Wednesday, February 21, 2007

what we didn't know

Did I ever tell you that Frankenhooker once held Big Brother?

I won't presume to think that everyone in my town knows who Frankenhooker is, nor would I dare to pretend that those readers outside my tiny geographic radius would know who Frankenhooker is. And with my not employed outside the home status, my sitings have greatly diminished, though I did see her very recently, standing across from the BP on Broadway.

The whole story isn't so sordid as it might sound. A local restaurant, loved for their vegetarian fare as well as their delightful pizzas (lamb sausage on a pizza with kalamata olives? fuck yes!) used to host the occasional band.

It was a year or two after we moved here that The Slackers played a show at this restaurant. We were ecstatic to get to see these guys even if it meant a show with baby in tow. We weren't scared. The show was awesome, just low key enough for bringing along baby. We danced a little, the parents at music with baby dance that I hate to see other people doing. A few people mentioned Big Brother and were happy to see him in attendance. Even a couple of band members were pleasantly surprised to see such a tiny fan.

At some point in the evening, a rather odd looking young woman spoke to us for a moment, talked about the baby, and asked to hold him. It seemed like kind of on request, but we don't let one's oddities stand in the way, and we acquiesced.

There was no one around aware or, if aware, willing to tell us, who this particular person was, and had we been told, her "name" alone would likely have been a bit off putting. At the time though we had no reason yet to know who Frankenhooker was. It wasn't till years later that I realized, after having been made aware of Frankenhooker, "Oh My Fucking God! She held Big Brother at a Slackers show at Tomato Head years ago.

I don't know the whole sad and sordid story of Frankenhooker, and I won't attempt to explain even the little I've heard. She's a local sort of fixture, the kind of person about whom stories circulate from people who've been here a little longer than I. Any number of our downtown types know her, and many more know of her, probably from stories similar to those I've heard. With a name like Frankenhooker, how much do you really need to know? And she held Big Brother years ago when he was still a wee little baby.

Friday, February 16, 2007


Events have timed themselves oddly regarding things in my own life and this particular post and comment session from ye ol' ZeroBoss. From another blogger we get questions concerning options, whether we ever really have a choice or whether we don't accept that certain things are options. That's my simplistic take on the discussion, but, as I mentioned, people's choices have effected me lately, so I can't help but take this discussion my own direction.

I had other thoughts concerning this idea of choices and options. My life has taught me a specific lesson that seems too often to assert itself. We are often given options, do or don't, go or stay, attempt or ignore. But we forget that those decisions often bring with them options that are checked without our having intended.

We can look at it in one way as the settings on your car radio. You can probably bring up the equalizer and set everything yourself. You could also and more easily just scroll through the settings programmed into the device based on the music you're listening to. But when you choose the preset option, you are also picking to have each option, such as treble and bass, set to those prerequisites. You didn't adjust those options specifically, but by making one decision, you also made a number of other decisions.

Many years ago, I made a decision to leave Atlanta, the city I was born in and grew up in. Much of how my life is now, the places I've seen, the jobs I've held, the children I helped produce, hinged on that decision. I can't know what would have happened had I remained in Atlanta. I know of a number of people who've been effected by my decision to leave, but I can't know how different their lives would have been had I not left.

That's the thing about decisions, that we can't know the long term effects. No matter what we do, no matter how simple we think things are, the least breath in passing can have the most intense and unexpected end.

What if I hadn't been at Little Five Points that day that the girl from NC was leaving to go back home? What if I hadn't decided to throw everything up in the air and go to NC? Would that couple have met? Would that child have been born? And that's not even mentioning my own marriage and children. I'm not considering my own direct contributions, just the way my passage has caused ripples that I can't know. And all this because I recognized the dog the girl from NC was watching as belonging to some squatters that I knew.

That's the thing about options and decisions. We only think we are making a single decision. The truth is that each decision we make opens up a world of other options for more people than we can realize. Often, our decisions set the list of options available to other people, as if we were choosing their radio presets.

I don't mean to say that my existence is especially important in the grand scheme of things. I would wager than anyone among us can look into their past and see things that hinged on their presence in some way, though these situations may have seemed most inconsequential at the time. And often the most important decisions we make end up having very little to do with how our lives turn out.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

gotta start somewhere

Quoting from a recently viewed commercial.
"Samuel Adams Boston Lager is not a beginner's beer."

