Do Not Delete These Cookies

Christmas Cookie
Happy Frog-like Cookie
Basketball Cookies
Jackson Pollock Cookie
Steve Buscemi Cookie

Hee Haw and Merry Christmas!

Lazy on my part

Guaranteed enjoyment. I'll watch it again and again. I laughed. I cried. I cried again. Probably I should have known about this at some point over the last several years. Now I do and my life will never be the same.

Boom goes the dynamite.

I doubt I would do much better, but Sweet Sassy Molassy this is good.

The Unfortunate Adventures of Weenis McGee

In the span of a few short unsupervised moments, Mickey was able to start (and possibly complete) a new excavation project. The result is a hole 18" deep and about that wide located along the fence. Luckily it is on the edge of the yard or surely a broken leg for man or beast would soon follow. For now it is covered by a small wooden shipping pallet. China is a few paw scratches away... hopefully the barrier holds up. I give you... the hole.The hole prompted the camera going outside which prompted some fun outdoor picture taking. I give you... Weenis McGee.I give you the jumpingest dog... Mickey McFarland.I give you, emerging from the darkness... Wiener Boy.I give you the blurry image of alien K9.I give you... date stamping. Really need to get that turned off.
12/16/2009.

One Week

One week since my last post. One week since last Tuesday. One week until two days before Christmas. We're really right in the middle of it. The tree in the front yard has finally turned to fall colors and is dropping its leaves. The weather fluctuates wildly - 70 and raining, 29 and clear, 55 and damp. The full range. It seems to guarantee a daily headache or two. The ground has been wet for many weeks now. Squishy and receptive to dog paws. The kitchen floor takes their prints if a towel doesn't get them first. And if the towel gets them first, Mickey gets the towel, and the growling struggle begins. Canine Greco wrasslin'. It's a loud smelly affair with claws and teeth. Bulging eyes and wild glances. Kicking hind legs and snorts and sniffs. Grasshopper-like jumps and giant flapping tongues. Attacks and retreats, dodges and thrusts. And whiskers. The lone white Mickey whisker is back again. I give it another couple weeks before it falls out once more.

Maggie occasional sets her carcass in motion for a five minute spree of Kong in mouth. Dog with Kong in mouth to bedroom, Dog with Kong in mouth to dining room, Dog with Kong in mouth to living room, chase, pause, repeat, repeat repeat, repeat, nap. Mickey cheers us on, or protests. Whatever it is, it's loud and piercing. He'd happily join in the chase. I'd happily let him, except in the confines of the house, Maggie would not enjoy his input, and the corrective action she chooses would likely lead to a late night vet visit. So we continue to employ a dog rotation that has thus far has kept everyone unbitten and relatively well exercised/happy. It turns out there are five separate places they can go, so there are a bunch of combinations of confinement and freedom to offer. Depending on how you look at it, it's all freedom. Or all confinement. Either way, I call them happy dogs, and they've told me no different.KONG!

List

- Video killed the radio star.
- Video also killed my butt, which is suffering from acute tailbone fatigue.
- Comfortable chairs are essential for such video crafting pursuits.
- Eating good meals... also essential as snacking is impossible with the intense time drain consumed by the clipping and dragging and creating and thinking and compressing and fading and previewing and watching and watching and watching.
- I have another video idea that will bring back precious memories from the 90's. But it will take some time. We ask for your patience.
- I opened a Twitter account today hoping that I could get a name that looks like my name. Mission: Generally_Accomplished_
- I also posted a video on YouTube today. For business. Not pleasure.
- As the previous two points have no doubt made you aware, I am now a social media giant.
- I've always thought a massage table where you stick most of your face through the hole would be pretty comfortable.
- The end.
- Or is it?
- Yep.

Video Bloggage

A mellow celebration of goings on... a video slice of life, if you will. Music by Ceiling Fan. Hopefully it translates on this small compressed format... let's see...

Video = Early Christmas Gift

After a couple days and countless hours, video has taken over my life. Free editing software and a free video conversion tool have kept me entertained and possibly inspired. The result of one project is below. While it downloads for what I hope will be crystal clear audio and video streaming seamlessly to your computer, allow me to set up the clip. A few bullet points should do the trick.

* The concept is based loosely on the PEPSI self-esteem public service spectacle from the early 90's that many of my generation were subjected to in school assemblies.

* The best thing for my creative side is to 'officially' present my foibles and triumphs, after which point I have to create some new material. Otherwise I keep rehashing old ideas (musical, artistic, etc.) for far too long. This is part of that process. Welcome to it.

* The quote that opens up the video is not my own. It is from a contestant at a BBQ contest featured on a recent TLC show. In the contest he placed 47th out of 47 entries. His words speak to me. I hope they speak to you as well.

* The title is either "A stupid year of pictures" or "A year of stupid pictures."



Thank you, now I can move on.

A nice brisk blog

Mid 50's and not yet raining, which is ideal weather for an outside sit and type. Yes, the brick step under my butt is chilly. But I'll call it "refreshing" and continue on about my business.

We had a tornado warning the other night, with the suspicious storm cell on a direct path for our area. We were eating the last of the Thanksgiving pumpkin pie when we saw the warning pop up on tv. It was a little dilemma... finish the pie and risk not being prepared or wait on the pie and take cover. After some silent soul searching we decided to be smart. The pie went back into the fridge and we corralled all the animals with us in the hall bathroom. Mickey got to be in his travel crate, Moe hid behind the toilet and Maggie laid on the floor. Aside from Moe growling and potentially picking a fight with Maggie, it was uneventful. Our phones kept us informed of the latest weather alerts and our power never flickered. I never heard the train a' comin'... so I'm guessing the tornado never materialized. Given how destructive tornadoes are, I wonder why they don't build earth-bermed houses in the Midwest. There's plenty of dirt.

After half an hour in the bathroom, we emerged. All returned to normal. Moments later, the pumpkin pie was no more.

Now it's starting to rain. If I read the owner's manual right, rain is bad for computers and thus bad for blogging... so let's shut this down.

Sighting

Why November saw a sizable reduction in blog activity, I'll never quite know. A lot of long breaks in the action... shorter days and less daylight for evening outdoor lounging. That's probably it. Darkness doesn't inspire. Transition and duskiness does. There are still things I intend to write that date back to October. There are things that are long since forgotten - magical blogs about magical things that will never be written. Some will make it back through my layers of memory, aged to perfection with more perspective and care. Definitely. You're ready to write it when you write it, I always say. You've heard me say it. I expect to find a new groove much like I had over the summer where I either had an idea or one came to me soon enough.

The pear tree in our front yard has only dropped a handful of leaves. Those on the tree are still green (I assume green, they're not yellow or fall colored) and show no signs of letting go. In Roanoke last week, all the trees had lost their leaves already. Leafless trees usually bring to mind winter cold and desolation, and memories of driving back to college after fall break through depressing riverfront cities along the Ohio River. Portsmouth, OH has rows of houses along the one-way thoroughfare where once there was activity, commerce and life. Maybe during a post-war boom there was bustle to be hustled there. Now the sad, windblown, somehow road-weary streets speak to the chill of winter and desperation all year long. Unhappy in Summer. The same in Spring and Autumn.

Some might find hope and resistance in the leaves hanging onto my pear tree in December. I think they should drop and move on. Fall before Winter.

News

This just in on the Tiger Woods story: It doesn't matter and I don't care.

