The Penultimate Genius

The Federal Department of Fatherhood

2008-08-21T08:39:00.003-04:00

The Federal Department of Fatherhood

How can you tell when your federal government has too much time and money on its hands? Oh, easy, when it's running television commercials on SciFi urging men to take time out to be dads, with a web page, to boot. Yep, your federal tax dollars at work, urging men who have children to be dads. What the eff, over? Can I have my money back, please, seeing as how the feds apparently don't think there's any need for a similar web page for mothers. I guess the womenfolk do just fine as moms, but the males, well, they need some special help, and here's just the government agency to lend a freaking hand.

But, c'mon, a freaking television campaign? Really? No, wait: REALFUCKINGLY?!?!?!?!

The world we live in and pay for sometimes makes no sense. This is not example #1, but, probably, example 4,305,259,395, and you probably spend tax money on almost all of them. Now, tell me, what, exactly, does any federal bureaucrat know about raising children or fatherhood? Oh, sure, many of the men in the government might be fathers raising children, but, ahem, when did there need to be some sort of official federal fatherhood guidelines? And, yes, the idiotic commercial merely featured a "dad" playing with his son with a super soaker, but, still. That's the ideal we're supposed to get for fatherhood? That men should revert to childhood to play with their boys?

Aaarrrrrgggghhhhh. This is pathetic. Is there any further proof needed that the United States of America is willingly walking the path of nannystatehood? Which Bush Administration nitwit, pitching the need for further compassionate conservatism, offered up this idea, and can we tar-and-feather the a-hole?

Here's the tip of the day for today, brought to you by some super-genius non-elected government-selected "official":


	Hug your children - Showing affection helps your children feel loved and valued. A hug from dad will make your child feel special.

Right. Never would've fuckin' figured that one out, and, yes, sorry for the blue language, but, hell, this is so far out of line that I'm writing about it here, and not there, and this really is snafubar material.

Let me get this straight, the federal government is devoting resources to tell me that hugging my children will make them feel loved and valued? Really? No, wait: REALFUCKINGLY?!?!?!? Will the feds please tell me what feeding them dandelion spores will do to them? I need to know. I have no idea, honestly, because, until this very moment, it never occurred to me to feed them dandelion spores, but, hell, maybe that's good for children. Maybe, right? Without some federal program to let me know what children like to eat, how will I ever know what to feed the little rug rats? What, I'm just supposed to feed them what they ask for? Can they live on Dum Dums, pretzels and lemon-lime soda forever? Is that good for kids?

You know what, I'm at the point where I'm willing to make a deal with the idiots on the left: they don't have to send their tax dollars to the military or CIA if I don't have to send my tax dollars to NRFC (National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse, natch) or food stamp awareness programs. And, yes, however many cents goes to each gets returned to me in actual metal coins I can rub together in the palm of my hand, not as credits against future taxes.

This, truly, is Idiocracy at work.

Changes I Can Believe In

2008-08-20T20:47:00.000-04:00

Changes I Can Believe In

If you can vote and fight for your country, well, then, obviously you should be able to drink in your country. I don't know why this is controversial, the notion of returning the drinking age in America to 18. Hell, I don't know why there even is a drinking age, seeing as how any parent should be able to determine when/if there child is capable of responsibly consuming alcohol. Age limits are arbitrary and meaningless; either you are or are not an adult, and if you are, then you should gain full access to all the rights, privileges and responsibilities of adulthood. Period. Why did Elizabeth Dole and her busy-body buddies think 21 was a better age than 18? Who knows? Who cares?

I remember when the law was enacted, as I was approaching 18 at the time. I was pretty much a non-drinker in high school, though I did go to parties and occasionally had a beer or two at them. I didn't learn to appreciate alcohol - ahem, cough - until I spent two weeks in Europe the summer before senior year, a time during which I think I and my buddies drank something every single day, usually to excess. Hell, none of us knew how to drink, and a couple of beers/wines was all that was needed to push the needle to drunk. Good times.

Before I turned 18, Pennsylvania raised the drinking age and I wasn't grandfatherable as a result. This wasn't an issue for me, really, as I wasn't a drinker. My dad wasn't the type to hand me a beer when we were on the boat, fishing. We didn't drink wine with dinner. So, I didn't care until I had had some beer and decided, after sampling a variety of mostly crap beers (the only kind you can get, illegally, usually, from an older friend with an ID), I decided I liked beer. Then, during freshman year in college, I learned the social lubricant applications of beer, and decided I really liked beer: who knew meeting girls was so easy when beer was involved?!?

And then came that summer home after freshman year at The U, the only summer spent at home while at The U. No beer. Let me repeat that. No. Beer. Not allowed. Illegal. Government says "no beer, son." And my folks complied, because it's the law, and that's the type of folks they are. Although, this still wasn't a big deal for me. I didn't really drink a whole hell of a lot, back then (thanks to the Army for that change!)

But, not far from home over the state border with Ohio, I was grandfathered in, and so were a couple of my buddies, so we made a weekly Wednesday night trip to a bar right over the state line that featured a 50 cent bring your own mug night. Mighta been a quarter. We had a rule: one of us got to drink only one beer, as that person was the designated driver. This worked well except for one friend who didn't drive (still doesn't). Which brings me to a central wonder of it all, which is that the only people I've really heard arguing against lowering the drinking age back to what is was is MADD - Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

Now, what does that have to do with the drinking age? Nothing, sure, except that MADD isn't just a group of moms fighting drunk driving, MADD is now the leading prohibitionist group in the nation, a group hiding behind the drunk driving shield while working assiduously to pinch alcohol out of more and more environments, just because. Why do you think the blood-alcohol level continues to get lower over time? Not to prevent/deter drunk driving, which it doesn't, but to increase the fear level of ordinary Joe Blows who might have a few beers at a bar on the way home to work and make him think twice. And so on, across the example spectrum, until you get to the point where the average slim woman thinks two beers/wines will put her over the limit.

The heart swells with pride when I watch Owen at football practice. And not because he's the starting quarterback (not) or I have dreams of his future NFL career (couldn't care less if he becomes an auto mechanic or HVAC tech). My heart swells with pride simply because he's doing it, succeeding at it, and getting better at it, all while never, ever complaining. Never. And, this is the boy who can become Nowen at the drop of a hat, the whiniest, teariest kid you've ever met. Hell, I can't even get Owen to learn to ride a bicycle. But he runs through the various drills with aplomb, as if he were an old hand.

Now, no, he's not very good, but he improves noticeably with every practice. He hasn't figured out how to do a jumping jack, but he's perfect with leg lifts. And, while he's still a little hesitant getting off the snap and engaging in blocking, he's significantly better at it than on the first attempt and actually fights his opponent until the whistle blows. Nice, that. He has no idea what hustle is, though, none. How do you teach a 6-year-old "hustle?" Plus, Owen appears to have inherited my slowness gene, and he is almost always last or close to it when it comes to running. I have never been very fast; I have endurance, though.

Football has made daily life a bit of a rush at the end of the day. There's the normal routine throughout the morning and afternoon, then the sudden switch over to dinner prep and dinner proper, then it's quick change and out the door. If I work, then that means the wife takes all the kids to practice and spends two hours in herd mode with Harry and Little L, then back home for bath, brush 'n bed. Otherwise, it's me and Owe and two hours on the sandy grass practice field.

Spent the day - 6 hours of it - stripping paint and varnish off the door and frame to the study, a task I'd been putting off for, oh, eight or nine months, easy. Stripping paint and stain is not fun. It's is painstakingly dull, kinda messy, a little smelly, and always sweaty. But, damn!, taking off a crappy paint job by a previous owner/occupant of the house makes for quite a difference, let me tell you.

I don't know what it is about people, but in most of the places in which I've lived, whoever did the painting always did a poor job. At the house in Pittsburgh, I stripped off all the paint on the first floor, a task that took nearly a month of 8-hour days of work. There, whoever had painted had painted over paint several times, and all the fine detail of the woodwork had been lost until I recovered it, and I was surprised to see it. Here, there was just a thick, clumsy and uneven layer of paint over stained wood (with nice detail to it). Originally, I was going to strip all the stain out and re-stain the wood, but now I'm just going to paint, as getting all the stain out, if that's indeed a requirement, is too much work and there are too many imperfections and other problems that re-staining would be uneven in application and look, ehh, who'd notice but me?