And the first thought to flit across my mind in answer is, "The fuck it's not!"

I try to keep a certain appreciation for Sam Adams beer, and there are plenty of times when I've been grateful to find that at least they have Sam Adams, "they" being whichever bar/restaurant/store I happen to be purchasing in that doesn't have actual good beer.

Sam Adams and equally Newcastle Brown Ale were the beers that introduced me to a higher standard and were, for me, a stepping stone to a better appreciation of better beers. As I've come to drink better beer, I find that those beginner beers just don't reach the quality standard I've come to appreciate.

Furthermore, I must point out that I've come to dislike most lagers. Most big American beers are lagers, a style that, at its best, just doesn't stand up to the ales. So even at it's best Sam's Boston lager is nothing more than a really good version of the crappy beer I could have at half the price.

So, yes Mr. Jackass Sam Adam's Brewer, your best beer, your shining example, your pride and joy is a fucking beginner beer. You and your beer are lucky to be a stepping stone. You're like a halfway house between the insipid Bud's and Miller's of too many people, the welcome mat on the gateway to brewers who make really good beer.

more woe

We recently had a bit of a laundry pile up which coincided with the perfect night to actually do the laundry. I had all of it gathered and sorted and loaded the first load into the washing machine. It was especially not unpleasant to do the laundry as I recently finally cleaned the laundry room up a bit.

Have I mentioned that I'm not a plumber? It almost seems as if that's come up lately, and it remains true. Another thing I'm not is an electrical mechanic. I'm not without a very basic understanding of electricable type stuff and things, but . . . yeah, not a mechanic.

I knew I had a problem as I opened the lid. The funny, almost oily smell in the air hadn't immediately clued me to the possibility of a problem, but afterwards, I was able to at least find corollary possibility. The clothes were still soaking wet in the washer indicating that the spin cycle hadn't been quite sufficient for whatever reason. And the smell wasn't a horrid burning smell kind of smell you might expect when something electric doesn't do its thing, so it wasn't like anything too crazy could have happened.

I tried the usual, reset the spin cycle being my first stab. That didn't work so I cussed a little bit. I checked the plug which was where it should have been. This should very likely have been the limit of my checking, looking, working on, maybe checking the fuse.

All of that leads to today, the day I finally got a chance to open it up. I want to be able to fix something like this, and I'm certain that I could. It took enough time, made a lovely mess and gave me reason to actually wonder, how the fuck do you get spiral pasta behind the washing machine?

I really have to wonder why the fuck I did open it. It's not like I have any idea what all the shit inside there is, though I do at least know the difference between water parts and electric parts and to unplug it and turn the water off before fucking with it. I knew going into the back of it that I couldn't do anything with whatever I found unless there was a sign or maybe a note from the broken part explaining what the situation was.

It's all especially amusing when I point out that we have a newer washing machine in the garage. We got an aging washer with the house, so we kept the one we had when we moved in and stuffed it into the garage. I very likely have changed those bitches out a couple of nights ago before I touched the damn tools, but alas, I have no handtruck nor other conveyance.

And with that I remember that I need to finish drying some things. Momma was nice enough to take the most necesary of our piles to her mother's. I will take advantage of that to not write anymore tonight about my appliance issues. Damn suburban hell. Damn goshamighty fuck!

Sunday, February 11, 2007

el presidente

As we look to the upcoming presidential election, we are facing new choices in viable options for a president. I don't want to imagine the scenario that sees another republican president the next chance we get to choose a president, so we sensibly look to the left side for our options.

Currently, we have a few democratic offerings, the two most noticeable being Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. For our two standout candidates we have a black man and a woman. Hillary of course is white, but I'd argue that in America, any black or white woman has a better chance at becoming president than a black man. I wish that it didn't matter, but I'm afraid too many people may still allow race and gender to play some role in their vote, even if they try to pretend that it's subconscious.

I'd personally give my vote to both of them if the election were tomorrow. It's past time for the US to have one or the other. Shit, if Texas can have a woman as a governor, surely we can have someone that isn't a white guy as president.

I'm not saying I have a problem with white guys. I happen to be one. I don't especially care that the president is or isn't one thing or another so much as that it just really is time to get a good president. The democrats need to run the best candidate, not the guy most likely to swing enough votes, but I'm afraid they'll fucking John Kerrey us again, that horse faced fuck.

