nobody asked…

This post is written by Roomie, who sits at Winston’s desk, fingers on his keyboard, right hand on his mouse, next to a half cup of coffee that he started to drink last Friday morning. The white cup has a picture of a bucking bronco on it, a cowboy waving his whip as he moves with the zest of life. A nasty film is beginning to form on the surface of the coffee.

Roomie has told everyone to leave the coffee cup there. She does not want the coffee thrown out, or the cup washed.

___

Winston…he was a “pretty good guy.” This is how he wanted everyone to remember him.

Actually, Winston was a damn good guy. He was the most honest and caring and giving man I have ever known. I am so fortunate and blessed to have known Winston Rand, to have been married to him for 14 years.

Winston passed away Saturday, June 28, after a 38-hour illness and 3 surgeries totaling 12 hours in an attempt to save his life. His memorial service will be Tuesday, July 1, and will include things you may have seen on his blog, such as his recent post about the styrofoam cup that got tossed about in the traffic of life and found its resting place. His favorite song will be played — “The Rainbow Connection,” by Kermit the Frog, as well as a bluegrass version of Rocky Top.

___

When the coffee in the cowboy cup has dried up and must be dug out with a spoon, Roomie will reluctantly let it go. Maybe. And then, Roomie will keep the spirit of this man in her heart and soul and life forever.

Winston Rand…he was a pretty good guy.

Everyone, please repeat this out loud. WINSTON RAND…HE WAS A PRETTY GOOD GUY.

In the previous episode, extreme trepidation was evident as I prepared for a plunge into the dark side. This morning about half way through my second cup of coffee, a little voice spoke to me and said, Do it. Do it now. But I quickly told that noisy little bastard to leave me alone, that I was getting ready to do my WordPress upgrade. So with that and a small amount of last minute checking of the security net and bungee cord anchor points, away I go.

After free fall through what had to be six levels of perdition, I realized that Dante was nowhere to be seen, and nobody had a name-tag saying, Hello, My Name Is Lucifer. So I said, Screw this, I’m getting the hell out of here.

All my fears were for naught. Or perhaps it was the well wishes of commenters to the previous episode, those who enjoined the gods and ghods and The Force to be with me and watch over me. I thank you. Or perhaps it was the calming voice of experience, CGHill, who assured me nothing had gone wrong when he had taken the plunge. Or the wise counsel of Jean, who advised the age old technique of finger crossing for good luck. Believe me Jean, I had body parts crossed all over the place, including some that ain’t supposed to.

To make a short story quite long, the upgrade went without a hitch. I did not even have to find and restore my header graphic, theme modifications, etc. It all happened within a couple of minutes of hard work by the Dreamhost elves and so far it appears they got it right. If any of you stumble across anything needing attention, please let me know. Billy Gates and the Redmond Banditos should spend a couple of days learning from the WordPress and Dreamhost dudes. It is obvious that they care about the user and that they have the technical skills and knowledge to bring it off flawlessly. Thank you WordPress. Thank you Dreamhost. And thank all of you dear readers for giving me a reason to do this in the first place.

• 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…

• PASSWORDS: When you’re creating a new password, why does the software show asterisks to hide from you what you’re typing?
• FASHION: When the Hispanic population in the US surpasses 50%, will guayaberas be acceptable for all American men, even for formal evening wear? I hope so. They are so comfortable. Plus they mask so many physique flaws…
• BIG BROTHER: I saw a stack of shrink wrapped bundles of logs outside a convenience store. They were marked USDA Certified Firewood. What does that mean? Some piece of our tax dollar is used to fund a group within a division within a department within a bureau whose sole mission is to look at firewood and certify that, Yep, it’s firewood, alright.
• CALL FOR RECOUNT: Mono- means one. I have a shirt with a monogram consisting of three initials. Whaaat…?