Next, I have to scrape off the popcorn ceiling. Ugh. Shouldn't be too much of a problem if my ladder is high enough, which I'm almost sure it isn't, which will mean I'll need a taller ladder, which'll...

See? This is the extent of my real life problems, and I solve 'em all, eventually. Well, I'm out of here and hoping there's something good on the tube. Probably not. Tchow!

Popcorn Thriller Filler Material, Minus Plot

2008-08-19T09:02:00.000-04:00

Popcorn Thriller Filler Material, Minus Plot

I had the weekend off. Sort of. The wife and kids fled town Saturday while I spent some time in the local cinema watching The Dark Knight, the latest Batman offering. Only, I didn't have the weekend off, since I was scheduled for 13 hours of weekend department store protection, by which I mean, Saturday night and Sunday afternoon-evening were spent in my cop outfit standing by the door telling people the door buzzers were going off by accident-on-purpose, and, no, I didn't need to check their receipts. So, it's not like I hit the local strip clubs and drank Bud with reckless abandon.

Oh, right, I saw the Batman movie. What'd I think? Well, would you believe I had two parallel streams of thought at work while watching the movie? Two streams of thought! On a summer popcorn feature film, at that! Hmm. Overall assessment: awesomely entertaining and endlessly thrilling movie, with great action scenes and the obligatory Heath Ledger should get the Oscar posthumously (if Hollywood does that) for best supporting actor for creating a Joker unlike any bad guy character you've ever seen. That good.

Second stream of thought? Yet another movie based on comic book characters that makes no fucking sense. Maybe I should stop looking for sense in comic book-based movies and just enjoy the SFX. But, still, that wouldn't obviate the need for me to want to know why the Joker just shows up in town and offers to off the Batman for "half." And, shut your piehole if you're going to argue Alfred's explanatory filler material about "some people just want to burn the world" or whatever the shite was. Nonsense. The Joker - any joker - doesn't just show up in town and, for the sake of it, offer to take out the super-secret vigilante and save the common criminal just because it would be fun to do.

Hold for it: NO FUCKING WAY.

Sorry for the F bombs. The Joker would have a back story, a creation story, an origin, and that's not given to you in this movie, which is, btw, 30 minutes too long and contains an entirely useless and unnecessary sub-plot involving the origin story of Two Face, which is totally pointless and useless since Two Face dies at the end of the movie.

But the Joker? What of the Joker? The Joker is too clever by half for this movie, and none of the stuff he accomplishes off screen is reasonably credible. He stuffs two buildings full of oil drums filled with gasoline and explosives? Really? Then, when did he find the time to stuff the two ferry's with oil drums full of gasoline and explosives? Worse: who did the stuffing, seeing as how the Joker already has a penchant for killing his minions? Wouldn't word get around the criminal community?

Oh, yeah, the "pencil trick" was AWESOME. But, then, I said this movie was entertaining and thrilling, didn't I? I didn't say it made any logical sense, endless throw-a-way explanatory lines notwithstanding.

But the really tiring thing about this movie was the endless monotony of the "morality choice" that the villains kept giving the heroes. Tiring to extreme, it was, to have these baddies keep putting A and B in opposition to each other, both scheduled to die, and forcing the good guys to choose which to save. I'm sure the Nolan boys thought this was clever screenwriting meant to reinforce the notions of "there is no good and evil, only infinite shades of gray" or whatever, but it was super duper boring to relive several times. Apparently, these writers couldn't come up with an actual plot for the Joker. Typical Hollywood writing at work: sacrifice story for action. This is the kind of storytelling you get from clever guys who know how to type.

I know, I know, I'm the contrarian! I'm the only guy who watched this movie and, on some level, said, "This movie sucks." But, on a story level, this movie sucks. On a Saturday afternoon popcorn level, however, this movie rocks.

Also, I watched The Descent while folding laundry yesterday afternoon. Interesting. Typical senseless horror movie about a group of people trapped in a weird situation and forced to survive, only, well, maybe none of them do. Probably none do. The ending is ambiguous. Interesting "monsters," however, even if their complete inability to sense heat is a serious problem with the movie's plot. Ultimately, a stupid movie. But, fun to watch. Like The Dark Knight.

But I did say I had the weekend off, right? Right. What of it? Nothing. Having the weekend off is theoretically a nice thing, since there's peace and quiet and no little kids screaming and crying. But it's not like it's a return to the days of bachelordom. And, doing anything with friends these days takes weeks of planning, seeing as none of them live nearby. Throw in shifts at The Department Store, and what you have is large, meaningless wastes of time that have to be filled with tedium before costuming up and standing in the store, nodding pleasantly to strangers.

I like having everyone around, even if that means doing anything means I have to do it with three kids in tow and a diaper bag. The diaper bags goes away in 12 months or so. But, at least, there are humans around who I know, and that's some weird sort of comfort. I am not alone.

I read some post somewhere about driving habits in certain kinds of locales - lefty-dominated locales - and was going to excerpt and comment on it, adding my nine cents, but I no longer know where I read the post, and have tired of looking. Suffice it to say that the post - written by a former Bostonian now living in Montana - posited the notion that wherever the leftists have ruled for any length of time, the drivers in the area are less likely to obey the common laws of the road.

I dunno. Sure, I can argue that the greater Philadelphia region is the worst area I've ever driven in, filled with "me-first" drivers who run red lights, ignore stop signs, drive on the shoulder of the road, and pass you in left-turn-only middle lanes if you're not speeding fast enough, but I know of an exception to this rule, of which I've probably written before: The Pittsburgh Left.

Yeah, in Pittsburgh, a town ruled by lefty Dems for half a century, at least, there is a a common rule of the road at work that ticks off out-of-towners, and that's this: when you are at a red light and the opposing first car has his left-turn signal on, you let him turn left when the light greens before you move through the intersection. Non-locals will start and screech to a stop when the other guys "cuts him off" turning through the intersection on a green, or get flipped off by the left-turner who is denied.

Well, whatever, right? I tried, and that's all that counts in the modern world. Discuss my view of The Dark Knight in the comments, or, rather, not. Splash, out.

The Blogger Burden: A Fresh Post

2008-08-14T14:43:00.000-04:00

The Blogger Burden: A Fresh Post

At work the other day, yeah, standing there in The Department Store in my cop uniform, looking spiffy, I noticed a dude walk in wearing a cowboy hat with an Obama pin stuck on it. Fine. That didn't bother me in the least; some percentage of Americans will go with the Democrat candidate no matter what he/she stands for, just because. What got to me, what made me want to walk up to the fat dude and punch him in the face was what I saw him wearing when he walked out, and, yes, he was wearing it when he walked in, only I didn't notice. On his way from the check-out lanes, I had the time to see his t-shirt, which, if you didn't click the link, said this:

Homeland Security
(picture of Indians [aboriginal North Americans]with rifles)
Fighting Terrorism Since 1492

Yep. A guy so invested in hating his own country that not only will he not leave it, he'll agitate against it while enjoying its many liberties, including denouncing its existence. Idiot. Moron. Douchebag. And, English has yet to create the proper word to describe such a person. Obama is such a person, and here we have a match made in heaven.

You know, it's almost a gasp-worthy event to see such a shirt, only I've seen the word f*ck on so many shirts - always worn by complete-and-total nitwits in places where public decorum would naturally call for self-restraint - that there are, perhaps, no gasp-worthy events any more. There are, simply put, well-off fools who hate the system that allows them to hate the system, and they are completely incapable of realizing that the system they hate allows them to hate it in a way that any other systems they would really hate wouldn't let them hate them.

Which is cultural insanity, of course. This weird strain of anti-Americanism is exposed in plain daylight by the recent invasion of Georgia by Russia and the complete and total lack of world protest. Indeed, the leftist asshats are trying to figure out how to ... wait for it ... blame Bush/the US/& McCain as being behind the Russian invasion of Georgia. Seriously. Only in a country this free, this free from outside invasion/takeover could such a mindset take root.

