Time has slipped past me lately, time I could have used for writing, time that I intentionally did any number of other things, because sometimes trying to think about writing is a pain in the ass. Sometimes it's just as simple as not being willing to approach the thing that's on my mind.
Yesterday was finally yard work day as well as shingles day. I had made a deal with a friend who isn't afraid to climb a ladder to replace some shingles. This is a job that's needed to be done for some time, but I don't do well with ladders and steeply angled roofs. We are now safe until the next overly windy day which will probably take those same shingle back off, but we can hope that isn't anytime soon.
I did my share of work. The yard is entirely mowed, and the hydrangea that was full of vines and some stupid ass tree is now just a hydrangea again. I found a bird nest nestled in all the crap that I didn't want in the plant I do want. I actually considered for a moment letting the nest be, but I wanted my flowering shrub more than bird neighbors, so the nest is now on the back porch. I'm sure it's now a homeschooling aid.
I swept the back porch and am momentarily rid of the helicopter seeds from the silver maple as well as the cigarette butts from my blackening lungs. The Boy was nice enough to break the plastic base that used to hold the umbrella that used to shade the outdoor table, but I failed to get it to the street, today being trash day, so it's ours for another week.
I finally cleaned the gutter. I hadn't realized how full of shit it was, mostly the aforementioned helicopter seeds but also a fair amount of the gravelly type shit that's on the shingles. The combination had pretty well damned up the gutter which had developed quite a sag as well as its having become and attraction for birds. I can't really describe the stink that came out of the gutter as my hand went in. It was most disgusting, but the job is done and the sage is much less.
I also finished mowing the field. Our yard can be separated into three distinct sections, four if you count the tiny bit at the end of the house. The front yard is deeply rutted under the grass but is mostly easy to mow. The back yard is smallish and easy to mow, most of the grass/grasslike stuff not ever even growing high enough to meet the mower blade, though the part of the back yard closest to the porch grows thick and heavy. The back edge of the back yard rises abruptly making the field sit about a foot higher. It isn't really field, more like the back half of the back yard. It never gets as much attention as the rest of the yard, and it's generally overgrown and ugly. I really need for this to be the year I get a handle on it and stop letting it get so shitty.
And there's my boring post. Today needs to be the day I clean the inside of the house, especially the bathroom. With two little boys, the bathroom begins all to quickly to smell a little . . . well, a little like two little boys. The kitchen is also a mess, but that's pretty much my fault. I refuse to admit when I last vacuumed. Thank you for reading, now take time to look around your house and be happy that it's really not that bad, unless it is, in which case Get Off Your Ass!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Saturday, May 05, 2007
nearly 'bout
Years of working in kitchens has given me a certain attitude in regards to different aspects of food preparation. This has of course carried over into my home life. Some of this has to do with my handling a knife.
I'm pretty good with a knife. I know my way around one, but I'm also the guy that, due to random circumstances, has fallen in love with the longer than I need chef's knife. My own current knife is a fairly long Wusthof that is in desperate need of a date with a stone.
This story is not about the knife. It's a beautiful knife for all that, and the stories about it would be those of a good partner, always willing when needed to step in and do all those things I require. Again, this isn't about that knife.
This story is about the little serrated knife that came with the butcher block that came with the house. The block was full of serrated knives of all kinds when it came into our possession. I have no use for a serrated chef's knife, but the little steak knives come in handy quite often. Who wouldn't want a decent set of steak knives.
One of the kitcheny knife things I do is a favorite of The Boy. He is a lover of the banana as am I. Momma likes her bananas a little green whereas I like mine a darker yellow, happy even with a couple of brown spots. When the bananas are green, The Boy has trouble opening them. To get around his frustration based on his wanting to do it himself but not being able to, I came up with a little trick.
The trick is mostly lame, but it's fun enough for me because it involves doing something stupid with a knife. The Boy likes it because it's a tiny show. It amused him the first time I did it and continues to be a favorite.
It's really lame, as I said. I merely hold the banana upright and, using one of the steak knives, I slash the stem off. If the trick goes right, the stem flies across the room, trying to slip under the refrigerator and disappear. Sometimes the trick doesn't go quite as planned and the stem doesn't get cut all the way through. Usually a second slash remedies the situation.
