Lessons Learned

About fifteen years ago I received some excellent advice about how to live my life. It's not so much an answer as a question I should ask, but invariably forget. I'm usually too quick in reacting to remember to ask myself "What would a normal person do in this situation?"

It's no surprise that I'm not a picket fence, salt of the earth, square, at least not to me. The thing is, no matter how I feel about those people, simply put they're right, and always have been. Those are the people who are happiest, who succeed in achieving their goals, and who instinctively know how to act in situations that I fumble. Part of it, sure, is having a strong sense of self-worth, but another part is not having all the flawed baggage I carry.

If I act the way a "normal" person would, the results are invariably better than what first comes to my mind. I don't mind that, I accept it, but it's rare that I remember to rein in my reactions and to question my motives.

I'm in a situation now where every fiber (fibre?) of my being is telling to respond in a certain way, but I'm equally certain that no normal person would do what I want to. No, I'm never sure how someone normal would react, but I can ask or sometimes think it through or out. Usually it requires a course of action diametrically opposed to my gut instinct.

I don't know how to act, but I think the best thing to do is nothing at all. Just accept reality and not try to change or manipulate it.

Lessons Learned

About fifteen years ago I received some excellent advice about how to live my life. It's not so much an answer as a question I should ask, but invariably forget. I'm usually too quick in reacting to remember to ask myself "What would a normal person do in this situation?"

It's no surprise that I'm not a picket fence, salt of the earth, square, at least not to me. The thing is, no matter how I feel about those people, simply put they're right, and always have been. Those are the people who are happiest, who succeed in achieving their goals, and who instinctively know how to act in situations that I fumble. Part of it, sure, is having a strong sense of self-worth, but another part is not having all the flawed baggage I carry.

If I act the way a "normal" person would, the results are invariably better than what first comes to my mind. I don't mind that, I accept it, but it's rare that I remember to rein in my reactions and to question my motives.

I'm in a situation now where every fiber (fibre?) of my being is telling to respond in a certain way, but I'm equally certain that no normal person would do what I want to. No, I'm never sure how someone normal would react, but I can ask or sometimes think it through or out. Usually it requires a course of action diametrically opposed to my gut instinct.

I don't know how to act, but I think the best thing to do is nothing at all. Just accept reality and not try to change or manipulate it.

Day of Plenty

Today was much longer than any day this year, by about an hour. I made full use of that extra hour by doing even more relaxing than normal.

For Halloween I left the front yard unmowed and unraked. It looks frightening. I sampled bits of the candies the kids will be getting, and I can see they have no reason to complain. Everyone loves Butterfingers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and Milky Ways. I sampled some candy corn, too, but the kids won't be getting that.

I need to spend some more time with my dog, who's forgotten all about me, and with my upcoming novel, which I've neglected to the point of negligence. I can do that tomorrow, when I should be busy at UCLA.

I've also managed to make up some lemonade, so it's not like I've wasted the day.

Day of Plenty

Today was much longer than any day this year, by about an hour. I made full use of that extra hour by doing even more relaxing than normal.

For Halloween I left the front yard unmowed and unraked. It looks frightening. I sampled bits of the candies the kids will be getting, and I can see they have no reason to complain. Everyone loves Butterfingers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and Milky Ways. I sampled some candy corn, too, but the kids won't be getting that.

I need to spend some more time with my dog, who's forgotten all about me, and with my upcoming novel, which I've neglected to the point of negligence. I can do that tomorrow, when I should be busy at UCLA.

I've also managed to make up some lemonade, so it's not like I've wasted the day.

Discarding Knowledge and Ideals

I'm all set for Thanksgiving as long as I'm only called on to hand out candy and respond appropriately to the cute little kids who show up at my doorstep. I'm very good at acting frightened and even better at glowering at teenagers in T-shirts.

In spite of the many lessons I've received by faithfully reading CandyBlog every day, I'm not giving out any candies that are excellent or particularly tasty. As a child (and, even, as an adult) I never savored candies and my most-common reaction after taking a bite of something I liked was to follow that bite with a second and third. For me the object was to get as much candy in my mouth and system as quickly as possible.

So I apologize to candy lovers everywhere. Small treats, like candy corn, are for gobbling.

Also, I turned my back on my non-corporate nature. The kids who visit won't get anything they're not already familiar with, though I don't know if it's something they like. They'll be getting Tootsie Rolls, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, that kind of thing. I expect they'll be no more aware of waxy chocolate than I've ever been, will never have heard the term enrobing, and will have absolutely no interest in health issues or cavaties. Those important issues flatten candy enjoyment like a cast iron piano.

When I was going out many of our neighbors made up cute little bags of treats. They used to sell those tiny envelopes, all decorated with witches and things, and people could fill them with caramels, candy corn, and all sorts of bulk treats. I looked for those, but I guess they're far to fraught with potential danger for any parent to accept them any longer. And, forget about giving out candy or caramel apples!

Which reminds me...not only will I be faced with a bunch of kids I don't know wearing Sponge Bob costumes, I'll have to remember to wave at the adults who stand on the sidewalk and try to look away.

Discarding Knowledge and Ideals

I'm all set for Thanksgiving as long as I'm only called on to hand out candy and respond appropriately to the cute little kids who show up at my doorstep. I'm very good at acting frightened and even better at glowering at teenagers in T-shirts.

In spite of the many lessons I've received by faithfully reading CandyBlog every day, I'm not giving out any candies that are excellent or particularly tasty. As a child (and, even, as an adult) I never savored candies and my most-common reaction after taking a bite of something I liked was to follow that bite with a second and third. For me the object was to get as much candy in my mouth and system as quickly as possible.

So I apologize to candy lovers everywhere. Small treats, like candy corn, are for gobbling.

Also, I turned my back on my non-corporate nature. The kids who visit won't get anything they're not already familiar with, though I don't know if it's something they like. They'll be getting Tootsie Rolls, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, that kind of thing. I expect they'll be no more aware of waxy chocolate than I've ever been, will never have heard the term enrobing, and will have absolutely no interest in health issues or cavaties. Those important issues flatten candy enjoyment like a cast iron piano.

When I was going out many of our neighbors made up cute little bags of treats. They used to sell those tiny envelopes, all decorated with witches and things, and people could fill them with caramels, candy corn, and all sorts of bulk treats. I looked for those, but I guess they're far to fraught with potential danger for any parent to accept them any longer. And, forget about giving out candy or caramel apples!

Which reminds me...not only will I be faced with a bunch of kids I don't know wearing Sponge Bob costumes, I'll have to remember to wave at the adults who stand on the sidewalk and try to look away.

Surprise, surprise, surprise!

It's not often I'm surprised, only ten or twenty times a day, and it may be more, but I don't keept count.

Some surprises, such as the mouse running near my feet and behind the power switch, make me catch my breath and stop my heart, but only for an instant. After that one, I recovered nicely and moved a trap from where it was only collecting dust to one where it may more profitably collect vermin.

Other surprises are more pleasant, though not on the order of a woman indicating delight at my presence nor welcoming my awkward advances. That may come in time, but its lack must still be categorized as a disappointment. No, most of my pleasant surprises now are mundane ones, delighting only me.

A frequent source of pleasurable surprises is food. I'm a fussy eater, as much by habit as anything reasonable, but I do experiment. A distinct advantage I have, over more liberal eaters, is that about half the time I find myself mistaken. I try something new with a prejudicial and unwarranted dislike, but find out it's pretty damn good. People approaching a new dish with a neutral attitude may find it as enjoyable as I do, but they get there from a higher starting point.

Some foods I refuse to eat just on principal. For example, I've never in my life eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not once. As a youngster something about peanut butter bugged me, and I thought it appropriate only for celery, and that only when salt wasn't handy. I loved jelly sandwiches (grape, predominately), but just couldn't imagine a PB&J sandwich.

So, I've never had one. By the time I got old enough to think it would be good, I realized I was in a nearly unique position by never having had one. That rare status isn't something to discard without a good reason, so I've stuck by it ever since.

Is it a life of deprivation? Sure, but it's also something I can bring up at cocktail parties. And, with any luck, that may lead me again to the more delightful surprise of unwrapping a warm and delightful woman.

Surprise, surprise, surprise!

It's not often I'm surprised, only ten or twenty times a day, and it may be more, but I don't keept count.

