nobody asked…

Could this be Yoda’s evil twin?

Photo taken at one of my veterinary clinic customers while they were cleansing the exterior of this very pissed pussy.

As for interior cleansing, don’t even think about it. Hell hath no fury like a pussy cat that has been bathed against its will…

Care deeply… give freely… think kindly… act gently and be at peace with the world.

That is the tagline of Paul Williams, the Oscar, Grammy, and Golden Globe winner who has been in America’s entertainment consciousness for four decades. This iconic diminutive giant is an extremely prolific songwriter, capped with classics like We’ve Only Just Begun, Just An Old Fashioned Love Song, and Evergreen. Acting credits comprise a very long list of movies and television shows. I first became aware of Paul’s acting about 1977 with the the movie, Smokey and the Bandit. Subsequently, he had significant roles in the other Smokey movies, and many others.

The Carpenters were one of Paul’s favorite performers for his music. Here’s just one of the many reasons why…

Sometimes we get on a roll. You know, jump on a hot streak where nothing can go wrong for a few minutes. Then,

.

W H A M !

Someone or something hits you upside the head and sends you spinning uncontrollably through space and time back to someone else’s tortured and distorted vision of reality. The reality of just how common and ordinary and fallible you really are. How human. Oh, the piteous shame of it all… Gasp…

I could pull a Republican style cover-up and just sweep it under the carpet. Or claim that my etymological faux pas was really an embedded test to find out who in my vast audience is paying attention. Which reader has the smarts and intelligence and sharp eye to find camouflaged errors? And the audacity to bring their findings to my attention…. Gasp number 2…

No, I’ll come clean and fess up. Might be good for my soul, should I ever decide to acquire one. On May 26, just three short days ago, I wrote a tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek post titled Shattered Dreams… , which contained these lines:

At the age of 7 or 8, I did not connect the dots relating education to occupation. My educational goal of Spelling was not complimentary to what I really wanted to do when I grew up. So what? That disconnect was years away…

Now, most days I know when to use complimentary vs. complementary. On May 26, I had an attack of the stupids while writing and proofing the post. Looking back at the usage in the context of the surrounding sentences, my complimentary should have been complementary.

To complement is to provide something felt to be lacking or needed; it is often applied to putting together two things, each of which supplies what is lacking in the other, to make a complete whole… [Ref. dictionary.com]

While double-checking myself over at dictionary.com, I also discovered that though they are two separate words with different spellings and meanings, these two homophonic words share some common roots and meanings. In fact one of the obsolete or archaic entries show compliment and complement to be synonymous. Ah ha! I knew I didn’t err in the spelling (How embarassing would that be in a post bragging about spelling ability?), but in the usage. If I admit to being obsolete and archaic (Guilty as charged…), then perhaps the usage is not wrong, just born of antiquity.

[With tongue firmly out of cheek, I offer sincere thanks and admiration for the bearer of the news that I might have made a mistake. Fear not, fair lady, I do not shoot messengers. However, I have fired my chief copy editor for allowing this controversial situation to develop. Job applicants may submit resumes along with salary requirements and chocolate offerings to my email address as shown on my Contact page. - WR]

Why does everybody else look down on us engineers. They think we are all nerds, nothing but nerds, with no interests or skills or knowledge other than techie stuff. This point is made and amplified over and over by Scott Adams with the wonderfully realistic Dilbert comic strip. These introductory panels from the Sunday, May 25, 2008, strip are classic… and typical…

This mindset was given legs by the dolt from the dark side who coined the phrase, It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. Well, excuse me, but yes it does. Scientists, engineers, technicians… Yes, it does…

Do you people not understand who is really in charge here? … Who is important here? The President disappears for a few days — no one cares. If a salesman or accountant or librarian takes a week off, you forget about them. If a lawyer never shows up again, it’s a good thing. But if the Engineers decided to stay at home one day, the world goes nuts and shuts down. Sure, we are cram full of techie stuff that makes the world go round and brings you all the wonderful gadgetry that you hang around your neck, stick in your ear, clip to your belt, and will soon have implanted under the skin behind the ear — by government edict, of course. And yes, we understand that you don’t understand it and don’t want to understand it and it bores the hell out of you when we talk about it. You just want it to work…