Name any scenario (involving cheating, drinking, drugs, domestic disturbances, steroid rages, Ambien-induced sleep-driving, etc.) that could have possibly lead up to the events of the crash and I still can't see how it is in any way a worthwhile story that I need to see. This holiday season, I'm thankful that I can crash into the ditch in front of my house as my wife is chasing me with a golf club and only receive regional HAM radio coverage of the event. That's my America.

And in White House party crasher news: It matters only a little and I don't care.

Security for the President is the only concern here. Yes, 'reality' shows are way out of control and fame is more ludicrous (or is it ludacris?) than ever... but that's not enough to make it the week-long newscast-leading segment it has become. I'd like to see an accounting of the hours of investigative journalism that is being pumped into this story.... or... no I don't, please, I don't want to know.

I have a hard time recalling a moment where two more unimportant non-stories have gotten more air time during the same news cycle. It really has cut in to the 24 hour coverage of the turkey pardoning that usually rules the airwaves at this time of year, and that is a shame.

Gobbledy guck.

Habit

Just like blogging on consecutive days can become habit-forming, so too can not blogging for consecutive days. Now you know that I know that I haven't been writing anything lately. More to come, but not today.

An apology apology

For reasons you may or may not understand... Myrtle Beach, I take back most of my apology dated Monday, November 16, 2009.

Sorry and thank you,
Douglas Lowell

An apology

I rip on Myrtle Beach a lot. There's a lot not to like, I stand by that position. But, I am currently on a deck overlooking the ocean, waves crashing in, a constant whooshing with occasional lulls and occasional swells. I'm here for free, more or less. If you live out on the coast hereabouts you are bound to know someone who has a beach place. The ocean is cool. The ocean for free, with wifi internet on a balcony on a crisp fall night is extra cool. Granted, if I could swing this at Cape Cod or on the Isle of Skye it would be extra-awesome. But this is what I've got, and it's better than most. It's accessible. It's possible. It's actually happening. It's now. Right Now. Hey. It's your tomorrow. Right now. come on, it's everything. Right now. Catch this magic moment and do it right here and now. It's what's happening.

I'm in the moment. The moment could be better... it always could. And the moment could be worse, in fact for most, it is worse. So I'm happy to be in Myrtle beach. Happy to be in South Carolina. Good times. Not great times, but darn good. Plus, there is a chill in the air. Happy.

Sorry for being so critical, Myrtle Beach. We've had some good times, and we're having one now.

Whooosh crash lull swell wash. It's cool watching the waves come in, especially at night where the glow of the bubbles and foam are all you see appearing from the darkness. There's no horizon, sea and sky may as well be one. Stars and waves are all that break up the blankness. The waves sometimes join up as one long super-wave or come in one after another. Trying to make sense of them and predict the crash as they break on the shore is impossible, but I keep trying.

Sun day night

It smells like the mountains tonight.
Smoke is in the air from a fire I don't see.
Stars and planets peak through the cold dark sky.
I see my breath when I puff upwards and force out, "ooh, oooh."
My sweatshirt is perfect, I can feel the cold, but I am not... cold.
I was reading Hemingway, but I stopped.
I just finished a different book, it had three main characters. I can't tell you much about it. I got lost early on, but kept on going, hoping it would all make sense in the end. In the end, it just ended.
'At the end of the day' has lost all value as a phrase, if it ever really had any.
I suggest using the 'end of the day' phrase literally and see if anyone notices.
Because, you know, at the end of the day, I go to sleep.
I will be in Myrtle Beach for a couple days and you're not the least bit jealous.
A strange forced breathing sound is coming from the woods.
Brown dog ran out to meet the sound, ready to bark wildly, but he just faded into the dark without a peep.
The sound is getting louder... I think I'll go explore now, too.
(pause)
My investigation yielded nothing as the sound petered out.
I did see more stars and a couple planes flying overhead while away from my seat. Once away from the porch light they (stars and such) take over the view. With the porch light right above me, I can count maybe eight visible celestial bodies. Without the light pollution... well, I can't count that high, and I'm a good counter.
Mickey and me on the stoop.

Hey, I should blog about that.

I had no such moment of blogspiration today. Unless blogspiration is an unbelievably clever way of saying perspiration or respiration rather than inspiration. In which case... well, that didn't happen either. It was a lazy day to recharge and watch Syracuse lose another football game. I made some iced tea. Pretty exciting all the way around. I'm outside now, reflecting on the glorious nothing that today was for me. There's a lot of barking going on to the east and west. Maggie responds with a muffled harumph bark. She sits on the deck waiting for a chance to go back inside and get on the bed. There is still time for a nap before bedtime. She scratches the door. Then looks behind here, Now looks at me, wagging. A longing look in her eye. She retreats back down the stairs and sits back on the deck. Mickey pops up to me for a quick sniff of my shoulder, repeated licks on my cheek and hand, then sits close, sidled up to my left arm. An idiot cries out in the distant. The barking intensifies. Maggie keeps her muffled bark, now growls. Mickey leans in close so I can't see the screen. Another lick. Maggie's down, now up. Another look to me, a blank stare into the distance. She knows I know she wants to go inside. She sniffs and wags. Mickey walks off. Another scratch on the door and I'll let Maggie go inside. But for now, she is filling the page. Back down to the deck. Sitting and staring. Mickey scratches the ground nearby. I clap once. he comes back to me. Yawns. Sniffs, I can't see the screen. He sniffs some more. Some interesting things are in the air. His tail is up as he daintily heads out into the darkness. Maggie sits, listening. Another climb up the stairs. She looks at me. Looks inside. Sniffs the door. Inhales. I expect a small cry. Nothing yet. Mickey is out of sight. Probably camped out by the air conditioner. There's a whimper from Maggie. Back down to the deck. She sits down licks her chops twice then lets out a silent yawn. Mickey reappears from the left... somehow he outflanked me, maybe making a full walk counter-clockwise around the perimeter of the yard. He sighs as he sits on the top step next to me. Maggie lays down. She looks at me again. Crickets chirping and other animal noises fill the yard. I hear someone in the distance sutting a trash can bin repeatedly. It's quiet out here, so any sound carries. I wonder about the nights when I'm out here playing my guitar and singing to no one. I wonder who hears me. I wonder if they like it, if they mind it, or if they make no judgment at all. If it was me, I'd have to think something. I'd probably think, "I wish that guy would play some different songs." Maggie is back up in my face. She hits the door with her nose. Mickey sniffs her butt. She cries quietly. Looks at me and wags. Cries again. Wags. She wins. I open the door and she slinks inside, surely followed by a mad dash for the bed or couch. Quite possibly she's already asleep and snoring. Mickey stands next to me, his tail in my armpit. Now he sits and stares off. He tried to scratch his belly with his left rear leg, but missed completely. Paw prints are all over the stairs and deck. Mickey just ran out and grabbed his basketball. Panting, growling and squeezing. His pushing it against my leg. Time to play.

Starts with 'spam'

San Martin was then appointed governor of Cuyo, with his headquarters at Mendoza.

Hello, I am Milena Lane.

Maybe you expected a takeoff on a Jeopardy! quiz category. Maybe you thought I'd go off on spicy-canned-pseudo-meat products tangent. Maybe you took nothing from the title. Maybe you didn't know there was a title. Maybe you knew it all along. It was a gift form the cyberspace attritioners, emailing and emailing so that at some time, on some computer, somewhere, one message will finally slip through the cracks and reach someone... someone looking to buy discount Viagra, a spectacular replica watch or an online degree. But it found me. Me who is looking to buy none of the above, but who loves your writing more than almost any other. Ghostwriter, I envy your work and fancy your wordcraft. You say more in two strangely formed lines than I could in four desperately edited run-ons. I don't really know what you're saying, but you say it well. I feel it. Genius. Why pay for a Kindle or buy volumes of collected works of the greats when all my literary thirst can be quenched by opening up my email and drinking in another masterfully concocted cocktail compliments of you? You don't complete me, understand, I'm not saying that. But you are always there. You are there. Always. You are persistence unmatched. You give and give and give. I take all I can, but you give so much more. You offer so much. Like Viagra, replica watches and online degrees.

