The Fish to Come

I was a little nervous late last night, but we managed to dodge the bullet and life, as I know it, didn't come crashing to an end. The meteor, as predicted, missed Earth and I can eat that fish in my freezer, only just not for breakfast.

In a way, I'm a bit disappointed. It would have been, literally, spectacular. Sure, along with the rest of us, I would have died, but I've long known that I'm going to do that, anyway. And, as long as I'm going to die, it's better to do so in some tremendous way than old and sick in hospital with tubes and candy-stripers.

Which, also, explains why I'd be first in line to be abducted by aliens, should they get here. The way I see it, there's not much difference between dying here and dying on some other planet, and seeing how they live or travel would be its own reward.

I know, I should be more selfish and grasp onto every chance to live another day, to extend my life and use up even more of this planet's limited resources, but I've already taken far more than I've produced. I don't have the numbers handy, but I have a hunch it's more than my fair share, so I'm justified in feeling as guilty as I do.

And, no, I'm not actively seeking out ways to die, but seeing the end of the world would be ... noteworthy. I don't believe in it, but the Rapture would be far more interesting to see than just some doctor shaking her head while looking at my chart. More dramatic, if you will.

There's another meteor or asteroid or something on its way, and there's always the bird flu or Supervolcano under Yellowstone to consider, so I haven't given up hope on the Revenge of the Cosmos.

Until then, I'm happy to be alive and hope to live each day more fully than the last.

Thanks For All The Fish

On the outside chance that our astronomers are wrong and mixed up miles and kilometers again or lost a decimal place and 2006VV2 comes crashing onto my planet later tonight, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who's ever had a kind thought about me. And, to say thanks for all the fish. I just filled my freezer with a big pouch, too, and it would be sad to think of all those cods giving so much and me not enjoying them.
If life, as I knew it, were to end, I think I'd miss it (if I could).

I usually like surprises, which I consider odd since I'm fairly bristling with control issues, but only pleasant ones. Having my planet smacked into by a mile wide hunk of space iron definitely classifies as a "surprise," so in this case I can agree with those who consider surprises "nasty." I'm usually amazed when someone surprises me with a gift, though. I think that's because I really can't believe people think of me kindly when I'm not in their face, reminding them of my presence.

I frequently, when out shopping, see things I think people I know would enjoy (today it was TieDye Paas egg dying kits), and sometimes buy them to give as gifts. I think that's a neat thing to do, but frequently the recipient of my largesse takes to them unkindly.

Just as the earth would to this asteroid.

A Thwarted Effort

Right now I'm hacking up my lungs while enjoying a cigarette and stinking up the joint, so let's get that out of the way, pronto.


The patches seem to be the way to go, at least for me. While I know better than to say they worked and I quit smoking, I think I could of. My excuse this time for picking cigarettes back up is that my sister's sick.


It's not bad enough that she's ill, something I wouldn't wish on anyone, but she's home. And in my face. And very miserable. It's far easier for me to stop smoking when she's not around, like when I'm out housesitting, but my most excellent plan to quit with the change of the seasons was one I hadn't run by her and her schedule.


There will come a time when she's healthy enough to resume her duties, a time when I quit without the distractions of nagging, but Spring 2007 is not the time.

Springtime for Russell (and Germany)

In about half an hour, around seven minutes past five, local time the sun will slip through some imaginary line and it will be Spring. It will also be when I quit smoking.

I've made a whole lot of half-hearted attempts since my last real one a few years ago. I decided to quit twice in the past week, but when I heard that Spring was coming that seemed to me to be a good thing to hang it on.

The greatest obstacle, of course, is that I don't really want to stop. I want to smoke and have it be affordable and not take all my wind away, but those things don't happen in the world in which I live. It would be easier, too, if I didn't keep seeing all those damn anti-smoking commercials on TV.
This time I have patches, and I've been experimenting with them a couple times. I don't know if it will help, but I hope it might. I got cheap ones, not the Nicoderm brand, and they're neither transparent nor small, about the size of an orange.

This also means, of course, that I'll be eating so much candy that my dental student(s) will cringe if they find out about it. But, since they also want me to quit, maybe they'll understand.

One would think that if I was able to quit drinking that I could also give up cigarettes. I don't know what I'll be like in the future,  but I expect to be fatter and less cool-looking. I know it's a good thing to do, and maybe it will help take my mind off whatever it is that's been dragging me down.

