property. Which meant that it was not accidental, how it ended up over there.
At that point, I did not care if anyone was watching. I dragged it back over to the grapevines, and we put it in the ground. Looks like this. (FWIW, she wants it to look like this someday.)
And as we were hammering the rebar into the ground, I would occasionally stare back at the neighbor's house with a look that Wife described as the most evil she's ever seen me.
(Because, really, who would miss a 12-foot-long, $40 piece of metal fencing that you had just laying in your yard? Cause, hell, it's apparent that you weren't doing anything with it.)
So they just came over and took it. They perhaps saw me moving it one night while mowing. They saw me lay it down underneath the fruit trees several feet off the property line. They came over at some point between then and now, picked it up and FUCKING TOOK IT.
Fucking thieves. Fucking thieves!!!
So I took it back.
Here's the thing. It isn't just the stealing that gets me, though I am more than irked by that point of fact. It's the fact that they forced me to be neighborly. They came over, without asking, and mowed the backyard several times last year. (LEAVE ME ALONE. Don't make me owe you. Cause I've got too much pride to ask for anyone to do anything for me, and I don't want to be in any real or imagined debt to ANYONE.) They dragged that cedar tree away without asking (even with an ulterior motive - to put it in their pond so that it'll act as a reef-like thing or something - fuck, I don't know, I'm not a marine biologist).
So that gives you the fucking right to walk over onto MY property and just help yourself.
Really.
And off the point entirely, but just out of curiosity, are YOU the reason I had to move the deep freeze out of the garage and into the house a couple years ago? Cause I had blamed the missing meat from it on an entirely different family of assholes living out by the highway.
I do suggest that going forward, y'all just keep to yourselves, just as I do and will continue to do. Because of your blatant "they won't miss it" thievery, I have zero use for you anymore, and time may come when I respectfully request that you restore the fence dividing our two properties. Good fences and all that.
Fuckers.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
The world's smartest man just jumped out with my knapsack
I realized something today.
I'm terrible at my job (this isn't news), so I use humor to compensate for it.
I'll let you know if I ever actually say anything funny.
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Saturday, May 29, 2010
i am indi
So, with the Indy 500 tomorrow, I was scouring the Internet for some information so I could write a semi-comprehensive, semi-coherent post about it.
At which point I stumbled upon this. Can you spot two things wrong with it, the first within 5 seconds? (And the second after hovering your cursor over the first?)
Grrrrr. The 500's got a LONG way to go to overcome shit like this. The page I linked is an insult to those of us smart enough to know the difference, and it's terribly misleading to the casual fan.
I am certain that the proprietors of the site said, "Here, Paul Pierce, since you're not doing anything till the NBA Finals, write up a quick betting guide to the Indianapolis 500. And put in a picture of cars racing."
P.S. - If you said that the correct answer to the first part is "there is no #8 Budweiser car anymore," please try again.
At which point I stumbled upon this. Can you spot two things wrong with it, the first within 5 seconds? (And the second after hovering your cursor over the first?)
Grrrrr. The 500's got a LONG way to go to overcome shit like this. The page I linked is an insult to those of us smart enough to know the difference, and it's terribly misleading to the casual fan.
I am certain that the proprietors of the site said, "Here, Paul Pierce, since you're not doing anything till the NBA Finals, write up a quick betting guide to the Indianapolis 500. And put in a picture of cars racing."
P.S. - If you said that the correct answer to the first part is "there is no #8 Budweiser car anymore," please try again.
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Thursday, May 27, 2010
I said I would add more to the post below from 5-19 (the one that starts out "I'll explain later, but....").
"So... ummmmm, did you hear about the wreck?" I asked my mom on the phone one day last week, knowing full well that she had since, in her younger days, she used to run around with the woman who died in the accident.
Her voice broke a little: "Yeah, I did."
Then she added, "That's some of your family."
Errrrr, what?
So apparently one of the victims in the wreck last week was a distant cousin (at LEAST second or third cousin, if not more). It's all very terrible and all very sad, but I'm not kidding when I tell you that whatever tenuous familial ties I might have had with her DID NOT EVEN REGISTER WITH ME.
That's how close we were. I knew the name, but that's about it. I hadn't seen her since I was MAYBE 6 or 7 years old, and to be honest, I don't have any memories of her whatsoever, just a hazy spectre in my subconscious. I wouldn't have recognized her in the street if I saw her. (Before the accident, anyway.)
And there's no disrespect intended there. I mean, I saw her younger brother a couple of months ago working at a convenience store, and he didn't recognize me either. I guess we're cousins too. But I didn't lose any sleep over it.
But I'll reiterate what I said in my post from 5-19: just because someone is related to you, by blood or by marriage, no matter how close or distant, that does NOT make them your "family." Unless you want to stick strictly to dictionary definitions, I guess.
I'm sorry, it just doesn't. I'm related to some of the most worthless welfare-sucking drains of society who have contributed ZERO POINT SHIT to the world, and I DO NOT consider them "family," in even the most wide-ranging sense of the term.
So, one of the questions I've been struggling with in the last 10 days is this: Does all of this mean there's something wrong with me? When a person I'm "related" to passes away and I can't manage more than a shrug?
Don't get me wrong. I'll be devastated when my dad passes on. I'll be crushed when my mom passes away despite her occasional bouts with herp-a-derp (see my series of tweets about the funeral, or the "that's your family" comment above). The people who are important to me - by blood, by marriage or none of the above - yes, I will feel their loss.
And isn't that more of a definition of "family" than by the crapshoot of genetics or ancestry?
"So... ummmmm, did you hear about the wreck?" I asked my mom on the phone one day last week, knowing full well that she had since, in her younger days, she used to run around with the woman who died in the accident.
Her voice broke a little: "Yeah, I did."
Then she added, "That's some of your family."
Errrrr, what?
So apparently one of the victims in the wreck last week was a distant cousin (at LEAST second or third cousin, if not more). It's all very terrible and all very sad, but I'm not kidding when I tell you that whatever tenuous familial ties I might have had with her DID NOT EVEN REGISTER WITH ME.
