nobody asked…

Fifty frigging percent! As in one half. Bisected. Even-steven. Fifty-fifty.

As today, June 30, morphs into July 1 at midnight, 2006 is half gone.

What the hell happened to it? What is happening to time? What the hell is going on? Some kind of temporal compression that might be best understood by a student of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity? Did we just pass through Warp 10 for the first time due to a breech of the anti-matter containment field, Scotty? One thing is for sure … it’s slipping by way too fast! Our destination is coming into view … but we just left the station …

50 damn percent…

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Only a couple of days ago we were all rattled to learn of the passing of Michelle Goodrich of Mandarin Design fame. Now another fellow traveller has checked out. While not as widely known as Mandarin Meg, Rob Smith, aka Acidman on his Gut Rumbles blog, had his own unique style, even his own language at times. Those of us who had come to admire, respect, and enjoy his writing will miss his perspective and observations on life. One thing for certain — Rob squeezed every last drop out of life right up to the end…

As Rob himself might say, “Bejus! The ornery dumbass sumbitch checked out in the middle of the got-damn night without even saying goodbye…”

R.I.P., Rob…

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A really great man is known by three signs — generosity in the design, humanity in the execution, moderation in success.
— Otto von Bismarck (1815 - 1898)

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Reportedly, this sign at an Indiana nursery was up for about two hours before someone stopped and told them how to spell peonies.
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Credits to the alert photographer, the 437 or so folks who have serially forwarded it for gawd knows how long, and to Suzi and friends who planted it in my inbox.

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Aarrrgghhhhh… Me aching bones! My hair hurts…

Prescription for pain today is…
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Early: Coffee and Krispy Kremes…
All Day: Bottled water…
End of Day: Ice cold beer…

Ok, let’s roll…

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Following JohnB’s lead, I ventured over to Dr. Goodword’s Office to be tested for that dread condition known as Yankeeness. This is a quick little quiz that scores your Southerness (or Yankeeness) based on your pronounciation and/or usage of some common words.

For example, here in Tennessee, the epicenter of all that matters, we refer to other people as y’all. We have all seen enough TV (think Archie Bunker) to know that the natives of N’Yawk and Joisey are most likely to say youse or youse guys. As a Southerner moving to Pittsburgh in my mid-twenties, I had the challenge of learning a second language. The other people that we called y’all and New Yorkers said youse, in Pittsburghese are referred to as yins, which I suppose is a corruption of what started life as you ones.

My test result was 76% Southern, with a commentary of “Your neck must be a little pink!” Southerness I proudly accept. A tendency to rednekkidness? A resounding HELL NO! The 24% of my syntactic linguistics that is representative of non-Southern patois is not surprising since about one-third of my life was spent in captivity in Pittsburgh, Indiana, and Iowa. Corporate captivity, that is…

Readers who never met or talked to me have no idea what my voice sounds like. Many probably imagine a Gomer Pyle-ish or Hee Haw twang. Actually, it much scarier than that… closer to James Earl Jones without the classical training. Since my teen years, and even now many years later, people say things like “Boy, with a voice like that you should be in radio or TV.” Or, “You should be singing bass with a group.”

Being back in Tennessee for 20 years now, it is only natural that my dialect has also shifted South. For many years in the corporation, travelling here and there, and making frequent stops on the rubber-chicken circuit as an after-dinner speaker, I continually honed my speech patterns to be as neutral as I could be, short of getting professional training. It worked because people could never guess my origins, most putting me somewhere in the middle of the Midwest. Today, there is no mistake. The booming Richter-scale contrabass is unmistakable and unchanged, but the dialect is most positively Southern … without the aforementioned rednekkidness twang…

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Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work, and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for, in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.
– Ellen Goodman

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…and knees …and hips …and fingers …and back …and knees …and ears …and feet …and knees …and neck …and …did I mention knees?

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… or is it slip-a-disk day? Or pull-a-muscle or tear-a-ligament day?

Slowly, as time and work schedule have permitted over the past couple of weeks, we’ve been sorting, pitching, trashing, and packing what’s left for the move of our offices. Already I am sore, back hurting, knees wobbly, hands bruised. And we ain’t seen nothing yet!

I’m beginning to understand what Jack Nicklaus meant when he allegedly said to a reporter who asked about his progress following hip-joint surgery a few years ago: “Hip feels great. Everything else hurts like hell.”

This weekend sees the big crunch of dismantling all the large furniture and technician benches to prepare for the movers next weekend. Setting aside what we need to continue in operation, ready to provide system and network service on the ring of the phone, with a friendly smile, while packing and moving and unpacking and searching and cussing … is like changing spark plugs in the middle of the interstate at 70 MPH…

So with a fond but groggy adieu, I’m off to the shower to blow out the blogwebs so I can go abuse myself… again…

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Here are a couple of hillarious test goodies lifted from the REDNECK ENGINEER CHALLLENGE I got by email from JackieSue, the old Yellowdog Granny, herownself.

A woodcutter has a chainsaw which operates at 2700 RPM. The density of the pine trees in the plot to be harvested is 470 per acre. The plot is 2.3 acres in size. The average tree diameter is 14 inches. How many Budweisers will be killed before the trees are cut down?

A front porch is constructed of 2×8 pine on 24-inch centers with a field rock foundation. The span is 8 feet and the porch length is 16 feet. The porch floor is 1-inch rough sawn pine. When the porch collapses, how many dogs will be killed?

For some reason those reminded me of a redneck riddle that always brings a chuckle. Some comedian offered this one — could have been Jeff Foxworthy, or maybe not…

Q: In Alabama, what does divorce have in common with a tornado?

A: Both mean somebody’s gonna lose a double-wide.