This, I think, is the first time I've publicly told anyone, and that may help my efforts. In the past, some close friends have known and helped, and my failure to give it up completely still makes me cringe in guilt whenever I think of it. So, this is for you.

It's a Bird, It's a plane, It's...It's a BIG Plane

I try not to bore the bots that document this site's existence by talking about my fondness of most things that fly, but today was something special. The Airbus A380, which may never actually make it into production, landed at LAX on its debut / test run about ten minutes after doing so in New York.

The plane, not too put too fine a point on it, is freakin' huge. So big that it looked to be landing very slowly.

About eight this morning, a full hour and a half before its scheduled arrival, the air above my home was filled with news helicopters staking out their positions. Of course, the police were involved, too, circling as if they had something to contribute. All of this activity would have alerted me to something, even if I hadn't known about it.

The best vantage point on the ground would have been at In-and-Out burger near the airport. From all accounts, though, it was filled to capacity as early as six in the morning, which is far too early for me to even think about getting a 3X3, animal style.

The plane landed without incident, and I wasn't the only in the neighborhood outside  looking at it. I don't know what effect this will have on our local "shut down LAX" group, but I'm glad some of us see the benefits to living near the airport. Sure, it's noisy and polluting, but it's also one of the better places to see planes.

Now that the plane's landed, most of the helicopters have gone off in search of fires or car chases. About the only one left is the police, doing God knows what.

The Boys Are Back

This weekend marks the return of Formula One racing, the 2007 edition. The cars sound better than ever, especially when listened to very loud, look better than ever, and with the notable exceptions of Michael Shumacher and Juan Pablo Montoya, the drivers are all back, too (even the one who most resembles a twelve year old girl).

This may also, because of proposed rule changes, be the last year I follow the sport. One of differences between F1 and any other motor sport is that the cars had to be constructed by the teams from scratch. The teams built the cars, hired the drivers, and tested them against the other teams. Starting next year, a proposed rule change would allow the teams to buy cars and race them, and I think that would render the Constructor's Trophy just plain silly. If they go that way, they may lose me as a follower, and I'm sure they're taking that into consideration.

This year, also, they've added a little light just in front of the cockpit that will indicate if the car and its driver has suffered excessive g-forces during a crash. This would alert rescue personnel about the wisdom of moving the driver, and I expect something like this to be on all cars in the future. It's a simple thing and could save many neck and spine injuries.

Of course, the little light would have blown up when David Purley set the record for survivable g-forces back in 1977 when he and his LEC experienced 178 gs (!!) when they went from traveling over 100mph to zero in about two feet. The fact that he lived through it prevents us from saying it came to a dead stop. Yeah, he was messed up and broke not a few bones, but he lived to race again. I've heard his car is on display somewhere, Doninghill I think.

So it may be a bitter-sweet season for me. I guess it's progress and all for the best, but it's also another indication that the world I grew up in and loved is the also past.

Chicken Soup

When I'm sick I often make a big pot of chicken soup. Not only does it take my mind off my sniffles, but it's also a good way of getting rid of that crisper full of deteriorating vegetables.The first thing you need to do is buy or slay a chicken. I don't raise them, so I go to the store and get one in a convenient plastic bag. I put a big pot on the stove and pull the chicken out of the bag, making sure to toss out the healthy, good pieces that they stick inside the bird. Yes, I know that those goodies are the equivalent of the wheat germ and kernel and are prized by those who are concerned about their health and well-being, but I don't eat innards. To me, animals are prized for their muscles.

Into the pot I drop the washed chicken, sometimes including the neck, and add as much water as the pot will hold. Then, I go do something else for an hour or so and looking at naked ladies on the Internet makes the time pass quickly.

After an hour or so, I skim off the foam and pull the chicken from the pot and set it on a carving board. If I threw the neck in, I throw it away or remove the bones and treat my dog. Then I go do something else until the chicken is cool enough to handle and, once again, this step doesn't necessarily include marvelling over the female body.

When the chicken's cooled, I peel off the skin and give it to the dogs, who, by now, consider me godlike, and strip off all the meat and put it back in the pot. I then add salt, pepper, and whatever spices I can find in the cupboard. Last week when I did this, this meant basil, paprika, sage, rosemary, thyme, and celery seeds. There are traditional spices, which I'm sure you're all aware of, but if you don't add too much of something, you can toss in anything just to get rid of it.