But why talk nonsense.

That's how you closed tonight's edition.

You said it, cyber-writer.

I'm so smitten.

DDS

I made it through another 6-month dentist visit, and with flying colors. No cavities. They are keeping an eye on a few "shadows," but none have progressed (badly) since my last visit. Now a few thoughts and reflections, mostly about dentistry, but not entirely.

* The headrest is always, always, always going to mess up your hair no matter how you try to position yourself.
* I like getting to wear the now standard protective eyewear, today's glasses were as dark as sunglasses. Nice.
* There was one little goober of toothpaste on the lens at the end of my appointment.
* I requested to wear the lead apron for the duration of my cleaning. The hygienist never said no, but it didn't happen.
* I will never try chocolate-mint flavored toothpaste, not at the dentist's office, not anywhere.
* I like how they always warn me that they are going to spray water and air into my mouth. If you can't handle water (pH neutral water) in your mouth... you've got major problems. Air... I can see that being a bit of an irritant, but not really.
* I asked today if any patients keep their eyes open throughout the cleaning. The answer was yes. Then I asked if I was the strange one for keeping my eyes closed. Not sure what the answer was there.
* If you do keep your eyes open the whole time... what can you possibly be looking at? Stop creeping out your hygienist.
* Just because I say something that's stupid, doesn't mean I'm not serious.
* I asked if any of those pointy scrapers ever break. It happens.
* The brushing machine they use has become more and more gentle over the years. In the 70's it felt like a wire brush, now it doesn't. I'm thinking this is a result of some major series of NASA Space Shuttle experiments.
* I will miss the Space Shuttle when it retires.

Funbrella

The rain is upon us and I am happy. I took the brown dog out for a walk in the rain with an umbrella a little while ago. Such a nice little cocoon under the canopy there. My own little pleasure dome, mobile and blue. Collapsible. As I stood outside, the rain increasing in intensity, I wished I had something dry upon which to sit. I pictured some seat that would come down from the umbrella shaft that I could plop down upon while still being under protective cover. It would be an invention only I would enjoy. Most times people under umbrellas are on their way to somewhere dry, not content with the semi-dry space in which they find themselves. It's not often that you are in the moment when you are in the rain. Even I, RainLover, can't claim that I am. It's always what's next when it's raining and what's now when it's sunny. Mickey solved the dry place to sit problem by sitting on my foot. I still have come up with no solution for myself. Another bummer is that I am not outside typing this, rather I'm back inside in my usual place. If this rain keeps up as they suggest it will, I may have to move this blogging operation out onto (into?) the carport over the next few days. Plenty of good atmosphere out there, what with the dog food, kitty litter, trash can, recycling bin, dog carrier and car. It is ripe with inspiration. Or just ripe. The carport has nothing on the umbrella though. The umbrella keeps your thoughts closer to your head for a moment longer than usual before they float away. If you see someone under an umbrella, I guarantee they are doing some good thinking, whether they realize it or not. In the carport my thoughts drift away just as fast as they would out in the open. In a garage, thoughts just bang into the walls and ceiling and floor and objects until they are beaten out of shape and are barely recognizable. If you see someone in a garage, they may be thinking, but it isn't going well. Mechanics can get beyond this, but the rest of us can't. That's probably why none of us are good at fixing cars and stuff.

umbrella in French is parapluie
umbrella in Spanish is paraguas
umbrella in German is regenschirm
umbrella in Portugueses is guarda-chuva
umbrella in Japanese is こうもり傘
umbrella in Chinese is 伞

I give the umbrella brevity award to China and the umbrella fun-to-say-award to France.

Umbrella.

Cookie

While in Moultrie, GA a few weeks ago now, we encountered some good fortune, what some might call southern hospitality. I wouldn't call it southern hospitality, but some might. As a born and bred Yankee I tend to take umbrage at that phrase. I've come across plenty of nasty people in the south (and north) and plenty of nice people in the north (and south). My gut says that someone calling me sugar in the south just softens the edges of daily interaction, but is not necessarily more hospitable than what one would encounter anywhere else in the country. Lipstick on a pig. Enough of my blabbing on that.

If I don't happen to get to it, my point this evening is supposed to be that a big city jerk making fun of the small town yokel is much less entertaining than the small town yokel making fun of the big city jerk.

After day one of the show we came back to the truck and it wouldn't start. The battery was weak, we figured a cooler had been plugged in all day and had drained the power. As we were in amongst the giant campers and buses of the campground, I figured one of these well prepared road warriors would have jumper cables. Chris walked across to a group of guys having some post show beers. I heard a loud roar of laughter right after he went over there. It turns out the guys were exhibitors who deal exclusively in batteries... all kinds, every kind, AAA, C, D, 9V, 12V, 24V, everything in between, everything beyond and everything beneath. Needless to say, they were prepared, had a little portable booster pack and quickly hooked it up to our battery. Within a minute the truck started.

We decided to go to an Advance Auto and get the battery checked.... just in case. It was the original battery on a five year old truck, so odds were good that it was shot. You get pretty hit or miss service at these national auto stores. We got a definite hit. A young guy, probably 19 at most, loaded up the his cart full of testers, tools, wrenches and what not and went out to the truck. His initial testing suggested we needed a replacement. There was some severe corrosion on the terminals, which he explained could result in a false diagnosis. He set about cleaning up all the mess that had been collecting and reacting on the + and - for 60 months, 1800 days, and even more hours (about 1800x24). It was quite a process. Once he was able to get good contact for the tester, he ran another diagnostic with the same result. Replace. With all the corrosion, the wire harness was frozen on the battery. Any prying risked popping the terminal from the battery. It was that bad. After a bunch of banging, liquid wrenching, head scratching, tapping and twisting it came free. The "associate" whose name now escapes me had good humor throughout. I've had similar jobs, and I know any chance to get from behind the counter and work on a project for half an hour really helps the day go by quicker.

He knew he was from Moultrie, GA. He knew it was middle of nowhere. He knew it was podunk rural. He talked about high school kids who put ridiculous tires on their trucks to the point where (for truck-technical reasons I don't necessarily understand) they ride with the front end up real high so they can barely see and their brakes lose their ability to effectively... brake. He said they all come to screeching halts at the light up at the corner. I said, "Well at least they look real cool." "No they don't, they look stupid."

He told us about a trip to the north he had taken with his school band. Chris and I had a debate as to what instrument he must have played... I say the quads in the marching band, Chris went with the sax. I'm sure I'm right, but we may never know. Anyhow, the band went up to New York city for some sightseeing. They were going to be at the taping for the Today Show, so they had to get up pretty early, skip breakfast and get in position for their 5 seconds on camera as part of the mob normally over-populated by fifty year-old women from Wisconsin celebrating their first trip to the big apple. As soon as he realized they would be skipping breakfast he told his director that he'd rather go back home if they would be skipping meals. They reached a compromise where he got to go to a coffee shop and get some food. "So I went into this place and bought a terrible cup of coffee and one of those $5 cookies. It was hard as a rock, which I guess is how they like 'em up there."

Quick Blog

Admit it, you continue to miss my constant blogging.