That's how close we were. I knew the name, but that's about it. I hadn't seen her since I was MAYBE 6 or 7 years old, and to be honest, I don't have any memories of her whatsoever, just a hazy spectre in my subconscious. I wouldn't have recognized her in the street if I saw her. (Before the accident, anyway.)
And there's no disrespect intended there. I mean, I saw her younger brother a couple of months ago working at a convenience store, and he didn't recognize me either. I guess we're cousins too. But I didn't lose any sleep over it.
But I'll reiterate what I said in my post from 5-19: just because someone is related to you, by blood or by marriage, no matter how close or distant, that does NOT make them your "family." Unless you want to stick strictly to dictionary definitions, I guess.
I'm sorry, it just doesn't. I'm related to some of the most worthless welfare-sucking drains of society who have contributed ZERO POINT SHIT to the world, and I DO NOT consider them "family," in even the most wide-ranging sense of the term.
So, one of the questions I've been struggling with in the last 10 days is this: Does all of this mean there's something wrong with me? When a person I'm "related" to passes away and I can't manage more than a shrug?
Don't get me wrong. I'll be devastated when my dad passes on. I'll be crushed when my mom passes away despite her occasional bouts with herp-a-derp (see my series of tweets about the funeral, or the "that's your family" comment above). The people who are important to me - by blood, by marriage or none of the above - yes, I will feel their loss.
And isn't that more of a definition of "family" than by the crapshoot of genetics or ancestry?
Friday, May 21, 2010
It was only many years after its creation that I found Twitter to be useful.
I read an article about this same subject a couple of weeks ago, but want to expand on it.
I have DirecTV, but my local channels aren't up on the bird yet. Don't know if they ever will be. And ever since the STUPID STUPID STUPID analog-to-digital conversion, getting local channels over-the-air has been an exercise in futility, thanks to the rusted out pole antenna that came with the house. On the night of the Duke-Butler game, I had to run a pair of rabbit ears from my TV to the front stoop and hope it didn't rain. "Frustrating" doesn't begin to describe it. Hope to have something else in place by the time Colts season rolls around.
I mention that to tell you this. We had some pretty hairy severe weather about 90 minutes ago. Since I can't get local TV channels and I shut the computer down once it became apparent that the system that was about to pass over threatened to drop the wrath of God on us in the form of golf-ball-sized hail and tornadoes, I had to rely on the Bajeebus Alarm and my Blackberry to keep me updated.
Only thing is, the National Weather Service doesn't exactly provide up-to-the-minute information on impending severe weather. Sure, they'll give you some lead time - at 4:50, for instance, they'll warn that "severe storms will be near (your town) by 5:15 PM" ("EVERYBODY PANIC" is implicit) - but weather, unfortunately, is not linear. A storm might move in a straight west-to-east line across three states, then start jogging to the northeast or southeast, sparing you of doom, or at least dumping only heavy rain.
So, once you're warned by the weather bureau, you're left to wait and wonder. During a weather event, they may issue an update 15 minutes after the original warning - "the tornado will be near (your town) by 5:10 PM" - but that's it. They deal in the macro, not the micro.
And so it was today that I discovered how useful Twitter can be during severe weather. By searching on #inwx, I was led to #tristatewx, and followed the tweets of Evansville-area meterologists and their teams of storm chasers as they tracked the storm minute-by-minute. Including exhortations to people in certain communities to "TAKE COVER NOW."
And so the tornado warning that was issued for the county immediately to my west, and then to mine (remember, macro, not micro) was augmented by the additional knowledge that the funnel cloud was about 10 miles to my south, instead of bearing down on the palatial BT Estates, as the National Weather Service had originally led me to believe.
This isn't going to cause me to sell my Bajeebus Alarm at my next yard sale, but the big picture provided by the weather radio was augmented by the small strokes provided by various Twitter feeds. Quite useful on a day like today.
I have DirecTV, but my local channels aren't up on the bird yet. Don't know if they ever will be. And ever since the STUPID STUPID STUPID analog-to-digital conversion, getting local channels over-the-air has been an exercise in futility, thanks to the rusted out pole antenna that came with the house. On the night of the Duke-Butler game, I had to run a pair of rabbit ears from my TV to the front stoop and hope it didn't rain. "Frustrating" doesn't begin to describe it. Hope to have something else in place by the time Colts season rolls around.
I mention that to tell you this. We had some pretty hairy severe weather about 90 minutes ago. Since I can't get local TV channels and I shut the computer down once it became apparent that the system that was about to pass over threatened to drop the wrath of God on us in the form of golf-ball-sized hail and tornadoes, I had to rely on the Bajeebus Alarm and my Blackberry to keep me updated.
Only thing is, the National Weather Service doesn't exactly provide up-to-the-minute information on impending severe weather. Sure, they'll give you some lead time - at 4:50, for instance, they'll warn that "severe storms will be near (your town) by 5:15 PM" ("EVERYBODY PANIC" is implicit) - but weather, unfortunately, is not linear. A storm might move in a straight west-to-east line across three states, then start jogging to the northeast or southeast, sparing you of doom, or at least dumping only heavy rain.
So, once you're warned by the weather bureau, you're left to wait and wonder. During a weather event, they may issue an update 15 minutes after the original warning - "the tornado will be near (your town) by 5:10 PM" - but that's it. They deal in the macro, not the micro.
And so it was today that I discovered how useful Twitter can be during severe weather. By searching on #inwx, I was led to #tristatewx, and followed the tweets of Evansville-area meterologists and their teams of storm chasers as they tracked the storm minute-by-minute. Including exhortations to people in certain communities to "TAKE COVER NOW."
And so the tornado warning that was issued for the county immediately to my west, and then to mine (remember, macro, not micro) was augmented by the additional knowledge that the funnel cloud was about 10 miles to my south, instead of bearing down on the palatial BT Estates, as the National Weather Service had originally led me to believe.
This isn't going to cause me to sell my Bajeebus Alarm at my next yard sale, but the big picture provided by the weather radio was augmented by the small strokes provided by various Twitter feeds. Quite useful on a day like today.
You know how, in Brian's Song, Brian Piccolo's health continues to (figuratively) screw him in the ass until he's basically a head and torso lying in a hospital bed dying?
You think Bret Michaels is headed down a similar path? First the diabetes, then that brain hemmorhage he had a couple weeks ago, now a hole in his heart? What next? Leprosy?
