I'm entering this from my new laptop, sitting in front of the TV, and using a new extension to Firefox that supposedly lets me blog without going to my site.

I guess it's okay, but I don't think I can assign a category, not that anyone I imagine who looks at Crenellated Flotsam cares very much about that.

I hope to learn to love laptops as much as the general population does, but I miss my mouse quite a bit. I guess I could plug one in and return to my youth and work the same way I did on my first laptop, which was given to me by my employer. That machine, to be at all usable for me, ended up being used with an external display and mouse and was, really, no more than a large case for the CPU and disk drive.

Oh, well. Maybe someday I'll grow to love this Synaptics pointing device.

One thing that always surprises me about Christmas is how little mention is made of ham. In many homes and families, Christmas and Easter are celebrated not with turkey, but with ham, a meat which both tastes better than any bird and has the added benefit of excluding Jews and Muslims. Nothing says we're exclusive better than celebrating one's holidays with something specifically forbidden by your rivals.

My niece, who prepared this year's holiday feast for her family, prepared both a turkey and a ham, both of which were lost on one of my grand-nephews who is such a fussy eater that his plate consisted wholly of a couple rolls (which he had to be told were "bread") and some corn. Others among us were a bit more adventurous and enjoyed every part of the meal, including the two flavors of cranberry sauce.

My sister ended up bringing most of the ham home with her, and it serves as a wonderful accompaniment to the small ham that I received from the same cooking niece in a Hickory Farms assortment. I'm not sure what Dorothy Parker would say about one person with two hams, but in my defense neither one is a whole ham.

Last night I barely dented the leftovers with my ham and cheese omelet, and I'm hoping today's ham sandwich will do a better job. If I make it to the market and pick up some more vegetables, maybe I can branch out to include Denver Omelets, which I don't think I've ever made. I could, of course, eat nothing but omelets all day, every day, but until they stop going back and forth about whether eggs are healthy or not, my enjoyment of them is always tinged with guilt and concern.

In any case, I now as much ham as I could want, at least for the week.

No, really. How am I doing? I have no idea.

I ask this because, in honor of the holiday season and the daytime getting longer by something like four seconds a day, I'm drinking a cup of hot green tea. I know, I'm a wuss and am in danger of having my testicles revoked, but that's not the point. I mean, it's not like I've gone completely to the darkside and have started a love affair with cats.

This tea, which I bought because it was on sale and would, I figured, makes a completely tasteless ice tea, and also works pretty good as hot drink in cold weather (not that I'd know anything about that). It also makes me feel refined because if there's one thing I know about Joe Six-Pack, it's that he doesn't drink green tea.

Hot or cold.

In addition to warming up my body's core, according to what's written on the box, this tea also removes free radicals and helps as an anti-oxidant, although I think those are two ways of saying the same thing. I don't have a problem with that, but I'd like some numbers.

I don't ask for that to gauge the effectiveness of this particular tea over its competitors or against other products, it's only that I have absolutely no idea how many free radicals I have running around in my system. Or, how much anti-oxidizing I may need. I suspect it's a lot, but the thing is I don't know if this tea eliminates two free radicals, the limit for advertising the plural, or millions.

And, without having a good idea about how many I have, a trillion removed may either flush my body entirely (for the moment) or barely make a dent in their vast army.

I suppose I could take some level of solace in knowing that, after drinking the tea, I have fewer than when I started, or in the simple argument that any reduction at all is a good thing, but I need to know how good I should feel. If this delightful tea lives up to its claims and is capturing those wily free radicals even as I type, and I'm not doubting it does, I'd just like to know how many. If I knew that, I could figure out how much of this I need to drink to remove them all, or if that's just a pipe dream.

Any reduction may be better than none, but until I know just how much improvement this tea is giving me, I think I'd be a fool to act all happy about it.

As much as I think about breasts, other things pop into my mind as well, such as figuring out the right answer to the questions we're all faced with. The operative word there is right, since it's pretty easy for me to come up with a good answer to just about anything.

Although I have an obsession for asking and answering questions, I'm more convinced than ever that it's rare that there's a definitive right answer, at least not to the questions worth talking about. In most cases, the answers rely on answers to other questions, which are themselves subject to debate, and so on, and I wonder if most people realize their beliefs aren't based on Truth as much as they are on a series of beliefs that are themselves worth examining.

All of which is just a fancy way of saying there's more than one way of looking at things.

It's looking a lot like ... those who love me may have to dig deep into built-up reserves of affection this season. I'm not sure me or my car is up to fighting the holiday crowds and, if the rest of this week is as filled with rain as the stores are now with holiday shoppers, I may not be going anywhere.

Hmmm.

Now, first off, it may strike you as odd that someone who's decided to live in a county of some ten million people would have any reason to gripe about crowds, but there you have it. Sure, plenty of them are attractive women, which makes going among them a treat, but many are not, and even the best view gets tiring after waiting in line behind them for a cashier for fifteen minutes. It's not the shopping I mind so much, or even the cost, it's that I'm not happy with anything I'm buying.

To make matters even more challenging, all of my sister's family (excepting husbands, boy friends, in-laws, and baby daddies) is in town this year. That's all three nieces and their children I have to get things for, and I'm not sure I'm up to the task. Sure, it's only six people over the usual, but those three grand-nephews better not have their hopes for anything they want.

I don't, really, know them at all. I'm fuzzy on their ages but know their names, I have no idea what size anything they wear, no clue about their likes and dislikes, their hobbies and hatreds, and am very much out of touch with the younger generation. The good news for me is, I'm not sure there's much expectation on their part. I mean, really, there can't be all that much for precedent in gifts from great-uncles. I know for a fact no great-uncle ever got me anything, and I couldn't even tell you any of their names.

What I do know is that they're all boys, ranging between high school and elementary school and tall and lanky to short and stout, respectively. I also know that no boy has ever hoped for clothes or, in spite of the their thanks, very satisfied with any sweater. I have no idea what they already have or need and, as teenagers, about the only thing I know for sure is they'd like porn.

My only hope is that they have such low expectations for a great-uncle present that anything will do. I just hope I can guess who likes German scat.

Tuesday, before I slit my fingertip open in a careless, regrettable accident, I bought a hard drive for one of my computers. I haven't installed it yet and can't remember why I thought I needed it, but it was a good price.

Maybe I can use it to resurrect my old e-mail.

When I got back from the store I saw that they had a special on notebook computers, and ever since seeing that I've been looking them up online. I have a laptop now, but it's old and can't run these latest whiz-bang operating systems. It can connect (slowly and laboriously) to the Internet and my other computers through a wire, but it's gotten to that age where the battery can't keep a charge and needs to constantly be plugged in.

Those are all excuses, mind you, because it does what I insist a laptop do, which is record my typings so I can transfer them to a "real" computer.

Then again, with this injured finger, typing anything right now is a painful reminder of my idiocy.

Anyway, back to the laptop. The day I saw that ad, after returning from the store where it was on sale, was also the last day of the special price, which was a great one. Since then I've been trying to locate a comparable or better deal, but with no luck. As the days have passed, I've once again been reminded of a funny feeling, that of impending purchase.

This getting a new laptop keeps nagging me, and a good reason for that is I'm convinced that I could successfully complete the purchase. I know what to do when it comes to buying laptops, so I expect I could carry the transaction off with ease, but then I keep remembering that I don't need one. Not right this minute, anyway.

The only way I can describe it is that I have feeling, much like destiny, of having to buy a new laptop. Part of me "knows" it's going to happen, and that part can see me eagerly opening a new one, reformatting the hard drive, and installing everything to get it working just right. If the past is any gauge, that part will win, too.

The other part of me, the less-used rational part, insists that it would be a huge expense that I can't afford and have no need to satisfy. Today that part had a slender victory and kept me from going to Fry's, where I know it would be doomed once I walked in the door.

So, even though I don't need one and can't afford it, I have a feeling that I will soon own a new laptop, and I don't know how to get rid of that feeling except by buying one.

Sometime in my early twenties, soon after learning about them, I began having epiphanies. It might be interesting to wonder if this was something like learning about the Doppler Effect or the writer's rule of "write what you know" or similar names and concepts where once aware of them, they tend to be all over the place, or it might just be that I had finally aged enough to have them.

Most likely, it was a combination of the two since nothing is as binary, as black and white, as I often wish.

In any case, it was only a matter of hours after having any of these understandings of the workings of the universe dropped on my head that I began doubting them. Not doubting that I had them, mind you, but doubting if they were, in fact, worthy of being called epiphanies. Sure, I suddenly and finally had an insight into how this world more closely resembled my idea of heaven than it did of hell or how asking the wrong questions led to unsatisfactory and bewildering answers, but I wasn't convinced these were true epiphanies.

As far as I knew, they may have been basic understandings that everyone else was born with, that they had no need to discover, that they grasped and shrugged off about the same time they learned to distinguish their right from their left.

There's no doubt they changed my life, that I considered such awakenings as momentous, but I was unhappy not knowing if my life defining moments were actually worthy of the name. On the one hand, any event that defined life for me was, in and of itself, pretty damn important and noteworthy, but it irked me that I could never tell if it was universal and genuine or just exciting for me in particular. Not having anyone else's mind or experiences, they became another in a long list of things, like love or anger, that I named after what I imagined others felt without ever truly knowing if my experience and theirs had anything in common at all. Sure, I called them the same things, but were they ... really?