Some surprises, such as the mouse running near my feet and behind the power switch, make me catch my breath and stop my heart, but only for an instant. After that one, I recovered nicely and moved a trap from where it was only collecting dust to one where it may more profitably collect vermin.

Other surprises are more pleasant, though not on the order of a woman indicating delight at my presence nor welcoming my awkward advances. That may come in time, but its lack must still be categorized as a disappointment. No, most of my pleasant surprises now are mundane ones, delighting only me.

A frequent source of pleasurable surprises is food. I'm a fussy eater, as much by habit as anything reasonable, but I do experiment. A distinct advantage I have, over more liberal eaters, is that about half the time I find myself mistaken. I try something new with a prejudicial and unwarranted dislike, but find out it's pretty damn good. People approaching a new dish with a neutral attitude may find it as enjoyable as I do, but they get there from a higher starting point.

Some foods I refuse to eat just on principal. For example, I've never in my life eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not once. As a youngster something about peanut butter bugged me, and I thought it appropriate only for celery, and that only when salt wasn't handy. I loved jelly sandwiches (grape, predominately), but just couldn't imagine a PB&J sandwich.

So, I've never had one. By the time I got old enough to think it would be good, I realized I was in a nearly unique position by never having had one. That rare status isn't something to discard without a good reason, so I've stuck by it ever since.

Is it a life of deprivation? Sure, but it's also something I can bring up at cocktail parties. And, with any luck, that may lead me again to the more delightful surprise of unwrapping a warm and delightful woman.

Life Imitating Art, Again

My life might be imitating art again, only I'm not so sure. For one thing, the art that may be being copied is my next "novel," which hasn't even been written yet, and the liklihood of its being "art" is less than that of me winning the lottery. Still, I may be acting like one of my (future) characters.

Either that, or I'm incredibly brave or smart.

With winter coming on it's likely to get colder (that's not the smart part). What that means is that the old gas heater will be called into action again and will rattle and complain its way through another few months, this time burning up fuel that's going to be quite a bit pricier than last year.

This cannot be good for me.

As much as I enjoy hot weather, I'm comfortable when it's cold. I love slipping into cold sheets and warming them up, I love being in a cocoon of warmth in an otherwise cold room, and I like the feel of crisp breezes across my naked face. What I don't like so much is being colder than I like.

I've shunned little electrical heaters all my life because they smell funny. Also, it just seems wasteful to pay for perfectly good electricity just to create resist it to enjoy the side-benefit of the heat let off. This year, however, electricity will probably be cheaper than natural gas, so I'm planning on buying a few little heaters to supplement the labors of the laboring beast in the scary closet.

And here's what I did: I bought one heater and, without even glancing at the sixteen pages of detailed and multi-lingual instructions, plugged it in to see how it worked! Such hubris!

It turns out only seven of the pages are in English, but I amazed myself by figuring out the complex knobs. One had "off, fan" and two power settings (1300 or 1500W) and the other twisted from low to high.

It took some doing, sure, but I was able to get the little bastard to emit heat. I am just that good.

I'm sure there's some important information in all those pages of instructions, so if you don't hear back from me, I've died.

Life Imitating Art, Again

My life might be imitating art again, only I'm not so sure. For one thing, the art that may be being copied is my next "novel," which hasn't even been written yet, and the liklihood of its being "art" is less than that of me winning the lottery. Still, I may be acting like one of my (future) characters.

Either that, or I'm incredibly brave or smart.

With winter coming on it's likely to get colder (that's not the smart part). What that means is that the old gas heater will be called into action again and will rattle and complain its way through another few months, this time burning up fuel that's going to be quite a bit pricier than last year.

This cannot be good for me.

As much as I enjoy hot weather, I'm comfortable when it's cold. I love slipping into cold sheets and warming them up, I love being in a cocoon of warmth in an otherwise cold room, and I like the feel of crisp breezes across my naked face. What I don't like so much is being colder than I like.

I've shunned little electrical heaters all my life because they smell funny. Also, it just seems wasteful to pay for perfectly good electricity just to create resist it to enjoy the side-benefit of the heat let off. This year, however, electricity will probably be cheaper than natural gas, so I'm planning on buying a few little heaters to supplement the labors of the laboring beast in the scary closet.

And here's what I did: I bought one heater and, without even glancing at the sixteen pages of detailed and multi-lingual instructions, plugged it in to see how it worked! Such hubris!

It turns out only seven of the pages are in English, but I amazed myself by figuring out the complex knobs. One had "off, fan" and two power settings (1300 or 1500W) and the other twisted from low to high.

It took some doing, sure, but I was able to get the little bastard to emit heat. I am just that good.

I'm sure there's some important information in all those pages of instructions, so if you don't hear back from me, I've died.

That Time of Year

It's official. By my reckoning the holiday season has begun, and ultra-violet may be the new orange.

A couple houses around mine have gone that extra step in the Halloween decorating business. Not content with static displays of ghosts, witches, headstones, and spider webs, they're stringing up lights. Just like Christmas, only not so pretty.

The colors used for the lights are predominately orange, with tiny orange jack-o-lanterns serving as accents every five feet or so (call it 1.5 meters). Very festive. It reminds me of accident sites set up by the police.

But, something new's been added: strings of purple lights. Dark purple, bordering on ultra-violet, which may be an intentional allusion to ultra-violence, a term made popular in Clockwork Orange. Violence -- Bodies -- Graves -- Halloween, I can make the connection.

The other indication that the holidays are on us is underwear sales. I think that's the first thing to go when pounds are added. People are much more willing to squeeze and cram themselves into snug outerwear, but comfort cannot be compromised. "I may still be able to wear the same clothes people saw me in during the summer to reinforce the 'I haven't gained weight idea,' but I'll be damned if I'm going to wedge myself into ill-fitting underwear," they say.

Also, not to be ignored is that self-described "not nice" people are buying me lunch. Currying favors or getting the holiday spirit? You decide.

That Time of Year

It's official. By my reckoning the holiday season has begun, and ultra-violet may be the new orange.

A couple houses around mine have gone that extra step in the Halloween decorating business. Not content with static displays of ghosts, witches, headstones, and spider webs, they're stringing up lights. Just like Christmas, only not so pretty.

The colors used for the lights are predominately orange, with tiny orange jack-o-lanterns serving as accents every five feet or so (call it 1.5 meters). Very festive. It reminds me of accident sites set up by the police.

But, something new's been added: strings of purple lights. Dark purple, bordering on ultra-violet, which may be an intentional allusion to ultra-violence, a term made popular in Clockwork Orange. Violence -- Bodies -- Graves -- Halloween, I can make the connection.

The other indication that the holidays are on us is underwear sales. I think that's the first thing to go when pounds are added. People are much more willing to squeeze and cram themselves into snug outerwear, but comfort cannot be compromised. "I may still be able to wear the same clothes people saw me in during the summer to reinforce the 'I haven't gained weight idea,' but I'll be damned if I'm going to wedge myself into ill-fitting underwear," they say.

Also, not to be ignored is that self-described "not nice" people are buying me lunch. Currying favors or getting the holiday spirit? You decide.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Years ago when Saturday Night Live was funny they had a skit about a guy with a computer. It was an early one, maybe before the IBM PC, and the character was quite the nerd. In the skit he'd been laboring away on his computer, creating a wonderful program. When it was done it displayed a cheesy line drawing of a bowler and announced, in big letters, "You have six hats."

Then, below the picture, it listed his six hats.

That cracked me up as it showed just exactly how useless computers can be and may have been the genesis of my belief that just because you can do something, that doesn't make it a good idea.

Computers, as we've come to know them are very good at record keeping. By that I mean filing. They're also quick at arithmetic, and can add very quickly. Oh, and less we forget, subtract, too, but that's about it.

I'm reminded of how quickly computers can make errors today when I glanced at my stats and saw that today, for the first time ever, I received over 1,000 hits on this blog.

I counter-predict.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, also years ago the LA Times had a columnist Jack Smith, who was funny, witty, poignant, and popular. Each year he'd list some of the more famous (but no more accurate) psychics and relay their predictions for the coming year. It was the typical crap, who would be getting married, giant meteors hitting the earth, floods, deaths, and for nearly every one Jack would proclaim "I counter-predict."

He created that phrase as a shorthand of predicting the opposite, and it's stuck with me for years. Whenever Jack totalled up the tally at the end of the year, it should be no surprise that he was far more successful in his counter-predictions than any psychic was with their predictions, and I now use the term to reflect my disbelief.