Then be nice to us. Bring us chocolate…

Others, if they think about me at all, probably think, there is a successful, happy guy, who has the world by the tail. Some snippets of that view are close to the truth … on some days. But underlying the facade of perceivable success, I am immersed in abject failure and misery. On several levels, my life is in a bankruptcy of achievement. Let me explain…

My office wall is decorated with diplomas from my years of pain and suffering. The University of Tennessee granted me a degree, Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering (BSEE), perhaps in order to get rid of me, but once you’ve got it, the reasons and grades don’t matter much. A few years later, I received a Master of Business Administration (MBA) from the University of Pittsburgh. That one required four years of evening school and many laborious hours of team meetings at one of the pubs just off campus.

Now, you may be thinking, Why does a guy with a BSEE and MBA consider himself a failure? Consider this: as a wee lad, and probably up through 8th or 9th grade, my life dream included going to college and majoring in Spelling. You see, spelling was always my strongest subject in school where I never made less than an A. Imagine what a crushing blow it would be to learn that there is no such thing as a university degree in your favorite and strongest area of endeavor. That impoverishing news was accompanied by an explanation that there is no such thing as a professional speller — you know, an adult who gets paid to spell. Geeesh… I wasn’t so sure this growing up thing was all it was cracked up to be.

At the age of 7 or 8, I did not connect the dots relating education to occupation. My educational goal of Spelling was not complimentary to what I really wanted to do when I grew up. So what? That disconnect was years away from realization and impact. Turning my face upward at their awesome sight and sound, there was no doubt I was going to be a jet test pilot. I knew enough not to go into combat and get my ass shot off. But, test pilot… Getting to fly all the latest planes, zooming around at the speed of sound at low altitude scaring the shit out of little old ladies… yeah, I had a calling, for sure. This was so good because it allowed me to safely put aside those childish ambitions of cowboy, fireman, policeman. All the other boys were going to be one of those. I was going to be a jet test pilot…

By around age 12 or 13, I had learned that to be a jet test pilot, you had to first go into combat and get your ass shot off. Scratch that nonsense. Reality-based life decisions were still slightly beyond my grasp, but for a brief moment, I had a new career goal — Goat Counter.

We frequently visited one of our country relatives. After the huge country suppers, while the women cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen, the men went out back to smoke and tell lies. That’s what I called it, though they were all good men and wouldn’t think of telling a lie. They were just spinnin’ tall tales and shootin’ the bull. After a little while Uncle Fred, with pipe dangling from his mouth, would break from the group, and head off toward the barnyard. Sometimes one or two of the other men would go with him, sometimes he went alone. One time when he was going alone, I asked him where he was going. “Over at the barn,” came the reply. “Whacha gon’ do there?” I asked. “Count the goats,” Uncle Fred mumbled through the clenched teeth gripping his pipe stem. “Kin I go count goats, too?” I pleaded. By then, a couple of other country cousins had joined me, listening expectantly to the exchange. Uncle Fred paused, took his pipe out and examined it closely for manufacturers defects for what seemed a long time, then looked up at us and said we could go for a few minutes, but we better watch our step walking across the barnyard, and come on back when he told us to.

Dodging cow-piles across the barnyard, we didn’t utter a word as we followed Uncle Fred over to the goat pen. Once there, we leaned on the fence the way he did, and intently studied the herd. Uncle Fred pointed out one ram to be avoided because it was “mean as a snake.” A nanny was great with child and about ready to pop. Several baby goats were running around. There are few things cuter than a young kid that is still sweet and innocent. It is amazing how human a goat’s eyes are, right down to the eyelashes. After standing there a few minutes, Uncle Fred asked how many we counted, and of course we hadn’t. So, each of us started counting and, though not in unison, quite close together, sang out, “21,” “19,” “22″. Uncle Fred looked at us, looked back at the goats, played with his pipe, and said, “That’s priddy close. Y’all make good goat counters some day. Now, y’all young’uns get on back to the house. I got things to finish up out here at the barn.”