As it turns out, I can never know. What I'm wondering now, instead, is that having a series of these moments might be what we call maturing. I haven't thought about it much -- the idea never occurred to me until this past month -- but it may be possible to make a case that having epiphanies might be what separates the wise from the masses, and it's only a unexpected side benefit that this would put me in a distinct class of humanity.

Or it may just be, as I've long felt, that getting older just means you have more experiences to draw on and recognizing the similarity between things that no one can have at age twenty just means you're old.

It's a delightfully cold and wet day here in Los Angeles, the kind that makes me glad I have some of those warmer clothes. Although we really don't ever get anything in the way of weather here, since this is the movie capital of the world we get as dramatic as we can whenever it's anything other than seventy degrees with bright, blue skies.

So, the local news teams are all on storm watch and, to feed our need for drama, are showing us pictures of water running in gutters.

It's long been my practice to take advantage of days like this to stay inside, as warm as possible, and to cook up a big batch of chili. In a deviation from my normal practices, however, right now I've begun a big pot of chicken soup, which I normally only make when I'm feeling shitty. Right now I'm feeling excellent, though a tad sleepy, so I'm curious to see if this will keep me well or if it might, in confusion, bring on a flu or cold.

To keep the illness demons at bay, I'm not duplicating my get well soon recipe, which changes every time I make the soup, anyway. I'm leaving out my secret, crucial ingredient, the leeks, and using those yellow potatoes that dissolve. I may end up with more of chicken stew than a soup, but since I refuse even to acknowledge the concept of chicken stew, it will most likely be termed a thick soup.

Another thing I'm trying is using a chicken that comes from the butcher shop inside a small local market. It came wrapped up in several layers of plastic wrap and inside a plain plastic bag, so the environment benefits from the lack of ink. I would have been even more adventurous and seen what was inside a mysterious store that specializes in chickens, something I'm often tempted to do, but it was too far to ride on my bike. I think they even have live ones there, and some day I'll see if I have to slaughter my own.

For someone so experienced, I sure have trouble with simple things.

Like e-mail.

A good part of my frustration and bafflement can be explained by acknowledging that I'm frightened and fearful. I like it not only when I think I know what's going on, but when everything's in one place, easy to get to, and familiar. This all changed last summer when my computer died, taking along with it years of e-mail and e-mail related stuff. That old e-mail program and all its contents are now safe, but not accessible.

When I got a new computer, I installed a new e-mail program, but I considered it temporary. I figured I'd get the old one back soon, but that just shows how little I know myself. Temporary fixes and bandages seem to hang around forever in my life, until they either crash and burn or, by default, become permanent.

A couple days ago my e-mail program stopped working. Well, not exactly. It worked, but couldn't find its way to the Internet or any of the servers that hold my e-mail. I downloaded and re-installed my e-mail program, thinking that might help, but it didn't. Still, no connection.

This was after a Vista update, so, naturally, I thought that update might be the problem. So, I restored, turning my computer back to how it was before the update. This had the effect of rendering my e-mail program completely useless. It wouldn't even launch.

So I got another, a third, e-mail program and got it to work. I also noticed in all my monkeying around that I'd never told any of my temporary e-mail programs to delete any messages from the servers, which explains why so many people have been telling me about my e-mails bouncing. I was leaving them there until I got my old e-mail program working again, and forgot about it.

I think I made enough room to last me through the end of the year, but I expect by now most people have simply written me off. Oh well. They deserted reading my blog a long time ago, and I survived that!

I now have a working e-mail program that I don't like very much, but it's one I used to use years ago (Eudora). I have one I like, Thunderbird, that doesn't connect to the Internet any more, and I should really get off my ass and figure out how to make it functional.

But I'm cold today, and my right hand doesn't feel like typing .

The other night I had a pretty common dream, at least for me. It reminded me, though, about how boring my dream life is and how often my dreams contain the same, tired elements. It's almost as if sleeping, while still a valid escape from the horrors of daily life, isn't an escape from tedium.

While my dreams often have me driving a car or riding a bike with mechanical problems such as tricky or non-working brakes or steering, shouting ineffectively to be understood, impotent fighting with my blows performed as though I were swinging my fists under water, and, less often, scantily clad or naked women, I frequently have dreams involving mazes. Not the kind of mazes like rats run through for food or that are seen on some palatial estates, mind you, more like three dimensional mazes like you'd find in trees, cavernous mountains, or other large objects. In this latest dream, I had to solve how to climb and get through sculptures that sat on lawns and corners of some neighborhood.

In most of these dreams, I've already solved the maze and have determined the fastest way through. Incredibly, I'm often proud of knowing the best and fastest way through, and somehow "win" when I'm being chased or just showing off. That the same mazes, or at least the appearance of a known one, shows up might mean something, but I have no idea what. Maybe it's a lame attempt by my dream self to give me confidence or it just might be a lack of imagination.

It's not unusual, I don't think, for my dreams to keep being centered on certain places, such as my apt in Playa del Rey where I happily lived for seven years, but these mazes confound me. I mean, it's not like I'm any good at solving mazes in real life or enjoy them very much, so it's not like I'm doing something in the dream world that I want to do in this one. While the appearance of willing women who want something to do with me makes sense in a dream setting, mazes do not.

Still, I can expect to show everyone up by my whisking through that conical mountain at least a few times every year until I die, just as I've always done. I can also expect to get so excited that I'll never stay asleep to dream long enough to find out what she's really willing to do.

Someone, although I couldn't tell you who, once famously said something profound about democracy being a bad form of government, but better than the rest. The more I see of this election process, the more wisdom I see in that, especially the "bad form" part.

It's obvious whoever said that had a much broader range of experience than I've had. Other than electing government representatives who ignore me except when they're courting my vote, I'm not sure I've seen very much democracy in action at all. Growing up I didn't have much say in how my family was run, and no job I've ever held or heard of is in any way democratic. It's always been more feudal, I think the term would be, than anything else, with rulers just telling me what to do.

After I moved out of my parents house and was living on my own, my home life was democratic, but only in the sense that there was only one vote on anything and that one my vote was mine. When I was in relationships, of course, there was still only one vote, but it was no longer mine. The women always have the trump card, all the power, and I have no argument with that.

Anyway, whoever said that famous quote about democracy must never have seen McCain and Palin's supporters. There are lots of them, maybe a majority, but very few of these people show me much of anything that would lead me to believe that they should have a say in how anything important is decided. The world, now, and maybe for quite some time, has been too complicated for me to figure out, and I think I'm one of the bright ones. With so much going on, and so little of it black and white or easily reducible, common people just don't stand a chance.

And, yet, we give them all votes.

In spite of their having invented democracy, or so I've heard, it's just a shame that Plato's elites never took hold. People who run things and make decisions should have skill sets that go beyond coaxing the electorate to think they're the ones who can best represent them. Palin has a great stage presence and can give a whopper of a speech, but I don't trust her judgment on anything I feel is important. Obama, also, gives great speeches, but at least he seems to have thought about what he's saying instead of just telling us what we want to hear.

All I'm saying is that I'm not sure I wouldn't be equally miserable living under some sort of meritocracy. I don't think only white landowners should vote, but I also don't think all these yahoos yelling USA! or scowling whenever the terms Bush, socialist, elitist, or liberal is tossed at them from instinctive reactions are the ones I want setting my future, either.

I'm not sure if another revolution will ever come, but I doubt I'll be alive when it happens. In my life, sadly, only other stuff happens.

Things this political season have changed so much that I think it's safe to say they're exactly the same.

I'm not sure what it says about humanity, but one thing I've learned as we approach this election is that no matter what gets brought up by either side, no matter what incident gets mentioned by the press, no matter how any event or issue is spun by those running the campaigns, people immediately fall straight into line. It doesn't matter if it's Governor Sarah Palin appearing on Saturday Night Live or anything else, those in her party will proclaim it a success and those on the other side will call it lame.

I don't even have to look at the source anymore. If someone discovers that Obama wrote a blurb for Ayers' book, the right will see this as further evidence of something or other and the left will say "so what."

I suspect the only reason these things get mentioned at all, anything from McCain's association with Liddy to Obama's 57 state comment, is to get each side's supporters off their asses and into the voting booths. With the dismal turnout that we in America usually show, I think either side can win if they just get over three-fourths of their supporters out. Karl Rove was famous for this, not only in trying to get all the Republicans to vote, but for trying to depress the Democrats enough that they'd choose to sit home and cry rather than vote for Gore or Kerry.

No, I'm talking about voter suppression at the polls, or the sometimes questionable purging of registered voters, merely attempts to keep people at home. President Clinton, now, may be trying to do that by his repeated assertions that the election is in the bag for Obama, that it's going to be a wipeout. His message strikes me as being close to "this thing is won, don't bother showing up," a message that would help his wife while also being one he can point to as showing his support for the Democrats.

Anyway, one thing I'm sure of is that whatever gets released will be pointed at by one side as being important while simultaneously subject to innocent explanations by the other. Anything may get "your" side out, get them riled up enough to vote, but very little of it adds anything to political discourse.

Then, again, if someone can proclaim "Country First!" while selecting a uniquely inept person to be his running mate, pretty much everything is possible.

Like a lot of people, I watched the presidential debates the other night. Unlike most of them, including the politicians, I spent a little time thinking about personal hygiene. Or, freshness.

If I were to be in one of these nationally televised debates and setting myself up to be judged by tens of millions of people who would decide my fate, before I went on onstage I think I'd want to take a shower. Not necessarily to get clean, but it might be refreshing and relaxing.