The only way Crenellated Flotsam could draw 1,000 visitors is if I were giving away $20 bills. I suspect a new horde of robots have been unleashed, but I may add a PayPal (tm) link and see if I can con everyone into sending me a buck.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Years ago when Saturday Night Live was funny they had a skit about a guy with a computer. It was an early one, maybe before the IBM PC, and the character was quite the nerd. In the skit he'd been laboring away on his computer, creating a wonderful program. When it was done it displayed a cheesy line drawing of a bowler and announced, in big letters, "You have six hats."

Then, below the picture, it listed his six hats.

That cracked me up as it showed just exactly how useless computers can be and may have been the genesis of my belief that just because you can do something, that doesn't make it a good idea.

Computers, as we've come to know them are very good at record keeping. By that I mean filing. They're also quick at arithmetic, and can add very quickly. Oh, and less we forget, subtract, too, but that's about it.

I'm reminded of how quickly computers can make errors today when I glanced at my stats and saw that today, for the first time ever, I received over 1,000 hits on this blog.

I counter-predict.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, also years ago the LA Times had a columnist Jack Smith, who was funny, witty, poignant, and popular. Each year he'd list some of the more famous (but no more accurate) psychics and relay their predictions for the coming year. It was the typical crap, who would be getting married, giant meteors hitting the earth, floods, deaths, and for nearly every one Jack would proclaim "I counter-predict."

He created that phrase as a shorthand of predicting the opposite, and it's stuck with me for years. Whenever Jack totalled up the tally at the end of the year, it should be no surprise that he was far more successful in his counter-predictions than any psychic was with their predictions, and I now use the term to reflect my disbelief.

The only way Crenellated Flotsam could draw 1,000 visitors is if I were giving away $20 bills. I suspect a new horde of robots have been unleashed, but I may add a PayPal (tm) link and see if I can con everyone into sending me a buck.

Infestation

We recently had some rain here, thereby cementing our "semi-arrid" status. Nothing anyone anywhere else in the US would notice, but as I've remarked, it brings interesting things.

In this case, mice. And not the cute ones wearing glasses and carrying canes, either. Dumb ones, or, maybe they're just arrogant. At the time I'm writing this, I'm multi-tasking, which is all the rage now. Not only am I composing an insightful, timely blog entry, I'm hunting.

Perhaps I need a pith helmet.

This mouse -- or more likely, mice -- disturbs me, but not in the standing on chairs and screaming like a teenager way. It's the audacity of the damn thing. I had a car stolen once and I'll never forget how violated I felt. Someone else was going through, or able to go through, my personal stuff, see the pens I'd collected, the receipts I'd stuffed in the glove box, the cans and bottles wedged under the seat. That disturbed me as much as the loss of the car, and I feel a lot the same way with this mouse.

Dammit. This is *my* house, not his. I don't like him running around in it. He should be in a field of flowers, joining hands with the other mice and singing ring around the rosey. If he were in a forest eating nuts, I'd be a happy camper.

But he's inside. Walking all over my shelves, looking under the couch, resting on top of the couch, and walking right down the middle of the floor. I see him, make a noise, and he scurries off, but now I've more in store.

Traps. Victor traps. The springy ones, baited with actual cheese. When I hear that *snap* I expect I'll jump, but he'll never know what hits him. I hope he learned about them in mouse school and will see them and go pester the neighbors.

They have better food, anyway.

Infestation

We recently had some rain here, thereby cementing our "semi-arrid" status. Nothing anyone anywhere else in the US would notice, but as I've remarked, it brings interesting things.

In this case, mice. And not the cute ones wearing glasses and carrying canes, either. Dumb ones, or, maybe they're just arrogant. At the time I'm writing this, I'm multi-tasking, which is all the rage now. Not only am I composing an insightful, timely blog entry, I'm hunting.

Perhaps I need a pith helmet.

This mouse -- or more likely, mice -- disturbs me, but not in the standing on chairs and screaming like a teenager way. It's the audacity of the damn thing. I had a car stolen once and I'll never forget how violated I felt. Someone else was going through, or able to go through, my personal stuff, see the pens I'd collected, the receipts I'd stuffed in the glove box, the cans and bottles wedged under the seat. That disturbed me as much as the loss of the car, and I feel a lot the same way with this mouse.

Dammit. This is *my* house, not his. I don't like him running around in it. He should be in a field of flowers, joining hands with the other mice and singing ring around the rosey. If he were in a forest eating nuts, I'd be a happy camper.

But he's inside. Walking all over my shelves, looking under the couch, resting on top of the couch, and walking right down the middle of the floor. I see him, make a noise, and he scurries off, but now I've more in store.

Traps. Victor traps. The springy ones, baited with actual cheese. When I hear that *snap* I expect I'll jump, but he'll never know what hits him. I hope he learned about them in mouse school and will see them and go pester the neighbors.

They have better food, anyway.

Helpful Dream Advice

No, I don't subscribe to those ideas that if you dream of a fish that means you'll be traveling, or that if you see a circus clown you'll be getting money. I think that's all hooey.

But I'm well-practiced in dreaming or, more honestly, in having nightmares, and I've stumbled on a way of remembering them better. Some people have told me it's good to do that, and that, combined with what I learned on a TV show, has given me a habit.

The TV program explained a few things, not the least of which is that before we go into REM (rapid eye movement) sleep and start a dream, our brain issues a couple commands. One releases a paralyzing agent that prevents us from acting out our dreams and the other shuts off our near-term memory.

I know the first is true because my dog can't run when he dreams. His legs move, but it's more a twitch than anything frutiful. The short-term memory thing, I think, is a defense against confusing dreams with reality, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, it's the reason so few of us can remember our dreams. We aren't supposed to. In that sense, it works, but it can be overcome. What I've learned to do is wake up with my mind running and right off the bat try to recall parts of the dream. Then, I focus on those and, usually, more and more comes back. I have to do this quite a bit if I want to remember the dream very well, to force it into long-term memory, but I think it works.

What's deadly is waking up and having to go to the bathroom or make coffee. By the time those activities are done, the dream has evaporated. You have to be quick to catch a dream, and not many people will tell you that.

Oh, unsolicited advice is worth as much as free advice, but has the added benefit of being uncalled for.

Helpful Dream Advice

No, I don't subscribe to those ideas that if you dream of a fish that means you'll be traveling, or that if you see a circus clown you'll be getting money. I think that's all hooey.

But I'm well-practiced in dreaming or, more honestly, in having nightmares, and I've stumbled on a way of remembering them better. Some people have told me it's good to do that, and that, combined with what I learned on a TV show, has given me a habit.

The TV program explained a few things, not the least of which is that before we go into REM (rapid eye movement) sleep and start a dream, our brain issues a couple commands. One releases a paralyzing agent that prevents us from acting out our dreams and the other shuts off our near-term memory.

I know the first is true because my dog can't run when he dreams. His legs move, but it's more a twitch than anything frutiful. The short-term memory thing, I think, is a defense against confusing dreams with reality, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, it's the reason so few of us can remember our dreams. We aren't supposed to. In that sense, it works, but it can be overcome. What I've learned to do is wake up with my mind running and right off the bat try to recall parts of the dream. Then, I focus on those and, usually, more and more comes back. I have to do this quite a bit if I want to remember the dream very well, to force it into long-term memory, but I think it works.

What's deadly is waking up and having to go to the bathroom or make coffee. By the time those activities are done, the dream has evaporated. You have to be quick to catch a dream, and not many people will tell you that.

Oh, unsolicited advice is worth as much as free advice, but has the added benefit of being uncalled for.

The Return

It wasn't widely commented on, but I've been mostly offline for the past eighteen hours. Surprisingly, the Internet still exists, and this bodes well for those of you who will survive my eventual death.

Yes, I had concerns.

We had some rain, elsewhere referred to as a storm, a rainstorm, or even the grating rain event, and in the midst of the lightning, thunder, and falling water I lost my Internet connection. These things happen, so I wasn't all that surprised. Annoyed, yes; isolated, certainly; apalled, nope.