Ahh, well, as I noted a while back, change is in the air. Moi? Well, I've already changed, going to work as the security guard at The Department Store. The wife changes on Monday, when she starts her new job in downtown Philadelphia. That's big in many ways (better salary and better standard-issue benefits; downside is the commuter tax), but chiefly in that after she's been there three years, tuition at the University of Pennsylvania is free for immediate family members. Free! Yep: guess where the wife will be working for the next twenty years. Me? Eh, I'm wondering if law school is free, too. Not that I want to be a lawyer as a job, just that I wouldn't mind the legal education, just because. Hell, I don't want to be a lawyer unless I can be one of those fancy movie lawyers who rescues people and lives dangerously.

I think I've noted here that we signed up Owe for little gridders tackle football, right? So, well, the first two nights of practice, Owen wept. On. The. Field. His helmet was too tight, and then he missed mom on night 2. Night 3, I showed up, and everything went swell. It was night 3 that the coaches separated the returnees from the newbies, and had them practice separately, with the newbies getting more attention and introductory lessons. This seemed to be the point at which Owen was able to accept practice, now that he had a new helmet and a slower pace.

En route to Night 3, we bartered a deal with Owen that, if he really, truly did not want to play football, he wouldn't have to. He said he wanted to. We told him to take it one day at a time, and he seemed to accept the idea that he had it within his own power to continue or quit, that nobody was going to force him to play football. At least, that is, until we get to the point of No Refund Beyond This Point, at which time he will play football even if he rides the bench most of the time.

Night 4 came, and during one of the water breaks - moments where I spend encouraging him relentlessly with attaboys and "you're doing great out there" - Owe noted that one of the other kids had a Gatorade as his water bottle and wondered if he might be able to have Gatorade, too. I said, sure, why not, and then on the drive home stopped at the grocery store and we bought an eight-pack, he choosing the color and I choosing to hope that this eight-pack would ensure eight more practices, as he's only allowed to drink them at practice. So far, that plan is working.

It's funny to watch six-year olds have football practice. None of them can do the calisthenics the coaches run them through. Almost none of the newbies understand the concepts of "hustle" and "hit," and none of the coaches are able to explain these vague concepts to the kids in terms the kids can understand. In blocking and tackling practice, most of the newbies approach each other with caution and hesitancy, and then, when delivering the block or tackle, do so with a gentleness that is gutwrenchingly funny.

And when this lack of "heart" draws the ire of a coach and produces a lap of the field, well, at least Owen doesn't realize he's being punished for his lack of "hustle." He thinks the coach is providing him an extra opportunity to exercise. Heh, that.

Well, who knows, but I'm going to try to get back to posting more regularly. Maybe; it's not like anybody is complaining.

Oh, Those Eights!!!

2008-08-08T14:15:00.000-04:00

Oh, Those Eights!!!

Witness:

Tonight's Olympic opening ceremonies take it all the way, getting started eight minutes after 8 p.m. on the eighth day of the eighth month of this millennium's eighth year.

This would look like this, sorta:

08-08-08

Only, ... the Olympics? Who the eff cares about the Olympics? In China? I mean, I haven't watched the Olympics in decades (two, maybe).

But, those numbers above are special to me. They are significant. Important? Maybe. Historical? Sort of.

Today marks ten years of marriage to the wife. I'd like to say I have some sort of special insight into the institution, but I don't. Like most people who make it this far, I just put my head down and ran for the hole, shrugging off would-be tacklers as best I could as I made it across the line. Which is about where the marriage is, metaphorically speaking, in football terms: across the line but not past the linebackers, yet. A long way to go to score, and, no, I have no idea what that would be. Fifty years of wedded bliss? Maybe.

Of course, The Tenth will be marked at home, with kids, with me cooking something (I bought surf and turf at the recommendation of the wife). Still no babysitters, so no going out.

So, this will also mean I'm only going to post this, here, today, and leave off to forget the other stuff I'd write about so that I can figure out what's for dinner and so on. But: Owe seems to have calmed down about football practice, and seems to have enjoyed the last two practices, now that the coaches have separated the newbies into a separate practice squad that moves at a slower pace.

Cheers!

Signing Up for Heck

2008-08-06T11:36:00.003-04:00

Signing Up for Heck

It was a criminey moment if ever there was one, proof of the complete bureaucratic idiocy at work in the socialist soul of my local school district. It was evidence of self-parody, if that were possible for a civil servant to produce. I wanted to steal it and destroy it with the same sheer disgust that I have for all those roadside cross memorials that testify to the death of some loved on in an automobile accident. I hate those effing cross memorials. Hate. Them.

Of what do I write, you wonder, dear reader. Well, this morning I had to register Harrison for Pre-K, the all-volunteer "needs based" program hosted by the elementary school Owe goes to, and the wife figured, "hell, Will walks up there anyway, why not take Harrison, too?" Well, I do take Harrison, only he comes back with me. Now, he'll stay (or, more likely, I'll double the amount of trips up the hill I make). So, while waiting for the bureaucrat to return with the registration forms, I noticed some framed art drawn by children displayed on a nearby wall, so I walked over to it and checked it out.

Normal child crap. A castle in front of a mountain. A re-interpretation of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" painting. Fish. Animals. Nothing special. Right next to it all was a little plaque, and at first, I ignored it. But the bureaucrat kept me waiting, so I wandered over to read the plaque, assuming it was an explanation for the art display.

It wasn't.

It was a notification to the public that several pieces of the display were missing from the display since they had been destroyed in the administration building fire of 2001, and then it listed the names and grades of the students whose art work perished in that fire. Yep: I was gobsmacked senseless by the sheer nonsensical idiotic stupidity of the thing. A memorial to the destroyed child art, and it was still on display seven years later. Who would've ever known it was destroyed in the first place, had some bureaubot not suggested the ridiculous idea to his/her supervisor all those years ago, surveying the damage the fire had wrought and noticing the burnt artwork and feeling sad? Who? Nobody, that's who. Nobody would've cared. Nobody would have ever known, since most parents and students never visit the administration building.

And that, right there, sums up the innermost interests of your average school district: look like you care. That it's an utterly empty gesture devoid of any actual meaning is something that can be shrugged off.

And then the paperwork came and I filled it out, wondering which faceless bureaucrat actually needs to know this information, and why. Well, actually I wondered if anybody really looked at it, or if it was all just paperwork that went into a CYA file required by the state government's Dept. of Ed. to mitigate against litigation. I'd almost say I was surprised that there was an entire form devoted to determining whether English was the child's primary language or if - wait for it - my child needed an interpreter. An interpreter. I almost checked "yes" just to see whose head would explode upon noting that Harrison was a native English speaker but also needed an interpreter.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're warping your children. Take football. We signed Owen up for little gridders football this year, hoping he'd enjoy it while also hoping that it would squeeze the Nowen out of him. Back when I signed him up, I asked the woman taking the forms and money if were able to get a refund if we had to back out of the program, and I asked specifically because I feared Owen would become Nowen and wouldn't want to go to practice because of ... just because.

For the last few weeks, Owen has been excited to go to football. He does not yet understand the concept of "practice" and "game," however, no matter how many times I explain it. So, practice started this week on a pre-school year MTWTh schedule, two hours a night. I worked Mon and Tues, so I couldn't go, and the wife had to take the whole family to the football field. Obviously, the wife has never played football, so she had no idea what football practice looked like (and, yes, even though she was the captain of the cheerleading squad in high school, her high school was too small for a football team, so they cheered for soccer).

So, she was shocked, shocked to discover that football coaches "scream at the kids constantly," as I believe she put it Monday night. Now, my wife defines "screaming" rather loosely, while I'm betting the coaches are merely SPEAKING LOUDLY AND FORCEFULLY, perhaps shouting a bit, with maybe a bit of yelling. But not screaming. See the escalation there? That's the way it go, with shrieking topping the list, even though it's sound without words (you can't shriek with words, can you?).