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Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I'll explain later, but:
Being related to someone by blood or by marriage does NOT make them family.
For instance. The Captain, who I've namedropped frequently here, is not related to me. But he's closest thing to a brother I have. He's family to me. Moreso than any of the myriad distant cousins I have or had.
Just saying, even though I would think it doesn't need saying. Like I said, I'll explain later. (Even though I never do.)
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Wednesday, May 12, 2010
6.
Six years ago at this time (around 5am), Wife and I were sitting in an exam room at the hospital. She was at 32 weeks and had woke up in the middle of the night with some pretty severe stomach pains. I had blamed the soup I'd fixed her late the evening before. As it turns out, I just didn't read the label: "CAUTION: MAY INDUCE LABOR," and the decision was made to take her via ambulance from the hospital in Jasper to another hospital about 40 minutes away, in Evansville, where they would likely deliver our baby. St. Mary's was more capable of succeeding with a newborn who was 8 weeks early.
My last vivid memory before he was born a little less than 8 hours later wasn't the fear I'd felt that everything wasn't going to be OK. Rather, it was a heated discussion I'd had with my mom at the hospital in Evansville. We'd started making small talk - in Wife's room at the hospital, mind you - about the primary that had taken place the week before. The particulars escape me at this point, but the gist of it was that I'd noted something peculiar on the Republican ballot.
"Why would you know something like that?" Mom demanded to know.
"Because........ I ........voted on a Republican ballot?" I replied. (Having NEVER voted for a Democrat in my life, which I'd assumed was common knowledge - in spite of the fact that my maternal lineage includes people, living and dead, who were active in local politics on the Democrat side.)
Which should have been the end of the discussion since there were more pressing issues at hand, like the fact that my son was about to be brought into the world, and the calendar did not say JULY.
But no. It was not the end of the discussion.
I had an aunt who was running - on the Democrat ticket, of course - for one of the county offices. Didn't need my vote; I believe she was running unopposed anyway, but it didn't matter if she wasn't, because I wasn't going to vote Democrat even if her primary opponent was bin Laden himself.
Anyway, this pissed my mom off. How dare I not vote for my aunt. Et cetera.
"Your grandma would be turning over in her grave," Mom told me.
"Like she could give less of a fuck. Because she is dead," I replied.
And it was at this point that the nurses made note of the high-risk pregnancy in the room and the spike in her blood pressure, and cleared the room except for me.
Ha.
*****
Well, as you probably know, the story ultimately had a happy ending, and I don't mean the part where my aunt was defeated in her re-election bid four years later.
Despite the fact that he made his debut at 32 weeks and thus spent the first 24 days of his life in the NICU at St. Mary's, My Son Cool turns 6 today. And it's not all been wine and roses - no developmental problems or anything that preemies are susceptible to, thank God! - he's stubborn and spoiled and sweet and mean and smart and demanding and has the attention span of a hummingbird, but I still wouldn't trade him for most of the money in the world.
And it's like he's always been in our home. Truthfully, I have a hard time remembering what our lives were like before he came along. We'd been in our home for three years before he was born. And yet I have a difficult time imagining that he wasn't here. I guess parenting is pretty much all-consuming when it's done right. Not that I'm a perfect parent by any stretch; I curse myself for some of the habits I let him get into during his development (I truly feel like his lack of focus is somehow my fault - too much TV and video games, not enough sleep).
Happy 6th birthday, buddy. Your presence in my life has been rewarding and joyous and heartbreaking, but you are my son and I love you with all my heart.
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Friday, April 30, 2010
And now, for no particular reason:
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Wednesday, April 28, 2010
KAAAAAAAAAA!
This txt msg received just now:
------ SMS Text ------
ESPN MLB - STL Run Scored BOT 1ST - STL 2 ATL 0 - C Rasmus struck out swinging, R Ludwick scored, A Pujols to second on wild pitch by K Ka
*Team News Rply MORE
------ SMS Text ------
ESPN MLB - STL Run Scored BOT 1ST - STL 2 ATL 0 - C Rasmus struck out swinging, R Ludwick scored, A Pujols to second on wild pitch by K Ka
*Team News Rply MORE
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, April 09, 2010
Wubbzy is against the intrusion of government in our day-to-day lives?
I always had him pictured as pro-state and pro-taxes. Instead, he's a Libertarian. Or she. Or it. Who knows.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Cool Brittania is dead. Long live Cool Brittania.
For all intents and purposes, my record collection stops around the year 2000; although I was gainfully employed at that point, I really didn't have the means or ambition to continue throwing money at new music. My roommate at the time had moved out, draining me of the financial resources necessary to pursue every rarities, B-sides and singles collection that appeared in local record stores, while the 'zine that the Captain and I put out died a quiet, anonymous death (still available in electronic form, if you look to the right of this page). Moreover, I had taken up with someone who didn't really share my taste in music. To this day, I still annoy her with repeated listenings of Sloan, Belle & Sebastian and the like on road trips. I imagine she dies a little inside every time (being a fan of country radio and all that), but conversely, my favorite bands and albums of that era still bring me a great deal of joy, and I would imagine that she wouldn't want to take that away from me. So she endures.
Ten years later, I finally have the means to resume collecting. Most of my favorite bands from the time have fallen by the wayside, with only the aforementioned Sloan still kicking (although rumors of a new Belle & Sebastian release is the best musical news I've heard in years). Thanks to The Captain and his trusty CD burner, I have gotten into a few other bands since then - Drive-By Truckers being chief among them - but I can honestly say that, by and large, I'm still clinging to the bands of my mid-20s. Which brings me to a couple of my other favorites at the time.
A couple of BritPop bands that were huge on the other side of the Atlantic, Sleeper and Elastica barely dented the consciousness of the American music-buying public - the latter definitely more than the former, but not, say, Spin Doctors big. I still lean heavily on Sleeper's The It Girl and Elastica's self-titled debut - the former was, in my view, almost the best Britpop album of the era (save for Oasis' Morning Glory), while the latter was a sharp, hooky, punk-influenced joyride that made it easy to forgive their lack of originality and the accusations of plagiarism that seemed to follow them.