!@(badlights.jpg:L120 popimg: "No Good")

The longer the outage extended, the more frustrated I was. I use DSL to connect, and coming from the "wall" is a typical RJ11 jack into which I plug the Pacbell-supplied "octopus." It makes the one jack two, one for the modem and another, with a filter, for the telephone line. Since the phone wasn't working, either, I figured it wasn't the modem and expected SBC to soon correct the problem. These things happen when it rains after a period of no rain, and even during periods solar activity.

My patience, however, has its limits, and when I wasn't able to get online this morning my brow furrowed (not by itself. I helped). After a bit, the modem returned to life, but it had been momentarily functional all along. Never longer than two or three minutes, but it did work occasionally. Better, the telephone gave me a dial tone, which I used to call SBC.

I spoke to some woman with a delightful accent who was no help at all. Okay, I lied to her about the number and flavor of my computers (it never helps to mention Linux), but followed her instructions. She couldn't find anything wrong, but put in a trouble ticket and dispatched someone. She couldn't see a problem, but suggested that the problem may be with "inside wiring."

I gulped, only, not really.

The one thing I know about interior wiring is that it's the customer's (read: my) responsibility. The phone co will charge, and charge exhorbitantly, to fix that kind of thing. Unknown to them, however, is that I did all the interior wiring myself (well, it was a part of my job for years). They may expect a nicely mounted wall jack, like everyone else has, and may shake their heads at the naked wire coming through a hole in the floor. I would be, too, only I drilled the hole sometime in the late sixties when my water bed broke and have found it to be a much handier place to run the wire than up the wall.

Later today, in recounting this story and my decision not to rewire the house today, I got a snide, uncharitable comment about preventive maintenance which I choose to ignore. I may have already run multiple lines under the house and, if not, it won't be a big deal. Ideally I'd like to install conduit down there and run the cable through that, but in the meantime I can just pull the existing line out with a new one attached and, voila!, re-terminate both ends. Now that I'm reasonably certain the problem lays between the telco demark and my computer, I know what to do.

When I said it was the rain I may have been optimistic. I mentioned that to the telco, too, but failed to say anything about the mice I saw saving themselves from our meager deluge. They're the ones I think did it.

The Return

It wasn't widely commented on, but I've been mostly offline for the past eighteen hours. Surprisingly, the Internet still exists, and this bodes well for those of you who will survive my eventual death.

Yes, I had concerns.

We had some rain, elsewhere referred to as a storm, a rainstorm, or even the grating rain event, and in the midst of the lightning, thunder, and falling water I lost my Internet connection. These things happen, so I wasn't all that surprised. Annoyed, yes; isolated, certainly; apalled, nope.

!@(badlights.jpg:L120 popimg: "No Good")

The longer the outage extended, the more frustrated I was. I use DSL to connect, and coming from the "wall" is a typical RJ11 jack into which I plug the Pacbell-supplied "octopus." It makes the one jack two, one for the modem and another, with a filter, for the telephone line. Since the phone wasn't working, either, I figured it wasn't the modem and expected SBC to soon correct the problem. These things happen when it rains after a period of no rain, and even during periods solar activity.

My patience, however, has its limits, and when I wasn't able to get online this morning my brow furrowed (not by itself. I helped). After a bit, the modem returned to life, but it had been momentarily functional all along. Never longer than two or three minutes, but it did work occasionally. Better, the telephone gave me a dial tone, which I used to call SBC.

I spoke to some woman with a delightful accent who was no help at all. Okay, I lied to her about the number and flavor of my computers (it never helps to mention Linux), but followed her instructions. She couldn't find anything wrong, but put in a trouble ticket and dispatched someone. She couldn't see a problem, but suggested that the problem may be with "inside wiring."

I gulped, only, not really.

The one thing I know about interior wiring is that it's the customer's (read: my) responsibility. The phone co will charge, and charge exhorbitantly, to fix that kind of thing. Unknown to them, however, is that I did all the interior wiring myself (well, it was a part of my job for years). They may expect a nicely mounted wall jack, like everyone else has, and may shake their heads at the naked wire coming through a hole in the floor. I would be, too, only I drilled the hole sometime in the late sixties when my water bed broke and have found it to be a much handier place to run the wire than up the wall.

Later today, in recounting this story and my decision not to rewire the house today, I got a snide, uncharitable comment about preventive maintenance which I choose to ignore. I may have already run multiple lines under the house and, if not, it won't be a big deal. Ideally I'd like to install conduit down there and run the cable through that, but in the meantime I can just pull the existing line out with a new one attached and, voila!, re-terminate both ends. Now that I'm reasonably certain the problem lays between the telco demark and my computer, I know what to do.

When I said it was the rain I may have been optimistic. I mentioned that to the telco, too, but failed to say anything about the mice I saw saving themselves from our meager deluge. They're the ones I think did it.

Simplicity

As a human I can appreciate how funny we are as a species. Aliens, when they're not busy probing us or creating crop circles, may have quite a different take.

In some ways I think we're little changed from very primitive times. Before we came up with the notion that angry gods caused floods and other misfortunes, we thought it was because of something we did or didn't. Since, if you slapped me it hurt and if I threw a rock in a pond it splashed, we wanted everything to be neat and orderly and to have simple causes produce immediate effects.

Thus, our ventures into magic. If we just knew that it was our watering a little plot of land that caused the heavens to bring welcome rain, like it did that one time, we'd be set. Trouble is, of course, sometimes we watered the little plot and the drought continued. In that case we strove to find another single cause, and came up with everything from dances to festive, particular clothing.

None of that worked, but we became very good at coming up with excuses. Later, the witch doctors lost their power to the priests, who told us how the gods were responsible and which seemingly random and arbitrary acts we should perform to please them. This resulted in the priests having the upper hand as far as tribal doings went, so they were pretty damn happy.

Yesterday I washed my dog, but today he's avoiding me. It's easy and second-nature for me to draw an association based on those two facts. Since my household lacks both magicians and priests I pretty much have to figure out for myself if this behavior is a cause and effect or just a coincidence.

Simplicity

As a human I can appreciate how funny we are as a species. Aliens, when they're not busy probing us or creating crop circles, may have quite a different take.

In some ways I think we're little changed from very primitive times. Before we came up with the notion that angry gods caused floods and other misfortunes, we thought it was because of something we did or didn't. Since, if you slapped me it hurt and if I threw a rock in a pond it splashed, we wanted everything to be neat and orderly and to have simple causes produce immediate effects.

Thus, our ventures into magic. If we just knew that it was our watering a little plot of land that caused the heavens to bring welcome rain, like it did that one time, we'd be set. Trouble is, of course, sometimes we watered the little plot and the drought continued. In that case we strove to find another single cause, and came up with everything from dances to festive, particular clothing.

None of that worked, but we became very good at coming up with excuses. Later, the witch doctors lost their power to the priests, who told us how the gods were responsible and which seemingly random and arbitrary acts we should perform to please them. This resulted in the priests having the upper hand as far as tribal doings went, so they were pretty damn happy.

Yesterday I washed my dog, but today he's avoiding me. It's easy and second-nature for me to draw an association based on those two facts. Since my household lacks both magicians and priests I pretty much have to figure out for myself if this behavior is a cause and effect or just a coincidence.

Pressure Cooker

Why, oh why, did I end yesterday's entry promising exciting stuff today? Now I not only have to invent some remarkable event to write about, I have to do so with poignancy, insight, and humor. This may not be easy.

I have, naturally, a list of things to blog about, but none seem adequate to satisfy the build-up. I had an unremarkable day, so writing about that won't do, and my difficulties with women, life, and self have begun to bore even me. In fact, I write about other things to avoid thinking about those problems.

I could write about Pedro, my rally monkey, but I only got him to avoid looking like I didn't care about the Angels a few years ago when a colleague went to a baseball game. Everyone in the department got something, and it was pretty noisy there for awhile with all those thunder sticks. The rally monkey, with paws conveniently featuring Velcro, hung on the roll bar of my car on the ride back home and inspired not a few surprising looks.

In a convertible, everybody knows your business. Also, they have no qualms about asking you for directions since you're right out there. I'd say it's like you have nowhere to hide except there's no "like" about it. They can all see what you're drinking, hear what you're listening to, and notice how well or poorly you're dressed.

Today was a very hot day, not a good one for convertibles. People think they'd be cool, but it's like sitting in a frying pan. I did find out today that a guy I've been exchanging e-mails with for about five years also has a convertible. We're similar in our use of them, too, and agree that when you have a ragtop it's senseless to put the top up.