But here's where the rubber meets the road: Owen became Nowen both nights and broke down into hysterical weeping. The first night he said his helmet was too tight and hurting his head, and just half-way through practice started weeping on the field. The coach agreed with Owen and he got a new helmet for the next practice, during which he wept most of the time, for reasons he didn't communicate to the wife in terms she could understand (normal for Nowen: he weeps and refuses to talk). Now, at first I was angry about this, but after a few moments I had to acknowledge Owen's spectacular history of becoming Nowen in the face of some activity. It happens all the time, and he never wants to talk about it. So, I prepared to withdraw him from the program and talked with him about it and he says the reason he cried wasn't because football practice is hard or not fun, but because the wife took Harrison and Little L over to the playground and wasn't watching him.

Zoink! WTF, over? Obviously, he doesn't understand the difference between practice and game. Hell, my parents never watched me practice for football; I rode my bike to practice, wearing my uniform both ways. So, we'll see how he does tonight when I take him and leave the others at home with the wife. Maybe a continued application of football practice will drive Nowen out of Owen.

What! I've got nothing to tell from vacation last week? Sadly, yes. It was a house-n-beach vacation. The wife and I didn't do anything else other than that, and vacation was cut short when the wife's grandma died mid-week (grandma was 96 and ailing for a while, so it wasn't a shock) and everyone had to leave a day early to get to the funeral.

Lileks has a nice little mini-screed about some media outlet's implied definition of "real man" and Lileks notes the following description need not apply:

Even if the stay-at-home dad is some buff guy with close-cropped hair (hints of grey around the temples, because they had kids late) who runs the marathon and does yoga and cleans the house with sustainable products and is a totally supportive partner, that’s not a Real Man in the sense the newspaper story implies.

Well, there's no grey (gray) in my hair (dye), I don't run marathons (no interest/hate running), don't do yoga (lift weights, elliptical machine), and I don't know what a "sustainable" product is vis-a-vis cleaning the house (but if Murphy's Oil Soap is one, then count me in), but otherwise, that's me. Ahem.

On the one hand, you have to wonder why there are people who wonder what a "real man" is. What is a real man? I have no idea and am not one to worry about the issue, which, frankly, isn't an issue at all in any real sense. But I have realized that there are many people who don't have any idea what a sahd is, as was evidenced today by the bureaucrat in the school administration building who, upon greeting me in the lobby, noted that I had had to "bring all the kids along today," to which I replied that "I bring them all everywhere every day." For an instant, her face showed confusion at the notion before the idea of me being a full-time dad melted out of her consciousness.

That's life in The Sahdness.

A Brief Interlude

2008-08-04T23:13:00.003-04:00

A Brief Interlude

Been experiencing a time crunch since getting back from vacation, and the few moments available to type have been filled with general post-vacation decompressing/getting-back-to-reality stuff. Sorry.

Yeah, I've been a bit lax here, lately, but, hell. I'm a sahd. Life is ordinary. Mostly.

Vacation was good. The kids loved it. The wife's grandma died and shortened it, but that was less a surprise than a Murphy's Law moment: she was 96 and hadn't been doing well for a while, so everyone was prepared for it.

Owen's first day of football practice was today, but I was at work, so I didn't witness it, so I can't write about it. He cried once, I'm told, over the tightness of his helmet. He's a sensitive soul, Owe is, and I worry about how to toughen him up to the realities of life. Of course, helmet tightness is solved by getting a new helmet that fits, so ...

There is extreme good news, too, and that is that the wife got a new - better in every way - job, but I'll save those details for the normal blatheration you're used to, because there is a story to tell there, a story wrought with expectations, limitations, present-time considerations and The Future. The Future looks bright. Finally. Palpably.

The Olympics

2008-08-02T09:13:00.003-04:00

The Olympics

I agree:

The Olympics are a fount of corruption and chicanery anyway, upholding no ideals and promoting no good ends anyway. Plus, they're boring.

I haven't watched the Olympics since the 80s. Yawn. El-boro. Plus, who cares about this stuff? Running? Jumping? Gymnastics? These are the character traits of a bygone era, when a certain kind of athleticism - think boxing - was the only entertainment available, and everyone, to some degree, aspired to prove themselves physically adept. Now, not at all. Ask yourself: who's on the Wheaties box (if there still is a Wheaties cereal)?

Yeah, back from vacation. More, later.

This Is The Post You've Been Waiting For

2008-07-25T10:47:00.003-04:00

This Is The Post You've Been Waiting For

Yes, I listened to The Speech. I thought: this is The Speech? I couldn't help but thinking This Is The Speech I've Been Waiting For? This Is The Speech that will reverse the rising oceans? This Is The Speech that will unite us in global harmony? This Is The Speech that will convince the Islamists to lay down their bomb belts and live in peace shepherding goats? This Is The Speech that will eliminate world poverty?

So, about twenty minutes into it, I stopped listening to The Speech. Sheesh. How much can this feller talk without ever saying anything? For a man who claims to know what ails us, and how to fix it, Obama is sure short of details. Did I say short on details? I mean bereft of details, unless you count taxing us more as a detail. Lileks breaks The Speech (Part Deux) down in detail, if you want more of this sort of thing, but my brain is on Active Delete Mode right now trying to rid my memory of the moments it was absorbing The Speech so that it can free up space for the upcoming week of non-stop PSP SOCOM Fireteam Bravo 2 gaming at the beach.

But The Speech did leave me with one lasting impression, though, and that's that he's not really as good at giving speeches as we're told he is. He seemed to be mailing The Speech in, as if he knew most of those in the audience didn't speak English and just wouldn't get it. Plus, the crowd was nowhere near as enthusiastic as I had been led to believe it would be, nor as a large.

Having watched Obama lo these many weeks, all I can think of him is that he is some ephemeral, non-corporeal entity, full of noise and light but signifying nothing. I expect him to just vanish out-of-the-blue, to no longer be there, just gone. How can such an unsubstantial, ill-defined, short-lived being command such attention in so short amount of time? I'm not surprised that the mainstream media adores him: he is them, ignorant of history, unable to see reality, filled with pomposity, and certain of his purpose to tell you what to do.

But this should tell you something:

"Tonight, I speak to you not as a candidate for President, but as a citizen -- a proud citizen of the United States, and a fellow citizen of the world."

Do you hear The Internationale sentiment in that statement? He's a fellow citizen of the world, and as such, he sees no reason to ensure that the oppressed underclass of the world is freed from the despots who enslave and deprive them. He wouldn't have liberated Iraq from the rape-happy murder-thug Saddam Hussein, he won't intervene in the humanitarian crises in Sudan or Zimbabwe, but he will ensure that all of the First and Second world nations come to agreement on how to limit the amount of carbon we emit, or, failing that, come up with a feel-good cap-and-trade scheme that will let the environmentalists among us sleep easy at night until the next manufactured emergency sounds the clarion call for action.

Meh. I don't think he means any of it. Not a word. Indeed, I don't think he knows what he stands for, and his empty rhetoric and soaring speeches do much to divert attention from this aspect of the man. Change. Hope. The Future.

Yawn.

This kind of nonsense ignores a simple, fundamental truth about human civilization, specifically Western Civilization, and that's this: every generation builds upon the foundation of the previous generation. That is, we in the West have to labor to teach our children everything they need to know to live in our civilization as it exists now so that they can improve it. This fact cannot be changed or you will destroy what you have. You might want something different, something better, something other, but until you can describe it and detail it and draw up plans on how to get there, you don't have anything but a dream. And many a gentle soul has traveled to Hollywood with dreams of wealth and fame and ended up serving soup at high-end Beverly Hills restaurants to people who came to Hollywood with dreams of wealth and fame, and achieved it.

And here, right now, we have only a spectre offering us the other, but not bothering to describe it, tell us what's in it, or provide a way to get there.

Ahh, well, I've got pre-packing and list-making to do, so I'll leave it at that. Cheerio!

Post-Modern Prometheus

2008-07-24T13:07:00.001-04:00

Post-Modern Prometheus

We had another Toy Purge yesterday afternoon. Think Stalin waking up one day, surveying the state of Russia, and simply deciding, "Today, all red-haired paleontologists will be shipped to Siberia and, if they resist, killed on the spot." That's the way it worked under Stalin. Under me, same rules: I rule. Yesterday, I determined that the Era of the Lincoln Log was over. Today, there are no Lincoln Logs, there have never been any Lincoln Logs, why are you asking about Lincoln Logs?