As soon as I thought that, I pictured myself telling my advisors and staff about it, that I needed to take a break and take a shower. This is something I can do now, without mentioning it to a soul, so right off the bat, that would be different. It would also be different that anyone would be interested in my wanting to take a shower.

That interest, among a ton of other, more important things, is what distinguishes me from these politicians. I thought about it some and realized that I can't fathom what it would be like to have thousands of people wanting some of my time. Right now hardly anyone does, but if I were running for president, a team of secretaries couldn't keep up with the demands on my time. Other politicians, media people, people wanting favors or thrusting wads of cash into my hand in hopes of future ones, tons of people wanting a piece of me, a chance to talk or listen to me, all of them would be asking for my attention.

I don't think I could handle it.

I'm a student of history only insofar as having passed whatever classes I needed to pass to get a degree in an unrelated subject. And, this was all back in the day when the only history that counted was western history.

About an hour ago I couldn't remember the product of nine times nine. Worse, even after backing into it through arithmetic, the answer I got didn't feel "right." Eighty-one, the answer I arrived at, didn't give me any sense of relief or satisfaction, such as I usually get when I remember the name of the submarine on the TV show Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

I don't have any more need for multiplication than most people, and I have plenty of calculators and websites that could either figure it out or display the results for me, so getting the answer wasn't the problem. The reason I was so scared is this is something I should know, inside out, whenever I need to.

I'm convinced my mind is going, is developing holes, and I see that as further evidence that I'm reaching the end.

If it took me a moment to recall the answer, or especially I reacted to the right answer with a sigh of relief, I wouldn't be feeling so bad. But when I eventually figured it out, or remembered it, the void that met that answer disturbed me. The answer should have filled me with glee and joy, and it felt, instead, like foreign territory.

I'm struggling with remembering words, too, which doesn't bode well for my attempts to actually finish some writing again. I'm scared because I know there isn't simple solution, there isn't any magic pill I can take to get my mind back, and I'm afraid that it's going to grow worse and worse.

I can't expect, and probably won't seek, any medical help, because I'd feel foolish. Whatever is causing this is no doubt a result of my past, and I should have known better all along. I don't want to burden anyone, and I won't be happy watching myself deteriorate.

Maybe it was just a blip, a "one off," and it's silly for me to be concerned at all. Maybe that's it.

No, I'm not going to write one and this gem of Ginsberg's isn't a sonnet, either, but I liked the alliteration for the title of this entry.

I wrote some poetry, of course, when I was young and filled with angst and self-loathing. While those remain, the poetry didn't because I convinced myself I don't have much talent in creating any. Still, I've always reserved a part of my life for poetry, one which I return to fairly frequently.

The thing about poetry is that it slows me down. Unlike the web pages that are so popular now, reading poetry takes time. You can't skim poetry, can't jump stanzas or skip to the end to see how it turns out. To appreciate poetry, you have to read every word, digest them, roll them across you mind and savor their selection and placement. Poetry, I believe, isn't written to convey a thought or idea as much as a feeling or sensation. The poet, the ones I like, anyway, use words primarily as a means to create in my mind a particular attitude. The words are the instruments the poet uses to make my mind feel what she or he is feeling more than having strong intrinsic value.

"I'm feeling this," the poet seems to be saying, "and by using these particular words, in this particular order, I can make you feel the same."

Even though I no longer even try to write poetry, I still take the time to read it. Sometimes, it's true, I have to force myself to take that time, but I always feel better after doing so. I cannot help but have my mind, attitude, and outlook changed by reading good poetry, and I can even study it and see how important words are. The choices the poet needs to make are far beyond my ability to mimic, but my appreciation for the language and how much fuller and richer it can be when handled well by someone who knows what he or she is doing gives me hope and inspiration.

You betcha, it does.

A couple of years ago, when Time magazine named me person of the year, I thought I'd reached my peak. I hadn't done much that year that I recall, but evidently someone was keeping an eye on me and my doings, someone credible and responsible, and someone with pull at a major news magazine.

While they neglected to give me a free copy, which I considered the least they could do, especially considering how my election could only increase their sales, and I never bought one, I still hold that award proudly in my heart, if not on my bookshelf.

Until lately, I've admittedly been in a bit of a slump. My awards, and my esteem, to use a recently popular term, have cratered, but I was somewhat heartened to realize that no less a person than one of the candidates for president of the United States considers me one of the fundamentals of the nation's economy.

That's pretty impressive, too, by any measure. I had no idea I was so important, or, once again, even noticed by anyone who spent any time east of the Mississippi. The sad thing is, using me as a fundamental, doesn't speak well for the economy or for the nation's prospects.

Still, the recognition was well received by me, and the luster had only begun to fade when last night, on nationwide TV, another candidate, this time one for vice-president, looked straight at me and winked at me! More than once!

She's mildly attractive, like some clerk at a drug store, but I'm pretty sure she's making lots of money and, if her wink is to believed, she's willing to share some of either of those things with me.

Maybe both.

If this summer is remembered for anything, it won't be for my having another birthday, although that happened. The trillion dollars or so that has been lost on the world's markets will soon be regained by those more capable than I, so that won't be an issue for me, either. No, with any luck, I'll remember this summer as one dedicated to French Onion Soup, which has become something of an obsession with me.

Like most things, it all started many years ago when I had it for the first time. My wife at the time and I went out to some nice French restaurant, just the two of us, and I think that was the first time I ever had it. That was the most memorable part of the meal for me, even though it was also my introduction to escargot.

Anyway, all though I've had it off and on in the intervening years, it's only been the past couple of months that I've craved French onion soup. I can't get enough of it, and that's the problem.

It used to be that I could find Progresso French Onion soup even when I wasn't looking for it. It was everywhere. Now, the markets I frequent don't carry that variety, and I've had to try some others. Campbells has one, but it tastes funny to me, metallic, and only works in a pinch. I tried looking up recipes to make my own, but Alton Brown's first step required purchasing a fifty dollar electric skillet, so that put me in a deep funk from which I've barely recovered.

If I had the money for fifty dollar electric skillets, I'd go out to eat.

This past weekend, on a whim, I thought I'd check out this Bristol Farms market, which I'd seen a few of around town. It's like a Gelson's, only, if this is possible, only more expensive. They carry a good selection of all many of the regular favorites, all at a hefty markup, and many other frightfully expensive goods as well. This Bristol Farms, I quickly concluded, is where rich folk go to get the good food that us masses can only ever hope to taste.

Still, I thought it might be worth it to check out their soup selection, if only to see if they had some of that soup I craved. They carry the Progressive brand, but not French Onion. They did, however, have some jar of French Onion soup with a cute calico cover and a health-inspiring name, but it looked to me more like gravy than soup. Not that there's anything wrong with gravy, not if you have a biscuit laying around, but if there's one thing I demand of French Onion soup it's that it contains, you know, onions.

Pieces of onion. Fibrousy pieces of onion. Pieces you can chew. Chew, taste, and swallow.

They had another store name variety, for about six bucks I might add, that also lacked any particulate onion, and I passed on both of them. Is it too much to ask for onions in my onion soup? I did get some dried package, I think (I'll have to check the cupboard, later), which I hope contains more than dried powdered onion dust.

The rich may very well eat better than you and I, but when it comes to French Onion Soup, it looks as if they may as well sip it through a straw.

It's true that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about myself, but that's not to say that I don't occasionally wander into other fascinating territories, such as what I do. Sadly, today is not such an excursion.

Back in 1985, before many of us were born, the world was quite a bit different in some crucial areas than it is now. For one, it was possible back then for an individual to create a Formula 1 team and compete against the big names, the well-known car manufacturers. Instead of the Ferrari, Toyota, Honda, Renault, Mercedes, BMW, and the like, successful teams carried the names of individuals such as Prost and Tyrell, people whose participation stemmed from love of motorsport and not just corporate profits.

Among them was a guy named Giancarlo Minardi, who is mostly famous for inspiring my dog's name.

His little team was where many drivers got their start, but he couldn't afford to go against McLaren and the others and the team was sold a few years ago to Red Bull Racing. Those Red Bull people have money out the gazoo, and have both a Red Bull Racing Team and the old Minardi team, now named Scuderia Toro Rosso.

And this morning, at Monza, a Toro Rosso driven by Sebastian Vettel won their first race, and was the youngest person ever to win a Formula 1 race, following up on yesterday's record breaking youngest person to win pole.

So, that was good.

UCLA football, not so much, this weekend.

The other thing I'm tracking, the upcoming presidential election, isn't giving me much joy, either, but between the three I was able to spend part of the weekend thinking about how things effect me nearly as much as I did thinking about myself.

Not that I ever gave it much thought, but ...

17

Last night I took a break from sitting around, thinking about myself, and went out to hear some music and visit with some friends I hadn't seen in awhile. Of course, I brought my mind with me, so it's no surprise that I saw one thing that reminded me of another, and ended up wondering about the future.

Like happens at all such events, some of the bands performing had T-shirts, buttons, and CDs for sale. Between sets I glanced over the offerings and also thought about what some British music guy said on a TV program. He was an old guy, had been in the business for years, and was talking about how wherever he goes now people push CDs into his hands. They hope to get his interest, maybe have him sign them up for a contract, and propel themselves to a fulfilling and overflowing life of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll.

One can hardly blame them.