Few things bother me as much as seeing a convertible all buttoned up when it's a gorgeous, seventy-five degree day. I wonder just how much more beautiful it has to be for the clown to lower his top and justify the added expense of a convertible top.

This entry is not going well. Not exciting at all.

The other major achievment of my day was not washing my dog. I had no time, what with wondering how many people were reading my blog and how delighted they all must be. I read some other blogs, which were better than mine, but forgot to take any notes on how to do better, so this is what you get for today.

Maybe I'll leave off with a quote I remember. It must be a good one because I don't remember very many quotes. I have a book full of them that I use for inspiration, but hardly any I can summon up or that I've bother to memorise. This one, though, I have:

"Art should never try to be popular; the public should make itself artistic" -- Oscar Wilde.
Or, something like that.

Pressure Cooker

Why, oh why, did I end yesterday's entry promising exciting stuff today? Now I not only have to invent some remarkable event to write about, I have to do so with poignancy, insight, and humor. This may not be easy.

I have, naturally, a list of things to blog about, but none seem adequate to satisfy the build-up. I had an unremarkable day, so writing about that won't do, and my difficulties with women, life, and self have begun to bore even me. In fact, I write about other things to avoid thinking about those problems.

I could write about Pedro, my rally monkey, but I only got him to avoid looking like I didn't care about the Angels a few years ago when a colleague went to a baseball game. Everyone in the department got something, and it was pretty noisy there for awhile with all those thunder sticks. The rally monkey, with paws conveniently featuring Velcro, hung on the roll bar of my car on the ride back home and inspired not a few surprising looks.

In a convertible, everybody knows your business. Also, they have no qualms about asking you for directions since you're right out there. I'd say it's like you have nowhere to hide except there's no "like" about it. They can all see what you're drinking, hear what you're listening to, and notice how well or poorly you're dressed.

Today was a very hot day, not a good one for convertibles. People think they'd be cool, but it's like sitting in a frying pan. I did find out today that a guy I've been exchanging e-mails with for about five years also has a convertible. We're similar in our use of them, too, and agree that when you have a ragtop it's senseless to put the top up.

Few things bother me as much as seeing a convertible all buttoned up when it's a gorgeous, seventy-five degree day. I wonder just how much more beautiful it has to be for the clown to lower his top and justify the added expense of a convertible top.

This entry is not going well. Not exciting at all.

The other major achievment of my day was not washing my dog. I had no time, what with wondering how many people were reading my blog and how delighted they all must be. I read some other blogs, which were better than mine, but forgot to take any notes on how to do better, so this is what you get for today.

Maybe I'll leave off with a quote I remember. It must be a good one because I don't remember very many quotes. I have a book full of them that I use for inspiration, but hardly any I can summon up or that I've bother to memorise. This one, though, I have:

"Art should never try to be popular; the public should make itself artistic" -- Oscar Wilde.
Or, something like that.

Canine Ignorance

In my life I've had, or been around, several dogs. I keep outliving them, but I take no virtue in that: I think they live far healthier lives than I do. Without a doubt they eat better, I see to that.

Today's dog story is about my current dog, Minardi.
!@(Waiting.JPG:L120 popimg: "Minardi")
This is what he looks like when he's looking out the front door. The good news is, you can't see the yard, but you can see his ears. He's listening.

The good news is, for that picture, he isn't chewing. For the past few weeks he's been occupying himself with munching, or gnawing, on the root of his tail. I have no idea why, but I have two guesses: he has fleas or he has a hotspot.

Fleas I understand, and I have some Advantage(tm) that I can sprinkle on him. That means a bath, first, so he may get that tomorrow if I'm feeling hot and dusty. Since it will be about ninety degrees, the outlook for him is good.

But I've heard about these hotspots, too, without ever quite understanding what they are. I don't see any fleas on him, he doesn't scratch like mad, and I have no bites, so that would tend to rule out those guys. What I may do, before it gets hot, is pedal up to the pet store and look over the medicines. I'm sure they have something for hotspots, again, whatever they are, and it may be more than an ice cube.

See? Hotspot .. ice cube. That's a joke. I crack myself up.

Whatever, it's getting a bit yucky scratching his butt when it's all covered with dog spit. He likes it when I do that, and also when I rub his tummy, but he has no idea how much it bothers me. It bothers me enough that I will do what I can to alleviate this problem.

Tomorrow ... back to interesting entries!

Canine Ignorance

In my life I've had, or been around, several dogs. I keep outliving them, but I take no virtue in that: I think they live far healthier lives than I do. Without a doubt they eat better, I see to that.

Today's dog story is about my current dog, Minardi.
!@(Waiting.JPG:L120 popimg: "Minardi")
This is what he looks like when he's looking out the front door. The good news is, you can't see the yard, but you can see his ears. He's listening.

The good news is, for that picture, he isn't chewing. For the past few weeks he's been occupying himself with munching, or gnawing, on the root of his tail. I have no idea why, but I have two guesses: he has fleas or he has a hotspot.

Fleas I understand, and I have some Advantage(tm) that I can sprinkle on him. That means a bath, first, so he may get that tomorrow if I'm feeling hot and dusty. Since it will be about ninety degrees, the outlook for him is good.

But I've heard about these hotspots, too, without ever quite understanding what they are. I don't see any fleas on him, he doesn't scratch like mad, and I have no bites, so that would tend to rule out those guys. What I may do, before it gets hot, is pedal up to the pet store and look over the medicines. I'm sure they have something for hotspots, again, whatever they are, and it may be more than an ice cube.

See? Hotspot .. ice cube. That's a joke. I crack myself up.

Whatever, it's getting a bit yucky scratching his butt when it's all covered with dog spit. He likes it when I do that, and also when I rub his tummy, but he has no idea how much it bothers me. It bothers me enough that I will do what I can to alleviate this problem.

Tomorrow ... back to interesting entries!

It's Someone's Birthday!

I suppose I could do some arithmetic, or have this computer do it for me, and determine how many people have their birthday today. Whatever the result, I know of one: Shervin.

He's the dental student assigned to my case and today, just as he was leading me to my chair, his phone rang. It was his girlfriend's mother, wishing him a happy birthday. I can safely say that none of my girlfriends' mothers have ever wished me a happy birthday, although a few of them happened to meet me.

Today's dental appointment was exactly like last time's, differing only in locale. Now I'm up to the fourth floor. The consulting doctor overseeing Shervin's work today resembled a guy I know, Will, but was distinctly hard on poor Shervin. What's fascinating to me is all these consulting doctors the student must arrange and clear his treatment plan with. I'm not sure if it's evidence of extreme specialization or unions, but my case must be reviewed by no fewer than four consulting doctors before any treatment can begin. There's one for gums, one for Advanced Treatment Cases, one for the bridgework, and one I can only imagine knows about teeth and gums.

The next visit, by the way, is when Shervin will be presenting his treatment plan to a board of dentists. I get to attend and watch them look at a slide show or something about my teeth. I'm hoping for a plaster cast of my mouth to be passed around, but maybe they'll all take a look. In that case I should give them their money's worth and enjoy a lunch of Oreo cookies and parsley.

I was going to mention my plan for dental health, today, but got sidetracked. Suffice it to say that if we'd been created by any Intelligent Designer I think we'd get new teeth every ten years or so. Think how cute someone in her thirties would look with the gaps we see in six year olds!

It's Someone's Birthday!

I suppose I could do some arithmetic, or have this computer do it for me, and determine how many people have their birthday today. Whatever the result, I know of one: Shervin.

He's the dental student assigned to my case and today, just as he was leading me to my chair, his phone rang. It was his girlfriend's mother, wishing him a happy birthday. I can safely say that none of my girlfriends' mothers have ever wished me a happy birthday, although a few of them happened to meet me.

Today's dental appointment was exactly like last time's, differing only in locale. Now I'm up to the fourth floor. The consulting doctor overseeing Shervin's work today resembled a guy I know, Will, but was distinctly hard on poor Shervin. What's fascinating to me is all these consulting doctors the student must arrange and clear his treatment plan with. I'm not sure if it's evidence of extreme specialization or unions, but my case must be reviewed by no fewer than four consulting doctors before any treatment can begin. There's one for gums, one for Advanced Treatment Cases, one for the bridgework, and one I can only imagine knows about teeth and gums.