I always suspected that Uncle Fred had a bottle of hooch stashed out at the barn. And when he headed out to count goats after supper, he was also going to visit that bottle for a quick swig. Yessir, goat counting looks to me to be an honest and honorable occupation. Something to aspire to…

Regular or longtime readers know that I failed to achieve my dreams to be a professional speller, a jet test pilot, and a goat counter. I have had a good life, but the shards of shattered dreams occasionally prickle and ache like a long-healed broken bone in bad weather.

• Lime Seeds: Did you ever notice that limes have no seeds?
• Flop Flip: Isn’t it interesting that vulnerable Republicans suddenly start to notice the merit of Democratic legislation six months before Election Day?
• Grilling: I love grilled food. I love the process of grilling. I hate the preparation and the cleanup of grilling… especially the cleanup…
• Grills: There is no better gas grill affordable by ordinary folks than Weber… hands down… the absolute best… This is starting the 11th season for my Weber Genesis 1000, and while doing a little routine cleanup and maintenance, I decided it looked good to go for at least another 3 to 5 years. Let’s hope so since the sonofabitch cost me almost $600. But if it goes another 4 years, that puts the annual cost of a grill at under $40. Not too shabby…
• Listen To The Still: Water lilies like still, quiet water…

A voice so sweet, and yet so powerful… So effortless… A full four octave range… Roy Orbison checked out suddenly with a massive heart attack in 1988 at the young age of 52. His writing and performing talents were revered by many. During his too brief career, he performed with a long list of top acts such as The Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, Emmy Lou Harris, Elton John, The Eagles, and Bob Dylan.

Crank up the volume, get your feet in toe tapping position, and enjoy this 1988 performance of Pretty Woman. It’s from the special Black & White Night recorded at the Coconut Grove in LA. Watch the all-star cast closely and you’ll spot many notables such as The Boss, Elvis Costello, and Tom Waits. The dueling guitars in the middle of the work is majorly awesome. Enjoy…

For a change of pace, Roy and Friends offered up Crying, which along with almost everything else Roy did has been covered by many big names since. Watch for the unmatchable trio of backup singers Jennifer Warnes, Bonnie Raitt, and k.d. Lang…

What a remarkable talent! Why do we lose so many of our best performers at such early ages?

Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong. — Oscar Wilde

The way my week has gone, this seems a quite appropriate expression of my trod-upon feelings. Too busy to blog. Too tired to care much. Too young to be idle. Too old to expect better. Yeah, I’m having a pity party. Y’all come on over. And by the way, it’s BYOB…

Did you know that Oscar’s full name was Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde?

A helicopter was flying around Seattle when an electrical malfunction disabled all of the aircraft’s electronic navigation and communications equipment.

Due to the clouds and haze, the pilot could not determine the helicopter’s position. The pilot saw a tall building, flew toward it, circled, and held up a handwritten sign that said “WHERE AM I?” in large letters. People in the tall building quickly responded to the aircraft, drew a large sign, and held it in a building window. Their sign said “YOU ARE IN A HELICOPTER.”

The pilot smiled, waved, looked at his map, determined the course to steer to SEATAC airport, and landed safely. After they were on the ground, the copilot asked the pilot how he had done it.

“I knew it had to be the Microsoft Building because they gave me a technically correct, but completely useless answer.”

[A spin of my beanie propeller to George aka Decrepit Old Fool]

Aging and death are not popular topics. Neither is family dysfunction. Nursing home decision does not exactly ring of putting butts in theater seats. But these themes are woven together skillfully in the movie The Savages, written and directed by Tamara Jenkins. The result is a moving poignant film that has a touch of hilarity here and there, a face-to-face encounter with the harsh reality that most of us are or will be facing. The film delivers an irreverent, insightful and truthful view of aging, death and family dysfunction, featuring superb work by Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney.