He and I wanted a banana at the same time today, so I tried to get both bananas at once, sort of. I held both bananas in one hand, crossed in my palm. One of the two stems didn't come all the way off, so I slashed at it a second time. The order of this story is somewhat cloudy in my mind, which in the end may be for the best. I remember specifically having the feeling at some point in the process that I'd avoided some amount of catastrophe, perhaps the slicing off of some amount of finger. It feels like a second sight I've developed. Working in kitchens means some amount of cut fingers.
I didn't really think anything of it at the time. The process of the banana topping ends with me cutting an X in the top of the banana leaving four distinct places to peel the banana. As usual, I slashed the banana tops off, cut the X and then went to find the stems. I can't very well leave banana stems laying in the kitchen floor. As I picked up the stems I notice a new banana bit. It was the bottom of one of the bananas.
As I was throwing the stems away I looked at the bananas in my hand, seeing all too clearly the bottom end I'd also cut away. I didn't want to look to closely at the knuckles that sat between the two ends of the banana. I still don't really want to think about. Don't think about it. Don't picture yourself holding a banana in your hand and cutting both ends off at once with one quick slice when you only meant to cut off the top. It really doesn't bear thinking about.
I'm pretty good with a knife. I know my way around one, but I'm also the guy that, due to random circumstances, has fallen in love with the longer than I need chef's knife. My own current knife is a fairly long Wusthof that is in desperate need of a date with a stone.
This story is not about the knife. It's a beautiful knife for all that, and the stories about it would be those of a good partner, always willing when needed to step in and do all those things I require. Again, this isn't about that knife.
This story is about the little serrated knife that came with the butcher block that came with the house. The block was full of serrated knives of all kinds when it came into our possession. I have no use for a serrated chef's knife, but the little steak knives come in handy quite often. Who wouldn't want a decent set of steak knives.
One of the kitcheny knife things I do is a favorite of The Boy. He is a lover of the banana as am I. Momma likes her bananas a little green whereas I like mine a darker yellow, happy even with a couple of brown spots. When the bananas are green, The Boy has trouble opening them. To get around his frustration based on his wanting to do it himself but not being able to, I came up with a little trick.
The trick is mostly lame, but it's fun enough for me because it involves doing something stupid with a knife. The Boy likes it because it's a tiny show. It amused him the first time I did it and continues to be a favorite.
It's really lame, as I said. I merely hold the banana upright and, using one of the steak knives, I slash the stem off. If the trick goes right, the stem flies across the room, trying to slip under the refrigerator and disappear. Sometimes the trick doesn't go quite as planned and the stem doesn't get cut all the way through. Usually a second slash remedies the situation.
He and I wanted a banana at the same time today, so I tried to get both bananas at once, sort of. I held both bananas in one hand, crossed in my palm. One of the two stems didn't come all the way off, so I slashed at it a second time. The order of this story is somewhat cloudy in my mind, which in the end may be for the best. I remember specifically having the feeling at some point in the process that I'd avoided some amount of catastrophe, perhaps the slicing off of some amount of finger. It feels like a second sight I've developed. Working in kitchens means some amount of cut fingers.
I didn't really think anything of it at the time. The process of the banana topping ends with me cutting an X in the top of the banana leaving four distinct places to peel the banana. As usual, I slashed the banana tops off, cut the X and then went to find the stems. I can't very well leave banana stems laying in the kitchen floor. As I picked up the stems I notice a new banana bit. It was the bottom of one of the bananas.
As I was throwing the stems away I looked at the bananas in my hand, seeing all too clearly the bottom end I'd also cut away. I didn't want to look to closely at the knuckles that sat between the two ends of the banana. I still don't really want to think about. Don't think about it. Don't picture yourself holding a banana in your hand and cutting both ends off at once with one quick slice when you only meant to cut off the top. It really doesn't bear thinking about.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
sandwiches
Thanks to Zenari for this one, but I'm afraid that at the bottom we are led a little astray. My mortal enemy is in fact not the classic peanut butter and jelly. I do enjoy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, often a few times a week. Big Brother prefers a more substantial sandwich in general, while The Boy would eat pb&j everyday and often does. Peanut butter and honey is also a lovely sandwich, and for extra fun, get out the pan and some butter and toast your pb&j.