The next visit, by the way, is when Shervin will be presenting his treatment plan to a board of dentists. I get to attend and watch them look at a slide show or something about my teeth. I'm hoping for a plaster cast of my mouth to be passed around, but maybe they'll all take a look. In that case I should give them their money's worth and enjoy a lunch of Oreo cookies and parsley.

I was going to mention my plan for dental health, today, but got sidetracked. Suffice it to say that if we'd been created by any Intelligent Designer I think we'd get new teeth every ten years or so. Think how cute someone in her thirties would look with the gaps we see in six year olds!

Odd

Sometimes I like to check my stats and things so that I can feel very inferior to other bloggers.

No matter their numbers and popularity, I'm certain to win in percent of visitors running Linux. Over one-fifth are using that platform, a statistic I challenge anyone to beat. It would be higher, but some days I only gaze fondly at my site five times a day.

A lot of people (for me, anyway) dropped by today, but that's an anomaly.

I'm not happy about it, but I know that I'm in the minority in my tastes, interests, and amusements. If the world were a true democracy, I'd be voted out. I accept that the majority believe all kinds of things I don't, have tastes I don't share. I don't get mad any more when I'm faced with admitting I'm in the minority, but it saddens me.

As much as I'd be tickled pink by it, Crenellated Flotsam will never draw hundreds of daily visitors. There's no reason it can't (except the lack of interesting content), but I'm not offering anything most people are interested in. It's less nerve-wracking not having to please all those visitors, anyway.

Still, like I've noted before, nothing gets me hits quite like talking about foosas.

Odd

Sometimes I like to check my stats and things so that I can feel very inferior to other bloggers.

No matter their numbers and popularity, I'm certain to win in percent of visitors running Linux. Over one-fifth are using that platform, a statistic I challenge anyone to beat. It would be higher, but some days I only gaze fondly at my site five times a day.

A lot of people (for me, anyway) dropped by today, but that's an anomaly.

I'm not happy about it, but I know that I'm in the minority in my tastes, interests, and amusements. If the world were a true democracy, I'd be voted out. I accept that the majority believe all kinds of things I don't, have tastes I don't share. I don't get mad any more when I'm faced with admitting I'm in the minority, but it saddens me.

As much as I'd be tickled pink by it, Crenellated Flotsam will never draw hundreds of daily visitors. There's no reason it can't (except the lack of interesting content), but I'm not offering anything most people are interested in. It's less nerve-wracking not having to please all those visitors, anyway.

Still, like I've noted before, nothing gets me hits quite like talking about foosas.

Media Report

This morning I found out that two blogs I read faithfully were both talking about the American news accounts of the earthquake in Kasmir.

I'd like to talk about that, too, but first I need to express my profound sympathy to the peoples of Pakistan, India, and, especially, to those affected. These cataclysmic, ineffable tragedies, whether man-made or natural, give me pause and often put me in a funk. Quite frankly, I can no more conceive of twenty thousand deaths than I can ten billion galaxies.

Now, my related issue.

Right after Katrina, when the news was all about those stranded at the Superdome and the New Orleans convention center, I kept hearing over and over about how scenes resembled the third world and how American citizens were being treated like third world refugees. Those comments, to put it mildly, disgusted me.

I regularly watch BBC World news on PBS. For the past several months nearly every night's show has a short report from the Sudan, Malawi, or another country neglected by the US media. I've seen countless, sickening reports of famine, displacement, rape, murder, and political strife and the temporary aid camps we in the west give to those on the wrong end of nature's and mankind's wrath. Those pitiful people, who've done no wrong, would probably move to the Superdome in a moment, and it's an insult to them to compare their plight to those of huddled near the convention center.

What struck me is how willing we are to subject the Africans to shabby tents and lengthy trips for water, how blind an eye we cast on their scrabbling for filling, but non-nutrtional roots or the casual, inhumane dropping of wheat from helicopters as if we're feeding animals at the zoo, but making American citizens wait a day or two for three thousand packaged meals is treating them like "third world citizens."

What happened in and around New Orleans was horrible, no doubt about it, but it never even approached the horrors we permit in developing countries. Those waiting in New Orleans had clothes for God's sake, a luxury we're more than happy to deny those who don't hold blue passports.

The earthquake in Pakistan, once again, I think demonstrates precisely the difference between the developed and under-developed countries. Our homes and buildings aren't constructed of mud, as were those in Iran and here, our depots are overflowing with blankets, food, and cots, and those in the rest of the world have none of that.

We send ours from New Orleans to Texas in air conditioned buses. The women of the Darfur region, after being raped and their husbands killed, get to walk to a barely leveled camp that teems with disease, starving children, and no prospects for any future life.

That's what I consider the third world. Not the steps of the Superdome.

Media Report

This morning I found out that two blogs I read faithfully were both talking about the American news accounts of the earthquake in Kasmir.

I'd like to talk about that, too, but first I need to express my profound sympathy to the peoples of Pakistan, India, and, especially, to those affected. These cataclysmic, ineffable tragedies, whether man-made or natural, give me pause and often put me in a funk. Quite frankly, I can no more conceive of twenty thousand deaths than I can ten billion galaxies.

Now, my related issue.

Right after Katrina, when the news was all about those stranded at the Superdome and the New Orleans convention center, I kept hearing over and over about how scenes resembled the third world and how American citizens were being treated like third world refugees. Those comments, to put it mildly, disgusted me.

I regularly watch BBC World news on PBS. For the past several months nearly every night's show has a short report from the Sudan, Malawi, or another country neglected by the US media. I've seen countless, sickening reports of famine, displacement, rape, murder, and political strife and the temporary aid camps we in the west give to those on the wrong end of nature's and mankind's wrath. Those pitiful people, who've done no wrong, would probably move to the Superdome in a moment, and it's an insult to them to compare their plight to those of huddled near the convention center.

What struck me is how willing we are to subject the Africans to shabby tents and lengthy trips for water, how blind an eye we cast on their scrabbling for filling, but non-nutrtional roots or the casual, inhumane dropping of wheat from helicopters as if we're feeding animals at the zoo, but making American citizens wait a day or two for three thousand packaged meals is treating them like "third world citizens."

What happened in and around New Orleans was horrible, no doubt about it, but it never even approached the horrors we permit in developing countries. Those waiting in New Orleans had clothes for God's sake, a luxury we're more than happy to deny those who don't hold blue passports.

The earthquake in Pakistan, once again, I think demonstrates precisely the difference between the developed and under-developed countries. Our homes and buildings aren't constructed of mud, as were those in Iran and here, our depots are overflowing with blankets, food, and cots, and those in the rest of the world have none of that.

We send ours from New Orleans to Texas in air conditioned buses. The women of the Darfur region, after being raped and their husbands killed, get to walk to a barely leveled camp that teems with disease, starving children, and no prospects for any future life.

That's what I consider the third world. Not the steps of the Superdome.

A Talented Man

It comes as no surprise to my readers, but my list of talents is pretty damn long. Exhaustive, some would say. Still, there are things I don't do well, and you're looking at one of them.

This blogging thing has me stumped. Either that, or it demonstrates my lack of precision and focus, even with the categories. Yesterday's entry, which I've never read, is an example of my suffering.

I get carried away. On occasion I think of lots of things to write in my blog during the hours when I should be doing something else. This, I think, is normal, but not how I then handle it. I sit down, start writing my new entry, and before I know it I've written half a page and have yet to even get near my point.

Then, I panic. Blogging is a 21st century activity even though it started way back in the 1990s. I think I have one foot, maybe two, still firmly planted back in the century of my birth and am not adopting as well as I might like. Blogs should be short, something one can read while holding one's breath, and I just ramble on and on, endlessly, hypnotized by the words showing up on my screen.

Then, instead of a sharp, succinct entry that people can read with pleasure, I end up with a scrawling page of gibberish that scrolls way past the editorial features.

This is not good. On the other hand, it's me.

A Talented Man

It comes as no surprise to my readers, but my list of talents is pretty damn long. Exhaustive, some would say. Still, there are things I don't do well, and you're looking at one of them.

This blogging thing has me stumped. Either that, or it demonstrates my lack of precision and focus, even with the categories. Yesterday's entry, which I've never read, is an example of my suffering.

I get carried away. On occasion I think of lots of things to write in my blog during the hours when I should be doing something else. This, I think, is normal, but not how I then handle it. I sit down, start writing my new entry, and before I know it I've written half a page and have yet to even get near my point.