The sooner we elect a president, that is either black or a woman, people will maybe figure out that it's okay, and soon, maybe we can approach real equality. Satan and turrist didn't come out from under our beds and gay us or kill us with evil, and Mexicans didn't climb our fences in the night to steal our chickens, so maybe people with skin tones in all varieties of shades might get to where they are holding political office.

I suppose I wasn't quite honest before, because chances are Hillary has one secret weapon that no one else can hope to equal. In the end, fuck the other candidates. I want Bill Clinton back. That he'd be the first lady might just make me vote Hillary in the end, above and beyond anything she and any other candidate might have to say.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

plumb irritating

I still haven't finished the damn "plumbing job," though I'm finally telling the story. I had a couple of leaky knobs which could actually be kind of fun in the right circumstances, but when it's your bathtub, you worry.

It shouldn't have been anything like a plumbing job. It should have been a simple turn off the water, twist the wrench a couple of times and slide off the o-ring, and shit don't stop being a little dirty.

I ended up making a huge job out of what shouldn't have been nearly as involved. The knobs came off, the faucet came off, the weird ass laminate shit that is a stand in for tile came off, and finally, with the introduction of the vise grips, the plumbing parts that actually were the very simple problem (I'm pretty sure) came out.

The dripping seemed to have stopped when I reassembled the myriad bits and pieces that made up the whole. I'm a little concerned about some things I noticed in the initial testing phase that was giving the boys their baths tonight. I'm not sure if there's a problem or if I just saw one because the job so traumatized me. I'll know tomorrow when I check it out a second time. I ignored it tonight to get the baths taken as it had already grown late.

The worst of this whole deal is the options that I must admit exist. I like to think I know how little or how much I know given various situations. I would have readily admitted that I didn't know shit about plumbing sorts of issues had I not been faced with one. As it turns out, I really don't, and I was.

I wouldn't have pulled the chunk of wall off if I hadn't found more water than ought to have been there. I never figured out where it came from, and I'd like to think, regardless of my knob fixing acumen, I can find wet. I've actually done that a few times, if you know what I mean. And if I'd come up with the idea of using the damn vise grips I'd have saved myself a couple of swears and some nearly rounded off edges. I could easily have done the job any number of ways and likely done it quicker. I haven't even brought up the silicon sealant that I got to squeeze into some cracks, which isn't dirty even though I did say "cracks." I think it may have dried finally, though I did fill some pretty big gaps.

The issue of concern involves the actual shower itself. Our shower is a handheld kind of thing that attaches to the underside of the tub faucet. It's not the greatest deal I've ever run across, but it's worked well enough, so . . .

The true beauty of the hand held shower thingy is that you can more easily rinse the tub when you have to wash it. Okay, the real true beauty is a little light spray on the undercarriage, but again, this post isn't getting that dirty, no matter what you bunch of pervs think. It is also nice to make sure that the crack gets a good final rinse as well.

In the end, I'm still certain that I most likely fucked something up. I don't want to have of course, but no way could any normal person have distended the job as I did. I'm sure I missed putting something back or the glue holding up the wall won't hold or the sealant is quite all the way in a little part of the crack (heheh, crack) and it will grow into a huge pit of mold just under the fake tile laminate stuff.

amber ale

Rules were meant to be broken, and I've broken one of my own by purchasing, not once, but twice recently, an amber ale. I believe that brewers generally make ambers as an easy couple of extra bucks to people who won't drink their good beers but want to drink something cool. I know, in that situation, my presumptions make me the asshole, but I'm not much concerned with that. Me and being an asshole go together like beans and cornbread.

Truthfully, I would imagine that an amber seems less than to me mostly because my taste in beer runs to different extremes. I love an American pale ale that's completely overhopped, especially the more floral and aromatic varieties. I want my stouts and porters to be part meal. Shit, I've even almost given up on brown ales as being lacking. A good amber should really be nothing more or less than an honest beer, and a good brewer should be able to make a good one.

The one word printed across a bottle that can always make me stop and consider is Rogue. They just keep making good beer, and they like to make it interesting once in a while as well. If you can find it try their chipotle ale.

The Rogue amber is a good beer. I really can't complain about it in any way. Maybe it's not the one I'd steer toward more often, but that doesn't make it a bad beer. It's what beer should be at it's basic, a little malty, a little hoppy, a little cold, wet, intoxificating.