| You Are a Club Sandwich |
 You are have a big personality. It's hard for anyone to ignore you! You dream big. You think big. And you eat big. Some people consider you high maintenance, but you just know what you want... and when you want it. Your best friend: The Tuna Fish Sandwich Your mortal enemy: The Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich |
jam on yo
This video has been sitting in a tab in my browser window next to the blogger tab for too many days now. I've actually played it a few times since finding it recently. It's Dinosaur Jr. doing Just Like Heaven, one of the few Cure songs that I really like. Actually, I've never been a huge Cure fan, but recently, because of a commercial that absolutely ruins a Cure song I sat with the YouTube and listened to a few songs, surprised that I actually knew so many more of their songs than I thought.
The sound quality, as is to be expected from live footage, is not the greatest, but it is pretty good. And any time you get to listen to Dinosaur Jr. you should consider yourself lucky. And who else could take another band's song and make it that much better?
Update: As Hardcore Girl points out, Dinosaur Jr. are back together. They've also released a new album and are streaming it on their Myspace page.
So without further ado, I give you . . .
The sound quality, as is to be expected from live footage, is not the greatest, but it is pretty good. And any time you get to listen to Dinosaur Jr. you should consider yourself lucky. And who else could take another band's song and make it that much better?
Update: As Hardcore Girl points out, Dinosaur Jr. are back together. They've also released a new album and are streaming it on their Myspace page.
So without further ado, I give you . . .
the car
Momma and I are the proud owners of a lovely Buick POS, also known as a Skylark. It's not the car we actually use, in fact it's not been driven in a number of years. It was the first car that we bought together, and truth be told, we'd just as soon not have this car sitting around anymore. That will likely change soon.
I'll give you a little background on the car before I go into my gripe. Some years ago, as Momma was leaving the house, she experienced one of the delights of automobile failure. One of the pistons broke inside the engine rendering the car immediately fucked. Anyone familiar with the internal combustion engine knows exactly what this means. Anyone else can well imagine.
We had the car towed, on the advice of Momma's grandfather, to the house we now live in. At the time Momma's grandparents lived here. Her grandfather was our mechanic, though this repair was a bit more than he could handle. With some small amount of help from me, he raised the car up, removed the engine and transmission from the rest of the car, and then took the engine block off. The plan was a stop gap measure intended to make the car drivable again. He took the block to a machine shop, and then the mists of time took over.
Fast forward a couple of years. Grandfather was expecting to get the work done cheaply, and we had long ago replaced the car with the Accord we currently drive. Grandfather was in no hurry to get the engine block back, especially when he learned that the man who was going to do the work had had a nasty fall off of a ladder. Another year or so passes, and grandfather learns that the man has died. The man's son, in taking over the shop, got rid of all sorts of things that he assumed were trash. One of those things was our engine block.
So now we are faced with the prospect of having every bit of the car except the block. It's sort of a necessary component if you want a car with an engine and the ability to be driven. Grandfather, still in no hurry, has decided he will try to locate an engine block. He has planned this whole time to get the car running again, and while Momma and I often feel we'd prefer to be rid of it, we also know that having that second car, even if it is a Skylark, would be beneficial for the family.
Fast forward yet again to yesterday. While Momma was at work, the boys and I went to the cove to play and hang out with some of Momma's derby sisters and their children. We were even lucky enough to find some homeschool friends who oddly enough know a lot of the same people that the derby girls do. I've mentioned the size of my town before, and it was neat to see that again yesterday. We all had fun, even if I did get my first sunburn of the season. It's not a bad burn, but it does show up on me in the usual farmer tan, neck up and arms down. Without a shirt on I still appear almost to be wearing a shirt.
We returned home from a lovely day next to the river to find that a codes enforcement officer has been by and left a lovely orange sticker on the POS windshield. My Buick is obviously either abandoned or inoperable, and that is against the city code. I won't mention the fact that within a mile of my house in any direction one can find ten to twenty similar cars. I won't mention that the Buick is behind the house, nearly invisible to most passersby, unlike those other cars, often found in people's front yards.