While both bands have long since disintegrated, for various reasons I hadn't been able to pick up what turned out to be their respective final albums. Sleeper's 1997 epitaph Pleased to Meet You was never released Stateside, I don't believe, while Elastica's The Menace came out just as I was getting away from music. But at long last, a decade or more later (!), I've finally managed to close the circle by acquiring both albums, and short reviews of each follow.
The Menace, sad to say, is a mess from beginning to end. Attribute it to whatever - the alleged drug use, the relationship turmoil between singer Justine Frischmann and Blur's Damon Albarn, and so forth - but ultimately, you have to have the songs, and The Menace falls well short in this regard.
Whereas their debut was punchy, infectious and to-the-point, the follow-up's 39-minute length is an eternity, with nary a hook in the bunch. I've listened to this catastrophe one time, and at this point, I have no desire to do so again; I wasn't expecting to hear an album that sounded just like their debut from five years previous, but I was expecting at least a steady growth to justify the delay.
Instead, The Menace is a sprawling, angular, incomprehensible wreck with vapid, empty songs that are as dull, sexless and un-fun as their predecessors were exciting, fun and sexy. Which, really, you wouldn't expect out of an album with song titles like "My Sex" and "Your Arse My Place," but that's exactly what was delivered. Perhaps they should have waited five more years; on the other hand, a hundred years couldn't have polished these shitty songs any more.
Meanwhile, Pleased to Meet You suffered from terrible timing; Oasis' Be Here Now, a bloated, coked-up mess of an album that is largely credited with killing BritPop as a cultural phenomenon, had come out a couple of months before, and the resulting backlash did Louise Wener and Co. no favors. Quite an injustice, really, because the third Sleeper album - while just shy of their landmark sophomore effort - shines regardless.
As on its predecessor, glorious, hook-laden radio-ready anthems abound, from the opener "Please Please Please" to grandiose first single "She's A Good Girl" (it's got horns!) to "You Got Me." Although the maudlin threatens to creep in and overtake "Miss You" and "Because of You," Wener still manages to be lovey-dovey without sounding lovey-dovey. In her short tenure as the grand dame of BritPop, she showed that she was more than a glamorous face, wrapping her witty, sometimes-biting, sometimes-breathy but always-sexy lyrics around memorable vocal melodies while the backing Sleeperblokes put in another tight, workmanlike performance. There are a couple of throwaways here; the forgettable "Romeo Me" (an upbeat dance number that was, surprisingly, the second single) and "Breathe" are filler, but Sleeper on their worst day more than hold their own, so all is forgiven.
As far as farewell albums go, Pleased to Meet You left me wanting so much more. I felt a bit of sadness once closer "Traffic Accident" came to an abrupt stop, the anticipation of 13 years of waiting to hear the last album from my favorite BritPop band having been vanquished. And then I listened to it again, and again, and again. And I will listen to it again tonight, and probably tomorrow also.
Ten years later, I finally have the means to resume collecting. Most of my favorite bands from the time have fallen by the wayside, with only the aforementioned Sloan still kicking (although rumors of a new Belle & Sebastian release is the best musical news I've heard in years). Thanks to The Captain and his trusty CD burner, I have gotten into a few other bands since then - Drive-By Truckers being chief among them - but I can honestly say that, by and large, I'm still clinging to the bands of my mid-20s. Which brings me to a couple of my other favorites at the time.
A couple of BritPop bands that were huge on the other side of the Atlantic, Sleeper and Elastica barely dented the consciousness of the American music-buying public - the latter definitely more than the former, but not, say, Spin Doctors big. I still lean heavily on Sleeper's The It Girl and Elastica's self-titled debut - the former was, in my view, almost the best Britpop album of the era (save for Oasis' Morning Glory), while the latter was a sharp, hooky, punk-influenced joyride that made it easy to forgive their lack of originality and the accusations of plagiarism that seemed to follow them.
While both bands have long since disintegrated, for various reasons I hadn't been able to pick up what turned out to be their respective final albums. Sleeper's 1997 epitaph Pleased to Meet You was never released Stateside, I don't believe, while Elastica's The Menace came out just as I was getting away from music. But at long last, a decade or more later (!), I've finally managed to close the circle by acquiring both albums, and short reviews of each follow.
The Menace, sad to say, is a mess from beginning to end. Attribute it to whatever - the alleged drug use, the relationship turmoil between singer Justine Frischmann and Blur's Damon Albarn, and so forth - but ultimately, you have to have the songs, and The Menace falls well short in this regard.
Whereas their debut was punchy, infectious and to-the-point, the follow-up's 39-minute length is an eternity, with nary a hook in the bunch. I've listened to this catastrophe one time, and at this point, I have no desire to do so again; I wasn't expecting to hear an album that sounded just like their debut from five years previous, but I was expecting at least a steady growth to justify the delay.
Instead, The Menace is a sprawling, angular, incomprehensible wreck with vapid, empty songs that are as dull, sexless and un-fun as their predecessors were exciting, fun and sexy. Which, really, you wouldn't expect out of an album with song titles like "My Sex" and "Your Arse My Place," but that's exactly what was delivered. Perhaps they should have waited five more years; on the other hand, a hundred years couldn't have polished these shitty songs any more.
Meanwhile, Pleased to Meet You suffered from terrible timing; Oasis' Be Here Now, a bloated, coked-up mess of an album that is largely credited with killing BritPop as a cultural phenomenon, had come out a couple of months before, and the resulting backlash did Louise Wener and Co. no favors. Quite an injustice, really, because the third Sleeper album - while just shy of their landmark sophomore effort - shines regardless.
As on its predecessor, glorious, hook-laden radio-ready anthems abound, from the opener "Please Please Please" to grandiose first single "She's A Good Girl" (it's got horns!) to "You Got Me." Although the maudlin threatens to creep in and overtake "Miss You" and "Because of You," Wener still manages to be lovey-dovey without sounding lovey-dovey. In her short tenure as the grand dame of BritPop, she showed that she was more than a glamorous face, wrapping her witty, sometimes-biting, sometimes-breathy but always-sexy lyrics around memorable vocal melodies while the backing Sleeperblokes put in another tight, workmanlike performance. There are a couple of throwaways here; the forgettable "Romeo Me" (an upbeat dance number that was, surprisingly, the second single) and "Breathe" are filler, but Sleeper on their worst day more than hold their own, so all is forgiven.