Then, I panic. Blogging is a 21st century activity even though it started way back in the 1990s. I think I have one foot, maybe two, still firmly planted back in the century of my birth and am not adopting as well as I might like. Blogs should be short, something one can read while holding one's breath, and I just ramble on and on, endlessly, hypnotized by the words showing up on my screen.

Then, instead of a sharp, succinct entry that people can read with pleasure, I end up with a scrawling page of gibberish that scrolls way past the editorial features.

This is not good. On the other hand, it's me.

Lies

Today I may have lied to dental student Shervin but odds are that he'll never notice. I strongly believe he isn't among those who look for foosas and find my blog.

What happened is this: during a lull in the endless waiting for one of the required doctor consultations I mentioned the good thing about going to the dentist is the opportunity it gives me to blog about it. The inference being that I would, but now that I'm home, I won't.

For some reason I was thinking today about Rosemary Woods and the famous missing eighteen minutes on one of the Nixon tapes. Maybe it's because of all the politics that have been going on lately, but I'm disappointed.

The thing is, I'm looking for things against the current administration, and few things make me happier than reading about DeLay, Rove, and Mike Brown. The thing is, we don't have anything scandalous in this country.

Even when I think back to Watergate, I mean, what was it? Breaking in to get inside info on the other party's plans. I'm sorry, but that really isn't so horrendous or such a big deal now that I think about it. Neither is DeLay's siphoning money around, or anything else I can remember being "apalling." Politicians are douche bags, and that about covers the lot of them.

Hell, Clinton swore under oath, which might be a big thing, but he was talking about sex. If anyone does, the President of the United States deserves an occasional blow job, even if it comes from a dumpy intern.

I remember reading an Andy Rooney piece years ago, before the Soviet Union collapsed. He was writing about some spy incident and mentioned that probably the most important information either side got from their years of spying and millions of dollars was a list of the opposing spies. It's a fairly closed system.

And I'm starting to see that it's the same way with American political scandals. I get all jazzed, but I have to admit it's over small potatoes that matter more politically than realistically. I think in the future I'll count to ten before getting all riled up, and I hope Shervin agrees.

Lies

Today I may have lied to dental student Shervin but odds are that he'll never notice. I strongly believe he isn't among those who look for foosas and find my blog.

What happened is this: during a lull in the endless waiting for one of the required doctor consultations I mentioned the good thing about going to the dentist is the opportunity it gives me to blog about it. The inference being that I would, but now that I'm home, I won't.

For some reason I was thinking today about Rosemary Woods and the famous missing eighteen minutes on one of the Nixon tapes. Maybe it's because of all the politics that have been going on lately, but I'm disappointed.

The thing is, I'm looking for things against the current administration, and few things make me happier than reading about DeLay, Rove, and Mike Brown. The thing is, we don't have anything scandalous in this country.

Even when I think back to Watergate, I mean, what was it? Breaking in to get inside info on the other party's plans. I'm sorry, but that really isn't so horrendous or such a big deal now that I think about it. Neither is DeLay's siphoning money around, or anything else I can remember being "apalling." Politicians are douche bags, and that about covers the lot of them.

Hell, Clinton swore under oath, which might be a big thing, but he was talking about sex. If anyone does, the President of the United States deserves an occasional blow job, even if it comes from a dumpy intern.

I remember reading an Andy Rooney piece years ago, before the Soviet Union collapsed. He was writing about some spy incident and mentioned that probably the most important information either side got from their years of spying and millions of dollars was a list of the opposing spies. It's a fairly closed system.

And I'm starting to see that it's the same way with American political scandals. I get all jazzed, but I have to admit it's over small potatoes that matter more politically than realistically. I think in the future I'll count to ten before getting all riled up, and I hope Shervin agrees.

Chef Russell

I'm not a bad cook, or maybe I am. I don't know.

I've been fixing things and eating them for years, but many are the same things, ones I know how to cook. Of course, when I make something new that I like, I end up making it a lot and then forget something that I enjoyed in the past, but that's the way it goes.

When it rains and I'm home, I make chili. When I'm ill, I make chicken soup, but that's about the extent of my rituals. Everything else is catch as catch can, but I usually try to make something quick. Most famous, of course, is my Asian Fajitas Surprise, which can be just about anything. Thus, the surprise.

Today it was hot, damn hot. Unseasonably hot. "Turn on a fan and leave a cotton rag in the freezer" hot. I knew I'd be hungry around dinner time, hungrier than a salad, so I thought I'd make a cool and filling pasta salad. The thing about pasta salads is I've never made one before and have only eaten them once or twice in my life, so I don't know much about them.

I could look up a recipe, but that's no fun. I just remember that they were cool and had fusilli in them, a pasta I don't think I have, so I made mine with mostaccioli, which was handy. The centerpiece was going to be brocolli, but when I looked at it, it had spoiled.

Hmmm, I thought, now that a ton of pasta was cooking. I had sugar peas, celery, bell peppers and decided to cook those, but then decided the celery would be better raw. (It would add "texture")

It looked a bit weak and I considered tomatoes, and still might, but I looked in the freezer and found some emergency peas and carrots. I steamed the veggies and by the time the time they were done the pasta, naturally, was a solid lump in the collander. That's easy enough to fix, and into a big bowl went most of the pasta and most of the vegetables, cooked and otherwise.

Then, I dumped in what was left of my salad dressing, an amount that's probably excessive, and put it in the fridge to cool down. The pasta and veggies that didn't fit in the bowl went in a smaller bowl, with no dressing. A couple hours later I was hungry, but the salad wasn't cool yet. I just took the smaller bowl out, dumped in oil, vinegar, whatever spices I grabbed and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese, and the result was ... filling.

I'm not sure it's a real pasta salad, so I think I'll call it my Pasta Salad Surprise. Eating like this it's a wonder I didn't die years ago.

Chef Russell

I'm not a bad cook, or maybe I am. I don't know.

I've been fixing things and eating them for years, but many are the same things, ones I know how to cook. Of course, when I make something new that I like, I end up making it a lot and then forget something that I enjoyed in the past, but that's the way it goes.

When it rains and I'm home, I make chili. When I'm ill, I make chicken soup, but that's about the extent of my rituals. Everything else is catch as catch can, but I usually try to make something quick. Most famous, of course, is my Asian Fajitas Surprise, which can be just about anything. Thus, the surprise.

Today it was hot, damn hot. Unseasonably hot. "Turn on a fan and leave a cotton rag in the freezer" hot. I knew I'd be hungry around dinner time, hungrier than a salad, so I thought I'd make a cool and filling pasta salad. The thing about pasta salads is I've never made one before and have only eaten them once or twice in my life, so I don't know much about them.

I could look up a recipe, but that's no fun. I just remember that they were cool and had fusilli in them, a pasta I don't think I have, so I made mine with mostaccioli, which was handy. The centerpiece was going to be brocolli, but when I looked at it, it had spoiled.

Hmmm, I thought, now that a ton of pasta was cooking. I had sugar peas, celery, bell peppers and decided to cook those, but then decided the celery would be better raw. (It would add "texture")

It looked a bit weak and I considered tomatoes, and still might, but I looked in the freezer and found some emergency peas and carrots. I steamed the veggies and by the time the time they were done the pasta, naturally, was a solid lump in the collander. That's easy enough to fix, and into a big bowl went most of the pasta and most of the vegetables, cooked and otherwise.

Then, I dumped in what was left of my salad dressing, an amount that's probably excessive, and put it in the fridge to cool down. The pasta and veggies that didn't fit in the bowl went in a smaller bowl, with no dressing. A couple hours later I was hungry, but the salad wasn't cool yet. I just took the smaller bowl out, dumped in oil, vinegar, whatever spices I grabbed and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese, and the result was ... filling.

I'm not sure it's a real pasta salad, so I think I'll call it my Pasta Salad Surprise. Eating like this it's a wonder I didn't die years ago.

Upsetting One and All

Over the weekend, without breaking a sweat, I may have let down all kinds of people, including myself.

I went to a book fair in the fair city of West Hollywood, which sits right next to Beverly Hills. It was in a park, but not in the swimming pool, which was vacant but looked inviting nonetheless. There were tents set up all over the place, mostly to shield local book sellers from the weather. They may have been expecting rain, but what we got was unrelenting sunshine.

