nobody asked…

While private messaging JohnB of Blog Meridian, I started down a trail of thought that immediately felt like a year-end post. You know, one of those Goodbye 2006, Hello 2007 epistles. One of the first things I did was take a look at what I had said one year earlier as 2005 was disappearing. That post was titled Goodbye, Good Riddance, 2005…, which accurately sums my feelings and emotions one year ago today.

Reading through that post I was taken by how much of it applies today. Bush is still doing an admirable job of spiraling the US into moral, ethical, and financial oblivion. His shredding of the Constitution and attempts to solidify the bond between church and state, continue without serious challenge. The war in Iraq still rages, with more casualties each day, including US and allies (do we still have any of those other than the UK?) and Iraqis. However, there is one major difference today from one year ago — attitude.

The resurgence of the Democrats in the November elections, while unexpected, should restore some level of checks and balances, and provide one small chink in the armor of Bush’s strangle hold on the American people. Rumsfeld’s outing and the continued free-fall of Bush’s approval ratings are good signs that maybe, just maybe, our country can be salvaged after all. While there are many differing opinions on the execution of Saddam Hussein, perhaps that event will at least provide the Bush administration an excuse, a smoke-screen if you will, for an unexpected early pull back from Iraq. That would fit with other lies they have produced, but we should quickly and gladly buy into this one, since it will bring an end to the slaughter and our occupation of a country where we have no business being in the first place.

There was never an intent for this to become a political post, or for nobodyasked to be considered a political blog. Having drifted in that direction in 2005 and the earlier part of 2006, I very consciously pulled back after the November elections, electing to focus on the myriad of other important nonsense around us. But it is impossible to assess what kind of year it has been without taking a peek at the political side of things. Now we have done that, so let’s move on…

Personally it was another good year. Not great, but good. I moved my business, now 17 years old, to new space more ideally sized and situated. I had health all year — sometimes good, sometimes not so good. My hearing continued a slow decline and it is nearing the time for new digital hearing aids at a cost of about $6,000 for the pair. I have hobbled ever closer to a knee joint replacement ordeal but continue to delay since I need to work to support an addiction I have. It’s called eating.

Roomie published another book, this time as editor. She is also offering a new service of manuscript editing, for authors needing that professional tune-up prior to publishing. She has done well with all of her writing related ventures and I am proud of her.

My struggle to become a better writer, a more successful blogger continues. Your presence and your comments are tremendously heart warming, but an even greater reward comes in the self-satisfaction from the occasional rare post that I can step back from and say I did a good job on that one. The bonds and friendships we develop here in the blog world are every bit as important and significant as those in the non-virtual world. Some come and go, some stay awhile and then disappear or drift away for unknown reasons. Others we sometimes wish would follow. But by and large, you are a great group of loyal readers and friends. I strive to give back to you as much as you have given to me…

14 comments

What a strange new word to me. First sighting of pandiculate was on my Page-A-Day Trivia Calendar, December 22, 2006. The answer to What are you doing when you pandiculate? was stretching and yawning, as this kitty is demonstrating. Being ever-curious about the never-significant, I had to do a bit of confirming research prior to thrusting my new font of knowledge on you, my gentle readers.

Wikipedia describes a yawn as: a reflex of deep inhalation and exhalation associated with being tired, with a need to sleep, or from lack of stimulation. Pandiculation is the term for the act of stretching and yawning. Yawning is a powerful non-verbal message with several possible meanings, depending on the circumstances. It is also claimed to help increase the state of alertness of a person. The exact causes of yawning are still unknown. (Emphasis added.)

Numerous interesting facts, trivia, and superstitions are listed in the Wikipedia article. One of the more curious ones is that certain species of penguins employ yawning as part of their courtship ritual. Penguin couples face off and the males engage in what is described as an “ecstatic display,” their beaks open wide and their faces pointed skyward. (Readers are cautioned about trying this at home or in dating situations. — Winston)

But the most interesting thing I have learned in my quest is that in about 5% of patients, Clomipramine can cause inadvertent orgasms when yawning. Which begs the questions (1) where does one obtain this stuff, and (2) how does one know if they are in the 5% or the 95%? The next time you see someone enjoying a big yawn in public, smile to yourself and ponder, is it real or is it drugs?

13 comments

An object in possession seldom retains the same charm that it had in pursuit. — Pliny the Younger

5 comments

My UK friend Andy Borrows, of Older But No Wiser fame, recently tagged me with a dreaded meme torture test. But this one was a bit different in that it required more than stupid answers to simple-minded questions. It actually required some level of thinking, introspection, and reflection. Being accomplished at none of those, I decided to tackle it anyway, with full apologies to Andy if my verbal sputum creates undue and undeserved embarrassment and/or hardship for him and/or his loved ones and heirs.