As far as farewell albums go, Pleased to Meet You left me wanting so much more. I felt a bit of sadness once closer "Traffic Accident" came to an abrupt stop, the anticipation of 13 years of waiting to hear the last album from my favorite BritPop band having been vanquished. And then I listened to it again, and again, and again. And I will listen to it again tonight, and probably tomorrow also.
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Saturday, March 27, 2010
The state of Indiana hearts me
You do recall, of course, the July accident last summer where I totaled my beloved Mustang that I had owned for all of three months. Believe me - I recall it too; I think about it every day, or at least every workday when I drive past the spot of the accident, or every non-workday when I see a Mustang. Suffice it to say that that rainy morning still crosses my mind a little too often for my liking.
The State of Indiana has been thinking about it too. They've been thinking about it so much that I received this note of well wishes a couple of weeks ago (click to enlarge):
Listen. I know that times are tough. I know that we're cutting funding to schools and whatnot, and our infrastructure is slowly going to rot over the coming decade. We are DOOMED. I get that.
And I also understand that someone, somewhere needs to pay for the sign I so foolishly destroyed* when I totaled Belle last July.
* - even though I have no recollection of hitting the sign. If I had, I would have detailed it in my post about the wreck.
But isn't that part of the compact between the State and the individual? Don't we pay taxes to cover this? Everyone I've spoken with regarding this matter seems to agree, and they concur that this invoice is the stupidest thing they've ever heard of.
All that aside: I called my insurance folks, and they're going to cover it, and that's fine - that's also why we pay for insurance.
But here's the part that gets me. Page 2 of their love letter:
6 man-hours to replace the sign? Talk about bloat. But that's not even the part that gets me. It's this bit of info in the upper right corner:
Nothing too out of the ordinary, except when you drive by the site of the accident and note that THERE IS NO SIGN THERE.
So the "repair" on 8/11/09 - which the state has billed me for - didn't happen. If I were a contractor invoicing the state for work done on a road, and I didn't do the work, wouldn't I land in the pokey or at least penalized to within an inch of my life savings?
Anyway. The state probably has its money now, and now can we FINALLY put this to bed?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Snowscapes, 2.15.10
Again, not to beat a dead horse ... but just one a winter.
Got the one today. Done with snow now.
Got the one today. Done with snow now.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Conspicuous in their absence from BT (in my flurry of posting this morning) are my thoughts on the Super Bowl. Really, does it merit any further comment than what you've no doubt already seen?
Of course I'm heartbroken, not just because the Colts were completely dominated after the first quarter, but also because a Super Bowl loss was not what they pissed away a chance at perfection for. I said on 12/27 after the Colts threw away immortality:
All I can say is that Indianapolis had damn well better win the Super
Bowl this year - throwing away a perfect season must pay off this year,
or I think we can finally put to rest this idea that Tony Dungy was a
genius.
I had also confided privately to other friends after that debacle against the Jets in December that anything less than a Super Bowl victory would mean the season was a failure, and yes, by my standards, the season was exactly that. It would have been wonderful, years from now, to reminisce with my dad about "that perfect season in 2009" and how that was the best football team that ever stepped foot on a field.
Instead ... hmph. 16-3 and "first loser" status. What a crock, all the way around.
Of course I'm heartbroken, not just because the Colts were completely dominated after the first quarter, but also because a Super Bowl loss was not what they pissed away a chance at perfection for. I said on 12/27 after the Colts threw away immortality:
All I can say is that Indianapolis had damn well better win the Super
Bowl this year - throwing away a perfect season must pay off this year,
or I think we can finally put to rest this idea that Tony Dungy was a
genius.
I had also confided privately to other friends after that debacle against the Jets in December that anything less than a Super Bowl victory would mean the season was a failure, and yes, by my standards, the season was exactly that. It would have been wonderful, years from now, to reminisce with my dad about "that perfect season in 2009" and how that was the best football team that ever stepped foot on a field.
Instead ... hmph. 16-3 and "first loser" status. What a crock, all the way around.
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As I'm fond of saying during the bleakness of winter, I'm good for about one solid snowfall every winter, then snow can go away and we can get on with the rites of spring.
Suffice it to say that that hasn't really happened yet. Snow has come in fits and starts in my little corner of the world, spitting out 2 inches here, 3 there - enough to delay or close school a handful of times.
There's probably about 4 inches on the ground right now, which has shut down school the last two days and brought on a two-hour delay this morning. Which is nice, but only makes me long for the good old days, which were (in this case) December 2004 ...
Like I said: just one a winter.
Suffice it to say that that hasn't really happened yet. Snow has come in fits and starts in my little corner of the world, spitting out 2 inches here, 3 there - enough to delay or close school a handful of times.
There's probably about 4 inches on the ground right now, which has shut down school the last two days and brought on a two-hour delay this morning. Which is nice, but only makes me long for the good old days, which were (in this case) December 2004 ...
Like I said: just one a winter.
Cause these guys didn't need five blades, dammit.
In recognition of the upcoming NASCAR season, let me take a moment to post a mockup of an ad I created several years ago in indignant response to Gillette's "Young Guns" campaign:
Clockwise from upper left: Bic single-blade razor, Ricky Rudd, the Unknown Racer, Dale Jarrett, Michael Waltrip, Bill Elliott, Ken Schrader, Terry Labonte.
Actually, the grayed-out picture above represents Morgan Shepherd, as I couldn't find a picture of him at the time on the internet. It's a nod to your old high school yearbooks, where if a person was not present on Picture Day, they'd be grayed out in the roster of individual headshots of the people in your class.
It's not news, it's a text message from ESPN
So, I got this text message from ESPN yesterday afternoon:
"ESPN Autos - Dale Earnhardt Jr. won inaugural NASCAR iRacing.com WC Series race (100 laps) at Daytona."
Oh?
I jumped to ESPN.com to see if I could find coverage of this race. Hell, I wasn't even aware that they had added a race between the Shootout and the Twin 125s or whatever it is they are calling them these days. (Gatorade something-or-other, I believe.)
Nothing in the Worldwide Leader's autos section; in fact, not even listed on the schedule of events at Daytona.