My favorite thing about store brands at supermarkets are the great ripoff names they use. If I had done any preparation or research for this I would have a host of silly names and their slightly less silly counterparts' names. But, as this is just a spur of the moment blurb following some inspiration from the bargain bin at Food Lion, I leave you with two drinks to consider:

Dr. Perky
Chubby Sunshine

That's all. Perhaps I'll blog more in the coming week. Perhaps I won't. Oooh, the suspense.

Cat

Admit it, you've missed my constant blogging.

Time to get caught up a little. I don't keep a pile of drafts sitting around, instead I keep them stacked up in my brain where they are constantly evolving or dissipating, sometimes disappearing, reappearing, strengthening, weakening, stagnating, etcetera-ing. It is good to be back in the yard with the dogs where happiness is a deflated basketball and a weirdly shaped frisbee. I like my pesrpective here. It's better for me than being on the road. But the road helps me appreciate what Brown (dog) can do for me. Black (dog) too.

-----

I saw something I wish I hadn't on the way out of Savannah, GA a couple weeks ago. There was heavy traffic as it was about 8am. A morning fog, not uncommon down south, was hanging a few feet above all the cars. I saw a small shape limping it's way as fast as it could across the four lanes of traffic. It was a small cat, brown, black and white. It was in bad shape already as it must have had a leg or two run over. It may not have survived its initial injury had it reached safety but it didn't reach safety, a big school bus ran over it. I guess I haven't seen death happen very often, if at all. One second that little dude was struggling to survive - I was rooting him on, for him to make it across, run little dude, run little dude. The next second, it's over. I felt my stomach churn and could easily have cried. It really made me sad. I wish it would end there, but my head keeps working on things like this long after they've happened. The next upsetting thing is that there are people that may have seen the same thing and felt nothing. Or may have gotten a kick out of it. "Oh, man I saw this cat running across the road... then wham, this bus ran right over it." What destroyed me in the moment might be nothing more than a good little story for someone else to tell throughout the day. That's more disturbing than what happened to the cat. All the same, I feel bad for that cat, and I'm still rooting for him, run little dude.

-----

It is certifiably chilly outside tonight. Yes! I heart fall.

It's Business Time

Long ago, during the creation phase of McBlogland I thought I would write about my business here. I didn't expect to have much else to write about and I really had no idea where this would go. Almost 200 posts later, I obviously found other topics to explore so the business blogging just hasn't happened. Part of that is for privacy, part is to avoid boredom, part of it is to make this my creative escape rather than a another place that my mind consumes itself with all things TrunkPump. That changes tonight, though only slightly and off on a tangent.

In our efforts to work up advertising and marketing materials we micro-over-hyper analyze everything we put out to hopefully avoid unintended negative suggestions. We have done so with differing results over the years. We're not experts. Experts know about the tension color and shape and relationships create in print materials and the way those things tend to affect the recipients. This is also true with videos. Make the cuts too quick or at the wrong time or in the wrong sequence and your viewer will be lost, whether consciously or unconsciously. Add sound to the mix... well, you get it. And, if the sound is necessary to the video, think what that does to the message when it can't be heard. It's a risky proposition to throw something out there and expect it to be received as you intend. Take this blog for instance. I try to write in my voice, as I would speak. Nuance and gentle sarcasm (overt sarcasm, too) may be unrecognizable to the reader that otherwise doesn't know me. I may come off like a jerk. I may be a jerk. This all brings me to last week's trade show and the possibility of bad associations suggested by bad choices creating something that is just plain bad.

A large national company had a pretty big booth, I'd guess 80x80 maybe even 100x100. Each corner had an entrance with a large flat screen tv playing a company history mini-documentary. I know what they were going for, show the rich legacy of this company throughout the past and how that has laid the foundation for a phenomenal future of growth, prosperity and limitless success. What else would they suggest? Now the rub. This company goes back well over 80 years and in their video they do their best to put their timeline in the context of world history. Enter footage of Hitler, complete with the Nazi salute, marching Germans and other loaded images of regrettable 20th century history. Picture seeing this in a video about a company that primarily manufactures and sells lawn care equipment. A strange choice. Imagine not hearing the narrator say "with the backdrop of a world hanging the balance blah blah blah" and only seeing, from some distance, images of Nazi Germany flashing past. Remember, you are looking for a new machine for your landscaping business. Again, an odd choice for... their... um... propaganda. Happily, we haven't made the Hitler mistake. Perhaps I'm being too rough on them for their documentary? Hmmm.

A side note: I am excited about a cool new ad campaign we have based loosely on Mao's Socialist Education Movement. It's part of a five year plan. Gonna be great.

Gimme Some Money

Sentences and paragraphs may not be appropriate here. I'll go for assorted words and sounds to relate the Eddie Money concert in Louisville this evening. "-" will represent a negative. "+" will denote a positive. "-g+" will be used for "other."

- Eddie's police escort from his tour bus to the stage only stuck with him half way there as no one was attempting to get close to him, no one was making a fuss, no one seemed to notice.
+ He was dressed nicely in a coat and tie.
-g+ For a guy at over 60 years old, he still tried to put on a good show.
- The mix was bad, his vocals were not up at all, and I don't think he wanted them to be.
+ It would seem that he played a pretty good sax solo.
- It would also seem that he played a very bad harmonica.
+ Best quote of the night goes to Jason, my brother-in-law - "I think Eddie Money will die on stage tonight."
+ Happily he didn't.
- Tempo was really fast on almost all the songs.
+ Because of that the show ended sooner
-g+ By our wikipedia count, Eddie has sold well over 4 million records... my question, Is the fame he had worth the price of the state he's in now? The addictive destructive lifestyle? Can you separate the two? I don't think I can.
- His tour bus is not all that great. Also, it has a trailer attached to it for the instruments, not cool in the world of music.
-g+ I hoped to make it through the concert without crying.
+ I succeeded.
- It was still a little sad.
- I wanna go back, go back, and do it all over, but I can't go back I know.
-g+ Need I say more?
-g+ I will anyway.
- A quick look on his website revelaed the following: "Eddie Money's Two Tickets to Paradise: the Musical"
+ Most of the pictures on his site are from the 70's and 80's.
- It is now 2009.

A bad day

for animal watching. Today's only sighting was a cat scurrying into the woods. A feline blur. A kitty scamper. What a pity, I never even got to ask its name.

Not a cow to be seen.

(pause for reflection)

I stand corrected, though not about the cow.

There was a deer on the side of the road I spied as I was slowly driving through a residential area. If it had come out in the street and I hit him/her, it would have been a casual fender bender type of deal. I'd get out, nobody would really be hurt, we wouldn't want to call the police or bring about any insurance claim. Just an awkward little mishap. Of course, the deer might walk away and show up a few weeks later with a neck brace on and get some ambulance chasing lawyer involved. But I like to think we would resolve it like a civilized person and animal. As it happened, the deer stayed in the brush and I drove on past without incident. I kept on driving. Driving toward dinner. Pizza and wings and sweet tea. Good for ya!Now I am yawning with much gusto. I hope to sleep with similar zeal.

Zeal.

Animale

As I get my writing chops back up a little bit, we'll start out with some observations from the drive out to Louisville today. Yes, that will do nicely.

