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.

October 1st, the first day of the rest of your life.

It is upon us. Long awaited, much anticipated --- October. I was about to launch an entire orb from which all October posts would form, but I'll put that off a day. I'll lay the groundwork for all that... and there will be irony. Lawd knows there will be irony.

What's the deal with _______? I'm not even kidding people. I'm serious, it's crazy! I don't get it.

The great teetering point for all blogs, especially those with no focus or direction, is narrowly centered between keen observation of life's interesting questions and sounding like a bad lesbian stand-up routine from the late 80's. I'm not picking on lesbians here, and not even the 80's... but you know what I'm saying. Complaining about the inane rather than offering anything new, and doing so in ill-fitting sneakers, jeans and a blazer with the sleeves rolled up... and an overblown perm. Your blog reads like bad stand-up. Ouch. That would hoit.

Tonight's topic: Things that bother me. That could be good, but more often than not, it's not. When those flop, the ol' blog just becomes a ball of negativity. So, my plan for October is happy. I normally don't find "happy" to be interesting. I don't "get" happy songs. I prefer sad endings with unfulfilled characters in movies. Happy usually doesn't inspire me. Happy is not easy. I may be happy, but it's not something I think I share in most of what I do. So, that's my personal challenge for October. My favorite month. No gripes, no whining. Happy. Good. Nice. And, hopefully, for your sake, entertaining.

Game on. Despite the theme, I will try not to make any mention of rainbows, unicorns or pixie dust, all of which I love dearly and give me great joy.