His point, though, was that "back in the day," it was pretty easy to distinguish between any old garage band and, um, a legitimate one. Since hardly anyone could afford record pressing equipment that costs tens of thousands of pounds (or dollars) and crank out records from their basement, damn near every band that had a record had been approved or accepted by someone. Now, anyone with a computer and a microphone can make a professional-looking CD, so you can no longer easily tell the difference. Those without access to recording studios, record labels, and, most importantly, some independent confirmation of their talent, on the surface look just the same as those whose talent has been recognized by someone who knows about such things.

This is not a bad thing, since it keeps the Man from ruling us all, but it does eliminate a vetting process, to use a term which is all the rage these days.

There's a similar thing going on in all publishing. It used to be that someone in power had to like what you wrote before it could see print and receive distribution, but no longer. Nowadays, anyone can short-circuit the approval process and we are both richer and poorer because of it. Richer in that voices that were once silent can now be heard, and poorer because, with this level field, every voice can be heard, regardless of how idiotic.

Like Crenellated Flotsam, for instance.

Although I likely won't be around, it will be interesting to see how this all sorts out. Instead of editors and publishers deciding what can be put out there or withheld, anyone who creates anything is now the sole voice in deciding if it's fit for publication. Newspapers, magazines, TV networks, the entire media, look just the same on my computer as independent bloggers who get sole discretion over what they decide to say. Not only can these people say anything they want, they can do so as poorly as they want, and leave it up to the invisible hand of the free market to decide its worth.

Instead of being considered under any sort of notion of quality, popularity will decide value. The voices that many wish to hear will soldier on and be successful and, until a better metric is decided upon, will garner ad dollars.

No one but me has anything to do with the content of this site, and I'll be the first to admit that it shows.

I tell ya, there's no end to what people and computers can do, not when it comes to upsetting or angering me.

The fine folks who host my web site, as part of their latest ... enhancement? ... weren't content to merely rearrange the icons that I use to administer the site or modify the GUI to make it just as functional but different, but have now decided that backing up my site is another revenue stream for them. It will now cost me ten bucks to perform a backup, or I can opt in for some annual site upgrade of over a hundred dollars and do one whenever I want.

Or once a month, I forget which.

At a rough guess, I'd imagine there are thirty or so built in icons I can use to perform certain functions when I administer my site, and I've really only used a handful of them. Most of them have no relevancy to my life, but they're there, anyway. I normally don't do much in the way of administering beyond messing about with the files, repairing corrupted databases, and backing things up. I once used the FTP option for awhile, but no longer, and made some use of the message board for a friend, but I don't host that for him any more, either.

Statistics were once fun, but that passed a long time ago.

I can back up the database for Crenellated Flotsam using SQL tools, but it was much easier before, back when I just had to hit a button. I suspect I'll be doing that this weekend as well as copying a bunch of files manually, so I have a morning of boredom to look forward to on that count.

It's a good thing I bought a new coffee maker last month.

They've also migrated the operating system for the host computer(s) from FreeBSD to Debian, which is a flavor of linux. It's no big deal, but FreeBSD was one of the reasons I chose this host in the first place, and I liked that they were running something solid. I was running it at home, and I imagined some harmonic factor, which existed only in my mind.

I suppose if I had that personal assistant, I could add finding a new host to her or his list of chores, right behind getting me cheaper car insurance or a real good onion soup recipe.

Boy, these conventions are sure something!

Only not so much the one that's going on now.

Last week I was going through a tissue or three each night because of the emotions raised in me by the speakers and directors of the videos. This week ... not so much. Last week Joe Biden made me think and laugh and Obama made me hope, but this week all I keep hearing is how some nameless opposition is no good at all. "Vote for us or else" is not a campaign slogan that has much traction with me.

Then, last night, I got to see the media fall all over themselves congratulating someone for talking successfully to a very supportive crowd. I admit she did a decent job of delivering a prepared speech, but I can't help feeling that reciting something after practicing on it for a few days doesn't mean a great to me. I expect more of our leaders than that, something I had to do in Junior High.

I guess most of America can relate to her, and there's no small number of political scientists who say that's a good thing. I can't say that I do and, more, I can't say that I'd vote for anyone because I did. I want my president, whoever he or she is, to be like some sort of super-adult from my childhood, and it's hard for me to do that when I can see the strings, mirrors, and through the smoke. I know a lot of people will like Sarah Palin because she has breasts, and I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but it's not like I'm ever going to get much pleasure from them.

Many of the same people who piled on Hillary are now saying I can't judge Sarah. It's true that no one questions any men about how they can work and raise a family, but it's also true that it's a reality that in our current culture, men and women have different roles. I'm not sure that I, even as a guy, would leave a newborn baby who needed me to pursue my career goals, but I'm not saying that makes Sarah a bad parent. It just gives me pause.

I have no interest in her pregnant daughter, either, other than in her name. I would never name one of my kids after some NASCAR track, but, then again, I'd be unlikely to name her siblings Willow, Trig, Track, or Piper, either: it would make it too difficult for them to buy souvenir license plates at the county fair and kids don't need to overcome every possible challenge and disappointment just to grow up secure.

Not that I know anything about kids.

It may be a good thing that the Palins can get out of Wasilla, a city that evidently has one meth lab for every 225 residents, a number I admit staggered me. Granted, there's little to do in Alaska except come up with names for snow and, presumably, exercise your genitals, but that can't be wholesome environment.

Still, she gave a good speech to people who wanted to hear her say bad things about Obama, but it didn't make me change my mind.

For reasons of my own, I'm going to have a celebratory dinner tonight that borders on decadent. Although I have no plans on following this or any other diet, it may be called Atkins-like, especially if you ignore the corn and bread.

Tonight, for the first time in God knows how long, I'm going to have some baby back ribs, even though I have no idea what that really means. About a dozen of them. All by myself.

This uncaring display of consumption, I admit, lowers the hog or pig population by one, and I'm none too happy about that, but I take solace in realizing that if not for my dinner, this innocent pig would have met a cruel and unfortunate demise in this planet ruled by fang and claw by some tiger or would have been carried off in the talons of some, less considerate, falcon or other. I have a hunch most of these scavengers don't live a full life, retire to a soothing pasture, and live out their lives regaling their grandpigs on live as they knew it.

In fact, in spite of our continual whining, hardly any animal has anywhere near the stress-free life we humans seem to consider our birthright.

Tonight's mound of rib bones, which I don't think are good for dogs, will be a testament to something or other, if only to my hunger. I also expect them to be lip-smacking good.

Yesterday I had a very interesting entry for this thing, and I would have entered it if not for my inability to remember the word vindicated. That happens to me ... regularly, that wanting a word but not being able to recall it, but I don't chalk it up to senior moments.

I'm far too young and good looking to have that sort of problem, but it is annoying.

I blame it not on a lack of ginkgo biloba in my system, although it's hard to believe I have enough of it coursing around in my bloodstream to do much of anything, but on the size of my vocabulary. We all know many words than we use, but I've always strived to use every last one, just to make me look smart.

I considered, as I often do at times like that, getting one of those definition dictionaries that are supposed to solve precisely that problem, but I have my doubts about them. The biggest drawback isn't the expense, although it's not to be taken lightly, but rather I'm not sure that the definition I have for most of these words is adequate or popular enough to be the one listed.

What I could think of yesterday was the word justified, but I knew that wasn't it. I knew the word I wanted was more than that and carried with it the notion of having been doubted in the past and eventually come out on top, but it would have taken a very remarkable dictionary to have let me get from there to vindicated.

In the end, it came to me while watching Olympic boxing and hearing those two guys go on and on about scoring irregularities, as they have for the past week and a half. The only Olympic coverage that isn't focused exclusively on American efforts and shows the countries that NBC made such a big deal over during the opening ceremonies, and all they talk about is what a shame it is that the judges don't see the bouts the same way the announcing staff does. Still, it beats the rest of the "rah rah" coverage and I'd mute it but I want to learn how to pronounce the names.

What I should have done, instead, is get some of that ginkgo biloba stuff or done a sedoku. I've tried one, have no interest in the other, but both claim to keep the mind active and alert. It's just too bad that I can't get those results from doing something I enjoy such as, you know, thinking.

That sound you just heard is the noise my brain makes when I learn something new and it expands to include the new information. I'm, naturally, pretty used to it by now, but it sometimes frightens children or disturbs those right next to me.

Today, thanks to the Olympics, I actually watched part of a game of field hockey for the first time in my life. Although I'd heard about the game quite some time ago and knew it existed, I'd never seen a match or game or whatever it's called. Now I have, and I must admit to being underwhelmed, if not bored.

My ten or fifteen minute exposure showed me all I need to know about the game, which is that it's soccer (or football or futbol) played with shepherd's crooks and what I suspect to be a harder, solid ball. The main thing I took away from the experience, and the first thing I noticed, is that the game looks to be an exercise in torture for the back. There's a great deal of bending over, which I suppose would make it a natural for anyone who works all day picking fruits and vegetables.

The only reaction I had while watching Germany win the Gold Medal over the Netherlands was ... ouch.

Yesterday, during my drive home, a cop asked me to break the law. This was a first for me since, while I'm no stranger to ignoring legal boundaries when they stand between me and something I want or feel like doing, no one sworn to uphold the law had ever before asked me to break it.

So, I did, and I have to admit it was a little thrilling. Not as exciting as breaking it on my own, but not as boring as following it mindlessly, either. Then again, it was only a traffic law, so it's not as if I was asked to assassinate some foreign dignitary or head of state or commit mayhem.