The question before the court is, as the title of this blog suggests, what five things do you (the readers) probably not know about me (the writer)? These five bubbled to the top of my short list from the original list of 437 items, most of which you do not, believe me when I say it, do not want to know.
Read more

8 comments

Whatever holiday you celebrate at this time of year — Christian Christmas, secular Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or just a few relaxing days off while everyone else celebrates — I wish for you peace, love, joy, health and happiness throughout the year. And chocolate. Lots and lots of dark, rich chocolate…

The bond of friendship that develops among virtual friends here in the bloggy- sphere has become an important part of our real-world existence and definition. Thanks to all of you for stopping by, for reading, for offering your comments, and for your lasting friendship. Those who have drifted through here and then moved on, we remember you with fondness and will always welcome your return.

6 comments

(Originally appeared as Up On The Rooftop… December 24, 2005)

7 comments

A man in Pittsburgh calls his son in Seattle two days before Christmas and says, “I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing. Forty-five years of misery is enough.”

“Pop, what are you talking about?” the son asks.

“We can’t stand the sight of each other any longer,” the father says. “We’re sick of each other, and I’m sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Los Angeles and tell her.”

Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone.

“No way they’re getting divorced!” she shouts. “I’ll take care of this.” She calls Pittsburgh immediately and says to her father, “You are NOT getting divorced. Don’t do a thing until I get there. I’m calling brother back, and we’ll both be there by tomorrow. Until then, don’t do a thing. DO YOU HEAR ME?” and slams the phone down.

The man hangs up and turns to his wife and smiles. “Okay,” he says, “they’re both coming home for Christmas. And they’re paying their own way.”

(Recycled from December 23, 2005. Original title Home for Christmas…)

5 comments

Sign on the wall at one of my customers:

A man needs a woman like a fish needs a bicycle.

I wonder what he’s pedaling…

3 comments

John at Common Sense and Wonder posts an article from Lileks describing a UN study which concludes that 18% of greenhouse gases result from bovine flatulence. I checked the validity of this outrageous claim before deciding to write about it. Googling bovine flatulence turns up about 48,900 hits. A quick review of the first few items confirms that Bossie’s belching and farting have been of global concern as far back as the early 1990s.

Speaking to the effects of greenhouse gases on global warming and the melting of polar ice caps, the article drops some jewels here and there, such as…

Every time a cow feels a small sense of relief,
a polar bear goes through the ice.
.
Browsing through some of the Google hits, whether they are scientifically serious or tongue in cheek hilarious, it is difficult to read without constantly struggling to hold in a loud guffaw accompanied by a breaking of the wind. Concerns reach from New Zealand to the UK. Solutions range from taxation (how does that solve it?) to re-writing the human eating machine’s desire for steaks and hamburgers (not likely!), replacing them with tofu, seaweed, and other such delectable delights (I don’t think so…), to legislation making cow farts illegal (who’s gonna break the news to Bossie?).

11 comments

Men have become the tools of their tools. — Henry David Thoreau

7 comments

Understanding the motivation and mentality of mass spammers will never fall within my realm of comprehension. Even I know enough to realize that endlessly pestering you is not likely to convince you to click on a link and buy something from me. The embiciles who setup spambots do not understand that.

Being a geek in the technology business I know not to open junk mail. So I don’t. I simply sit back and watch with irritation as the spam filter fulfills its mission in life. It does allow me to peek into an email and read the headers and the plain text in the body of a message. So occasionally I will do just that when something catches my eye or is flagged by the tiny people inside my filtering program as one I should examine more closely. That is what happened yesterday when I saw a sender’s address that had a familiar ring to it (turns out it rang falsely) and I paused to take a closer look.

The entire content of the message, so far as the spam filter and I could tell, was this curious, almost poetic, yea verily, damn near biblical, text.

On bed of death many receipts he.
Great in have then sinned.
Not to know what we speak.
Virginity breeds mites much like
Taken and it shall be read to.

7 comments

As I walked out of the office, it was immediately apparent  that something was different. Stopping to look and listen, I first noticed the frenzied sound of dozens hundreds thousands of birds chattering, flapping, flying in and out of … what… Ah, the holly tree on the other side of the parking lot.  Standing there in amazement, I saw what had to be literally thousands of robins. Not blackbirds  or  grackles or those pesky starlings  that we are accustomed to seeing, but robins. They were flying in and out of the holly tree in droves. They were swooping down for quick landing and retrieval of berries that had been shaken loose by their brethren and sistren in the tree above. And as quickly as they arrived and grabbed a beak full of berries, they were airborn again, heading up into the pine trees on my side of the lot. And eating the berries. And shitting all over my car. Thousands of them. I had wondered why so many other office residents chose to park across the lot. Now I know. Thousand and thousands… of robins. They shat on my nice clean car until I could barely see out the windshield. Thousands…

I’m thinking of a midnight run with a chainsaw. Saw that damn holly tree down and drag it around back by the dumpster. Thousands…

13 comments

Our little town in rural West Tennessee was, well, rural. But to the folks who lived out in the country on honest-to-god farms, we were city slickers. They came into town on Saturdays to shop or maybe to sell their produce out of the backend of pickup trucks. In mid-twentieth century, a few were still using mule drawn wagons, loaded with produce and a family of younguns on the way into town, and their purchases and a family of younguns on the way home later that day. The load of younguns going out was usually the same ones that came in. But not always.