I continue to be on the lookout for animals. Last week at the Ag Show in Moultrie, GA I got to see cows (and calves) and pigs and alpacas and sheep and herding dogs. Very cool. There was one featured event called "The Cow Whisperer." I couldn't resist. I thought the guy might claim to delve deep into the bovine thoughts and relate ridiculousness, but he was pretty straight-forward. I did learn some cool things about cows. How I remember those facts, accurate or not, I will relate to you now. Cows have about a 310 degree side to side field of vision whereas we humans have about 200 degrees. Top to bottom their field of vision is much smaller than ours. Also, if you get behind a cow, that freaks them out because they can't see you and that's when they kick you. This why when you see herding dogs herding they try to be on the side and in front of the cows/sheep so as not to spook them. I think I was the only person that listened to the Cow Whisperer. He said cows have really good hearing and can pinpoint the source of a sound where we humans have a less keen sense for such things. He mentioned how if a cow had been present when JFK was shot it would have known exactly where the shots came from, but, it couldn't have told anyone... because it was a cow (that last part was mine). I also believe he said they have really good vision and see in color.

As we were driving along this morning I saw fields full of cows all eating. Not moving much. Later in the day I saw fields full of cows that were all staring in the same direction, not really moving. They were all in profile with perfect silhouettes. It looked like a Grandma Moses painting, very two-dimensional and pastoral where even the hills and mountains flattened out to match the cows. I'd love to sit all day and watch a cow do its thing, the snapshot glimpse every few hours on the side of the highway doesn't satisfy my curiosity. There has to be a time of day when there is a lot of transition, some cows eating, some staring into the distance, some sleeping, some walking. I must find out. I'll be Jane Goodall for cows, though I don't think the public fascination is there.

Farm country is beautiful, even on a rainy day. The grass is juicy and the colors muted where everything grabs some gray from the sky. The animals are wet, their coats heavy with damp smells. That has to be quite a load to carry around. But they make the most of it. I saw a little calf bucking around by a creek. He seemed pretty happy, embracing his cowness and frolicking about. It didn't look as though any others would join him in his fun. They all just stared through the gray, each a dark fuzzy shape placed on a Sunday school felt board. Still.

I saw a dog being walked at a rest area in the rain. It was sniffing and not all that interested in going where the leash was suggesting it go. At the time it made me think of a bad conversation, pulling and pushing, neither side understanding the other, each convinced of their own direction. Now it just makes me think of dogs.

I saw a handful of cats playing in a field in Kentucky. Maybe they weren't playing. They might have been hunting a mouse or something, but they were doing it together, and I thought that was nice.

Go cats!

Dear You,

Hey there, faithful blog readers. Well, you would be faithful readers if I posted anything to read. As it is, you are faithful blog lookers, sadly peering in on McBlogland only to see nothing new. I can only imagine your sorrow. There are plenty of old posts to thumb through, but you wouldn't do that, and neither would I. I think I've caught my breath and once again I'm sure I have some things to share. I hope to do them justice and get the blog production line back up and running. I may have burned out on the blog-a-day grind that I am glad I attempted... with some measure of success. "Some measure of success..." Arghhh, I should write a blog on phrases that really say nothing when taken at face value and should be avoided by serious people. OK, I shouldn't write that blog, but I could.... but even more accurately, I won't.

McBlogging may get back to an everyday thing, but I am back on the road for the coming week and won't promise anything. I have felt disengaged in my absence. Even when there aren't comments or interaction. Detached from myself, detached from the page. I'm back. And I'm glad you're still here.

This is what I look like.

A brief pause.

Most, if not all, of today was spent getting to Moultrie, GA for a big farm show, then setting up, then getting to our campsite, then getting some food, then setting up camp, then doing other things. A few good stories to relate, but not tonight. This is being typed on the qwerty blackberry keyboard, whose shortcomings I've discussed before. Anyhow, I'm happy to be having a different trade show experience... So far this one qualifies. More to come, but I did want to check in so you wouldn't worry. Peace out you guys.

Sincerely,

'nado.

Insert tor- or cu- depending on your mood.

Saturday Night Blog

Not sleepy + good baseball game on + computer is on = late night blog.

I've touched on it before. I can understand why people don't like the Yankees. Some of the same reasons I don't like Notre Dame, Duke, Ohio State, etc. I'll leave it at that.

Did you know there is a pro football league (UFL) made of four teams that has such coaches as Dennis Green, Jim Haslett and Jim Fassel? And that the San Fransisco team is owned by Nancy Pelosi's husband? All true.

"All politics is local." But most local politics are crazy and dysfunctional. Discuss, dispute, agree.

Same goes for stimulus money, it being local and all. I'm concerned about economic renewal, over borrowing, over spending and macro consequences. Still, I'm happy that the speedbumps have been replaced at the national battlefield nearby and the meeting space/pavilion has gotten a new coat of paint. It looks sharp and pleases me, no matter the more global ramifications.

It's not easy being President of the United States. To support this I reference all former and current U.S. Presidents.

I think Hillary Clinton is a pretty good Secretary of State, and was probably a good senator. She is, however, a terrible candidate. I know she can do the job... but can she get the job? She might not have been a bad president.

I am not a fan of using PROTUS, FLOTUS, SCOTUS, BLOTUS, ASBUMOTUS, etc.

I had my first nap in a while today. It was great.

For all you in Cabo, I hope Rick (or is it Ricardo?) doesn't visit you. Stay safe!

Saw a mountain music duo on the TV this evening, called themselves the Moron Brothers. No joke.

Have you ever hit baseballs at a batting cage in the rain? It's pretty wild, be ready to bail out.

I did give up on that Michael Chabon book. I heard an interview with him last week, pretty interesting.... but I still quit his book, which I said I wouldn't do. Sorry, Michael.

This is not the blog you've been waiting for. But it's coming soon.

It's one thing for someone to be an idiot, but to drag your kids into the idiotic web is tragic (see Balloon Boy).

The End

oooooh!

Marilyn and Me.

Social note: Something along the lines of 30,000 people die every day of preventable conditions (malnutrition, HIV, waterborne diseases, etc.) Swine Flu is a shame, but in context it probably shouldn't lead the Nightly News every evening, and neither should Balloon Boy. I like the sensational story as much as the next person, but not always.

Good Blog

Good Blog will wait another day. Constant mosquito attacks make blogging conditions less than ideal. A lack of sleep is also not helping matters and a poor day of food eating make it best not to try to write anything too heady. I'll stick with the basics for another day or so. Observational. Not Observational Humor a la Seinfeld... just observational.

Mickey has a rubber frisbee that he likes to run around with in his mouth. Most critters and people would grab the thing from the edge, like a plate. Goober likes to get it from the middle which leaves it badly disfigured, sometimes taking on a sombrero shape. But, being rubber, it is still capable of flight. It has held up well, no major punctures or pieces missing. To date, Kongs, a Tanzanian fun ball, the frisbee, a red rubber bone and some Incredible Rings have held up best to the daily canine assault. Tennis balls are only interesting for so long, and while the fuzz is fun to pull on and eat, they're just not that great for our dogs. The rubber toys are built to last and built for fun. His food and water bowls also make occasional appearances as toys. Loud toys. Loud metal toys.

Tonight's entertainment in the yard is either grasshoppers or crickets. Either way, Mickey has his nose to the ground and darts his head back and forth tracking something. He'll get one in his mouth then run a few feet away and lay down. When he opens his mouth back up sometimes the unlucky hopping bug falls back out, alive. It hops away, to be chased again. Mickey is mostly visual, he tries to use his nose, but it's not that gifted. While he's trainable, he's not all that sharp. He eats a lot of dirt, which on the scale of things dogs eat, puts him on the upper end of the continuum. This is unlike his sister, who might be considered a bottom feeder of sorts.

There is a strange noise coming from the woods which sounds like a cross between heavy exhaling and a spoon hitting a big tinfoil pan. The dogs are uninterested. Mickey can't see it and Maggie can't smell it.... so what's the big deal?