What happened is this:

I was minding my own business waiting patiently at a red light and reflecting on how cool I am or something when a siren in the distance grew increasingly louder. I was sitting on a two lane street with a left turn lane that was separated from oncoming traffic by a traffic island, and there were two cars alongside me, one who hoped to turn left and someone in the lane nearer the sidewalk. I, of course, was in the fast lane because that's how I roll.

There were only the three of us sitting there, waiting for the light to change, when this cop pulls up behind me with his siren blaring and all his lights flashing. While he may have been in hot pursuit of some crime, it can't be ruled out that he was heading back to the station because his shift was over or maybe he was just hungry. In any case, after appraising the situation as only a highly trained law enforcement person is capable of doing, he must have realized that he was stuck and that his girlfriend waiting at the motel for him was becoming increasingly impatient.

He switched off his siren, which pleased me, got on his loudspeaker, and said, "Pull over to the right." Well, of course, I couldn't do that, not without moving, and he was blocking me from behind, so I had no choice but to drive forward, through a red light, disregarding my personal safety and the laws under which we operate, all for the greater good. The woman next to me, in the slow lane, broke the law the same as I did, and the two of us drove through the intersection without incident and actually began easing over toward the curb when the cop took advantage of the opening we created and turned left.

Nothing for me to do but proceed, which I did with not a small smile on my face.

Lest you think I make a practice of this behavior, I wish to let you know that I'm among those who normally, actually, pull over when a siren approaches. I like to do it, mostly because it pisses off the other drivers, who all have to admit that I'm doing the right thing. Still, unless my car is moving, I can't do that, but this is the first time I've had this particular situation.

The good news is it wasn't a trap. The cop didn't ask us to move through the red light only to give us a ticket, so I have to give him credit for that. I also don't know what became of the cop, the woman, or the guy in the left turn lane who stood his ground, but I hope they all had a pleasant evening after the afternoon's excitement.

I know I did.

Every time I get all excited about updating this thing and keeping it current, unexpected forces of nature stand in my way.

This latest iteration of annoyance is one I'm blaming on the host of this site. For reasons I can only imagine or guess at, some host information changed that prevented Wordpress from getting in touch with the database that holds all of these very valuable Crenellated Flotsam entries.

Worse, I've been unable to get to the admin functions for my site, which pretty much prevented me from doing anything in the way of maintenance. Now that I've learned how to fix errors in this database, the least I hope for is being able to access it.

Since I'm now using a fancy new computer, I didn't have a working address to administer my site. Oh, sure, I thought I knew what it was, but sometime following the last time I had to get in there and do things, the address changed. It's not likely that I didn't get word of this, but it's certain that I did nothing with the information, feeling it was no big deal and just more spam.

As you can see, I have things working again.

After contacting my host provider through their helpful support and contact us page, the one that goes to a faq and searchable database instead of, you know, letting you contact them or ask a question, I was faced with one of those username and password pages before I could do much of anything.

There's a very good possibility that I had that infomation somewhere, but I was in Santa Monica and didn't have it with me. What I did do was ask them to reset the password and send it to the e-mail address on record. I was pretty sure I knew what that address was, but it wasn't until I got home that I was able to get the e-mail, reset my password, and remember what username they'd assigned me.

And now, for the nonce, I have a whole new set of passwords to remember. One to access my site administration page, which isn't at all where I remembered it being, by the way, and several more to administer MySQL and the databases I've established.

I think I made notes of them all, but confidence is mediocre.

The good news is ... if I stay this excited about posting things, I may get some readers who stumble on me through Google! I say such interesting things...

...and some people have progress thrust upon them.

My old computer, tho not my oldest one, died recently and I was without much of anything in the way of information technology for about a week. In that time I tried, unsuccessfully, to resurrect it for maybe the third or fourth time in its little electronic life, but to no avail.

In the end, the motherboard had passed its final bits of instruction and I was left with a box that would, at best, present me with the bios screen. After exhausting my admittedly limited bag of tricks, I sulked, fidgeted, advanced through two or three stages of grief, and finally bit the bullet and drove over to Fry's to pick up a cheap replacement machine.

One that runs Vista and came with something like two hundred times as much ram as my first PC had hard disk storage. To be honest, it doesn't run much quicker than that old one, but it's prettier.

I then was faced with a fresh, clean machine that lacked every application and feature I wanted, so I burned up the Internet downloading utilities, malware detectors, programs, fonts, and drivers. And, because it's a Windows box, spent a lot of time waiting for it to reboot.

I ended up buying, also, a new interface that would let me access hard disks in the old machine because the one I had inexplicably wouldn't work. During the days of reconstruction, for reasons I wont' get into, I also killed my laptop, which is now useless, all in a vain attempt to recover some missing data. I can now read everything from that old drive, but of course, I can't just copy things over like in the good ol' days.

This new (to me) Vista is quite painful to deal with on an extended basis, but I'm giving it a shot. There seems to be even less that's easy to find than ever before, but that's the reverse side of the "user friendly" coin in every situation. The worst thing about Vista, for me, is that I don't really see any benefit to it over Windows XP, but I'm sure there is one.

I did install Rocket Dock, which I think is pretty neat, and I suggest that everyone using Vista give it a try. I like it much better than the start button or the quick launch tray, and it's a good way for me to keep the desktop free of all the clutter.

In the midst of all my updating, when I was checking my e-mail, I froze. I had to enter my password, and although I had no trouble putting it in three or four times previously and had even adopted that password for my login to the machine, I forgot what it was. Well, not entirely, only everything after the first four characters.

I'd drawn a blank about what it was once before, a few years ago, and made a note of it somewhere, but I had no idea where it was. It's also the password for my Password Safe password remembering program, and I began to panic. I'm pretty good, I think, at remembering these things, and this particular password was one that I was given by an old Internet Service Provider over fifteen years ago. It's eleven characters long (I now know), has all that mixed case and other crap, and I've used it two or three times a day for all that time.

Still, I looked at the screen, and couldn't remember the whole thing. Not even with body memory.

Years ago I stood in front of an ATM and had a similar experience. I didn't know my PIN, even though I'd used it several times a week for a few years, and in that instance not only did I not remember what it was, I could sense the hole in my mind where it should be and knew that I would never remember it, that the PIN's spot was, indeed, empty.

I panicked when I considered that might be the case with my password, so I immediately ran away from the computer to watch some Olympics in hopes that the password would pop into my mind. I refused to believe it was gone for good, like that PIN, but the possibility nagged at me. Sure, I'm getting older, but I'm far too young to be suffering early dementia.

For the next several hours I tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid trying to think about what my password might be. I couldn't shut down the computer for fear of never getting it back running, and I was in no mood to do a restore and use a different password since that would undo the past couple day's work. I don't think I spent longer than a minute watching women's volleyball and boxing without thinking of the lost password, and the more possibilities I came up and tried, the more desperate and dismal I became.

In the end, I remembered it. That's how I know how long it is. Everything works now and I even wrote the password down on a slip of paper and put it in a safe place I'm sure to forget. But, in the meantime, I can compute, surf the Internet, and do many of the pastimes I enjoy. What I can't do is keep from wondering what I'll forget next.

I can't explain it, but I seem to have a knack for attracting various food martyrs.

It wasn't worthy of being called an epiphany or anything like that, but the other day it struck me that, throughout my life, people who refuse to eat meat seem to gravitate toward me. I have no idea if this is actually true, but I read or heard something the other week that at some World Championship of Barbecuing or other there were over 100,000 people in attendance, a number that dwarfed some similar Vegetarian Convention that drew, maybe, 1,500. If ten percent of the population is vegetarian, a number that sounds reasonable, I'm getting more than my fair share.

It may be because I enjoy them. Not only am I fascinated by the whole concept of living a life of deprivation, but it's also fun to find out about them. Most, of course, do it for political reasons, and those can range from sincerity to hip parroting of bromides generated by peer pressure. A large number of them refuse to eat some meat or other for religious reasons, a notion I must confess to finding quaint. It was a challenge, when I worked with both a practicing Jew and a Hindu, to find pizza toppings acceptable to both.

The huge majority of these people in my life, at least those who stick around for longer than a week or so, do so without preaching to me about the horrors of my diet. Oh, sure, they make their points known in subtle or not-so-subtle ways and often find excuses to bring up how much better they are than I am, but I try my best to be agreeable. I don't propose the wholesale slaughtering of anything, but I have to admit it's hard to get as worked up for a pasta bean salad as it is for, say, a ham and cheese omelette. I don't think we'd be having so many of these problems if meat didn't, fundamentally, taste better than just about everything else on the planet.

Anyway, what struck me the other day is I may not be as bad as these people think I am. Sure I enjoy eating meat and I have no plans to stop, but a few times a week I'm a vegetarian. Some say this doesn't count, but I think it has to be taken into the mix (or the masala). While some mistakenly call me a carnivore, I can't remember my last meal the consisted entirely of meat.

In fact, as I thought about it, I shouldn't be feeling guilt at all. Out of the hundreds of animals on the planet earth, I regularly only eat about three or four of them. That's a very low percentage, and I believe I should be given a great deal of credit for my consideration. In fact, I don't think I've eaten more than a dozen animals in my entire life, many of them only once or twice.

Instead of picturing me as a ravaging, blood-soaked madman intent on murder, I'm actually quite moderate. Chickens and pigs can no doubt fear me, but giraffes can continue to graze in peace. Out of the entire bird population, only chickens and turkeys have any reason to look around with trepidation, and I'm not even sure I've ever eaten one of them that wasn't specifically grown for the purpose of ending up on a dinner plate or between two slices of bread.