An oversight, I figured. The race was apparently so poorly marketed that not only did I not know about it, neither did ESPN.
Hopped over to Jayski. Searched frantically for info on the race.
Nothing.
"Oh, come on!" I thought. The most beloved man in NASCAR wins a race for the first time in a couple of years, and there is no coverage of it?
Then I got distracted and forgot about it.
Got on the Google this morning and plugged in "dale earnhardt jr. iracing.com daytona".
First result was this article on NASCAR.com. Included was this tidbit:
Instead, with his virtual Chevy Impala SS coughing as the fuel began to run out, Earnhardt swept under the checkered flag for the victory.
And also this:
Earnhardt, who had problems with the steering wheel in his racing simulator during qualifying,
Oh. I get it now. It's a computer simulator thingie.
And it merited a breaking news alert text message from ESPN.
Let me restate:
My phone vibrated. I looked at it. A new text message from ESPN. They were texting me to let me know that Dale Earnhardt Jr. won a race on a computer.
What the fuck?
"ESPN Autos - Dale Earnhardt Jr. won inaugural NASCAR iRacing.com WC Series race (100 laps) at Daytona."
Oh?
I jumped to ESPN.com to see if I could find coverage of this race. Hell, I wasn't even aware that they had added a race between the Shootout and the Twin 125s or whatever it is they are calling them these days. (Gatorade something-or-other, I believe.)
Nothing in the Worldwide Leader's autos section; in fact, not even listed on the schedule of events at Daytona.
An oversight, I figured. The race was apparently so poorly marketed that not only did I not know about it, neither did ESPN.
Hopped over to Jayski. Searched frantically for info on the race.
Nothing.
"Oh, come on!" I thought. The most beloved man in NASCAR wins a race for the first time in a couple of years, and there is no coverage of it?
Then I got distracted and forgot about it.
Got on the Google this morning and plugged in "dale earnhardt jr. iracing.com daytona".
First result was this article on NASCAR.com. Included was this tidbit:
Instead, with his virtual Chevy Impala SS coughing as the fuel began to run out, Earnhardt swept under the checkered flag for the victory.
And also this:
Earnhardt, who had problems with the steering wheel in his racing simulator during qualifying,
Oh. I get it now. It's a computer simulator thingie.
And it merited a breaking news alert text message from ESPN.
Let me restate:
My phone vibrated. I looked at it. A new text message from ESPN. They were texting me to let me know that Dale Earnhardt Jr. won a race on a computer.
What the fuck?
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Saturday, February 06, 2010
Non-Super Bowl thoughts on a Super Bowl weekend:
1. Finally joined the majority of the universe this week and ditched my dial-up for high-speed. I am satiated.
2. Friday's winter storm was LAME. It petered out a bit and was mostly rain for the bulk of the daylight hours, before begrudgingly switching over to all snow sometime Friday evening. Woke up this morning to about 3 inches on the ground.
But I'm comfortable saying that, regardless of the outcome, it was a perfectly good waste of a winter storm. These things are supposed to happen during the week. Friday winter storms don't do me any good, because I don't get to miss work. On the bright side, another one is on the horizon; with my winter weather luck, it'll only give us another glancing blow, like the last two or three have.
3. Signed My Son Cool up for Little League today. They gave us the option of buying a box of fundraising candy bars on the spot, or taking a box, selling them and giving them the money later. We chose the former. It was $77 for a box of 52, and I suggested to my wife that we sell them for $2 apiece (cause I'm a capitalist at heart). Hell, support the Little League and make a nice little profit. Everybody wins!
It would have worked, too, except we got the box open at home and found that they all said $1 apiece on the wrapper.
Rats.
4. In spite of the inclement weather, Wife had a girls' night out last night with her sisters. She texted me at one point in the evening and asked, "Would you divorce me if a guy gave me $36,000 to have sex with him?"
I really didn't know it was that kind of girls' night out, but I played along. As you might know, the Chinese symbols for "challenge" and "opportunity" are the same, and it was the spirit of that tenet that drove me to reply:
"Hell, honey, for 36K, I'll even let you enjoy it."
Her: "Thanks."
Me: "Cash only, no personal checks."
Her: "Lol"
I thought about it for a minute and texted back, "Ummm. 36,000 is a fairly specific amount. Where did you pull that number from?" You know, why not $35,000 or $40,000?
I didn't hear anything for a few minutes, which only made me wonder more. But whatever distress I was feeling regarding her possible infidelity was tempered by the fact that I was also counting the money in my head.
Sadly, it turns out that she and her sisters were discussing the news item from earlier in the week where the girl in Australia or New Zealand auctioned her virginity, and that was the final bid (citation needed).
"But," I texted, "there are no virgins in your party. Least of all your older sister." (No response to that one.)
So, yeah, we're still broke.
2. Friday's winter storm was LAME. It petered out a bit and was mostly rain for the bulk of the daylight hours, before begrudgingly switching over to all snow sometime Friday evening. Woke up this morning to about 3 inches on the ground.
But I'm comfortable saying that, regardless of the outcome, it was a perfectly good waste of a winter storm. These things are supposed to happen during the week. Friday winter storms don't do me any good, because I don't get to miss work. On the bright side, another one is on the horizon; with my winter weather luck, it'll only give us another glancing blow, like the last two or three have.
3. Signed My Son Cool up for Little League today. They gave us the option of buying a box of fundraising candy bars on the spot, or taking a box, selling them and giving them the money later. We chose the former. It was $77 for a box of 52, and I suggested to my wife that we sell them for $2 apiece (cause I'm a capitalist at heart). Hell, support the Little League and make a nice little profit. Everybody wins!
It would have worked, too, except we got the box open at home and found that they all said $1 apiece on the wrapper.
Rats.
4. In spite of the inclement weather, Wife had a girls' night out last night with her sisters. She texted me at one point in the evening and asked, "Would you divorce me if a guy gave me $36,000 to have sex with him?"
I really didn't know it was that kind of girls' night out, but I played along. As you might know, the Chinese symbols for "challenge" and "opportunity" are the same, and it was the spirit of that tenet that drove me to reply:
"Hell, honey, for 36K, I'll even let you enjoy it."