If you have aging parents or thoughts of someday getting older yourself, you should see this movie.

From time to time I have this debate with myself, and I usually lose. Is it preferable to lose your mind or your body? Mom has an amazingly clear mind for an 87 year-old who has been in a nursing home for about three years. I’m thankful we have them as alternatives, but those places dull the mind, kill the appetite, and smell like a concoction of piss and Lysol.

Her days are all the same, spent in her power-lift recliner watching TV. Her knees and hips are shot, making her a prisoner of the space she occupies. Not even the large print books we have taken to her are comfortably readable with her failing eyesight. And her poor gnarled hands, ravaged by arthritis, can no longer perform the miracles of earlier years. The photo here is not of Mom’s hands (she is far too proud to allow a revealing photo of her once busy hands), but could be as these are so similar to hers.

My earliest memories include those hands, always busy. If she was not cooking or cleaning or sewing (She made everything we wore in those days, even Daddy’s dress suits and ties.), she was working at one or more crafts. Her projects at any given time followed, more or less, the trend of national popularity. At various times she immersed herself in counted cross-stitch, candle making, crochet, decoupage (Daddy used to warn us to keep moving or she would decoupage us.), needlepoint, foiling, making knick-knacks and designs by gluing rocks and beads and shells together, basket weaving, and latch-hooking rugs.

I don’t know if people still latch-hook. Many have probably never heard of it. It is a tedious process starting with a design on a backing, which can be canvas, burlap, or a jute mesh. Today there are even molded plastic grid panels. What I remember of Mama’s work involved a design marked out on burlap. A latch-hook tool was use to hook and pull the right color of yarn (all wool back then) through the backing and latch or knot it into place. A small area rug such as the one shown here involved many hours of work, hooking and pulling and latching hundreds or thousands of pieces of yarn. Slowly the raw outline was filled in with the chosen colors in a paint-by-numbers fashion until the design evolved into full bloom. Mama loved roses, so much of her work involved those lovely flowers and/or rose colors.

Mama can no longer do those wonderfully creative activities that added her personal touch of love and warmth to our home. She can no longer latch-hook. But in her day, Mama was a helluva hooker…

If I should ever go insane and run for public office, I would not seek nor would I want the endorsement of people who openly express their disdain or hatred of people not like themselves. But Hillary Clinton, in winning the support of a majority of Democrats in West Virginia has done just that. She basked in the bigotry that was showered on her. She glowed with that smug arrogance and better-than-you white privilege attitude that sickens and disgusts so many of us. I am not suggesting that she should be ashamed, because she is what she is, that’s all she knows. The ability to feel shame requires one have some moral sense of right and wrong, and she has not demonstrated any knowledge of those concepts.

I agree with Tamarika that the Democratic party and the Democratic super-delegates should be calling Clinton out for being a part of such a racially charged endorsement celebration. And the people of West Virginia who stand up and boastfully declare that they would never vote for a black man, you remind me of others who made similar declarations while standing in school house doorways in Alabama or blocking access to voter registration offices in Mississippi, people who, like you, lived at the intersection of ignorance and invective.

The year is 2008. It is far past time for you to get over it. The United States of America will elect a black president, if not this year, soon.

Back on May 7, I mentioned that I would be doing some guest blogging over at Eric’s Straight White Guy place, and that I have done. I hope he is not too terribly disappointed in my offerings on his return from Scotland.

I just posted a new piece over there, titled as above. Y’all, dear readers, might get a laugh out of it (gawd knows we all need a reason to laugh these days…), but I don’t want to repeat the whole thing here …something about using up too many molecules of the internet… so get your butt and eyes over to Eric’s and read. If you like it, leave comments over there so Eric will think I done good…

Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don’t want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.

– by George Orwell, from his essay, Why I Write, 1946