Agggh, Mosquito! You make me sad. You hurt my feelings. I wish you would go elsewhere, and quickly.

I tried out some MRE's.... government issue rations. I'm guessing they are about 3 years old or so. I went in with no major preconceived notions, I'd heard good an bad reviews. This will surprise no one, the cracker included was really really good. Some sort of vegetable wheat concoction. Still crispy and light and wholesome. It came with some strawberry jelly - top notch stuff. There was some pineapple pound cake that I haven't been man enough to open yet. A pouch full of applesauce was not bad, almost better than store brand sauce but nowhere near as good as homemade. And you got to squeeze it into your mouth through the corner of the pouch... pretty fun. The scary part was the black bean burrito and rice. Imagine a plastic pouch about the size of a hot chocolate mix bag stuffed with a flat wadded up something.... the burrito was in there. You could comfortably keep one in your back pocket all day. I'm not really sure what the tortilla substitute was, but it almost had a butterscotch/candy bar/toffee look and consistency... and taste. I heated it up in the toaster. There were beans and rice in there, but digging to them through the outer layer of mocha colored candy was too much, I couldn't finish it. There was a spoon, napkin, salt and pepper, moist towelette, creamer, sugar and coffee pouch included as well. Not a bad meal if you could get past the scary burrito. Overall I give it 3 out of 5 stars - The snacks were great and the extras were nice, only the main course was lacking. I would not be unhappy with that in a dire situation, but I probably won't volunteer to eat much more of it. Today I did open up another pouch that included beefy macaroni. Again, the crackers were excellent, but the pouch of macaroni felt way too juicy. I learned my lesson with the burrito.

Fried Egg

No blog of which to speak this evening as I'm afraid I've burnt myself out on an intense couple hours of work at home working.

Tonight's post is brought to you by Cramitol. When I've had enough, my doctor prescribes Cramitol.

Cramitol.

On tap for tomorrow, what I think will be a pretty good post that has been stewing in my brain for almost a week and will get typed out in the next 24 hours.

Until then, I leave you this brief video interlude:

skeeter

I am outside, a nice coolish evening following a clear upper 70's day. The mosquitoes continue to be a nuisance. They need to work on their tactics, need to work together more effectively. If they could just organize, we could do this thing for real. As it is, they continue their piecemeal attacks, like an old kung fu movie where ten ninjas attack one by one, rather than all at once. This assures defeat, but also guarantees a prolonged fight scene and more entertainment, just as it is doing tonight. One attacks my elbow... dead. One goes for my shirt... dead. Another buzzes in my ear... probably survives. Another buzzing in my ear... same bug or different? Same result... a quick, awkward, unathletic flail. I strike swiftly, my failure to eradicate is instantaneous. These are slow-moving gentle-juicy mosquitoes, yet some manage to elude my clumsy gestures. Some are mistakenly swiped. Maybe they are getting old and fat. Mosquitoes don't live for long - a few weeks, a few months. Only female mosquitoes take blood meals. Males never do. Males eat plant materials such as nectar. Females do as well. Females are supposed to take blood meals only at a certain point in their lifecycle, when they are a few days away from laying their eggs (and the blood provides iron for the eggs.) I credit Steve Meshnick of UofM Tue Jan 10 08:52:11 EST 1995 with the facts just stated, I'll take full responsibility for the rest of it. I bet ol' Steve wouldn't think an answer in a chat room about mosquitoes and blood would still be relevant or active more than 14 years later, but it totally is.

So they're not old and fat, they're just pregnant and bloodthirsty. (Insert sexist 50's era joke here) How about... That's just like a woman!

wahhh wahhhhhhhhh.

You're welcome.

Word-less Picture-full Antenna-tree

A day of rest

If you look closely, you'll see Mickey's mouth is covered in sand (from putting his mouth in the sand). If you don't look closely, all you see are big pink tongues. After many days in a row of good dog walking, we have come to the end of a good run. A good nap was had by all.

The next several weeks will be busy ones and dog walking will be limited. We'll hold the memories of a few precious days in October when we walked together and we walked strong. We retire weary and thirsty from our efforts. It was real and it was fun. And it was real fun. Thanks, dogs.

Shorts in October

Maggie's kill total on moles is up to three for 2009.
As a result, the yard is quite torn up.
Watching Dexter can be addictive. Good show.
Syracuse Football today looked bad, like old times.
It was 30 degrees warmer here than in Austin, TX today.
How about the Dodgers? Who'd a thunk it?
I watched Vantage Point, two stars.
Chicken soup is not that filling.
That it is 88 degrees and October upsets me.
I'd like to meet someone that watched all 10 hours of golf today.
On second thought, I'd rather not.
Duke beat NC State today. That's a shame.
Mosquitoes are still biting.
General network TV observations:
ABC, video is always poor on my TV.
CBS, audio is always poor on my TV.
NBC, is juuuuust right.
Shorter days mean longer nights for dogs.
The opposite is also true.
Dogs are sleeping - one next to me on the couch and one on the bed.
Life is good.

Nobel Gases

Colorless and odorless under standard conditions - helium (He), neon (Ne), argon (Ar), krypton (Kr), xenon (Xe), and the radioactive radon (Rn). Under abnormal conditions they make brilliant colors as you can see above.

Obama can't win for losing. Or can't lose for winning. I never really understood that phrase (can't say I've really tried to), so maybe the opposite is more fitting here on Nobel Peace Prize day. Who knows? Let's break this thing down gas by gas.

Helium (He): as in... (He) didn't chose to win this. I think it most unlucky. It fuels the fire of the right (Oh, the humanity! No wait, that was a different gas) that thinks a president too well liked overseas is not strong enough pushing the American agenda (sometimes a difficult argument, but one none the less). His winning even confounds many reasonable lefties. The biggest question out of all of this is "What's up with the Nobel Committee?"

Neon (Ne): as in... maybe it's a (Neon) sign of things to come. A bright, colorful sign of future peace. I believe in a place called hope. Let's hope this prize can leverage peace. I don't think it can, but let's all hope it can. The Peace Prize comes with a big cash award of over a million dollars which Obama will donate to a charity. My advice: don't give it to ACORN, bad political move.

Argon (Ar): as in... bitter relations with much of the the world (Argon)[are no more]. A bad pun, yes... but my other option was a play on (Argon)nes, France which somehow would have been more of a reach and would have inevitably lead to something about freedom fries. Maybe the goodwill he engenders around the world isn't overstated and its transformative possibilities are vast... not my general belief, but I'm open to a little optimism and it's worth a full throttled effort. Who am I to argue with the Scandinavians passing out the Nobels in Sweden? Oh yeah, I'm an American Blogger... it's my duty to argue with Scandinavians.

Krypton (Kr): as in... maybe he is Superman, without the aversion to (krytpon)ite and can change the world. That would be fine. And if he can change the US along the way (for the better, mind you) that would be great as well. I'm all for peace and especially for one man making it so (then I need not get involved (how easy!)). Give the man a cape. Come to think of it, I'd like one too.

Xenon (Xe): Greek word ξένον [xenon] meaning 'strange'. as in... isn't it xenon that Gandhi was nominated three times but never won the Nobel Peace Prize... seems like he embodied peace. Is it too late for him to win? Are these prizes non-transferable? Maybe Obama could give the prize to him posthumously... but if he did it would be better if Gandhi had been a Muslim so as to symbolically reach out to the Islamic world. Most Americans wouldn't know a Hindu if one bit them on the leg. Not saying a Hindu would do that... just saying Americans... generally... aren't... how do you say... worldly.