I then raid the refrigerator for vegetables. Pretty much anything not slimy or limp can be added, and anything that doesn't go in the pot goes in the trash. So, not only do I get a big pot of soup, I clean the refrigerator! Carrots are a must, but last week all I had was one small bag of baby carrots so they had to carry a weight far beyond their tiny mass. Celery is another given, and as often as not I'll chop it on an angle just to be different. When I don't do that, I try to slice the stalks lengthwise to see how poor my hand-eye coordination is or how far I can make it down the stalk before leaving the middle and venturing off to the side.

This secret ingredient that makes this recipe mine is leeks. I'm never sure which part to use, but I always use just the green part. Those are cut into one inch squares, and I'm convinced they add something to the mix, if only a slight green tint. Last week I also added a green bell pepper and, a half hour or so before the soup was done, fresh parsley and green onions. And a potato because I'd added too much salt, skins and all.

I let the soup cook for another hour or so and, since it had too much green and not enough other colors, I added a red bell pepper, which honestly could have rattled around in the drawer for another week or so. To make the soup noodly I usually add flat egg noodles, but I didn't have any so I tossed in a healthy portion of bowtie pasta along with those last roughage adding ingredients.

When the pasta was done, about as long as it took me to watch some news, I put a portion in a big bowl and ate it with bread heels, getting rid of those, too. Not only was the soup salty, but it was soft enough that my recently stitched gums stayed stitched!

No,my soup isn't anywhere near as consistent as Progresso's or Campbell's, and, perhaps, not as good, but that just adds to my enjoyment. Since I usually only eat this when I'm stuffed up, I never know how it tastes, but going through the steps of creating it takes my mind off my troubles.

Usually.

Blast From My Past

When something unexpected happens to me, the worst part is that I'm usually not prepared for it. It's a lot like I hadn't even planned for it to happen.

Yesterday I was sitting at my computer playing some game or trying to invent a new resume that would be met with something other than derisive laughter when my dog went nuts. He does that a lot, being part of my family, so after a little bit I went to see what was bothering him this time. It's usually something simple, like rapists or marauding bandits intent on destroying the family home, but this time it was an old guy with gray hair and a matching gray moustache.

He also had spit up on his polo shirt, which took away from his likelihood of doing me harm in my eyes.

"Do the Kremers still live here?" he asked, and I admitted they did. People selling stuff don't often know my name.

"Is that a pit bull?" he asked, pointing at Minardi. I thought it would discourage him if I said so, so I did. It's not a total lie, I think there may be some pit in him. "I have one, too," he said, ruining that obstacle I'd set in his path.

"Are you Richard Kremer?" he asked, and I told him Richard was dead. It's true, but that didn't stop him. I may have gone so far as to tell him I'm Russell.

This old guy looks at me and tells me he's Bob Weinstein.

When I was growing up the people next door were the Weinsteins (not to be confused with the Weinbergs, who were across the street). I thought at first that this guy may have to be the surviving father, but I was wrong. Bob was then, and is now, a couple years older than me, which may explain his gray hair and aged appearance. He doesn't look at all the same age as the mental picture I have of myself.
He called me Rusty, which sealed my fate and made me cringe.

We spoke for a half hour or so and he was a genuinely nice guy. Since he's a couple years older, we were never real close. It was a big deal when you're eight not to hang around six year olds, but he didn't tease me as much as some others I remember. All the kids right around our house were a couple years older than me, so I had to venture farther down the block to find Cathy, who was my childhood friend. Later on, when I could cross the street, I discovered a couple boys who were more into playing army and less into playing circus stars and throwing darts at me and into my forehead.

Bob let me know all about his kids and his older brother, Dave, whom I'd forgotten about entirely. To tell the truth, I don't remember much of my formative years at all, and struggled to find much to remember about Bob. Oh, sure, there was the time his mom spanked for us for climbing all over her car, but he didn't remember that.

I'll probably never see him again, but it was good.

Aftermath

No, I didn't get in a fight.

!@(jaw.jpg popimg: "jaw")

Just more dental work. It feels swollen, but looks okay in this picture (which pops to display nasal hair and early-morning lip crud!)