That isn't the only beer I'm enjoying tonight. I had a Rogue Dead Guy earlier. Following that was a Pyramid hefeweizen, and now the amber. I'm certainly dancing all around the beerological world tonight.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

ssssooooo . . .

Yeah, not a lot happening around here. I'm not done with the plumbing job, and I refuse to write a horrid little story about that near calamity till the glue is mostly dry. But rest assured that within a couple more days, I've got a great post brewing, and with pictures.

While most of the work of the bathroom was done today, the actual finally nearly fixing the problem, I've refused all day to be concerned about it. I've felt like shit all day, and I have payed a rather smallish price for my indiscretion of last night.

I went out last night. "Went out" isn't nearly quite explanatory in that most people would assume more than actually happened. What actually happened was I should just as well have stayed home and saved the damn money.

As I mentioned yesterday, The Boy and I missed a show that the family had planned on seeing, so as a conciliatory gesture, Momma suggested I go out for a bit. I'm not out of this house without kids nearly often enough. Sometimes, that means that I go out and drink a few more beers than maybe I ought.

It wasn't the amount of beer I poured into me but the rapidity of the pouring in. General maintenance suggests a drink an hour. That's roughly the amount of time your body needs to process the beverage. I don't generally care to follow that rule, but I also tend toward some small amount of responsible thoughts if not actual action.

Going out, this time, meant standing at one bar for a couple of beers, then going somewhere else to be just as bored. It was a mostly sucky night, considering it was basically a wasted going out. I should have stayed home and actually made a point of doing something not sucky on a different night. But that whole wish in one hand and shit in the other thing seems a little timely here.

Today, when I finally did bother to wake all the way up, I didn't really feel to bad. I've been kind of tired and sluggish all day, but how much of that is just my general nature? For a good portion of the early part of my day I kept getting dizzy when I stood up too quickly. That can happen anytime one stands up too quickly, but this was different and special.

I accept that being a drunkard, I'll occasionally have to pay the price for my sinful ways. Considering how much worse I could have had it, I will admit that my spinny head was getting off pretty damn lightly. My liver is getting to where I have to whack it with a broom handle once in a while, like the starter on an old Cutlass, to make it start working, but they've got scientists growing livers in a damn organ farm, so I'll just buy a new one one day.

And there you go, a crappy story being pooped out as a blog post so that I can feel good when I see all the excrementary ponderings I've come up with.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Readamus T. Bookington

Never one to pass up a good quiz, or even a not so good quiz as I've learned, I present this one. Because it's about reading, I knew immediately that I had to take the quiz so that I could then tell the world how wonderful I am because I read books. Yea me! We live in a house almost full of books. The only surface unlikely to contain books is the computer desk, and this is only because there isn't room next to the cd's, the piles of mail/bills, the other pile of crap, the pile of shit or the stack of junk. There are books on tables, chairs, the floor, even next to the sink in the bathroom. I caught The Boy sitting on the potty with a book yesterday and it warmed my cold, gray heart just a wee bit.

What Kind of Reader Are You?
Your Result: Literate Good Citizen

You read to inform or entertain yourself, but you're not nerdy about it. You've read most major classics (in school) and you have a favorite genre or two.

Book Snob
Dedicated Reader
Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm
Fad Reader
What Kind of Reader Are You?
Create Your Own Quiz

Ron has been in my bloglines and is responsible for directing me to Carrie who not only gets credit for being the blogger that clued me in to this quiz but may also find herself in my bloglines.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

just won't eat

There lives in this house a little boy who often just won't eat. He grows hungry like any other little boy would, and he's growing well, as any other boy would. But I often wonder how he fuels this growth as well as the activity that results from being a little boy.

When I say he won't eat, I don't mean that he never eats. He's also not the bland food kid that orders plain noodles at the Asian restaurant. He'll eat peanut butter graham crackers all day sometimes. He'll eat granola bars and yogurt. He'll eat fish roe and octopus. What he won't eat is pretty much anything that I cook and call supper.

Tonight is a great example of his eating style. I made a casserole of Italian sausage in a tomato sauce and polenta. It of course has lots of cheese in it as well, and one would think it's a great kind of thing to get kids to eat.