Radioactive Radon (Rn): Ah Radon, feared silent killer of homeowners, not sure how to put a positive spin on this one. Unless we go (Rn) as Obama can nurse us back from our economic ills and make the most of other peaceful pursuits. Give the man some cool medical scrubs with SpongeBob SquarePants on them. Come to think of it, I'd like some too. All in the name of peace, of course.

Promenade de l'histoire

When the dogs go for a walk, they prefer national parks, especially Moore's Creek Battlefield in Currie, NC. It has a nice loop for walking with a few other side trails. But they tend not to look at any of the informational markers. I don't think they even realize the significance of the land on which they walk. For once, I made them take it all in. They looked to the past and thought of the sacrifice, symbolism and importance there. (the past is that way ---->)I could see the thoughtfulness in their eyes as I explained how, on this land, many years before, the Colonists won their first major victory against the Loyalists in the fight for American Independence. It's my favorite war. The Civil War, WWII and Vietnam seem to be the big three for most of America, but I'm partial to the Colonial era and the revolution. Happily, the history channel has a series called, fittingly, The Revolution, that satisfies my revolution fix. I digress, and return to the point at hand. The fact that the Loyalists at the Battle of Moore's Creek were my forefathers, clad in kilts and Scottish garb, doesn't seem to bother or confuse the dogs. Mickey's given name is Shamis McWeenis, so you could expect him to have mixed feelings, but he rarely has mixed feelings. Maggie, who often goes by the street name, Fatty Wagger, keeps her feelings cloaked under a quiet stubbornness marked by the occasional baring of tooth (why show them all when one does the trick?). At any rate, the history lesson left both smiling and panting for more though looking no more enlightened than when they started.

Niewws

Wolf Blitzer's CNN Sitaution Room is one of my favorites. First, the name. Then, the content. Each cable network justifiably rips on Fox News for being over the top conservative, but they all have gone tabloid stupid over the last few years, no matter their reporting slant. I think they all should plan some repeat programming... they can not (or choose not) to air programming throughout the day that is newsworthy. For some reason I surfed past the People webpage yesterday. The most viewed story over the past three days was "Brad and Angelina take kids out for ice cream." I kid you not. The cable news networks are not far behind.

Tonight on the Situation Room, Wolf had comedian Lewis Black offering his take on everything political. And that's fine, Lewis is cranky towards just about everything and everyone. But it was part one of two. The rest of interview will be shown tomorrow night. After the segment Wolf told us all to tune in for the second part tomorrow, saying "And guess what... he's just getting started!" Yes!

Why is he on? And in a two-parter on what is supposed to be a news program? Earlier in the day I saw a twenty second interview with a doctor using one BBBBBillion dollars of his own money to develop a new hand-held medical computer to give better feedback and usable information for doctors. He quite literally answered two questions. I learned next to nothing, but I wanted to and I needed to. We need to.

I listened to a podcast earlier today where comedian Mark Maron was talking to fellow comedian Jim Gaffigan. You know Gaffigan from his bit about Hot Pockets. There was talk of said pockets, but the conversation turned into a nerdly breakdown of comedy, modern stand-up and comedians in general. They have different approaches to writing and joke telling, but they both agreed that comedians are just doing their own thing. Some may be political, some may be observational some just clowns. But they are, at heart and ultimately, comedians doing comedy, making people laugh. To put any disproportionate sociopolitical weight on their material is misplaced (ooooh--- big words).

Their discussion brought to mind a book on relationships put out by Janeane Garofalo and Ben Stiller many years ago. I remember on their promotional tour they made the point that since they were celebrities they were qualified to write a book and give advice on relationships. They were kidding... but we've moved past that point somehow. We've gotten lazy. We (the American we) jump lockstep in with comedians and stars and megalomaniacs (read, Limbaugh). There still needs to be a filter through which it all gets flushed. Comedians should make us laugh and they can make us think... but we should still think for ourselves. "That sounds about right" is not good enough. I'm glad that 20 year-olds are getting news more regularly than they did ten years ago, the fact that they get it from Comedy Central might be a small problem. It's sad that they need to watch Stephen Colbert, John Stewart and Chris Rock to get any perspective on the world. The major news outlets don't leave them much choice.

After reading what I've just written, I am officially an old (possibly cranky) man and October Happy Month clearly needed a day off.

Happy.

Beeeeeeeer

Dreams make the impossible possible, if only for a few imagined moments while we sleep. Case in point... this morning. Just before waking up I had a dream that I was at a brewery for some sort of tasting. I was at the St. Paul Brewery. It turns out that there are a number of microbreweries in the Twin City area, but none with the name St. Paul Brewery. I give my Imagination a B+ on the name. The logo was not too spectacular, a dark brown background (or maybe green, my colorblindedness follows me in my dreams) with "St. Paul Brewery - Minnesota" written in darker brown block letters around a picture of some guy drinking beer... I'm guessing he was none other than St. Paul. Imagination gets a D- on the logo, which is disappointing since my waking self would spend a ridiculous amount of time making a good logo... ahh, me and my lazy subconscious. There was no real plot to this dream, just a few revelations here and there. I was upstairs on a deck. I had two beers in bottles (not quite appropriate for the beer-tasting theme... so Imagination gets a C- for realism and continuity). They both tasted pretty good, though the one in the slightly larger bottle really tasted good - like you'd actually want to drink it.

Back to reality for a moment. Beer does not taste good. Anyone that tells you otherwise is lying. Light Beer, dark beer, pilsner, lager, ale, foreign, domestic, macrobrew, microbrew, with a lime, with a lemon, with a lymon... they all taste bad. Liking a beer is relative. I like Newcastle. It tastes good in relation to all other beers, but it, in and of itself, does not taste good. A beer tastes good at the end of the day because its the end of the day, not because it tastes good. It tastes good when you're with friends because you're with friends, not because it tastes good. Drink the first beer fast enough and you'll get just enough buzz not to care that it tastes of swill and bilge water with a hint of cat pee. If beer actually had a nice taste, true beer drinkers would also be huge consumers of non-alcoholic brews when a situation makes alcohol unacceptable. Not happening. Beer tastes bad. Some beers taste better than others... but ranked on a scale of bad to worse.

Return to dream analysis. So this mythical beer in my dream actually... tastes... good. That's how I knew it was a dream. There are always a few clues in dreamland that tip you off to the fact that you're asleep: you're flying but somehow land on your feet... everyone from high school is gathered together for some event and they all know your name... you walk around with no pants on, but no one seems to think it odd... it's the last week of school and you still don't know your locker number or combination.... those sorts of things. Or the kicker, when all those events combine... and then you have a beer that tastes good. Back to this morning's dream. I'm finishing up my good tasting beer and walking downstairs to meet up with the rest of my family, who were all there. What happened next changed me in a profound way, even out into the waking world that now surrounds me. My brother and I were discussing the beers, then somehow moved onto other bottled alcoholic beverages, agreeing that they were as valid, if not more so, than beer. I said (and I quote) "You know, I like lemonade. It tastes good... and if I can drink that and get a little buzz along the way... that's pretty cool." Confidently and without the socially enforced shame that would be required in the real world, he replied "You know, you're right."

It was only a dream.
It was only a dream.
It was only a dream.

And now, more weather.