Why did we even have Lincoln Logs? We never bought any, never solicited any, and the boys never played with them. But, hella, they were always, always all over the floor of the boys' room, constantly underfoot. Now, every toy in the boys room was on the floor, too, all the time, so it's not like the Lincoln Logs were unusual. They were, however, legion. So, they had to go. You may remember that the last Toy Purge several months back eliminated all toy cars and trucks. No exceptions. Ditto this time, not a single Lincoln Log part was allowed to remain behind.

That, and I also tossed the equivalent of two garbage bags worth of toys and drawing paper (all drawn upon). The kids didn't notice the loss, but, as in the past, noticed that there room had been cleaned and organized. Again. I hate this, because it takes the kids days to wreck the place thoroughly. Only, this time I was cleaning the dang room because we're about to head out on vacation and I hate, hate, hate coming home to a house in disorder.

That, and a team of social workers are showing up this afternoon to evaluate Little L's inability to speak words. So, ...

Frozen booze in the freezer. Well, not frozen, but as cold as the freezer is, however cold that is. It being summer, sometimes you want your drinks actually as cold as ice, and the only way to do that is to freeze your booze. This way, the weekend martinis don't get warm before your final swallow, and if there's anything to hate, its a room-temperature martini that's summer-outside temperature. I don't know why, but a warm martini tastes exactly like avgas smells, and that final chug to finish the glass is all-too-often gagworthy. Blech.

So, frooze is the answer. Here we have the fixins for a pitcher of margaritas, martinis, and anything you might want to pour vodka into (though, this being Tito's, you should consider adding nothing). Sometimes, I think I should put some scotch in there so that the nightly consignment is crisp and chilled, not room temperature. But, and I know plenty of people put ice cubes in their scotch, cold scotch somehow seems wrong.

The exercise routine has been including Weeds season 2 as the sound and sight to distract from the drear of the elliptical. It's a fine, fine unbelievable show that's supposed to be funny, but isn't. I've mentioned this before, when I reviewed season 1, but the show is just good enough, and Mary-Louise Parker just hot enough, that I netflixed season 2. Everything I said then holds, and just to make sure we dunderheads in the audience understand how hated George W. Bush is by the so-called intelligentsia attempting to entertain us, episode 6 contains a brief and totally uncalled for and unbelievable anti-Bush mini-screed by two children.

Sigh. They just won't leave it be. Can't we just take-it-as-read that Hollywood hates Bush and therefore not be lectured at by entertainment writers? Do these people not understand that they are not the brightest and most learned people in the country, let alone the most talented writers? Do they not understand we yokels in the hinterlands recognize the Hollywood herd mentality at work, that they are not individuals but a class of people easily stereotyped? These nitwits think they're original in their work, but everything they produce is derivative. And, none of them will write unless they get paid first, which means they aren't writers, but typists.

Politics in entertainment is best done when the politicians don't appear to belong to a party, thereby allowing everyone to hate them (which, it seems, is the intent, usually). But during the last eight years, politics have wormed their way into all sorts of entertainment products, and, usually, it seems, it's always anti-Bush nonsense. That's one of the contributing reasons I stopped watching The L Word (main reason was it just became stupidly unwatchable, even for guilty pleasure reasons). In my favorite show, Stargate: SG1, there's lots of politics at work in the show, but the politicians are never identified by party affiliation: everyone hates Sen. Kinsey.

Ehh, so what.

I haveta get back to work around here, so adios!

The One with Teledrinking in It

2008-07-23T10:48:00.004-04:00

The One with Teledrinking in It

I hate having to call customer service centers, which probably explains why I always call them long, long after a problem has arisen. Weeks, months go by as I wonder if I should call and talk to the CSR about the problem. This is why I have not yet called Bose about why the remote to the SoundDock does not operate as advertised. I actually went to the store and talked to a clerk who told me to call customer service, instead. Gave me the card. I have yet to call. It's been months. I know they will not be able to help.

But this is different. This is the mortgage, and I'd been noticing that it hadn't been posting in the online banking center and wondering why, and then I got an automated call telling me to call the lender because they hadn't been paid, and it was a day past the due date. Frack.

On the first attempt, I got a series of prompts and was dumped into a computer voice simulation program telling me things I already knew, so I hung up and tried again. Waited through the prompts and then, again, tapped in the information the queue demanded to ensure that the correct information was retrieved, and then I was piped through to "Michael," an Indian likely living in Bombay. I know his name is Michael because I wrote it down on a sheet of paper, soley for the purpose of using it at the end of the conversation and showing him that, yes, I did take an active interest in his side of our dealing.

I do this for all such calls, just to keep my own log should I need to call back and bitch about something. Which is what I was doing today when Gina took my call and then did what I hate most about calling a service center, the effing clerk on the line makes you repeat all the information you tapped into your phone to get to the clerk in the first place. Satan does this t0o people in Hell all the time as a means of eternal torture. This always frustrates me, and it is only with great concentration that I am able to not lash out in some petty way at the corporate drone on the other end of the line, merely doing his/her job the way he'd been trained to do it.

So, we work through the issue of my check still not having cleared and what to do about it, and inquire after paying over the phone.

"There's a fee, it's $17.95 to pay over the phone," she said.

"Why is there a fee to pay over the phone," I asked.

"It's company policy," she said.

Let's move on, then, as I'm not paying for the privilege of paying my bill. She then mentioned the online payment option as another method.

"That charges a fee, too," I said. It does. A sliding scale amount that increases the closer you get to the due date. So, I never use it because I don't want to pay for the - you get the picture.

"But there's also a paperless option that allows you to pay and doesn't charge you a fee," Gina informed me.

This was news, since I'd thought I'd pretty thoroughly scoured the company's website for a workaround to paying to pay. I was on the site at the time, so I had her walk me through the clicks until I found the option, which was in no way an intuitive process. I signed up; now, I shall no longer be in the thrall of the USPS, the fools who haven't delivered my check to the creditor, yet, and costing me $29 in irritating bank fees for having had to cancel the check.

Motherhumper. Now, I'll have half a booklet of First Class Forever stamps I'll never use. Ever. Just the perfect match to that half-booklet of 39 cent stamps I never use anymore.

Spent last night teledrinking after the wife went to bed. Did the same thing last week, too, and I think it might be something to add to the weekly to-do list. What's "teledrinking," you ask? Okay, as I type this, did I coin this term. Wait, let me google: result. So, maybe I did coin this word and the following meaning: drinking with a buddy while talking with him on the phone.

Pool Boy called to chat last night, and while doing so he had a cigar and a couple of gin and tonics. He sat on the deck in his back yard. I sat on the porch in my back yard, and had scotch. We talked about all the things we normally talk about when we're sitting around drinking, only we weren't sitting together for all of the various reasons that get in the way (distance, family matters, time of day, happenstance, & etc.). But the experience counts, and it's nice to be able to hang out with a buddy.

Life after the Great Move East several years back has been weird. Lost all my local friends and never made any new ones (well, some sahms, for a while, in a more-or-less strictly IM friendship schema). With one 1/10th-of-an-exception, all of my old local friends vanished into the past the moment the U-Haul I drove out of Pittsburgh crossed through the toll booth. Gone. Buh-bye, no phone calls, no emails, no visits, nothing. I went back to hang with the 1/10th exception, but the reverse has never happened.

The GME, though, put me 5 hours closer to both Pool Boy and my un-nicknamed buddy on Long Island, both of whom are better actual friends than any of the previous local friends were, so it's not like I'm whining that I'm all alone and boo-hoo I miss my old friends. Well, I miss them in a non-gay way, yeah, but it's not like I can call any of them to meet me on a bar stool after dinner. And, without that, there doesn't seem to be all that much of a point in keeping in touch, apparently: none of them are teledrinking worthy, I guess. But, then, who knows, they never call.

Inertia has set in, again, prompted by the re-realization - how many times to I have to realize this, sad, simple fact? - that the wood in the study can not be stained and will have to be painted or pulled down. Yes, after stripping it of stain and paint last fall, I realized this. While pulling the chair rail off the wall, I forgot about this. While I was sanding the spackling paste in the holes the chair rail pulling caused in the plaster, I re-realized that staining was not an option, because of the wide variety of stripping results and the fact that, without a carpet in the study, I would have to put down a brand-new quarter-round at the bottom of the baseboards to hide the gap, and that that quarter-round would not be the same starting color as the stripped wood, and so yadda yadda.