Eating just four animals regularly isn't bad at all, especially when you consider the number of plants I consume.

Oh, sure, things are better, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.

It all began a few days ago, and by "few days" I might actually mean a year, or, to go to the start of the story, going on a couple years now.

A few days ago I got in my car, Timmy, to go to work and was made very afraid by his not starting. Turned the key...nothing. No lights on the dash. no failed attempt to start, just nothing.

About six months ago this happened, too, but Timmy quickly recovered and started up on the second try. Since then, it's happened occasionally, sometimes requiring four or five attempts, but he's always come through. Not the other day, though, when he began dead and became increasingly moribund the more I tried to breathe life into him by turning the broken key.

In this narrative I may have skipped over the incident a year ago when I broke the key in half inside the ignition, but I was coming to that. It may have been on one of those recalcitrant efforts to get him started, or it may have just been when I was in a hurry, but once when I was returning from a dental visit I turned the key in the ignition when the key was not all the way in.
I didn't realize that at the time, nor did I understand the ramifications of the massive upper body strength us males are so famous for, so instead of turning the key in the lock, I managed to only turn the part of the key that was outside the lock. The part safely and snugly inside the lock stayed in place, and I ended up with half a key in my hand.
I ended up using the half in my hand to push the half in the lock all the way in, and have been using that bastardized key ever since.

So, when Timmy didn't start the other day, I figured that broken key was somehow involved. Making things worse, if that's the right word, when I first laid eyes on Timmy, before he was mine, his ignition was dangling down in the vicinity of the driver's knees, below the column. This was somehow explained as not being a problem, and it was fixed before I handed over my hard-earned money in exchange for the right to call him mine.

That, too, lay on my mind as I sat in the driveway uselessly turning a key that did nothing.

My fear, of course, was that I'd need to replace the ignition switch. While that may not seem like much to you, you probably have a current car where parts such as ignition switches are readily available. Also, you may have some idea about how to replace one, a skill I lack.

While I know as much about repairing cars as anyone did in the 70s, which is to say replacing head gaskets, cleaning carburetors, and that level of things, the interior of the car and body work have been a closed book to me. I have no idea how to dismantle a door or dashboard, but after a bit of hunting around, I was able to strip the trim from the steering column and came up with this rather imposing sight.



It took me a few days riding back and forth to the store getting strange tools before I was able to really get down to the problem. I could have had Timmy towed to a repair place like a normal person would do, but I had no idea where to take him. The locksmith who solved the mystery of his locked trunk seemed a good idea because I felt he could replace the key chamber, but I wasn't sure how far his expertise went.
A dealer would be good, though frightfully expensive, but it's been years since I've seen a Geo Metro dealership, and I just wasn't sure Jim's Auto Repair could find an ignition switch for a 1991 Geo Metro. Hell, I wasn't sure anybody could, not without using the Internet and waiting a week.

So, I fretted.

From time to time I'd go out and try something, and when it didn't work, I'd grow more despairing and desperate and try to solve those emotions with ice cream. That, and repeating my mantra: Fuck this car, fuck my life, fuck me.

That course of action, to my surprise, dismay, and consternation, did nothing, nothing at all.

After using the wisdom of the Internet to learn about hotwiring, I tried some of that for awhile. My goals were simple:

1) Do no irreparable harm (nothing I couldn't undo, when I screwed up)
2) Get Timmy running
3) Don't electrocute yourself, unless it comes to that

I wasted quite a bit of time trying one thing, checking something out, and leaving the car even more discouraged than when I'd last approached it. It took a long time, and a lot of thought, for me to work up the courage to try something, and Timmy's continued state of death did little to buoy my flagging spirits.

Then, I came up with a realization. No matter what I did, Timmy didn't show any sign of having any electricity at all in his system. I left the horrors of the driver's compartment and raised the hood to poke around there. No matter what I tried, I couldn't coax a spark out of the battery, so I decided that was the culprit.

It's a pretty simple fix to replace a battery, but it isn't as cheap as it would be if I could somehow repair the battery. Even with our current, wildly inflated costs of commodities, lead is much cheaper than batteries, but repairing a battery is about as feasible as repairing a burned out light bulb.

I might be able to get away with getting a jump, but one of the delights of buying a used car is not knowing how far along the path any of the components are. If it was the battery that was the problem, it hadn't been doing a great job of holding a charge for the last six months, and the hot weather was pushing it.

In the end, I went and got a new battery, carefully noting the make and model of the one that was in there. That one, held in place by tied bungee cords, of course, wasn't the right model, but I was more amazed that the computer at the Autozone carried information about 1991 Geo Metros.

I replaced the battery and literally held my breath as I turned the key. Lights went on! The engine turned and sputtered into reluctant life!

I was so excited it nearly replaced my feelings that this is a temporary solution and much greater problems lie hidden. Maybe the old battery was just out of juice, but I wish I could shake the feeling that whatever drained one is busy right now, draining this one.

In the meantime, I may be able to go shopping again. Tomorrow.

I try to explode my head on a fairly regular basis, but so far, no luck.

Back when I was young and impressionable I read or heard about an unfortunate person who was unable to forget anything. I don't know if it was a psych report from the 1800s or just a story, but the essence of it was that this poor sap, being unable to filter his thoughts or his mind's contents, ended up an insane, gibbering mess and may have died.

Whether or not it's true, it's something I mull over from time to time and wonder about. I usually picture it as having a mind that's racing without restraint, bombarded with memories, and I can't say it's a pleasant thought. Being like that probably would drive someone crazy and blow a gasket or two in the brain.

Since my mind doesn't work that way, though, I try to blow it up several times a week using a wider approach. Instead of speeding too many items through my more limited faculties, I try to make my mind explode by attempting to overflow it by filling it with all the things going on at any particular moment.

I think I first considered this when I was in court. My appearance, naturally, consumed my thoughts for the few days before I was scheduled to appear, but during and after the proceedings I noticed the other people in the court and thought about them as well. The day, I decided, was crucially important for those of us on one side of the aisle, but was just another Wednesday or whatever for those who worked there. My life and freedom and all that jazz was on the line, but for the clerks and judge, it was just business as usual. The day after my appointment I'd be done worrying about the judicial system, but they'd be there doing the same ol' for another room full of people who'd spent the previous few days tossing and turning over their fate.

My life, my world, would have moved on to other things while other people would be taking my place shuffling before the judge and the clerks would be filling out the same paperwork with only the names and numbers slightly different.

I still think, occasionally, about what's going on in nameless courtrooms and how nameless people are being sentenced or released and the clerks and bailiffs are chatting about new items in the cafeteria or the weekend's events. The decisions made by the court will profoundly affect the lives of people who've obsessed about the outcome for days, but I know nothing about it and never will.

But that's not all.

After having spent most of my life in the business world, I think about all the crises that come up. I can't see a movie opening or product rollout or anything without giving at least a little thought to how hectic it must have been the last week. People I don't know had their lives focused on getting some color right on a flyer or arranging for seating or babysitting while I've been in innocent denial of what's been going on.

At any given moment there are people frantically trying to put things right. Except in rare cases, I never get to see all the behind the scenes scurrying around and am ignorant of the incredible pressures put on people. A new webpage is needed, the manufacturer can't ship handles for hair brushes, a Power Point presentation isn't loading correctly, banners have been misplaced, a nervous kid finally decides to walk up to a cute girl to ask her out, there's no wood left for a fire, all kinds of things are going on ... right not ... that I'm unaware of that are crucial to those involved.

I try to consider all the things that are going on a few times each week. These life-changing moments are occurring all the time, all at once, and I keep thinking that if I could be made aware of them, my brain would explode.

Every minute of every day supremely important things are happening and here I am, wondering about breasts again.

I've tried, but I can't say too much funny about this incident today. It was just so damn cute...

Next door, there's a family (again). The husband was away for awhile (for the previous owners, it was the wife who left, I think), but he's back now and their family is complete. There's him, his wife, his older daughter, and two darling twin girls whom I guess to be somewhere around four or five.

These twins dress alike, and I can't tell them apart, not that it would much matter since I don't know their names. They know mine, however, and nearly every time I go out to my car they tap on their window, call out to me, and wave. I doubt it's the high point of their day, but they often act very excited.

I often see them in their frontyard, playing on the swingset and, being kids, they always want to know what I'm up to, where I'm going, or are eager to show me whatever it is they're doing, have acquired, or plan to do next. I don't know much about kids, but they're always asking questions and I try my best to answer.

Today, however, was just great. I was heading out to the store and their dad was with them in the lawn, talking on his phone. He may have been trying to get some work because he works for the studios and is still suffering from the strike last year that I still believe hurt all the "regular" people while leaving the writers and producers pretty much unchanged.

Anyway, one of the girls called me over to the fence to show me something, and I obliged.

She then proceeded to open her mouth, pull down her lower lip, and show me where her two lower front teeth were coming in. It was, of course, a momentous event for her and her twin had to show me how only one of her teeth was coming in. They'd both lost the same two, and I was tickled pink that they shared this big deal with me.

Or, maybe it wasn't a big deal to them, just "news."

I have no idea how old kids have to get before they stop doing shit like that, but it's sort of a shame that we lose that innocence at some point in our lives. Adults, unless we know them very well, don't go around showing us their scars, but kids are trusting, interested, and full of wonder. They don't filter nearly as much as I do as an adult, and I'm really glad these two are right next door.

I like them so much it never even occurs to me to let them in on the big secret that one day they'll fall in love with the cutest guy ever who will then break their heart and they'll feel worse than they ever will again.