So what's the difference between my abandoned or inoperable vehicle and the others? Apparently the others are not owned by people who have cunts for neighbors. The report on my car was made anonymously, so even if I asked I would not be able to learn which cunt neighbor called. I have an idea who it was. I have two neighbors that could actually be bothered by the car, and only one of them walks down his driveway scowling in my direction. His lawn is pristine where mine is a little tall, and I think maybe he called about the car because there isn't dick he can do about the grass. The other neighbor is an understanding sort who would actually approach me with problems.
The other option in people who might have called could be the people building the condos down the street. If it were them, then I'd like to call somebody to disallow them from cluttering up my little neighborhood with their condos. We don't have the streets or the infrastructure to support that type of sudden growth, especially when you factor in the two other developments within less than a mile of this one. I will not be happy with the increased traffic on my narrow street nor will my neighbors or any of our children. We already have enough assholes mistreating our street, especially the unmarked police car that regularly drives about fifty miles per hour between the stop signs, a distance of less than a quarter mile.
I wonder what it would have taken for the person who called the law on me to have actually approached me. He could easily have walked over and asked me about the car. I could have explained the circumstances and could have hoped for a little understanding. I didn't get that at all. Instead I have six days now to figure out how to dispose of a car that, while I don't especially want it, I certainly don't want a city tow truck showing up, towing it off and trying then to charge me for the privilege.
Yes, the car could be considered a bit of an eyesore. The front end is on jack stands and the tires are off. Of course the tires are off as the axles are attached to the transmission which is in the garage. The car is behind the house in the driveway, so it isn't one of those cars that I have to mow right up close to and still miss the grass growing underneath, nor is it home to varmints of any kind. The car, as I've mentioned, is nearly invisible to most people passing in the street.
I'll give you a little background on the car before I go into my gripe. Some years ago, as Momma was leaving the house, she experienced one of the delights of automobile failure. One of the pistons broke inside the engine rendering the car immediately fucked. Anyone familiar with the internal combustion engine knows exactly what this means. Anyone else can well imagine.
We had the car towed, on the advice of Momma's grandfather, to the house we now live in. At the time Momma's grandparents lived here. Her grandfather was our mechanic, though this repair was a bit more than he could handle. With some small amount of help from me, he raised the car up, removed the engine and transmission from the rest of the car, and then took the engine block off. The plan was a stop gap measure intended to make the car drivable again. He took the block to a machine shop, and then the mists of time took over.
Fast forward a couple of years. Grandfather was expecting to get the work done cheaply, and we had long ago replaced the car with the Accord we currently drive. Grandfather was in no hurry to get the engine block back, especially when he learned that the man who was going to do the work had had a nasty fall off of a ladder. Another year or so passes, and grandfather learns that the man has died. The man's son, in taking over the shop, got rid of all sorts of things that he assumed were trash. One of those things was our engine block.
So now we are faced with the prospect of having every bit of the car except the block. It's sort of a necessary component if you want a car with an engine and the ability to be driven. Grandfather, still in no hurry, has decided he will try to locate an engine block. He has planned this whole time to get the car running again, and while Momma and I often feel we'd prefer to be rid of it, we also know that having that second car, even if it is a Skylark, would be beneficial for the family.
Fast forward yet again to yesterday. While Momma was at work, the boys and I went to the cove to play and hang out with some of Momma's derby sisters and their children. We were even lucky enough to find some homeschool friends who oddly enough know a lot of the same people that the derby girls do. I've mentioned the size of my town before, and it was neat to see that again yesterday. We all had fun, even if I did get my first sunburn of the season. It's not a bad burn, but it does show up on me in the usual farmer tan, neck up and arms down. Without a shirt on I still appear almost to be wearing a shirt.
We returned home from a lovely day next to the river to find that a codes enforcement officer has been by and left a lovely orange sticker on the POS windshield. My Buick is obviously either abandoned or inoperable, and that is against the city code. I won't mention the fact that within a mile of my house in any direction one can find ten to twenty similar cars. I won't mention that the Buick is behind the house, nearly invisible to most passersby, unlike those other cars, often found in people's front yards.