When I drift off to sleep, nothing rattles me. I have slept through many noisy calamities, tornado like weather, and family members being awake and sick with lights on and making noise enough to wake the dead. My own snoring, which I am told causes window glass vibration throughout the neighborhood, does not wake me. When I sink into the arms of Hypnos and Morpheus, my position in bed does not change. Apparently I don’t twitch a muscle until hours later when I arise and quickly move with a stiff, hobbling sprint to the restroom for urgent urinary relief. I am what you might call a heavy sleeper, or deep sleeper, both of which mean the same as sound sleeper.

On the other hand, Roomie is the antithesis of that, as she usually has trouble getting to sleep and will waken at the drop of a tissue three houses away. She tosses and turns, kicks and bucks, thrashing the night away, in and out of bed until she can’t stand it any longer and just gets up and stays up. She might be described as a light or shallow sleeper.

On several occasions my good Welsh blogging friend, Liz, has made reference to rough sleepers. I understand the words rough and sleeper, so initially I thought I knew what she was talking about — someone like Roomie who kicks and thrashes about in a very rough manner. But that was nonsensical when used in Liz’s context. Yet again, Liz often weaves fantastical mysteries for her American readers by writing about such things as fish pie, Mumbles, beans on toast, titchy spaces, portakabins, dithering, and… well, you get the picture. English is the native tongue for both of us, but my American version is not nearly so rich as Liz’s Welsh slant on it. I have not heard her voice, but I can imagine that it has that same richness and melodic quality that we love to listen to.

According to dictionary.com, a rough sleeper is an informal UK phrase used to refer to “a homeless person; a person living on the streets.” So, if you’re reading Liz spinning her stories about George, her often misbehaving pup, and her charming life in Swansea, Wales, if she mentions a rough sleeper, she is really referring to what we know in the States as a street person or homeless person. As for titchy, I have not a clue…

[In yesterday's exciting opening act of this meme, we followed the request and instructions of Pagan Sphinx, who recruited me into participation in this important discussion. The opener included hair raising commentaries on my To Do list, and what I might do if I became a billionaire. If you have not had the pleasure of reading that first installment, it doesn't matter since it has nothing to do with today's conclusion, but you are certainly welcome to jump back, Jack, and read it prior, during, or after reading today's edition... ]

4. Three bad habits… are difficult to sift out of the many that I have. Hmmm… I guess number one would be eating patterns — no breakfast, lunch on the fly or not at all, gigantic dinner followed by too many late night snacks. Secondly, though I quit a while back, I am and will always be a smoker. Every hour, every day, I want a cigarette. It’s like being an alcoholic — there is no such thing as being over it. It’s forever just one hour, one day at a time. And in third place… I don’t know… I’m torn between picking my nose while driving and farting out loud when there’s nobody around.

5. Five places I’ve lived… if you call it living. Pittsburgh PA, Richmond IN, Meridian MS, Knoxville TN, NYC (briefly) and currently Franklin TN, which is suburban Nashville. That’s six and there are more, but this question is boring.

6. Five jobs I’ve had… ran the gamut from clerk in a department store, to pin setter in a bowling alley, engineer in a major industrial plant, middle-management position for a  Fortune 50 company, and currently business owner/entrepreneur. There are several more. Perhaps one of these days I’ll find something I can do…

Now here is where I balk. I played the game. I gave it my all. And I sincerely hope that Pagan is not too terribly embarrassed or disappointed. Or sorry that she picked me. But rather than tag folks and have them stalking me for all eternity with revenge in their hearts, I will leave it for you, dear readers, to honor Pagan with a visit to her blog . If you are among the first three to read these words (I can assure you that you are), then take it upon yourself to respond as if I had tagged you myownself. Honor system, now, boys and girls…

[Written in bits and pieces over the last week, which may explain any temporal juxtapositions that seem to lack harmonic continuum synchronization.]