This, for whatever reason, caused any additonal work in the study to come to a grinding halt, and, right now, I'm typing in a near-empty room with a table with a computer on it. Because I don't want to figure out where to put this stuff while I finish working on the door frame and door before installing the quarter round, painting and all of the other stuff. Whatever. Work to be done in the future, and with the annual vacation starting Saturday, I'm not inclined to get busy finishing this room. Oh, yes, I want the room finished, but I want imaginary guest workers to do it while I'm gone next week.

I'm thinking forest green walls, sand-colored woodwork, ceiling and floor, with the closet in the reverse color scheme. With chocolate curtains and new electrical faceplates. Nice, yes?

"It's going to be dark in there," the wife said.

"The sand ceiling and floor will brighten it up," I said.

Otherwise, much change is in the air. Mucho chango, the kind you believe will change things in the near-future, not just the kind of change you can believe in. The details will be here if anything comes of it, and I hope something comes of it.

And thus endeth the post with the view from here on a typical morning:

Boresville

2008-07-22T11:09:00.002-04:00

Boresville

Spent my first shift alone as The Department Store security guard - cough, ahem, cough - last night. Weird. I still haven't gotten my uniforms, so I wore the store costume. Stood by the doors and greeted people as they came and went, checked a few receipts, patrolled the parking lot, toured the sales floor and stock rooms. El boro.

Easy money, though, and I'm all for easy money. A challenge would be nice, though, but if someone is going to pay me cash to stand by a door in a uniform and say "howdy" for four hours a night, hell, I'm just the person to do it. Beats sitting in the study staring at blogs.

but I will say this of the job, so far, and that's that it will likely make me very cynical of the average shopper. You all shoplift, apparently, according to my training regimen. Not all of you all the time, mind you, but enough of you shoplift - I've seen the videos - that it makes you wonder why anybody would go to the hassle of trying to steal some of the stuff people try to steal. That said, I haven't been around whne someone was caught shoplifting.

Finally watched the first episode of HBO's Generation Kill, the miniseries supposedly re-telling the story of a Marine unit's advance on Baghdad in 2003. It is pretty clearly biased against the war, although it also seems to be trying to tell the real story as well as possible. That is to say, the attitudes the Marines are imbued with in the first episode are fake, Hollywoody anti-war perspectives on what it must be like to be in the military. The Marines are automatons, but they are clearly unwitting dupes willing to kill because. Just because. And, they want to kill, with one Marine waxing nostalgic for the bomber pilots who dropped atomic bombs on Japan in WW2, relishing in the idea of single-handedly killing hundreds of thousands of people. Otherwise, the Marines are moderately racist, homophobic dunces.

Except when it comes to noticing the bad-for-the-US aspects of the war, where they are whip smart, such as when they become disgusted with the restrictive nature of the rules-of-engagement, which prevents them at one point from shooting at some Fedayeen, the Saddam loyalists who fought against us after the Iraq Army melted into the sand out of fear of the US military. And, later, the Marines are downright disgusted that they have to "unsurrender" some civilian-clothed Iraqi men who are trying to surrender to them to avoid Fedayeen death squads. Everybody just knows this is wrong and can't believe they're doing it.

On the other hand, it seems to try to stay true to reality, what with being based on a non-fiction book and all, it would sorta halfta, right? I've heard the series gets better with follow-on episodes, so I'll stay with it for now. I mean, it's not blatantly anti-military anti-war like most of the Hollywood movies that have come out since the war on terror began.

Oh, and if you didn't know about it, Joss Whedon has put out Doctor Horrible's Sing-along Blog. I've downloaded the episodes but haven't watched them, yet, so I can't recommend them, although I've heard they're sorta like the Buffy episode, "Once More, With Feeling." So, there's that to encourage.

Other than that, I got nothin'.

Panic at the Auto Dealership!

2008-07-18T12:19:00.001-04:00

Panic at the Auto Dealership!

All days begin the same around here. Probably, around everywhere. Wake up, coffee, listen to the headlines on cable news (world didn't end, turn off cable news), scan blogosphere for confirmation that the world didn't end, then check the local/state online versions of the major - cough - newspapers to see what the writers at them think I need to know. I skip all stories about murders and deaths, ignore anything about accidents, and try to see if there's any news in the newspaper. Usually, there isn't.

But yesterday, I came across a tiny little story about an event in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, just over the state border from here, that caught my eye. It wasn't news, and it shouldn't have made the paper, but, see, that only proves the point that the modern American newspaper is no longer a viable or useful product. But that little news brief made me sit up and take a long drink of coffee.

Why not?

Indeed, what else did I have to do with my day shy of showing up for a stint at The Department Store come 6 p.m.? Nothing. What, you think I live for housework? Nope. I live for the moments outside the routine, the events that give some sort of definition to the endless flatspace of normal life in The Sahdness.

And, so, I auditioned for Survivor. Yep. The reality game show set on a remote island in the Pacific. This is one of those things I've always wanted to do, but never bothered to do, because of the hassle factor and the impossibility factor. First, you have to make a video of yourself, and my digicam is dead and I don't have a VCR, but mostly because I couldn't see going through the hassle of trying to make a 3-minute-and-under tape of me making my case for being on the show. Second, it's such a long-shot to get on the show that making a tape and filling out the application seemed like a supreme waste of time. Why bother? I mean, I've never ever gotten two numbers right on a PowerBall ticket, so why in the world would I think I'd get lucky enough to make it through the casting process for a reality game show?

Bu-u-u-u-u-t, yesterday there was throw-away article in the Phinqy online edition noting that auditions were being held at noon in an auto dealership over the Delaware River a half-hour from here, and I shrugged, looked at the clock, and said, "Why not?"

Just shy of one o'clock, the boys, the girl and I took our place at the back of the line, a line much shorter than I thought it would be, which is the only reason I parked the car and queued up in it. A CBS flunky came over and handed me the application form and a number - 169 - and I took note of the crowd: all walks of life represented. Every few minutes the line moved forward, so that was encouraging because yesterday was the hottest day of the year up to that point, low 90s but no humidity and the tiniest of breezes, so it was doable.

"Dad, are we here to buy a new car?" Owen asked as we stood in line.

"No, they wouldn't make us stand in line to do that," I said.

I didn't take the application all-too-seriously. Which is to say, whenever it asked questions designed to flesh out my personality traits, I went at them with gusto, eschewing reality. That is, one of the questions asked what I would not do for a million dollars and I wrote: "I would not parachute naked into a lion's den while coated in bacon-flavored butter." When the questionnaire asked what political office I would like to hold and why, I wrote: "Archon of Pennsylvania, because it would be cool to be an archon."

I know, I know: side-splitting answers, those.

The kids, however, dealt with the line very well. It's been a while since we've done something like this, and that time there were just Owe and Harry, and Harry was about 18 months old and was having none of it, after a while, and he sat riot in his stroller, eventually breaking his seatbelt and shedding 4 billion angry tears, all so I could meet Giada DeLaurentiis and have her sign my cookbook.

As you can also see in this picture, some of the people in line were preparing for their audition by writing down their remarks. You were allowed up to two minutes of talking about yourself, so I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say the entire time I stood in the line. I didn't want to read off a piece of paper: lame. So, after a while, I figured I had a little over a minute's worth of me babbling semi-funnily about why I needed to be on the next cast, and I was going to go for the jugular by starting off by looking into the camera and saying "Hi, Jeff, hi Mark, I'm William Young and I'm the next winner of survivor, but first, let me tell you why I want to play the game."

And then I was going to explain I'm a sahd and need a break - a family-free vacation, har har - and explain I've got the stuff to be away from home alone for a long period of time - remember when I was in Oklahoma for six months? - and then remark on how I wanted to lose the last few pounds the elliptical won't shed by going on the Survivor diet plan. Easy stuff, right?