He sat staring into his bowl for a couple of minutes while Momma and I both tried to get him to eat. We were a little pressed for time as we needed to eat and get ready to attend a puppet show, an outing that we'd planned for some time and were excited about. Eventually he admitted that the onions were bothering him and that he didn't like them. Never mind that they are cooked and that he's eaten and enjoyed them plenty of times, he wasn't having it tonight. Momma picked the onions out and gave him back his bowl. By this time she'd finished eating, so he and I were left at the table, me eating and wishing he would do the same while he poked and poked and poked at his food.

Now Big Brother and Momma are on their way downtown to attend the puppet show while The Boy and I sit at home. I was looking forward to the puppet show, but someone's inability to eat a decent amount of food has disallowed that.

We aren't the parents that make you clean your plate and/or eat food that you truly don't like, but we aren't the kind of parents that intend to ever dance around the pantry trying to placate an overly picky child. I'd love for us to have been able to go out tonight, but knowing that The Boy didn't and wouldn't eat supper, we also knew how our night would likely have ended had we all attended. He'd have decided he was hungry, probably on the car ride downtown. He would grow increasingly hungry and disruptive through as much of the performance as we could manage to see. In the end, either Momma or I would have to leave the theater with him in order to not ruin the evening of the rest of the families, and most likely would have had to all, as a family, leave and return back home.

There is a happy note to all this. Shortly before Momma and Big Brother left, we received a call from a homeschooling friend who was able to use the tickets of ours that had so recently become extra. It helps to know that we didn't waste the money on the tickets.

Monday, February 05, 2007

critter pile

What is this? Big Brother is carefully crafting a pile of critters.

It looks like a simple critter pile to me.

But wait! What's this? Is there a live monkey in there somewhere?

Feel free to ignore the carpet's pitiful stain dotted self. The camera can never do justice to the true speckling of stains. We could, over the course of the carpet's ruination, have been more diligent at spill removal and stain prevention, but so many of these spots are mystery stains.

When Momma's grandparents lived here, this same carpet was a lovely light gray, or so it always appeared to me. It was never intended to be a carpet that children grew up on and shows what a few short years can do to a once respectable textile.

And there's today's lesson, how to turn an innocent and delightful foray into childhood into a quarter cup of self hate and carpet degeneration. I'm putting off the self hating foray into minor plumbing repair until that job is done, but believe me, it's coming.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

it's actually discord

All the cool kids are talking about noodley some shit found over at the Gookins. They, like so many baby Jesus and mother Mary finders before them, have seen evidence of their belief and faith in the happenstance of an everyday item seeming not unlike their own pastawful being of godhoodedness.

I hate to break it to them, and moreso I hate to ruin a good surprise, but I also can't pass up a chance to breath a small word of the truth. Grim times are these we live in, but grimmer still may they become if none of us dare, at least once in a while, speak that truth.

The facts are really simple, and you may choose to disbelieve at your own peril. What all these faithful are seeing is in fact yet more proof of the Golden Apple. That which Eris, fairest and brightest among us, first brought to bear to answer for her shame still resonates today. Eris, she over whom wars were fought and heroes vanquished, still rules the planet with her mighty hand. The Golden Apple falls through the years be it in the stigmata I keep getting in my butt or a virgin in toast or a noodly pancake.

And that's the story there. Don't let pancakes that happen to be funkily formed lead you away from her trueness. The truth won't set you free though, and it never will. Truth only leads to more unknowns no matter how many mysteries you think you've solved.

Witness all ye the true power behind the mask! Hail ERIS! All hail DISCORDIA!!!

Now, lick the bottom of your screen and wait for good things to rain down upon you.

mmmmmmm beer

I seem to remember once having had a Leinenkugel's red something or other years ago. Nowadays, I don't tend to drink things that are reds or ambers. They've always seemed like the concessionary beer, the one you sold to yuppies who didn't get beer but wanted to be seen drinking a microbrew. I only drink them because I'm an expensive lush, but I've got an air to keep up with all the hep cats and shit.

Our local grocery store hasn't always carried the best selection of the finer beers, but over the last couple of years, we've been getting more and more choices in better beers. We stopped this afternoon to stock up on beer, and I found a few new varieties awaiting me. I don't remember the other new options, but Leinenkugel's Summer Wheat was the one that came home with me. I've read Chris and Don discussing the beers lately, and they've both mentioned the Leinenkugel's brewery, though looking through their archives earlier, I don't seem to find this particular beer mentioned.