Her: "Thanks."
Me: "Cash only, no personal checks."
Her: "Lol"
I thought about it for a minute and texted back, "Ummm. 36,000 is a fairly specific amount. Where did you pull that number from?" You know, why not $35,000 or $40,000?
I didn't hear anything for a few minutes, which only made me wonder more. But whatever distress I was feeling regarding her possible infidelity was tempered by the fact that I was also counting the money in my head.
Sadly, it turns out that she and her sisters were discussing the news item from earlier in the week where the girl in Australia or New Zealand auctioned her virginity, and that was the final bid (citation needed).
"But," I texted, "there are no virgins in your party. Least of all your older sister." (No response to that one.)
So, yeah, we're still broke.
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Thursday, January 28, 2010
But what does the tiny monkey with the turntables really represent?
I don't even KNOW what the fuck that's supposed to be.
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Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I like to call it "F**kin-A, Wubbzy!" But I guess that'd be wrong.
Although the accompanying screenshot of the episode above seems to indicate that his excitement is halfhearted. But I guess I would be too, if I had species-identity issues.
Off the record, I think Wubbzy kinda blows. And My Son Cool has never had an overwhelming interest in it, so I can say that without feeling like an ass.
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Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Got a text message from Goodwill the other day. They wanted me to go through my closet and donate whatever old clothes I could part with to the Haiti earthquake relief effort, because there is such starvation and devastation there.
But if the Haitians could fit into my clothes, then they sure as hell aren't starving.
Besides, they'd probably take one look at my old Napalm Death t-shirt and say, "Thanks, but we'll go shirtless."
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Saturday, January 16, 2010
I like their coverage alot
(Sorry I didn't post sooner, I had to go to the store to get some grapes and they turned out sour.)
Update: Again, from the Star:
Farve. Good gravy. The future of newspapers is in the very best of hands.
For the record, "Dwayne" Wade is still acceptable (vs. the unbelievably correct "Dwyane"), I believe, but the statute of limitations is starting to run out on that one. Brett "Farve" has been in the public eye long enough that any headline writer who can rub two sticks together to make a fire can avoid that pitfall.
Sorry; I get pissy. I like to think that I didn't abandon journalism so much as journalism abandoned me, but I know that's not true. I think. (More grapes, sir?)
Fun fact: My high school alma mater, Shoals, has not had a three-game winning streak in boys basketball since the 1997-98 season, when it won its last four regular season games and the first game in sectional. Until now!
Fun fact #2: That season was also the last season that the Jug Rox have had a three-game winning streak in conference play. Until now!
Fun fact #3: Entering the season, Shoals was on a 22-game losing streak in Blue Chip Conference play, and had not won three games in conference since 2001-02. The losing streak is history, and at 3-2, they currently reside at 5th place in conference.
Fun fact #4: 2005-06 was the last season the Rox had won 5 or more games in a season. They now sit at 5-6 on the year.
Wow!
Update: At 5-6, the Rox aren't even at .500 yet. But to give you an idea of how surprising the last week has been for Shoals - to go from 2-6 to 5-6 - take what I heard this morning from WITZ sportscaster Walt Ferber. He was reading basketball scores from last night, and when he got to the Shoals game - a 35-27 win over North Knox in overtime - he said, "Shoals, having a really nice season ..."
Fun fact #2: That season was also the last season that the Jug Rox have had a three-game winning streak in conference play. Until now!
Fun fact #3: Entering the season, Shoals was on a 22-game losing streak in Blue Chip Conference play, and had not won three games in conference since 2001-02. The losing streak is history, and at 3-2, they currently reside at 5th place in conference.
Fun fact #4: 2005-06 was the last season the Rox had won 5 or more games in a season. They now sit at 5-6 on the year.
Wow!
Update: At 5-6, the Rox aren't even at .500 yet. But to give you an idea of how surprising the last week has been for Shoals - to go from 2-6 to 5-6 - take what I heard this morning from WITZ sportscaster Walt Ferber. He was reading basketball scores from last night, and when he got to the Shoals game - a 35-27 win over North Knox in overtime - he said, "Shoals, having a really nice season ..."
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
We can't keep this violent pace.
Work has been, well, work the last month or so. When I've not been celebrating holidays or inclement winter weather, 10-, 11- and 12-hour days have been the norm. The staff is overloaded, and while there is a light at the end of the tunnel as we wrap up our fiscal year in the coming weeks, I can't help but wonder if I'm cut out for this.
I'm struggling with two types of balance in my life right now. The first is trying to maintain a balance between responsibilities to Corporate and responsibilities to the project managers of the programs I have fiduciary responsibility for. That's something that we all deal with, and I don't think there's a correct answer, even though my personal feeling is that my time would be better served by providing local support to my managers ... but it's Corporate who signs my checks.
The second type of balance is work-home. This hit me as I left work at 7:30 last night.
The company I work for is top dog in the local market. Whether you look at revenue recognized or employment numbers, we are number one. We do amazing work for the customer, and the customer recognizes this, as they continue to award high-dollar contracts to our company based on our past performance.
And as I left work last night, it hit me. There were about 10 or 12 cars still in the parking lot of our company. I looked across the street at our main competitor - parking lot was empty. I scanned the lots of the other two buildings across from us - no one was there. It warmed me to know that even though we're number one, we were still working hard instead of resting on our laurels.
But at what cost?
I worry about work-home balance, and I wonder how much I really give a shit about being number one. I love the company I work for, and I don't mind working hard to help achieve my own personal financial goals (more long-term than short-term, as I'm salaried and, by the rules of my company, not eligible for overtime), but I worry about my priorities and what these insane hours mean for my relationships at home, not to mention my overall health.
It's not as though things would be *that* different at home if I came home at 5 instead of 6:30, 7, 8 o'clock at night. Because of the way things are arranged right now with My Son Cool after school, it's not as though I'm missing a lot of time with him. But doesn't he deserve better than this? Doesn't he deserve better than a daddy who is tired and irritable?
I will grant that my company is VERY good to me as far as family-type responsibilities go. Last week, when we got The Weather, school was called off for Thursday and Friday, and I stayed home with him both days instead of dumping him off at a sitter or daycare. And not a cross word was uttered at work. This is how it normally goes; I never have caught any crap for keeping my family as my ultimate first focus.