Anyway, after two hours I finally made it inside the building and realized there was only one camera at work, which explained the wait. Watching the other people do their auditions, it quickly became apparent that 99% of the people were done in about 15-20 seconds of talking about themselves, which, I'm guessing, is a help to the producers who have to watch however many dozens of hours of audition tape to get to the initial batch of interviewees. This was good, because it would ensure I stood out among my fellow supplicants.

My turn. I walk to the spot, turn to the camera, take microphone in hand and suddenly develop the worst case of stage fright known to man, my right hand trembling with the mic so much I had to bring my left hand over to it to even have a chance of talking into it. And then I forgot what I was going to say and began rambling on with some basic information from me, all of which was on the application form I had just submitted. Then I remembered the "family-free vacation" line and delivered it, my two hands vibrating in front of me before I gestured off-camera toward my children, who were standing off to the watching me and wondering what I was doing. The crowd waiting their turns, by the way, was politely laughing at my nervousness, possibly thinking it was my shtick, but it was real: nobody can nervously tremble like I was doing by faking it, it would take to much concentration.

For some reason, I couldn't remember the whole Survivor diet bit and instead, out of the blue, went on with a bit about how I'm a chronic insomniac - truth - and how I was hoping spending time on an island amidst nature might return me back to my natural rhythmn, and then I totally broke the fourth wall and talked to the future audition-watchers judging me and asked them if everyone suddenly got nervous like this during and audition or if I was a rare thing, then I apologized for being nervous before signing off with something like, "Well, thanks Jeff, Mark, and I hope to be seeing you again, soon."

Maybe I left 30-40 seconds on videotape. Maybe. Certainly not the minute-plus I was hoping for. Also, as I left the stage, I remembered the last time I suddenly suffered instant stage fright, and I've already linked it a couple of paragraphs up, when I met Giada and suddenly went wobbly, my vision blurred, my hearing muffled, my stomach quavering. Why? Who knows?

But, now, at least, I've done it. I've thrown my lot in and if life has been a good teacher to me, I can expect nothing and will get nothing. You get the amount of rejection letters I get (100% so far, by ratio) for my writing submissions, combined with my inability to even come close to winning any kind of lottery, and that adds up to a big fat yawn by the Survivor people as they FF to the next candidate.

Well, I've got some sanding to do, followed by shopping, dinner prep and cocktail hours, so cheers!

Road Trip

2008-07-15T14:15:00.000-04:00

Road Trip

Spent the weekend in Point Lookout, New York, a tiny hamlet on Long Island filled with rich people, wealthy people, and people for whom a 2,000 square foot home with 4BR, 2BA, LR, DR a deck and a garage is a summer home referred to as a cottage. And then there's my buddy who lives there. I had to take his word for it that the town was stuffed with wealthy Manhattanites who only visited on the weekends, because the only evidence of that claim came via this exchange:

FADE IN TO:

Ext. Day - Small Town Street Intersection

Will and family are making their way back from the beach, towing a wagon loaded with beach gear when they come to a street intersection. Will pauses to allow the rest of the family to catch up, when a white Mercedes SUV suddenly screeches to a stop right in front of Will.

The passenger side windows both begin to roll down.

MAN
(in passenger seat, off driver)
I am not going to ask them for directions. I'm not going to do it.

WOMAN
(leaning over man)
Do you know where Mineoloa Avenue is?

WILL
(shakes head)
No.

MAN
(off woman)
See, I told you. Nobody knows where anything is in this town because nobody lives here, they all just visit.

Car drives off.

FADE OUT:

It turns out Mineola Avenue was the next street intersection, so I'm guessing they found it. Plus, the town isn't that big, so just driving around for five minutes would get you to it.

An absolutely charming place, btw, although it must be lonely in the winter. The beaches were crowded with exactly the types you'd expect, if you spent any time expecting a crowd, which I hadn't. Beaches anymore to me are in North Carolina at the bottom of the Outer Banks, where only the most intrepid go, so there aren't crowds on them. And, when there is, you don't have a surfeit of toned bikini-wearing babes sashaying up and down the shoreline. Criminey.

As usual, the boys took to the surf with abandon, splish-splashing with my buddy's two little boys completely unaware of the water temp (a coldish 70 degrees - you froze upon entering, but got used to it rather quickly after dunking yourself). Then we just set up shop and watched them jump in the waves.

Otherwise, the weekend was spent in endless chit-chat and cocktails sessions until Sunday afternoon dumped us back onto the highway and we skirted home in time for martinis and dinner.

The next break is in two weeks, when we head to NC for beach week. This means I'm going to do my best to force myself to finish the study before then, ensuring that at least something got done this summer to enhance the house. Why is this so hard an issue to tackle? Eh, mostly because there are so many things to be done that whenever I/we decide on Priority #1, something changes our minds the next day.

Finishing the study will entail ripping the chair rails off the walls; repairing the strips of walls where the chair rails were, as there will be collateral damage; scraping the texture paint off the ceiling; strip the stain out of the door frame (and door?); decide on a color scheme and paint. Can that be done in two weeks? Dunno. But I better get crackin' if I'm even going to have a chance.

Ciao for now.

One for the Road

2008-07-10T10:46:00.002-04:00

One for the Road

Inertia. That's what keeps you in place when you've been in place. So, tomorrow, we're blasting out of here for a while and visiting a pal and his family in Long Island. For whatever reason, I have resisted this drive for years, partly because it entails hauling the children to a distant locale and then having to deal with Child Containment at Remote Site issues. Hassle. Also, partly, because in my middling age I dislike being in environments I don't control, and I don't control my pal's house and stuff. Oh, I like it fine when people visit and I roll out the phrase, "Make yourself at home, anything in the fridge is fair game, help yourself no need to ask."

But I hate being on the receiving end of that sentiment. I like to entertain, but not so much to be entertained. However, obligation requires a trip, seeing as how he and his family have been here twice in the past year, at great hassle to them, so off we go. Fair is fair.

This is not to mean that I hate to travel. By no means: I love going to strange places and exploring. But I love doing that without children. No chance of that, now, so ... see what I mean? Anyway, I mapped out the trip to his pad and it's less than three hours of driving, so that's not painful at all, and shamed me momentarily for being resistant to it these last couple of years. Three hours? And, that's with a stop at Mickey D's for a double-Q w/chez meal.

Via Lileks comes this piece of idiocy from Australia. Jimmy L's take on it is pretty much mine, but I'll swing at it anyway, because I'm bored and putting off Stage 1 Packing. Read it and then come back.

Right. I don't know what it is about a certain stripe of person, but living in a time of plenty is bad because it is, apparently, inauthentic. It is bad to have so many choices. It is bad to have abundance. It is bad to live easily and care free. And, this sentiment is written by a person who lives easily and care free and wouldn't dare herself to struggle. Indeed, she surely would never live the life she thinks the rest of us should live, and you have to kind of infer that she thinks humans should live in small mud huts in tiny villages, unaware of television and microwave ovens.

Or something.

The writer spends an awful lot of time complaining that we over-consume because we can over-consume. I don't know what that means, personally. Does this ring true to you:

The more we have, the less we're enjoying it. The hole just gets bigger and that button inside us never turns off, no matter what we buy it, feed it or stuff it with. Obesity is soaring and depression is an epidemic. We're knee deep in mortgage stress, debt slavery and the time poor. And the water is rising.

Abundance takes the value from everything. Nothing seems special any more. And we can't help ourselves because we're just mammals programmed to binge in times of plenty. Going to one of those all-you-can-eat places makes me feel sick. Eat more. It's cheap. We've got heaps! This food means nothing. Pile up your plate. You deserve it. You've paid for it. The more you eat, the more value you'll get.

I don't know about you, but I don't needlessly "consume." I don't buy things just for the sake of buying things. I don't know anybody who does (though, Pool Boy comes close when it comes to tools and lawn care equipment, but he does, at least, use the stuff). For example, I don't own an iPod merely to possess one. I use it. Ditto with the PSP, the TVs, the DVR and everything else. Additionally, I'm one of those weirdo strange mammals who actually spends time every day exercising to not be obese, who doesn't over-eat just because it's paid for and I deserve it. I don't consider large portions a better value because I don't eat everything on my plate if there's more on it than I can eat.