So what's the difference between my abandoned or inoperable vehicle and the others? Apparently the others are not owned by people who have cunts for neighbors. The report on my car was made anonymously, so even if I asked I would not be able to learn which cunt neighbor called. I have an idea who it was. I have two neighbors that could actually be bothered by the car, and only one of them walks down his driveway scowling in my direction. His lawn is pristine where mine is a little tall, and I think maybe he called about the car because there isn't dick he can do about the grass. The other neighbor is an understanding sort who would actually approach me with problems.
The other option in people who might have called could be the people building the condos down the street. If it were them, then I'd like to call somebody to disallow them from cluttering up my little neighborhood with their condos. We don't have the streets or the infrastructure to support that type of sudden growth, especially when you factor in the two other developments within less than a mile of this one. I will not be happy with the increased traffic on my narrow street nor will my neighbors or any of our children. We already have enough assholes mistreating our street, especially the unmarked police car that regularly drives about fifty miles per hour between the stop signs, a distance of less than a quarter mile.
I wonder what it would have taken for the person who called the law on me to have actually approached me. He could easily have walked over and asked me about the car. I could have explained the circumstances and could have hoped for a little understanding. I didn't get that at all. Instead I have six days now to figure out how to dispose of a car that, while I don't especially want it, I certainly don't want a city tow truck showing up, towing it off and trying then to charge me for the privilege.
Yes, the car could be considered a bit of an eyesore. The front end is on jack stands and the tires are off. Of course the tires are off as the axles are attached to the transmission which is in the garage. The car is behind the house in the driveway, so it isn't one of those cars that I have to mow right up close to and still miss the grass growing underneath, nor is it home to varmints of any kind. The car, as I've mentioned, is nearly invisible to most people passing in the street.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
gettin' our corn from a jar
At one time, moonshine was the best way to get your corn to market. Nowadays it's a little more than that. To some it's a way of life akin to part of their heritage, for others it's cheaper than the bonded whiskey and to some it's a little something daring in their life. That's certainly simplifying the matter as there's certainly more to it than that, but my blog, my rules, my marginalizations.
I've never purchased corn liquor, for what it's worth, but that doesn't lessen my involvement. I've enjoyed, if that word can be used concerning the topic, my share of it, and I have owned more than one jar of it in my years in my little town. For all that I'd heard of it over the years, I never touched my first drop before moving to this town. I could now easily find my share should I want to.
One difference between moonshine and other liquors is the communal nature of drinking it. Bring a bottle of tequila out, and you also bring out shot glasses and perhaps even the training wheels of lemon or lime and salt. A bottle of regular whiskey is either held close or often made into drinks. Rum is certainly mixed, and truth be told makes a hell of a lot better ice pick than vodka. Vodka? Well, the less said about that bastard drink the better. Honestly, when your pinnacle of success is no flavor at all, well why not just drink water and act stupid so people will think you're drunk?
The communal nature comes in a quart jar. You don't pour shots of moonshine, and you don't make drinks with it. You screw the top off, drink without sniffing, and you pass it down the line. You laugh at your close friend as the burn slides a little sideways somewhere in his throat. He passes the jar on, and it comes back around. Someone in the circle has a twelve pack of beer at his feet, because, as he says, "I'll drink it before it gets too got-damn warm," and he never does take you up on your offer to stick it somewhere cold. Whoever's house you're at has a refrigerator somewhat full of beer, and there might even be an ice chest with beers floating in an ice slurry.
At some point, you know the jar is coming back around. You might be ready for it, but it's also possible that you wish to sit out a round. You probably won't, and that's okay too. There's nothing like grown ups shaming each other into drinking more liquor.
Moonshine doesn't have to be illegal. If you want to set up a professional operation, and if you are willing to pay the appropriate taxes and pass the state health inspection, you could conceivably legally distill corn liquor. But who the hell does that? It's much more fun to sell it on the sly, avoiding the revenuers and the g-men with a little artistry and subterfuge. That plays right into the mystique as well, though I imagine most moonshiners would have you believe otherwise. They may even like to see themselves as circumventing unjust laws, and once upon a time, you might have been able to believe it. I'm sure there's a little Robin Hood trying to fight his way out of all moonshine distillers.