Just as I was beginning to think I had safely hidden from all the remaining memes, here comes another one. It is not yet clear what I did to deserve this, but my new found friend, Pagan Sphinx (doncha just love that name), has whapped me upside the head with a tag. I s’pose she is working off her anger from being dragged into it herownself. Or maybe she was having a bad hair day. Or maybe I really did do something wrong that raised her ire — but I certainly don’t know what that might be. Whatever the case, I am but putty in her hands. So with that bullshit out of the way, here goes…

1. Ten years ago I was… several years younger than I am now.

2. Five things on today’s To Do list… will probably not get done. The list includes taking the dog out before I go to work, going to a customer’s site to investigate a problem that I already do not not know how to solve, returning to the office and installing hard drive upgrades in two notebook systems, call Roomie a couple of times to see if she’s OK (still recovering from hysterectomy 2-1/2 weeks ago), a visit to Waffle House and/or Donut Den, cursing spiraling gas prices and the beneficiaries of those excessive oil company profits (think Bush and Cheney for starters), and then in the afternoon I will…

3. Things I’d do if I were a billionaire… do not include working my ass off as I now do. Some things that first come to mind include paying off everything and telling all my creditors to go to hell, taking care of my extended family’s needs, including getting my Mom out of the nursing home and into a place of her own with full-time paid round the clock help. Significant donations to my alma maters, University of Tennessee and University of Pittsburgh, and setting up a major research foundation for stem cell research (go to hell, George W. Bush!). I think a new house on one level (bad knee) would be in order, something like the California contemporary that I designed and built several years ago, the one my ex stole from me. Whatever billions are left, I would turn over management of to my good friend and customer, who I believe to be one of the brightest financial advisors in the land. Then, I would have me some fun… maybe even buy that shetland pony that Santa never brought me…

… Join us again tomorrow, same time, same station, for Part Deux, the exciting conclusion of this mind expanding post …

That subject line should increase traffic hereabouts. I’ll keep you posted. But the real reason for this post is to pass along a bit of vital information that I learned last week.

Like all of you, my email Inbox is rife with unwanted spam messages trying to interest me in everything from V1ag.r.a, spelled in a variety of creative ways, to mail order drugs from Guatemala at pennies on the dollar compared to US prescription costs, death benefit and burial insurance on my puppy, every kind of get rich scam you can think of, mortgage and debt consolidation, and of course, the gazillion different ways to grab my hard earned dollars for penis enhancement. [My mama-in-law has actually replied to some of those, to let those poor misinformed people know that she is a female and does not have a penis that needs enhancing. Heh...]

Also, like many of you, I take precautions to keep the buggers out of my Inbox, using a variety of filters at the mail server level and on computers running my favored mail client, Thunderbird. But those spam bastards are clever, always coming up with new ways to get through, by, under, over, or around any defenses put in their path. As if finding ever new ways to bug the living shit out of me will finally make me break down and click the link and reveal my credit card number to them so they can sign me up for the best opportunity in decades to grab some beach-front property on a little known but fast developing resort island in the Caribbean. As if… Right…

Occasionally one of those rogue messages does land in my Inbox where I can blow it away or dissect it to my heart’s content. I just love to see the little buggers squirm and squeal when scalpel is applied to their soft tissues. So last week I had retreived my mail and was scanning over it when this subject line caught my eye:

Average Gain is 302 Inches!!!

On closer examination… you guessed it… it turned out to be a penis enhancement scam. But 302 inches? That’s over 25 feet! I wonder if they supply a hose reel that straps around your waist…

… and a Happy and somewhat less than fully sober St. Paddy’s day to you!

You have seen him hundreds of times on television, in magazines and newspapers, and on billboards and smaller signage. But you don’t know his name.

You know exactly what his message is. But you have never heard him speak but six words — the same six words, over and over.

He has probably made enough on this one job that he never has to work again unless he wants to. Yet, he is as common and likeable and unlikable as your brother-jn-law or the guy next door.

He is the Unknown Celebrity.

He is the Verizon guy.

Known affectionately at Verizon as Test Man, he is Paul Marcarelli, an actor from New York City. And, yes, those really are his own horn-rimmed glasses.

Verizon is so determined to keep the Test Man in character that it would provide few details about the actor who plays him in the ads. “Our casting specifications called for an everyman with something quirky or memorable about them,” says Marvin Davis, vice president, advertising, Verizon Wireless. “We looked at over 1,000 people.”