But to a certain mind, we humans outside the self-appointed intelligentsia are herd animals controlled by instinctual urges, and among those urges is a need to conform to the current trends, and if the current trend says buy a McMansion in a leafy suburb and commute to and from work in an SUV, then, by god, I have to do that. We all have to do that. There is no choice.

That doesn't explain the multitudes living in multi-unit hives and using bus passes, but, well, we can ignore them because they already understand The Authentic Life.

But this bit is precious:

Costco is opening this year in Melbourne. That sentence seems benign enough until you realise what Costco it. It's an American chain of warehouse clubs. I hear you ask, what's a warehouse club? Well, it's a massive supermarket where you buy things in bulk.

Cheap. Very cheap. You pay a yearly fee of about $50 to be a member and because you've paid you feel compelled to drive out, stock up and get your money's worth.

Yeah, I'm a Costco member, and I drop about $250 there every month or so, loading up on meats, breads, cheeses, laundry detergent, toilet paper, paper towels and a laundry list of other items. It's cheaper in the long run, and I've got the storage capability to stock it all in the basement. I mean, what's smarter, paying $4.99/lb for pork chops at the supermarket or paying $1.99/lb for a pork loin at Costco and cutting your own chops out of it? Granted, you have to buy 10 pounds of pork loin to get this deal at Costco, but the supermarket will only sell you 10 pounds at $4.99/lb, so, really.

What's really grating about this bit is that the writer is apparently offended that you, dear consumer, are getting "your money's worth." But then she writes this:

Do what you like, buy what you like, drive what you like and shop where you like. But ask yourself if you are really getting value for money.

I thought you said we were getting value for our money. More to the point, though, she doesn't want us to do what we like, buy what we like or drive and shop where we like. She thinks that's just wrong. As J Li writes:

I know she would prefer that I slump to the People’s Distribution node every afternoon wearing sandals made out of old tires and walk home with a farking bag of Purina on my head and two hemp sacks of produce nurtured in night soil strung around each shoulder, but that sort of rich, community-building, soul-enriching experience is usually reserved for people who have to pause on the way home because a soldier butted their ear with a rifle butt for sneezing in front of a picture of Mugabe, and it hurts.

I swear, some people will never live the lives they urge on others, and this writer is one of those people. She's special, because she writes opinions in a newspaper. Good luck with that.

I may write more, later, or I might not. It feels like one of those days; that is, I feel like I've got stuff to write about, but I just don't know what that stuff is. Otherwise, katonka!

The Unexamined Life

2008-07-07T11:15:00.002-04:00

The Unexamined Life

It was an uneventful Fourth of July weekend in which I saw no fireworks. None. None that counted, anyway. The across-the-street-neighbors set off a red dealie as I was getting out of my car after a shift at The Department Store, but it was unimpressive and didn't shoot very high into the sky. I went inside the house and that was that, slipping into the coolness of the study and out of the murk that marks most of the house.

Last year, yes, I would have turned on all the aircon units and submitted to the sterile dryness of a 72 degree home, content to roll my eyes at the wife as she sat beneath a blanket while watching television. Weird, that. But this year I'm forcing us to live in the sultry thickness of humid summer air, and nobody is complaining. The kids don't know, and the wife doesn't mind (she likes hot, despises cold; me, I'm vice versa). That, and the master bedroom and study are both airconned 24/7, the two places I spend lots of time in and don't want to swelter through.

Does that even mean anything?

So, Sunday rolled around and the wife asked if I had any plans for the day. Well, no, why would I? But: maybe I'd take the boys to see Wall-E, the new Pixar film out I'd forgotten about. Asked Owe and Harry if they were interested whilst we breakfasted, and Owe said no, he wasn't interested. This floored me. He was just flat-out uninterested in seeing a movie. For a moment, Harrison tended to agree, seeing as he's the junior son from Pennsylvania and tends to defer to his older bro's opinion, but the wife asked if Har-bear was sure about not wanting to go, and he changed his mind.

So, it would be an afternoon with Dad! At the theater, I noticed the show time we were going to see had a DL behind it, and inquired of the pimply-faced lad behind the glass what that meant, and he said it was a digital screening, better quality picture. Nice. Hadn't heard of such a thing. Popcorn and Coke were bought, and Harrison and I settled into the second row on the risers, center and waited through a billion trailers.

The short before the film was quite excellent, I thought, and very funny. But: ... Wall-E is perhaps the best film I've seen in the past year or five, definitely the best animation I've ever seen. The robots on the space ship Axiom are rendered perfectly, and watching them I couldn't help but think that Apple had designed them, and that they will be in our future. It's animation that looks like animation pretending to be reality in an alternate plane of existence. Or: it's what a parallel universe looks like when viewed with human eyes. The animation is perfect, to my eyes; too pretty to be described.

And, the story is awesome. A tale of a robot looking for love; a PC robot who falls for a Mac robot. It's perfect. And, there's almost no dialog until the end of the film, and even then, very little. It's a robot movie in which you have to judge everything on gestures. The scene where Wall-E and Eve are flying in space, Wall-E using a fire extinguisher to move, is brilliant. As is the scene where the "demented" robots break through the blue glass wall in the "medical" center.

This movie should win the Academy Award for best film, but will win the AA for best animated film. You've not seen a story like it ever before. (and, yes, well, you have, in that sense)

Now, I told Pool Boy about this movie later in the day, and he instantly went all spastic on me, mock-arguing some point about how the environmentalists were right all along or something. Now, I'd skimmed something Lileks wrote last week about the film, mostly trying to scan over anything movie related so that I wouldn't have the experience spoiled, and in doing so noted that he was involved in a minor argument with some people over whether this vision of the future was intended to shame us now-dwellers into becoming greens. I have no idea what Lileks point was/is on the subject.

Me, I didn't buy into the presumed meme that humans over-consumed themselves into despoiling the planet, I just figured it was jab-in-the-eye humor. Buy 'n Large owns and produces everything? Hah. Funny. I did not take this as a jab at Wal-Mart, nor did I think the fat, couch-potatoed humans in the end were meant as commentary on the state of the modern American. The movie seemed apolitical to me. When you invent a future, you have to invent it, and if, as a writer, you choose to go down the merry path of making everyone a slave to a benevolent corporation, well, fine, I can follow your leader, if you will. But I did not take from this movie an anti-corporate pro-environmentalist message, and I don't think such was intended, because, if it were, it would be the most ham-handed over-the-top bit of fringe lunatic idiocy.

I mean, c'mon: in real life, the Earth without humans on it for 700 years would return to "normal." That is, all the buildings would fall down and vegetation would grow over everything. In 700 years, there'd barely be a noticeable trace of humans having existed on this planet. So, you wouldn't have robots turning garbage into cubes. Humans cannot "use up" the planet. So, I didn't think that was an issue in the movie.

Oh, right: last week Pop Pop and came down and went with us to The Franklin Institute to see Real Pirates, the latest exhibition (having taken over for Star Wars). In a perfect world, Real Pirates would've come first, since the boys are now Star Wars obsessed and not pirate fixated, but you get what you get. The boys loved the exhibit and raced through it with Pop Pop while I meandered much more slowly with the fubil, who had taken the day off from the forge to make a day of it with us and his future wife, who works at the institute and gets us free tix. Nice.

There were a ton of silver coins; a handful of cannons; the ship's bell; and, a few other dealies of interest. The showrooms were well done, including a captain's quarters with faux scenery through the windows; a room where you could "ride out" the storm that sank the pirate ship those many years ago; and, a room representing the crew area of the below deck portion of the ship, a room in which the museum perfectly simulated the dank sweaty swelter of a ship at sea in the Carribean. How did they pipe that smell/skin feel into the room? Dunno, but it was nifty.

I guess that's all I got. Tchuss!

Giving Illegal Downloading the Boot (Literally?)

2008-07-05T10:46:00.003-04:00

Giving Illegal Downloading the Boot (Literally?)

Well, I guess it's better than being hanged or shot to death:

Back-room dealings in the European Parliament have resulted in a "three strikes" rule being included in a new telecoms bill -- the rule would force ISPs to kick people who've been thrice accused of copyright infringement off the Internet.

I wonder who gets to do the kicking? Those crazy Europeans, what'll they come up with next?