Part of the mystique to me is that it's just something so sublimely southern, the corn liquor. I hadn't actually planned to write about it, but reading at Rosie's blog about some guy named Popcorn Sutton just put me in the mood for a sip. I dragged the jar out, and Momma and I passed it around a couple times. It's back under the sink where it belongs for now, but it'll come back out soon enough.
Sometimes you just need a beer, and sometimes you need the beer to be chasing something down your gullet. Maybe I ought to know more about ol' Popcorn, but really, I don't care. I don't know if I've ever had any of his stuff, and I wouldn't be surprised if I had. What I'd be likely to run across currently is more likely to come from Sullivan County than from Cocke County, but I've never really bothered with where it comes from. So long as I can still see when I'm done, I'm pretty much fine with it regardless of it's county of origination.
Monday, April 30, 2007
capital punishment
No, not that kind, the kind that happens here, in my little town, in just under a month. The lovely skaters from our state capital will descend on our fair burg to take their licks from the Hard Knox Rollergirls.
So, what are you doing May 27? If you have any sense you will find some way to get here. If you love the beautiful sport of girl on girl action, the kind that sits atop a pair of skates and throws itself in your face, then you will find some way to get here.
Okay, I know I have a total of three readers, and one of them already lives here, but still, our league could use the support, and you will never have anything better to do than watch roller derby. So find some way to get here.
someone else's idea
Perhaps today will be the multi post day, the kind of day where I rake ideas into a pile, stealing bits here and there from bloggers I read making myself post fodder out of it all. It's so much easier than thinking original thinks, and as lazy is sort of a life goal of mine, I feel I'm pretty good at it.
Cocking a Snook Too has a lovely story about her discovery of Calvin and Hobbes. If you aren't already one of her readers, then I have nothing but pity for the time you waste reading lesser blogs. If you are a reader, then you are already aware of her lovely style.
For the great unwashed masses I give you a favorite Calvin and Hobbes strip. Calvin and Hobbes is the creation of cartoonist Bill Watterson and is one of the most enjoyable comics I've ever read.
I apologize for the small size of this comic, but you didn't buy the bifocals for nothing, so lean in close and back up quick after reading it so you don't laugh spittle onto your screen.
Cocking a Snook Too has a lovely story about her discovery of Calvin and Hobbes. If you aren't already one of her readers, then I have nothing but pity for the time you waste reading lesser blogs. If you are a reader, then you are already aware of her lovely style.
For the great unwashed masses I give you a favorite Calvin and Hobbes strip. Calvin and Hobbes is the creation of cartoonist Bill Watterson and is one of the most enjoyable comics I've ever read.
I apologize for the small size of this comic, but you didn't buy the bifocals for nothing, so lean in close and back up quick after reading it so you don't laugh spittle onto your screen.
everywhere a sign
School of Thought has a post concerning their recent travels through my birth state of Georgia. I currently feel more at home in my current little town, but there is still a part of me that's hanging on to Georgia and specifically Atlanta.
SoT discusses the religious signage, billboards that I imagine many of us are familiar with. They offer us a lovely picture of the typical blue eyed, white Jesus assuring us that he does indeed listen. According to this sign that I found, god does listen, but not perhaps to you. He does love to rock though.
And to finish it all off, I found you a short song to give you a taste of Slayer. I'm not a fan of the band, mostly because I prefer my music with either a horn section and a little '60's Jamaican vibe or with a bit of twang on the guitar and a taste of heartbreak, tears in beers if you will.
SoT discusses the religious signage, billboards that I imagine many of us are familiar with. They offer us a lovely picture of the typical blue eyed, white Jesus assuring us that he does indeed listen. According to this sign that I found, god does listen, but not perhaps to you. He does love to rock though.
And to finish it all off, I found you a short song to give you a taste of Slayer. I'm not a fan of the band, mostly because I prefer my music with either a horn section and a little '60's Jamaican vibe or with a bit of twang on the guitar and a taste of heartbreak, tears in beers if you will.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
more on a theme
Recently I wrote a long post that, while using soccer as my base, was mostly about coaching in general, or so I intended. To that post I would like to add a soccer specific update.
Many are the times on the soccer field that feet meet in a clash, fighting for the ball. Many are the times I wish I'd better heeded the following advice. This is something that all soccer coaches should warn their teams of from the very first meeting as well as at any practice where this is remembered.