NOTE to BIG CITY DWELLERS: If you just muttered to yourownself “What the hell is a double-wide?“, please contact me by comment or email for emergency infusion of redneck edification.

On that note I should hang it up. Getting on a redneck roll can go on all day, especially if I dig out my Foxworthy reference library… And I’ve got things to do…

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Those of us who follow the adventures of Peter (the other) are in constant awe and envy, but rarely surprise, at what he may be doing, or where, or to/with whom. In describing his penchant for travel and for all the beauty the world has to offer, Peter uses a metaphor borrowed from Jan Knowlton at boop.org:

I am the cat who walked alone, and all places are alike to me.
Here is the opening paragraph of THE CAT THAT WALKED BY HIMSELF:

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Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild. The Dog was wild, and the Horse was wild, and the Cow was wild, and the Sheep was wild, and the Pig was wild–as wild as wild could be–and they walked in the Wet Wild Woods by their wild lones. But the wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.

Jan’s work and boop.org are new to me, but have an allure that begs a return visit. This little story is an easy quick read, and has an interestingly whimsical depth that speaks of hidden meanings and alternate interpretations. Kind of the way I think of Peter, hisownself…

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Stumbling around, trying to wake up a couple of days ago, I ran into this over at aka_Monty’s The Daily Bitch. It was at the same time interesting and calming. After staring at aka_Monty’s things map for a few hours, it was time to venture on over to Websites As Graphs, where the silicon-based life forms paint these things. Time to see what mine looked like. As interesting as the finished static map is, watching it grow over several minutes is absolutely mesmerizing. Give it a try.

The silicon elves offer no explanation as to what they are measuring or mapping, or what each node, each vector, and each different color represents. This may all be a work of fiction, but that does not keep it from being interesting…
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THIS IS A FOOTNOTE: After publishing this, I realized there is an annoying vertical line down the right side of the graphic. I got rid of the one on the left prior to uploading, but in my morning stupids, just missed the one on the right. If it bothers you too much, grab your bottle of Wite-Out correction fluid and paint right over the line on the screen.

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CAUTION: This blog contains material that may not be suitable for young readers, old virgins, or CGHill. Parental, spousal, or therapist guidance is recommended.

She had the most beautiful smile. Large, perfectly formed pearly whites that spoke to me of laminates, flashed constantly from behind full pouty Angelina Jolie lips. This enchanting orifice was set into a somewhat attractive face, but one given a slightly hard edge from too many generations of marrying cousins in whatever mountain valley she called home.

It had started and would end like many other nights when Roomie is out to a writers’ critique group meeting and I, not craving last night’s leftovers, opt for attending services at one of several local sports bars I frequent. Sipping my Kendall Jackson, casually scanning my newspaper, and randomly glancing at one of the 6 TV screens placed strategically around the bar area, I kept hoping she would show again so that I could continue my studies in obsessive compulsive disorders. But that must have been a one-night stand, never to be repeated.

Somewhere between the Caesar salad and the chicken tenders, I became aware of the intense revelry from her booth, which was about twelve feet from my vantage point atop a bar stool at a tall bar table. The merrymaking grew louder with each trip of the wait-person to deliver another round of drinks. Until now, I had paid no attention to them, but had only noticed her, since she was … noticeable. It took a couple of milliseconds for me to decide that the scene in that booth deserved my attention more than reading ad nauseam the latest speculation about Barry Bonds using steroids and human growth hormones.

As my attention shifted, she was up on her knees in the booth, leaning over — way over — her guy and planting a long wet kiss that must have tickled his tonsils. Most of the bar patrons were now taking in the show. As she slowly straightened up and turned her upper body to face the other couple in the booth, the barometric pressure in the bar dropped as every male in the place suddenly inhaled. Her hip-hugger jeans — you know the kind, the ones with the 2″ fly — stopped far south of the tight little top, exposing a long stretch of perfectly shaped and deeply tanned midriff skin. The top had a plunging scoop that perfectly showcased two of nature’s most magnificent works. They could certainly serve as marketing material for modern medical enhancement products.

The object of her attention was a poster-child for bikers anonymous — shaved head, unshaved face, black muscle tee with some type of skull design, topped by an open front black leather vest. I mused about what significant attributes he brought to the party that interested her so. As another round of drinks arrived, I was flummoxed by his imbibing choice. Into what appeared to be a half-glass of bock beer, he dropped a jigger — glass and all — of some type of liquor, then chug-a-lugged the entire thing. Perhaps this is the new rage for a new age. Maybe it is the present Tennessee version of the old Pittsburgh shot and a beer. But whatever it was, it looked to me like a sure prescription for throwing up until dawn.

They continued the show for a while. Though my memory is sketchy, I think I was finally able to finish eating and pay my tab. As I was standing to leave, Bambi (I had decided somewhere in the middle of the third act that her name just had to be Bambi) sprang from her booth, followed by her entourage. I could have easily made a fool of myself when she was fully vertical — all 6′-4 or 5″ of her. About a foot away from me, I was eyeball to eyeball nipple with her magnificent silicone trophies. Right there — ripe for the picking or biting or nuzzling. My head was suddenly light, but fortunately I did not have all the jiggers of whatever in glasses of whatfor, so I somehow managed to maintain my cool detachment, drooled on myself only minimally, and remained conscious in spite of the rarity of the air and the breathtaking scenery.

The foursome preceded me out to the parking lot. This was the first time I had actually seen the couple from the other side of the booth. They appeared to be almost average, at least compared with Bambi and her biker. Opening my car door, I turned to have one more look. To my surprise and horror and glee, Bambi and the other woman left together, while the biker look-alike and his buddy headed off in a different direction. Things are not always what they appear to be…

But the night was still young…

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