There were many rural schools in those days. Most were simple one or two room schoolhouses, one or two teachers, and a couple of outhouses out back — the simple wooden sheds with crescent moons cut into the doors. Students attended through sixth grade in those schools, with all the ages and grades mixed together. After graduation, most of them continued their higher education starting with seventh grade, by riding a yellow school bus into town, where they were thrown with the city slickers. This forced blending was not always as congruous and harmonious as desired. But for the most part we all learned to get along, forming our own little cliques.

The luck of the draw landed me with most of my close friends in Mrs. Greene’s homeroom for seventh grade. There were a couple of other seventh grade classrooms with teachers we preferred, but at least we were all together. Mrs. Greene, or Granny Greene behind her back, was known to be a harsh disciplinarian with a dour attitude rumored to have resulted from many years of living alone as an old-maid school teacher. She wore thick glasses which did not seem to help one eye that focused thirty degrees askew from the other. You never knew for sure which eye was looking at you and which was aimed at the classroom door or out the window. This resulted in a constant uneasiness among her students.

Our first day in the seventh grade, Mrs. Greene had us stand, one at a time, and tell our name. There were so many new kids we did not know, this seemed like a good ice breaker and way for us to be introduced to each other. After she had all the names straight, she would seat us alphabetically to help prevent the inevitable city-country divisions. I suppose her philosophy was “Mix ‘em up and maybe they’ll learn to get along before they kill each other.” Or something like that. So around the room we went, each student standing and announcing his or her name. When one mumbled or spoke too quietly out of shyness, Mrs. Greene was quick to tell them to speak up so everyone could hear. All was going smoothly until one new lad from out in the sticks stood and shyly uttered his name as Junior Massey. Mrs. Greene chimed in.

“No, son, what is your given name? Speak up so we all can hear you.”
“Junior Massey, ma’am.”
“No, I mean what name is on your birth certificate? Not a nickname.”
“I dunno what’s on my berf cerfikit… but my name is Junior Massey.”
“OK. What is your father’s name, young man?”
“Robert Massey, ma’am.”
“OK, then, your name is Robert Massey, Jr.”
“No ma’am. My name is Junior Massey.”

By now the boy was upset to the edge of tears, and Mrs. Greene was quite agitated that she had such an uncooperative student in her class. After a moment’s pause, she told him in a stern voice, “When you come back tomorrow, bring your birth certificate or some official paper with your correct name on it. Understood?” An almost inaudible “yes ma’am” could be heard by those sitting closest to him. The muffled snickers around him just made him shrink further, as he tried desperately to become invisible.

As we were assembling the following morning, a large man wearing bib overalls and carrying his straw hat in his hand arrived with the boy in tow. A hush fell over the classroom, causing Mrs. Greene to look up from the paperwork on her desk. On seeing the farmer, still half in and half out of the room as he stood in the doorway, she bristled as she rose and queried him.

“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am. Wood jew be Miz Greene?”
“Not only would I be, but I am, Mrs. Greene. This is my class and my classroom. Now how may I help you, sir?”
“I hear you got a problem with my boy here,” he said, nodding toward the boy without taking his eyes off Mrs. Greene.
“Then I assume you are the boy’s father, Mr. Massey?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, when we were having introductions yesterday, your son would not tell us his name. He would only say that his name is Junior.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”
“That is the nickname that you call him, but I need his given name. What is your full name, sir?”
“Be Robert J. Massey, ma’am.”
“So, if you are Robert J. Massey, then your son’s name must be Robert J. Massey, Jr.”
“Oh, no ma’am. We already had one of them. This here one’s name is Junior. Junior Massey.”

Memory of the next minute or so is not clear. I remember the class that had been intently absorbing every word of this exchange erupting in laughter. I remember Junior smiling — a big snaggle-toothed grin. I remember Mr. Massey in a triumphant mode, tipping his hat to Mrs. Greene before parking it atop his tousled hair and leaving the room. And I’ll never forget the look on Mrs. Greene’s face. She held that frozen pose for the longest time — mouth agape, eyes open a bit more than they should have been, nostrils flared, ready for battle but no one to fight, showing every sign of having been bested by a country bumpkin … and knowing it.

For the rest of that school year, Junior was one of us. He was a sort of folk hero whose legend never dies, but gets better each time it is told. I don’t know what ever happened to Junior Massey, though I suspect he returned to life on the family farm, making Saturday runs into town with produce, a shopping list, and a pickup truck loaded with younguns of his own. Maybe even a Junior Massey, Jr.

12 comments

Q: What National Football League team is named after a famous 19th-century poem?

SUBTLE HINT:

A: The Baltimore Ravens. The name comes from the poem The Raven, written by onetime Baltimore resident Edgar Allan Poe. The team, previously known as the Cleveland Browns, moved to Baltimore in 1996. Its mascots are three ravens — named (are you ready?) Edgar, Allan, and Poe.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
From Page-A-Day Trivia Calendar, Dec. 8, 2006

3 comments