Can you hear me now?

Good.

Subtitle: More Riddles for Eric…

Maybe it was a short journey from the git-go. Maybe it was simply a fulfillment of genetic destiny. Maybe it was a last-gasp, blood-curdling scream from deep within the tortured soul of a man who gave up smoking and was forced to eat couscous a couple of times. More likely, I’m just wacko. Whatever the trigger, I am deliriously happy to report that after years of trying, edging ever so close on occasion, I have now achieved a state of complete, blissful insanity. Yabba. Dabba. Doo…

Digging back into the stacks and listening to oldies/goodies that were favorites when they were fresh, there is always the danger of one of them becoming the earworm du jour. For those not familiar with that disgusting term, click on the word to see my earlier explanation.

In preparation for the previous post featuring America’s Horse With No Name, I listened to many renditions and covers, as well as several different versions of some other favorites of mine by America. Those include You Can Do Magic, Ventura Highway, and Tin Man.

The problem? Youse wants to know what the problem is? Well, Mr. and Ms. Wiseguy, I’ll tell you what the problem is. The problem is that I now have not one, not two or three, but FOUR OF THESE MOTHERBUMPING EARWORMS ALL PLAYING AT THE SAME FREAKING TIME. And I can’t seem to shut them off. Or even whittle it down to one. Or change the channel to something different. Old Rugged Cross. Tennessee Waltz. Doesn’t matter. Anything. But after a while, the strange mix becomes mine, all mine. It becomes me. I become one with the stream and doo doo doo dit all the way into nirvana and back. Flowing effortlessly over purple fields of candy. Following the sweet birds of youth, chanting and singing the words of the simpleton out by the pond. Smiling into the sunshine with eyes wide shut.

No, Oz never did give nothing to the tin man because he rode a horse with no name down the Ventura highway watching alligator lizards in the air while she repeats over and over you can do magic at the tropic of sir galahad…

La la la la… la la la la.. la la la la… laaaa…

Back in a little while… Y’all get the skillet greased up and hot…

So… this morning, following the AFC and NFC Championship Games yesterday, I go to SportsIllustrated.com to see who is saying what about the games. Just below the lead story, this caught my eye:

FREE TOM BRADY JERSEY

Immediately I was taken back to 1970 when young black and sympathetic white Americans were marching in the streets, carrying signs and wearing T-shirts with the message:

FREE ANGELA DAVIS

For those too young to remember, Ms. Davis, now a college professor in the U. of California system, was apprehended and jailed on charges linking her to the murder of Judge Harold Haley during an attempted Black Panther prison break. She was tried and acquitted, but has never relinquished her role as seeker of racial and gender justice and equality. That Angela Davis…

Back to Brady… I know that non-Patriot fans don’t like him. I know he made a couple of mistakes in the game. I know that there are probably plenty of jilted ladies who would love to see him behind bars. But, my god, he has just won 18 games in a row and is on his way to the Super Bowl to try for a perfect season. I can’t stand his type due to the cocky arrogance that seems to be his natural better-than-thou demeanor. But come on people, what has he done to deserve being locked up in the pokey?

• My favorite pastime is football, both college and pro. I am so tired of muttering “Maybe next year…” before the seasons have gotten off to a full start…
• If god had intended us to put lettuce on sandwiches, he woulda made it flatter.
• Aging is so kind to us. We become physically unable to do the things we enjoy most, but before we hurt or grieve too much over the loss, our memories of those joys fade.
• It is so unfortunate that we allow an artificial, often arbitrary, man-made pair of boxes we call Democrat and Republican, become such divisive mechanisms that turn us against one another and define who and what we are as individuals and as a people.
• Why do so many people retire and then die within a short time? I think I’ll just keep working till I drop.
• Why would anyone voluntarily jump from a bridge or tower, attached by a long rubber band known as a bungee cord? This insane practice is nothing but suicide practice.