I refused to drink wheat beers for a long time. Early in my beer snobbery I drank some funky German shit that honestly tasted like I was drinking an extra bready loaf of bread. That one beer made me extremely leery around any number of beers for several years. That damn beer was so much like bread that it made you want a shot of ham, cheese and mayo vodka.

Years passed before, working at the pizza place, I finally tried a locally made hefeweizen. The first one just didn't appeal to me, but over a couple of years, for various reasons, I came to drink enough that either they grew on me or I finally began to get it. I'd hate to think so many brewers would continue making a shitty beer, so the problem had to be me. This doesn't hold true with Guinness however as that's just a shitty beer. I don't know why they keep making that shit. There's more to a good beer than head dammit!

As I slowly figured out the wheat beers that were available to me, I feel I've come to be a fair judge, though I have to admit there very few in my li'l neck of the woods, so without the experience, what the fuck do I really know?

Checking the website tells me that the beer is brewed with "select wheat and pale malts, cluster hops and natural coriander." What the fuck they mean by "natural coriander" is left for you to decide. Are they suggesting that other brewers are so ill intentioned as to use synthetic coriander? And why the fuck does it taste like someone squeezed an orange into it? I don't want an orange squeezed in my beer. I'm not against it if you like it, but the one beer I can get offered with orange slices at bars is, in my opinion, better without. The orange hides the spicy notes of the beer.

But don't take tonight's rant too seriously. I certainly won't drink it all tonight, mostly because I also got a six pack of a beer I do like, a tried and true favorite. Tomorrow night will see a return to this beer I'm quite certain, and tomorrow's taste buds may get this beer.

It might be a good spring afternoon beer, one of those afternoons where it's so perfect that you don't mind scooping dog shit out of the yard. And it's really not as if I don't like the beer but that it came as such a shock, the near vibrant orangeyness of it. I was really just expecting a different beer, and it's kind of like the feeling when you try to pick up something that turns out to be heavier than you expect and instead of lifting it you fart a little bit.

Friday, February 02, 2007

dirt, dirt, dirt, and sleazy politicos

So, what happens in your town/county, when voters decide they want term limits? Term limits of course mean that elected politicians may only serve for a limited number of terms. Perhaps you have a bunch of good ol' boys running things poorly, hooking their friends up, spending money that isn't theirs to spend. The people, long grown tired of this shit, decide to limit the good ol' boys who of course fight tooth and nail to forgo the wishes of the people who they claim to serve. Um, when you pull some of the shit I'm about to quote, it's obvious that the only people you are concerned about are the ones who can most serve you and your own selfish interests.

Credit for this story is given to rocketsquirrel of KnoxViews

So, from the Wikipedia entry for my home county, I give the Hall of Shame '07 edition, alternately titled, East TN is starting to smell like a pile of rotten shit.
  • Outgoing commissioner Diane Jordan nominated her son, Josh, who mows lawns, to replace her, and even voted for him. Two days after the appointment, it was revealed that Josh Jordan was an admitted drug dealer.
  • Commissioner Mark Cawood succeeded in getting other commissioners to vote for his wife to replace him.
  • Commissioner Billy Tindell was immediately appointed to the position of County Clerk.
  • Commissioner Craig Leuthold's father, Frank, was appointed to represent the same district.
  • Commission chairman scott "Scoobie" Moore nominated and successfully pushed through his campaign treasurer for a seat that was not even in his district.
  • Outgoing sheriff Tim Hutchison nominated his chief deputy, J. J. Jones, to replace him who then hired Hutchison back as his chief deputy.
  • When the commissioners were deadlocked, they recessed out of view of voters in violation of the Tennessee Open Meetings Law, where they proceeded to strong-arm commissioners to change their votes.
  • The commissioners swore in one of the newly appointed commissioners, but not the other six newly appointed commissioners, to break a deadlock vote.
  • 2nd District nominee Jonathan Wimmer said later that Commissioner Greg "Lumpy" Lambert asked him to vote for 4th District nominee Lee Tramel in exchange for a seat. [2]

which is worse?

WARNING: possible cringe inducing material!!!