While at practice recently I and the coach teamed up against the team. The drill was to help the kids learn about position and to stay in position relative to your teammates. Any coach of youth soccer knows well how the kids can easily become excited by the game and forget so many of the lessons that we try to teach. Seen from one direction this is further proof that youth sports is more about building skill than in winning games. From another direction this is further proof that youth sports should often focus on the fact that we are dealing with children. Their abilities, especially when considering also their age, must always be taken into account.
This post isn't really about that, but far be it from me to pass up a chance to preach the same message yet again. This post though is rather soccer specific as I have just said.
Often in those clash of feet we find that we are kicking or are kicked in and around the feet. This is the reason for shin guards and the reason that many youth soccer teams and organizations absolutely require that the children wear shin guards. Tonight however we are looking even lower, at the feet themselves.
From day one it is imperative that the children consider foot care, specifically their toe nails. At the practice I mentioned above, while trying to keep the ball away from a very small child, I took a shot right in the end of my big toe. The child, after the collision, took the ball and ran while I, several years his senior, a few feet taller and a number of pounds heavier, not to mention the number of years I've played being much greater than his age, was stopped momentarily. My toe nails are too long, and the lightest impact, so light in fact that the child took no notice, was enough to cause me some small amount of pain as well as allow him to take the ball and proceed quite without me.
One of the most overlooked yet most important things we can teach our teams is foot care. Keep your toe nails trimmed. I've yet to actually face a real injury due to this, but many times I've been stopped, even if for only a moment, because I had not heeded this simple advice.
So in the end, the true moral, along with the myriad skills we try to teach, sometimes we forget the simple lessons. Not to liquefy the dead horse, but if you have children that play soccer or are a coach of children's soccer, remember the toe nails, and help the kids keep them trimmed. They may not remember to thank you, but at least you'll save them some small amount of pain, hopefully.
Many are the times on the soccer field that feet meet in a clash, fighting for the ball. Many are the times I wish I'd better heeded the following advice. This is something that all soccer coaches should warn their teams of from the very first meeting as well as at any practice where this is remembered.
While at practice recently I and the coach teamed up against the team. The drill was to help the kids learn about position and to stay in position relative to your teammates. Any coach of youth soccer knows well how the kids can easily become excited by the game and forget so many of the lessons that we try to teach. Seen from one direction this is further proof that youth sports is more about building skill than in winning games. From another direction this is further proof that youth sports should often focus on the fact that we are dealing with children. Their abilities, especially when considering also their age, must always be taken into account.
This post isn't really about that, but far be it from me to pass up a chance to preach the same message yet again. This post though is rather soccer specific as I have just said.
Often in those clash of feet we find that we are kicking or are kicked in and around the feet. This is the reason for shin guards and the reason that many youth soccer teams and organizations absolutely require that the children wear shin guards. Tonight however we are looking even lower, at the feet themselves.
From day one it is imperative that the children consider foot care, specifically their toe nails. At the practice I mentioned above, while trying to keep the ball away from a very small child, I took a shot right in the end of my big toe. The child, after the collision, took the ball and ran while I, several years his senior, a few feet taller and a number of pounds heavier, not to mention the number of years I've played being much greater than his age, was stopped momentarily. My toe nails are too long, and the lightest impact, so light in fact that the child took no notice, was enough to cause me some small amount of pain as well as allow him to take the ball and proceed quite without me.
One of the most overlooked yet most important things we can teach our teams is foot care. Keep your toe nails trimmed. I've yet to actually face a real injury due to this, but many times I've been stopped, even if for only a moment, because I had not heeded this simple advice.
So in the end, the true moral, along with the myriad skills we try to teach, sometimes we forget the simple lessons. Not to liquefy the dead horse, but if you have children that play soccer or are a coach of children's soccer, remember the toe nails, and help the kids keep them trimmed. They may not remember to thank you, but at least you'll save them some small amount of pain, hopefully.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
oogie
Today is a fairly gross day. I still haven't fixed the shower, and this time not entirely out of laziness. It seems as if it's just a bit above my ability, and I'm a little scared to mess with it for fear of making the situation worse.