Out in the parking lot there were tons of used, cheap books, most of which I wouldn't have bought as new. There was a great little book written by J. Edgar Hoover talking about Communism that I considered, but the line to pay was too long for just one book. I don't know if it was in West Hollywood because of the subject matter (West Hollywood is a gay, liberal stronghold) or the author. Sadly, there was no picture of the author in a dress.

There was much going on in the Bodhi Tree tents. That's a local bookstore / supply store for New Age, occult, transcendentalism, paranormal goods. I've bought things there in the past, but this time steered clear of the aura cleansers and their ilk.

I went, mostly, to see one of my friends speak at a panel and was pleasantly surprised to see a few others there. They're all music people, a subject that makes me nearly as nervous as plays. I don't feel adequate when talking about music, not at all. Although I love listening to it and played a few instruments, it's an intimidating thing for me. I don't know anything about music, hardly any of the people or legends, and everyone else is so worldly I don't ever have anything to contribute to the conversation.

But that's not the point.

After the panel I panicked and, like the four year old I often resemble, I fled without saying goodbye or anything. I just took off. I rode to a nearby bustop in the heart of Beverly Hills, a block or so away from famous Rodeo Drive, I think, and waited for the bus to take me home. I thought I'd entertain my blog readers with a series of famous people I saw but I quickly realized two things:

1) I don't know very many famous people.
2) I can never recognize anyone.

When I'm out with friends and someone famous is in the restaurant or whatever, it's always the duty of the person I'm with to recognize the famous person. After doing that, I can see them, but not before.

I saw lots of very nice cars that may have had celebrities in them, but none of them had signs telling me who was inside. It may have just been rich people.

So, I can't relate any big star sightings, have yet to apologize to my friends for bolting, and on the way home I learned that my debit card had expired a few days prior when I went to pay for some groceries.

I hope they've put them away by now since some of them required refrigeration.

Upsetting One and All

Over the weekend, without breaking a sweat, I may have let down all kinds of people, including myself.

I went to a book fair in the fair city of West Hollywood, which sits right next to Beverly Hills. It was in a park, but not in the swimming pool, which was vacant but looked inviting nonetheless. There were tents set up all over the place, mostly to shield local book sellers from the weather. They may have been expecting rain, but what we got was unrelenting sunshine.

Out in the parking lot there were tons of used, cheap books, most of which I wouldn't have bought as new. There was a great little book written by J. Edgar Hoover talking about Communism that I considered, but the line to pay was too long for just one book. I don't know if it was in West Hollywood because of the subject matter (West Hollywood is a gay, liberal stronghold) or the author. Sadly, there was no picture of the author in a dress.

There was much going on in the Bodhi Tree tents. That's a local bookstore / supply store for New Age, occult, transcendentalism, paranormal goods. I've bought things there in the past, but this time steered clear of the aura cleansers and their ilk.

I went, mostly, to see one of my friends speak at a panel and was pleasantly surprised to see a few others there. They're all music people, a subject that makes me nearly as nervous as plays. I don't feel adequate when talking about music, not at all. Although I love listening to it and played a few instruments, it's an intimidating thing for me. I don't know anything about music, hardly any of the people or legends, and everyone else is so worldly I don't ever have anything to contribute to the conversation.

But that's not the point.

After the panel I panicked and, like the four year old I often resemble, I fled without saying goodbye or anything. I just took off. I rode to a nearby bustop in the heart of Beverly Hills, a block or so away from famous Rodeo Drive, I think, and waited for the bus to take me home. I thought I'd entertain my blog readers with a series of famous people I saw but I quickly realized two things:

1) I don't know very many famous people.
2) I can never recognize anyone.

When I'm out with friends and someone famous is in the restaurant or whatever, it's always the duty of the person I'm with to recognize the famous person. After doing that, I can see them, but not before.

I saw lots of very nice cars that may have had celebrities in them, but none of them had signs telling me who was inside. It may have just been rich people.

So, I can't relate any big star sightings, have yet to apologize to my friends for bolting, and on the way home I learned that my debit card had expired a few days prior when I went to pay for some groceries.

I hope they've put them away by now since some of them required refrigeration.

Evolution

I'm amazed. The Internet police have failed to take away my blogging license in spite of my failure to post anything for awhile. I would have expected some sort of inactivity freeze.

But the point is, I've been thinking. The other day it was revealed that gorillas in the wild fashion tools (well, at least a walking stick used to check water depth). I remember a few years ago hearing about monkeys or chimps using a stick to capture ants, too, so it looks like the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder are catching up with us.

Then again, I often wonder if homo sapiens aren't getting dumber and less apt. My parent's generation didn't need directions on ground beef, reminders for upcoming doctor visits, insulting signs alerting them that they should duck or notice such obvious things as holes, water, or rises in the ground, but that was a generation that could smoke and drink at the beach. And, bring their dogs.

We're so much smarter now we can hardly do anything on our own.

I live in what's considered a developed nation and can go weeks and never be farther from another person or sign of civilazation than I can walk in less than five minutes. Still, a good percent of the population sees fit to carry water around with them, as if they're constant danger of dehydrating. It makes sense in New Orleans, I guess, but potable, plentiful water is a fairly basic commodity. I've never tried, but I bet I could crawl up anyone's doorstep and beg for a glass of water if I were in danger of transforming into bleached bones.

It's been said that this constant need for water may be due to the high incidence of anti-depressant medications, but I don't know if there's ever been a real study done. I sometimes carry water on my bike, but that's as much for show as any real, unsatisfiable need.

It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence, but people need to carry a bunch more stuff around with them, too. It's hard to see anyone coming or going from most places who aren't weighed down with back packs, messenger bags, belts and pockets stuffed with devices, or satchels. The other day on the bus I saw the most heartbreaking thing: a man clutching a large, plastic ziplock bag with "Patient Belongings" written on it in large white letters. In it he had a newspaper, the type of item we once carried in our hands. Is this all he has to carry things?

I can take some comfort in knowing that those growing up now might suffer hearing loss younger than I am because of their decision to plug into their own world rather than the supplied one, but I'm sorry I won't be around to see what we evolve into.

My guess would be something with pockets. If nothing else, those would be handy for keeping track of the all the new warning labels that are certain to come.

Evolution

I'm amazed. The Internet police have failed to take away my blogging license in spite of my failure to post anything for awhile. I would have expected some sort of inactivity freeze.

But the point is, I've been thinking. The other day it was revealed that gorillas in the wild fashion tools (well, at least a walking stick used to check water depth). I remember a few years ago hearing about monkeys or chimps using a stick to capture ants, too, so it looks like the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder are catching up with us.

Then again, I often wonder if homo sapiens aren't getting dumber and less apt. My parent's generation didn't need directions on ground beef, reminders for upcoming doctor visits, insulting signs alerting them that they should duck or notice such obvious things as holes, water, or rises in the ground, but that was a generation that could smoke and drink at the beach. And, bring their dogs.

We're so much smarter now we can hardly do anything on our own.

I live in what's considered a developed nation and can go weeks and never be farther from another person or sign of civilazation than I can walk in less than five minutes. Still, a good percent of the population sees fit to carry water around with them, as if they're constant danger of dehydrating. It makes sense in New Orleans, I guess, but potable, plentiful water is a fairly basic commodity. I've never tried, but I bet I could crawl up anyone's doorstep and beg for a glass of water if I were in danger of transforming into bleached bones.

It's been said that this constant need for water may be due to the high incidence of anti-depressant medications, but I don't know if there's ever been a real study done. I sometimes carry water on my bike, but that's as much for show as any real, unsatisfiable need.

It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence, but people need to carry a bunch more stuff around with them, too. It's hard to see anyone coming or going from most places who aren't weighed down with back packs, messenger bags, belts and pockets stuffed with devices, or satchels. The other day on the bus I saw the most heartbreaking thing: a man clutching a large, plastic ziplock bag with "Patient Belongings" written on it in large white letters. In it he had a newspaper, the type of item we once carried in our hands. Is this all he has to carry things?

I can take some comfort in knowing that those growing up now might suffer hearing loss younger than I am because of their decision to plug into their own world rather than the supplied one, but I'm sorry I won't be around to see what we evolve into.

My guess would be something with pockets. If nothing else, those would be handy for keeping track of the all the new warning labels that are certain to come.