But, who knows? Maybe they'll be spared that and do the dumping themselves. All I know is I hope nothing ever pulls them rudely from their world, not for a long time.

It's been one whole day now that people in California have been able to apply for same-sex marriage licenses and we, surprisingly, haven't been struck yet with any calamities from the almighty.

Maybe She approves.

Although I've never dabbled on the other side of the fence myself, except, maybe, sort of, I'm hoping that the gays I've known take advantage of this. Not that I want them to later experience the crushing bitterness of divorce or anything just to be equal, but, really, what the people down the street or across town do in their homes really doesn't interest me that much. Nor do I think that two guys or two women marrying each other will change how we think of marriage in the slightest.

It's two people who love each other, being together for more than tax reasons.

I was touched to read that George Takei was the first one in line to get a marriage license in West Hollywood. That's so cool, and I'm very happy for him. He may have never thought it would happen in his lifetime (he's 71, according to the article), and now he can live his dream.

He probably doesn't remember me, even though we met. And by "met" I mean that we were eating in the same deli in Burbank in the late 1980s and were seated right next to each other at the counter. He may have asked me to pass him some mustard in that beautiful deep voice of his, and I'm sure I obliged once I noticed who he was.

I nodded at him to show that I recognized him, and he sorta smiled back. I like to think he was happy I didn't call him Sulu or make a fuss, but now I'm wondering if he wasn't disappointed I didn't make a pass at him. Back then I was desirable.

Whenever I run across the results of one of those "What would you ask of a generous genie" or any plain wish thing, near the top are always flying or being invisible. This makes sense. More than half the population are women and I suspect they're mostly the ones who don't recognize the exciting benefits of being invisible, especially not near or in showers, dressing rooms, and locker rooms in some of the nearby gyms.

Even with all that going for it, being invisible wouldn't be my first choice.

For a long time my pat answer would have been stopping time. In an episode of Bewitched, which I watched faithfully although less so after Darren was switched, she once wiggled her nose and everyone around her was frozen. This, I thought, was very cool.

Not only could you run around, molesting and embarrassing people, but if you were so inclined you could also grab a bunch of stuff and live happily ever after. The stealing, however, might make it difficult to live happily, but still on the plus side would be the ability to mess around with people and their stuff and create hilarious situations.

Later on, of course, I recognized the drawback of all this time stopping. If I wasn't careful, I could spend so much time in the stopped universe, time that would still count against my years on the planet, that I'd age rather quickly. If I even spent as much time in the stopped universe as I did in this one, I'd age twice as fast as everyone around me, mostly without any explanation.

This worried me. Being the recipient of such powers would have to be carefully controlled, something I'm not always good at doing.

At this stage of my life, when I have about twenty years left, I've come up with an alternative wish. No, not to live forever, although doing so metaphorically wouldn't be half bad, and I'm not even sure that I'd want to be a vampire and obtain my longevity through sucking the blood of innocent strangers, although the super powers vampires are rumored to have are very cool.

No, now I'd like something more like this:

I'd like to divvy up my remaining time and live it out at the pace of one week every five or ten years. The rest of the time, I don't know, I'd be in suspended animation or whatnot.

The thing is, I'm damn curious about what the future will bring. Everything from how the oil crisis will be resolved to what becomes of the polar bears to how many goddamn more changes are they going to make to professional American football. I want to see how long the United States will be rule before she falls like every other major civilization has and if we'll ever get flying cars.

The future intrigues me, and not least of all because it's going to happen. There's a lot of ways a lot of things can happen, and I want to see what biologists and doctors and scientists come up with to change things. I keep hearing things like "What would Galileo make of our world today?" and, while I can't compare to the great thinkers or inventors of the past, at least I could be around to give future generations a fresh perspective.

Since I can't imagine living every single day for five or ten thousand years as being much more than a chore of eating and surviving, and since just a glimpse of the future would leave me with many questions and much unknown, I've decided about a week every five or ten years would be enough to catch up. I wouldn't be conversant with everything going on, but I wouldn't be totally out of the water, either. It would give me enough time to get up to speed, to discover a few hidden gems, and to answer the question of how history will treat George Bush.

I'd also lose everyone I know and love and would be sentenced to a life without friends or even acquaintances. That would be a heavy burden, but at least I'd find out if pubic hair made a comeback.

The other day I was looking over some web page detailing the ten worst things to eat and was not surprised to see that I'd eaten all of them at one time or other. The list included all the usual suspects, everything from sodium nitrate to trans fats, so it was pretty boring.

They did mention MSG, which no doubt thrilled the Accent people, and mentioned that if you wanted a little more taste to add salt. Which they also mentioned as a bad thing to ingest, further down the list. Sugar was on there, too, in a number of forms, but the list was mostly all those man made things added to preserve freshness, synthetic sweeteners, and Olestra, that fat-reducing thing that causes anal leakage.

I got so upset with my diet after reading that article that I decided to have a simple, healthful dinner.



My intentions were good, but even after eating six carrots, I can't say that I was satisfied. Yes, they were grown by my sister so were probably organic and as fresh as could be, but, somehow, I wanted more not very long at all after devouring them.

Yes, it's more than most people on the planet ate today and I'm sure it did my eyes a world of good, but even with all that going for it, I felt something was lacking. I considered munching the greens, which I'd discarded, but I've never heard of anyone doing that and wasn't about to experiment. I guess it's fine in a salad or something, but I was feeling more hungry than adventurous and ended up throwing a chicken breast on the grill. And, fixing a side order of mashed potatoes with olive oil and garlic.

No one kissed me, but my tummy was happy.

Once, around a dinner table when everyone was remarking how delicious the dinner was, I said, "It tastes so good I hate to swallow," which pretty much exhausted my knowledge of digestion until just the past month.

Food, and eating, as far as I was concerned, pretty much began with biting and chewing, and that was it. Oh, sure, I knew what happened later, but didn't really much care, and while I must have learned something about the digestive tract and its functions in health or biology classes, I wasn't much of a student. Whatever my teachers had endeavored to impart to me never lasted, and I never gave it any thought after the test.

But that blissful ignorance wasn't to last.

Now that I think I'm all done writing about subserosal myomas, at least for now, I'm back to the more exciting topics of rectal bleeding and H. pylori. While I don't know anything about those, either, they're at least things that can affect me, personally. And, for the first time in my life, I have something other than myself to think about while I go about my business in the morning.

Like I said, I must have learned at some time what the intestines do, but I honestly had no idea what different things were done in the small and large intestines. As far as I was concerned, it was all just moving stuff along and grabbing what it could in the way of nutrients.

Now, I know a little better.

How exciting it is for me, now, to have worries about things that never before concerned me! Although I've yet to reach a point where I inspect my shit, and hope I never do, I can no longer take my morning dump as casually as I once did a ride in a car. When you're thinking about pistons and valves, it's hard not to listen for any little sign that something may be amiss in your engine, and it's now approaching that point with my intestines.

As far as I can tell, I'm still getting plenty of nutrition out of the things I eat. They also still taste good, unless I somehow screw up, but now that I know the large intestine mostly regulates water after the small has grabbed all the goodies, I can think about that.

Having new things to think about may not be exciting, but it gives me even more to keep an eye on.

There's a lot of arguing that goes on about the proper role of government, which just makes sense because there isn't a "right" answer, only opinions. Those who say government should do a lot of regulating assume the government knows best and those who say it should stay out of our lives as much as possible put, I think, too much credit on the humans it is meant to govern. Still, hardly anyone argues that the proper role of our government is to confuse us.



Yeah, that cute little car is mine, but that's not the point.

It used to be that streets didn't have these obnoxious lumps in them, and maybe they're just a southern California thing. There purpose, I think, is to slow traffic down, which reduces the slaughter and mayhem on our neighborhood streets. It also saves gas, so that's a good thing.

Years ago, when I first started seeing these, they were painted with diagonal stripes, which surely caught your eye. Then, a few years later, some more enlightened legislature decided that they might be catching drivers unaware so they added yellow street signs alerting us to the (speed) bumps in the road. Some time after the latest episode of slurrying the streets to make them look, if not function, any better, an even more informed legislature must have decided that while marking the bumps, themselves, with diagonal lines, that cost more than just writing on the street.

Why they chose to call them "humps," I cannot explain. It may have to do with us human's fondness for that which is new, or maybe the world "bump" was too difficult for many of our drivers to grasp. We'd gotten used to speed bumps, so maybe the thinking was to call them something different in the guise of updating or enhancing them, or maybe it was just to draw attention to them as being something new.

Either way, I think it's silly.

I have no idea how many fatal accidents there ever were on that street, but since it's the next block over, I'd think I would have heard the sirens or known about it. The number of lives saved, of course, approaches the infinite, in spite of the damage to done to all the cars that are now lower to the ground to save on gas mileage.

In any case, I guess I should write someone in government a strongly worded letter about this nonsense. If we can reach a consensus, an agreement, on the burgeoning hump-bump debate, there may yet be hope for the more serious issues.

I say, let's start with something small.

As some point in the distant past I heard someone ask me if I'd rather be right than happy. I'm not sure how I answered, but the true answer would be "right."

I can't just "get along." When something bugs me, it bugs me, and I have no idea how to stop letting that happen.

Like at least some other people, this year I learned about superdelegates. Now, I can understand some of the reasoning behind the Democratic Party having them, but a lot of people seem to be very upset with the whole idea. "Democracy!" they shout, and while there's a lot to be said in favor of that, a political party, I think, can select its nominee any way they want.