I don't really know what the correct answer is - check that; the correct answer is always "family first" - but I do also recognize that we live in the real world. Even though I do concurrently recognize that in the world of business, I'm just a worker drone that will get discarded when my "use by" date is up. I know that I don't make a difference on a personal level to corporate types - I'm just an employee ID and a badge photo. But I will always make a difference to my wife and my son. And I want to give them as comfortable and wonderful a life as is within my power. So where to draw the line?
I'm struggling with two types of balance in my life right now. The first is trying to maintain a balance between responsibilities to Corporate and responsibilities to the project managers of the programs I have fiduciary responsibility for. That's something that we all deal with, and I don't think there's a correct answer, even though my personal feeling is that my time would be better served by providing local support to my managers ... but it's Corporate who signs my checks.
The second type of balance is work-home. This hit me as I left work at 7:30 last night.
The company I work for is top dog in the local market. Whether you look at revenue recognized or employment numbers, we are number one. We do amazing work for the customer, and the customer recognizes this, as they continue to award high-dollar contracts to our company based on our past performance.
And as I left work last night, it hit me. There were about 10 or 12 cars still in the parking lot of our company. I looked across the street at our main competitor - parking lot was empty. I scanned the lots of the other two buildings across from us - no one was there. It warmed me to know that even though we're number one, we were still working hard instead of resting on our laurels.
But at what cost?
I worry about work-home balance, and I wonder how much I really give a shit about being number one. I love the company I work for, and I don't mind working hard to help achieve my own personal financial goals (more long-term than short-term, as I'm salaried and, by the rules of my company, not eligible for overtime), but I worry about my priorities and what these insane hours mean for my relationships at home, not to mention my overall health.
It's not as though things would be *that* different at home if I came home at 5 instead of 6:30, 7, 8 o'clock at night. Because of the way things are arranged right now with My Son Cool after school, it's not as though I'm missing a lot of time with him. But doesn't he deserve better than this? Doesn't he deserve better than a daddy who is tired and irritable?
I will grant that my company is VERY good to me as far as family-type responsibilities go. Last week, when we got The Weather, school was called off for Thursday and Friday, and I stayed home with him both days instead of dumping him off at a sitter or daycare. And not a cross word was uttered at work. This is how it normally goes; I never have caught any crap for keeping my family as my ultimate first focus.
I don't really know what the correct answer is - check that; the correct answer is always "family first" - but I do also recognize that we live in the real world. Even though I do concurrently recognize that in the world of business, I'm just a worker drone that will get discarded when my "use by" date is up. I know that I don't make a difference on a personal level to corporate types - I'm just an employee ID and a badge photo. But I will always make a difference to my wife and my son. And I want to give them as comfortable and wonderful a life as is within my power. So where to draw the line?
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
The coolest (or saddest) thing I realized yesterday
Standing outside at work yesterday, smoking a cigarette in a wind chill of 0, I was told that I was a dedicated smoker for enduring such bitterly cold conditions in pursuit of my nicotine fix.
I realized that you can't spell "dedicated" without "addict."
(Or "addicted"!)
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Sunday, January 03, 2010
Friday, January 01, 2010
F**k you, 2009. Hey, 2010, how you doin'?
* If there was an elderly person that would have been best served by a "death panel," it would have been Old Man 2009. I hated that old bastard. He always smelled like Old Spice and kept on grabbing my junk.
* Trying to break My Son Cool of the habit of saying "two thousand and ten." Cause you wouldn't say that I was born in "one thousand nine hundred and seventy-four." Ticky-tacky, I know, and really, we have bigger fish to fry as far as he is concerned. He wants to quit karate, which breaks my heart - not because he comes from a long line of accomplished martial artists (you should see my crouching snake), but because I still think that it can instill the proper discipline that's been so sorely lacking in him to date. (Read: it can instill the proper discipline in him where I have failed.)
And he's not going to be a quitter.
And besides, Wife and I went and watched him yesterday. The class has progressed into fighting. And he was DAMN impressive, moreso than I would have expected. He doesn't realize it, but all of the practicing before this point - think "wax on, wax off" from The Karate Kid - has set in, and even though he is bored by it, it served him well. You could have knocked me over with a feather. He even kicked another little kid in the chin. Solid, too! I turned to Wife and whispered a celebratory expletive.
* Nothing better than moving heavy stuff with a New Year's hangover. And so we inherited a new (to us) HE washer. Cleared out a spot in the garage for the old (LE) one, awaiting the new one, which is in transit as I write. It is red. This is the only thing I know about it.
If we build in five years as planned (it's been "five years" for about the last three), I'm not going to settle for secondhand stuff or hand-me-downs. That method of obtaining appliances has been ok for us to this point, but I'll admit that sometimes I feel like we deserve better.
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* Trying to break My Son Cool of the habit of saying "two thousand and ten." Cause you wouldn't say that I was born in "one thousand nine hundred and seventy-four." Ticky-tacky, I know, and really, we have bigger fish to fry as far as he is concerned. He wants to quit karate, which breaks my heart - not because he comes from a long line of accomplished martial artists (you should see my crouching snake), but because I still think that it can instill the proper discipline that's been so sorely lacking in him to date. (Read: it can instill the proper discipline in him where I have failed.)
And he's not going to be a quitter.
And besides, Wife and I went and watched him yesterday. The class has progressed into fighting. And he was DAMN impressive, moreso than I would have expected. He doesn't realize it, but all of the practicing before this point - think "wax on, wax off" from The Karate Kid - has set in, and even though he is bored by it, it served him well. You could have knocked me over with a feather. He even kicked another little kid in the chin. Solid, too! I turned to Wife and whispered a celebratory expletive.
* Nothing better than moving heavy stuff with a New Year's hangover. And so we inherited a new (to us) HE washer. Cleared out a spot in the garage for the old (LE) one, awaiting the new one, which is in transit as I write. It is red. This is the only thing I know about it.
If we build in five years as planned (it's been "five years" for about the last three), I'm not going to settle for secondhand stuff or hand-me-downs. That method of obtaining appliances has been ok for us to this point, but I'll admit that sometimes I feel like we deserve better.
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