A nice drizzly day has settled in on us. Sometimes a heavier downpour kicks up, but mostly just a gentle soaking rain. I grew up in upstate New York. We got more than our fair share of rain up there, not like the Pacific Northwest, but a lot. I don't have any vivid memories of playing outside in crisp sunshine under deep blue skies. I do remember dry days playing baseball across the street at dusk where I had to really concentrate to see the ball. Diving in the dew covered grass. Jeans stained with dew covered grass. I do recall a sunny moment, the last day of school one year when my dad and brother picked me up after school at the end of the long sidewalk that leads to the elementary school. I ran as fast as I could, a few stray papers in my hand, sprinting toward summer freedom, and if I remember right, for reasons unknown, toward a rare afternoon haircut in Camillus. Running was so much fun then. I see that happiness in brown dog as he goes all out after his blue frisbee and tattered basketball. Ears flapping, tail wagging, tongue wagging. Hopping, skipping and jumping all at once. Every step a happy one, every pursuit more exciting than the last. Nowadays, running can be a dangerous proposition for me as muscle, bone, tendon and brain tend to be at odds with one another. Occasionally I'll make a dash for the mailbox in the morning, a shadow of my former running child self, a shadow on the brink of pulling up lame.

But more memories are of the rain. A fond childhood memory is of building forts in the rain. No object on the front porch was spared in construction. Giant green lawn chairs, small folding chairs with the webbed seats, every available raincoat and each umbrella to be found. This was back when raincoats were heavy and big. I remember these being group construction projects, though maybe a I did a few solo builds through the years. The chairs were opened and laid on their sides forming walls. It was not just one space created, but a series of short, interconnected rooms. The big green chairs, as they were "reclinable," would serve as wall and operable door. Each fort in each rain was different. The pre-built playhouses you find today are nice, but we got to make something new each and every storm. It was a good time. I'm waiting for Nintendo Wii to come out with a virtual fort building game, then I'd have one more reason not to want one all that much.

Sun is easy. Walk outside, bask in it, do whatever you like. Rain is a challenge. That's why I like rain.

And now, the weather.

Today's "Happy" is inaccurate weather forecasting. Again, it is a popular gripe, often a belabored "I wish I got paid to be right 40% of the time" kind of thing. I'm not having any of it. Let's look at how the forecasts are wrong. Today, the forecast was sunny and mid 80's. Not a bad thing to look forward to, but as I am in fall mode, mid 70's with some high clouds sounds a lot better. And that's exactly what we got. Today was the first day in many many months that I was able to mow the front and back yards without breaking into a sweat. It wasn't humid, and the sun only popped out occasionally.

How often is the forecast wrong? Probably most of the time. But I'd say they tend to err on the bad side of a forecast. Expect rain, maybe get none... unless you're a farmer, that would be probably be a decent wrong forecast. Rarely do they suggest no chance of rain and we get some. I think they normally leave us well prepared for the worst. And remember, it is in a lot of ways a young science which has been advanced by satellites and storm chasers over the last decade or so. If we compare the weather segment to the other portions of a newscast... news and sports... the meteorologist could just report the current conditions and what has happened over the past few days. How hard is that? We certainly can't find any fault in the other portions of the newscast... right? Riiiiiiight. I think they do a good job. Getting frustrated with them is like getting upset at the sure thing betting gurus who let you down 49% of the time.

More often than not, the weatherman is best part of the show... I give you George Elliott who is no longer at our local station, but remains a legend.

More George!

The icing on the cake was that at the end of of every broadcast, George gave the peace sign to the camera. Good stuff! Yeah, weatherman.

Pain in the Neck

I have one. This is October Happy Blog Month, so we'll put a :) on this one. I used to carry my stress in my stomach and on my shoulders. Stomach pain and nausea was once so acute that I would suck on Mylanta tablets all day long. This was the antacid of choice during my one semester stint at St. Andrews Presbyterian College back in 1992. This was easily the lowest point in my life. There are times when you think you don't belong or fit in with anyone, and there are times when you are absolutely sure that non-belonging is the case... this was the latter. I didn't really want to fit in... I didn't like what I saw. I did try, a little. Tried to reach out. I briefly got adopted by a band of hippies. They frustrated me even more than the dirty-hat college-boy crowd. I didn't need friends... I needed a friend, and for whatever collection of reasons, it wasn't happening there. My diet (which I'm sure had no relationship to my tummy twubbles) consisted of Froot Loops for breakfast with a glass of grape juice and Pepsi. Lunch and dinner normally consisted of some combination of saltines, ramen noodles and Lipton cup o' soup made with a hot water maker in my room. I attended every class and studied every subject, probably the only time I ever really put forth all my energy into school work. I learned stuff inside out. I guess it was the best way to pass the time, each miserable minute. That and guitaring. What I gained from those dark months were a) an intense concentration on guitar playing and improvement b) the ability to make it through crappiness. This was in the days of the Walkman (no... probably the early Discman era). I'd put in disc and put on my headphones and crank up my amplifier and play along as best I could to Rush, Clapton and Eric Johnson. I improved mightily in those few months. Who knew that practice and study could lead to success? I escaped after one semester. For the most part, I left my Mylanta fix there in Laurinburg, NC.

The Tums Years. Tums was more of a post-St.Andrews insurance antacid. I didn't have to have one in my mouth constantly, but I did need a roll in my pocket for security throughout the remainder of my college years. In a pinch, if I was desperate enough I'd go the Pepto route. Always tablets, never the liquid. Occasionally, paired up with my gastro-neurosis, I would have prolonged muscle spasms in my neck/upper shoulder. The kind I have right now. The kind where you can't turn your head. The kind where you have to turn your whole body to look in a new direction. The kind that feels and looks uncomfortable. The kind where your neck is locked down slightly so you look up to look straight ahead. I don't think this is a relapse, just a coincidental pain reminiscent of spasms long since endured and overcome. There were times many years ago when I felt that my muscles would always be seized up, my stomach always angry and my mind unable to find a place in which to fit itself. They are great quantifiable symptoms of my inner uneasiness and social discomfort. But, for the most part, they've all passed. Tonight, the closest bottle of Mylanta is on drugstore shelf in town. And this cramped up muscle is just a gentle reminder that I'm now more good than bad, more healthy than sick, more at ease than diseased. And that makes me happy. Thanks, sore neck!

October 2nd, the second day of the rest of your life

I like paint. Paint is good. What a great medium. Paint a picture, paint your house, paint lines in the road. Spray it, brush it, roll it, splatter it, smear it, blend it, mix it. Revitalize a run down home with a brush and a can of colored goo... paint! Give something new life. Brighten or darken. Stripes, dots, pattern, texture - tactile, visual and visceral. Control of the masses and expression of the few. Paint. A carrier and a pigment. Oil and Water. Oil and Acrylic. Paint the town red. Paint the town brown. Noun and verb. Finger and Face and War. Structure and order. Chaos and imagination. Pollock. Degas. Renoir. Latex. House. Wagner. Glidden. Primer. Tinted. Hue. Warm Cool. Alizarin Crimson. Pthalo blue. Paint! Paint a house with paint then paint a painting of the house with paint. Paint! Everywhere, paint. Graffiti. Enamel. Gloss. Matte. Dull. Eggshell. Crackle. Layer. Fanbrush. It's good stuff. The possibilities are endless. I used to paint with acrylics. Mainly landscapes of questionable quality. Inspired by Bob Ross and Bill Alexander. Put in a happy little tree. Fire in there and there and there. "Life is beautiful and creativity is within us all." This is beginning to read like Dr. Bronner's bottle of shampoo, and that's OK. Find some paint and paint. Paint a wall. On a canvas. An artist from my hometown used to paint on paper bags. It was brilliant stuff. Paint! This is an order. Find some paint, carve out fifteen minutes and make your mark. It's powerful. It's delicate. It's everywhere you want to be. Paint a smiley face. Paint some thing. Microsoft Paint does not count. On your mark, GO.