Still, I can sort of see why you might want superdelegates. I guess they're necessary if you need a majority and not just a plurality to select your candidate, but I also like how they add the human factor into the nominating process. It can be like having a human monitoring a computer or piece of machinery. Without the superdelegates, the process could be entirely automated, and I'm not so sure that's always a good thing.

If Barack Obama, who was leading last time I looked, cracks and does something stupid, it's good to have the superdelegates being able to pick someone else. I don't think they should overturn the will of the people on a whim, but if video surfaces of him gnawing on the bones of babies while seated on an American Flag while dressed in only a garter belt and high heels with a butt plug shoved up his ass, I think it would be reasonable to allow the superdelegates to overturn his nomination.

But that's not what bugs me about superdelegates.

It's the way they're referred to by many in the media, as if they were a bulk item. One of my favorite cartoons shows a guy in line at a grocery store correcting the "Ten items or less" sign to read "fewer," and the caption reads "Everybody's an editor."

Okay, not really all that funny, but it tickles my editorial soul. There is a difference between less and fewer, and it bugs me when people use the wrong term. One, fewer, is used to refer to countable items, even if it's a large number the stars in the sky. Less is used to talk about conceptual items, or those who we consider bulk items. There is less sugar on fewer donuts, fewer dollars means less money. It's not really that hard I don't think, but it does require a bit of thinking and evidently that amount of thinking is more than most people care to exert.

It's correct to say Obama or Hillary will need more delegates to win the nomination. But I wince whenever I hear someone refer to the superdelegates in bulk terms, although a specific instance of that escapes me now. Maybe I'll edit one in next time I hear it. If I watch any cable news program, I'm sure it will take fewer than five minutes.

[Edit: Okay, the biggest offense (from a usage standpoint) about these superdelegates is how often some knucklehead will talk about the amount of delegates needed. That's just plain wrong, and I'd be insulted if I were a superdelegate and was being referred to as if I was some sort of bulk commodity. Delegates do NOT come in amounts, they come in numbers! ]

My point is, if I wasn't so insistent on being right all the time, I could more thoroughly enjoy this race.

On the other hand, there's this, which is pretty cool and depressing, and this, which is equally depressing but is a little movie.

Over this last weekend I became a trifle upset. I was all set to add a thrilling new entry to Crenellated Flotsam when I discovered two discouraging facts.

1) My last entry had, somehow, disappeared
2) I couldn't see my site

Then, this morning, as I got set to try and fix things, the site was back. I did some quick poking around, but it wasn't until later today that I discovered my web host had sent me a friendly letter letting me know that my site had been successfully transitioned to their new software.

Which may explain why CF is working again. And, I must admit, better than it was. Last time I updated it, I lost handy little buttons for marking up the text or inserting links, but now they're back. I haven't yet found, on my new control panel, how to quickly check and repair the database, but its loss would only further strengthen my beliefs in the nature of progress.

In the meantime, I'll check around and see if I can find something to post about.

Before Crenellated Flotsam breaks again, I'd better add an entry.

Three or four days ago I got over my fears and spent more money in a single day than I have in over ten years. In return, I got a working eyeball.

People who undergo real surgeries laughed at my fears and pointed out that tons of people have "surgery" to remove cataracts and it really isn't a very painful operation. In reply, I could only point out that I wasn't even thinking about any pain. The idea of it being painful only struck me the morning of the procedure, and even then I discounted it.

For me, it was all about having things stuck in my eye. And, let the record show that the pain was no worse than having the head of a pin pressed against your eyeball. "Piece of cake," I believe, is the phrase people use to describe this sort of thing.

Even that little pressure, however, was more than enough to freak me out, but that's only because I knew why I was feeling it. Because something was being stuck in my eye.

The greatest fear I had never materialized. Although I was wide awake and couldn't close my eye, I couldn't see anything while the operation was going on. I don't know how they do it, but either the amount of fluid in my eye or some device or other prevented me from seeing the doctor while he removed my cataract and replaced it with a shiny new plastic lens. I'm more thankful for that than you can imagine.

The day following the operation I went back for a follow-up visit. The first thing they did was throw away the clear plastic eye protection I'd been wearing. I mentioned that I was bit concerned because the pupil in the eye that had been operated on was still dilated last time I'd glanced at it, about three in the morning when I was putting in more expensive eye drops. Since that was over twelve hours after the procedure, I hadn't expected it.

For the record, I still haven't examined my eye. I'm too afraid of seeing little healing cuts or something. There are some things we just don't need to know. Anyway, during my follow-up visit I learned that the vision in my repaired eye had gone from 20-400 or 20-500 when I had the cataract to 20-50 or so, a tenfold improvement. I didn't mention that I expected to have perfect vision, but I did tell them that the first and greatest thing I noticed was that everything was 20% to 25% brighter.

I mean, really, it is. When I had the cataract I'd never noticed that I couldn't see at night when all the lights were turned off in the house, but now it's fun to walk around in the middle of the night and to be able to actually see!

Today the vision in the repaired eye is nearly as good as my other one. Next week I go back for another visit, and I expect to do real well on the eye examination. It was pretty rewarding for me even the day after to be able to rattle off most of the letters, something I was unable to do when I went in for the consultation. It was pretty embarrassing to look at the screen and not even be able to tell them the largest letter. I could tell something was on the screen, sure, but had no hope of making it out.

Before the operation, my vision was like looking through a wet sheet of single-ply toilet paper or wax paper. Now, it's damn near normal. I can no longer close my good eye when watching TV or a movie to avoid seeing something distressing, and the past two days of enhanced colors that reminded me of the dying embers of an acid trip are gone, but some buyer's remorse still lingers. As wonderful as it is to see again, I'm not sure that I should have had the operation.

But I'll enjoy it while I can. The doctor predicts that I'll get another cataract in the other eye, but he also says everyone gets them. I can't imagine ever having the money to get a second operation, but it's good to know the possibility is there.

I'm wondering if this newly upgraded thing will work. I may be able to add back the missing entries.

Considering how frequently I think of something witty to say about things I’ve seen, it’s downright suspicious that there isn’t multiple posts here every day.

I mean, it’s not like I’m not opinionated or shy about speaking my mind.

Just today, although this isn’t witty in the slightest, I was driving behind a screen repair truck. This guy, I thought, should be making money faster than he could print it up himself. Nearly everyone has screens on their windows, and I’d be willing to bet a good number of those screens need some repair.

And, in spite of the fact that repairing or replacing a screen is only slightly more difficult than putting in a new shoelace, I have a hunch most people refuse to even consider doing it. Not that I’m any better than anyone else, but although I know I could do it (and have many times in the past), I’m burdened by laziness.

Anyway, in a more perfect world, all this guy would have to do is by a couple big rolls of screen mesh, maybe both metal and fiberglass, a whole bunch of that rubber tubing stuff and one or two rollers, and he should be set for life. The trouble, I guess, is that no one would know about the excellent service he provides.

In today’s business climate, you have to do more than build it. That’s the rub.

Pretty much every culture, I’m guessing, has discovered that in the springtime, when young men aren’t busy thinking about love, the sun is reborn and life returns to the planet. In my neck of the woods, this means the weeds flourish.

I do have the best weed eradicator on the planet that doesn’t produce milk. It’s a hand tool, about a foot long, that has a soft rubber grip and a head comprised of one flat, square spade about an inch and a half wide and another that’s the same size but has four teeth a couple inches long.

I’ve never used the flat side yet, but the pronged end is most excellent. I can stand, or bend over, and with a couple good whacks at the dirt surrounding the weed, pick it up roots and all. Crabgrass, in particular, has no defense against this attack.

After filling my city-supplied green trash can, the one for yard trimmings, and setting it out to be picked up this morning, I was more than slightly annoyed to discover that, in picking it up, the city’s machine crushed my green bin in half. Not only did this make an incredible mess on the street, which I mostly winced at and ignored, it necessitated a phone call on my part to the city agency to get the bin replaced.

That took about half an hour, total, or less than a minute talking with the lovely bureaucrat. The conversation went something, roughly, like this:

Her: How can I help you?
Me: I need a new green bin. The truck tore mine in half.
Her: What’s the bin’s serial number?
Me: P6G 026410
Her: Your address?
Me:
Her: Put it out on the street Tuesday, and we’ll replace it. Not this Tuesday, next one, April first.
Me: April first? Is that a joke?
Her: (Laughs) No.

Two things about this strike me as interesting. Not only do I have a lot more weeding to do and get rid of, but now I have to struggle through with a crippled bin for two weeks of hydraulic excesses. The odds of the bin surviving are slim, but I have no choice.

Second, and perhaps more interesting, is that our bins all have serial numbers that the government, somehow, considers very important. I hate to think how much money is spent maintaining that database, or how it would ever be remotely useful. I suppose a case could be made for tracking survivability of the bins, but to store and track every one of the city’s several million bins just to see how long they last seems inefficient, at best. Just note, after they’re returned, when they were sent out. Since they all have bar codes, why any consumer would need to know and report the number is just silly.

Are they worried about theft? I’ve never known any bin to go missing or seen any, like shopping carts, littering the landscape. I sincerely doubt it’s the existence of the serial number that’s coming them from being pilfered and put to use in meth labs or used to smuggle illegal immigrants.
But, no matter what, I should be getting a sparking new green bin next month. Just in time to coincide with heater filter replacement and my mortgage payment!