As I mentioned in a recent post, I was recently afflicted with a bit of a stomach churning sort of sickness. Both my fuel entrance and solid waste exit were exits for most of a day as I sent plumes of mostly liquid material gushing out of my body. There is nothing but downsides to this kind of illness, but as a bright side one must remember that it only really lasted most of a twenty four hour period, give or take a few hours.

That was a shitty day, but for the most part, upon realizing what I was in for, I negotiated with myself to ingest as little food or drink as possible in order to minimize the volume that I had to give back. I seemed somehow to will my body into not feeling too poorly by giving my poor widdle stomach as little as possible to play with.

The next day, the day I was no longer sick, was certainly no picnic. Due to some recognition in one stomach emptying bathroom visit, I was none too eager to eat any peanut butter that day, though oddly, the ginger ale was all right. My stomach and general constitution were both weakened enough that very little was appetizing to me throughout the day.

And here we wonder which is really worse. I'm certain that the actual body voiding hell is and will always be worst, but even today, two days later, I'm still fighting some of the issues that developed from being sick. I have muscles throughout my torso that only get this sort of workout when I'm as sick as I was. Though my stomach was empty most of the day, there were a few times that it continued to attempt to expel those nonexistent contents. Those muscles are still sore today. I keep finding myself worried that perhaps I'm going to find that same river once more flowing from my face into the toilet, and those feelings are often couple with a sort of ghost nausea.

I'm quite positive that the actual sick day was the worst, but the following days of weakness and sore muscles is only slightly nicer. I'm sure that this is part of our human ability to forget life's pains, simple creatures that we are. Either way, I'm ready for the whole thing to fade into a distant memory.

Thursday, February 01, 2007

monkey seen, monkey done

Let's add this to the things we blame Doc for. I've actually seen this before, but I didn't blog it then for whatever reason. This time, I'm all kinds of about this shit. How many people share my first and last name?
LogoThere are:
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

And now for the fun part. While there are, according to the site, 78 people who share my name, my children's names are much less common. Only 11 people share Big Brother's name, while there are only 2 with The Boy's name. While there really is only one Momma, she shares her name with at least 55 people.

And now for the really fun part. Do you have a hairy bush? Well there are 136 people named Harry Bush. Apparently no one is named Ophelia Fanny, though both names, apart from each other, do occur throughout the US. There are 64 Wanda Hardins, though I imagine those wanting a hard one are a greater number than that.

I'm sure I'm not the only person who thinks it's fun to insert ridiculous names into that thing. I'm also sure that I'm done with it for today. Try it yourself. It's fun.

worse than the last

Last week ended with some of our homeschool friends missing a couple of meetings due to some sort of stomach thing. This week began with the boys at great grandma's house so that Momma and I could go to a derby party. Monday began with a phone call saying that Big Brother was sick and throwing up. I'm not blaming the hs friends, but this stomach thing is slowly taking us all down . . . for a bit.

Big Brother seemed to be over it by Tuesday, and no one else got sick, so we assumed we were okay. We didn't really assume that because we have had kids for a few years now and know better.

Yesterday began fairly normally. I didn't think I was sick and assumed the light nausea was because I was hungry. That happens to me sometimes. We took Momma to work so that we'd have the car to go do some needed shopping, underwear and socks kind of deal.

Soon enough the nausea grew to the point that I realized I must have whatever Big Brother had had, and kneeling in front of the toilet proved that. It was actually sort of a dual blast day. Neither of my ends ever forced me to run to the bathroom, which was slightly nice, but I did spend a portion of the day deciding which end to void from next.

I also didn't really feel especially sick most of the day. Once I realized I couldn't really eat or drink anything I didn't want to see again later, browner and more liquidy, I was mostly all right. What really made me feel bad was the thirst. I spent most of the day huddled on the couch with a slight chill wishing like hell I could just down a huge, cold cup of water.

Today is much better other than the fact that I still am leery of food. I tried a saltine first thing, after I was up long enough to realize that the water wasn't coming back, but it just tasted gummy and made me sad. After the boys got up, we all had cereal, Kix, which they ate, but to me it was like the saltine, just . . . too something, but at least it stayed down. I finally fixed myself some ramen noodles for lunch and was able to eat half of them.

Oddly enough, this would be a great time to quit smoking as neither of the two cigs I had today were very pleasant. Part of me wishes that things would stay like that enough that I could quit, but part of me really fucking wants a cigarette. Fucking addiction!