Baths just take too long. I've enjoyed taking baths lately, but it isn't my preferred method of cleansing myself. I want a nice hot shower, stand under the water and feel nice for a minute, then soap my ass good and get the hell out. That's a simple request right?
I'm in dire need of a bath, though not as dire as if I worked and got sweaty. I'm developing a swampy down-there area, and my armpits have a certain homemade hamburger quality in the arena of scent. My hair is icky enough so that when I push my sunglasses up on my head they come back down a little smudgy.
I could wait till after derby practice tomorrow when I know Momma will need a bath because it's always nice to hop in with her, but I'm tired of feeling so damn . . . well, icky.
Another factor that has come into play is the clothes dryer. Did I tell you about it? Did I tell you how it mostly works except for the lack of hot air? One can't very easily dry clothes with just the spinning and the blowing, though spinning and blowing has a kind of dirty but fun sound to it. I have clean pants, but the britches what goes under the pants I may not have any of clean, and all my favorite tshirts are also not so much clean.
Don't get me started on the britches. It's past time to trash them all and replace them, my favorite pair having passed threadbare long ago and entered the world of split in the back just like I'm a little split in the back. The rest are so worn that I could probably read a newspaper through them. I'm already wearing yesterday's socks, and if I take a bath now, I'll have to sniff through the laundry to find the next least dirty pair of socks. Nothing makes you feel more like a man than putting on dirty socks directly out of the bath. And the only britches I have clean are the annoying one with snaps in the front that could be sexy on another man, access port and all, but they always come undone when I don't want them to. That's where the lazy comes in, hating so having to snap underpants.
So what's a gal to do? I'll probably just break down and start the bath soon after posting this, then I can sit in the steam and wonder why in the hell I just offered the world a story about worn out underwear, overly musky crotch and the like. It's all for you that I do this, humbling myself before the gods of the blogs. They have no more mercy than the Balrog, but at least they won't drag me into the pit.
Baths just take too long. I've enjoyed taking baths lately, but it isn't my preferred method of cleansing myself. I want a nice hot shower, stand under the water and feel nice for a minute, then soap my ass good and get the hell out. That's a simple request right?
I'm in dire need of a bath, though not as dire as if I worked and got sweaty. I'm developing a swampy down-there area, and my armpits have a certain homemade hamburger quality in the arena of scent. My hair is icky enough so that when I push my sunglasses up on my head they come back down a little smudgy.
I could wait till after derby practice tomorrow when I know Momma will need a bath because it's always nice to hop in with her, but I'm tired of feeling so damn . . . well, icky.
Another factor that has come into play is the clothes dryer. Did I tell you about it? Did I tell you how it mostly works except for the lack of hot air? One can't very easily dry clothes with just the spinning and the blowing, though spinning and blowing has a kind of dirty but fun sound to it. I have clean pants, but the britches what goes under the pants I may not have any of clean, and all my favorite tshirts are also not so much clean.
Don't get me started on the britches. It's past time to trash them all and replace them, my favorite pair having passed threadbare long ago and entered the world of split in the back just like I'm a little split in the back. The rest are so worn that I could probably read a newspaper through them. I'm already wearing yesterday's socks, and if I take a bath now, I'll have to sniff through the laundry to find the next least dirty pair of socks. Nothing makes you feel more like a man than putting on dirty socks directly out of the bath. And the only britches I have clean are the annoying one with snaps in the front that could be sexy on another man, access port and all, but they always come undone when I don't want them to. That's where the lazy comes in, hating so having to snap underpants.
So what's a gal to do? I'll probably just break down and start the bath soon after posting this, then I can sit in the steam and wonder why in the hell I just offered the world a story about worn out underwear, overly musky crotch and the like. It's all for you that I do this, humbling myself before the gods of the blogs. They have no more mercy than the Balrog, but at least they won't drag me into the pit.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
haircut
I haven't had a real haircut, or what passes for one for me since sometime in the fall. That was when I last took the clippers to it and went as close to the skin as one can get without whipping out the razor. I've never been that dedicated to my shaved head, though I did one time shave it clean. It was a disaster and took much longer than it should. Also I had a bunch of red bumps on my head that made me look slightly diseased.
I've never been especially happy with my hair. Years ago I'd have jumped at the chance to grow it long. My father was always quick to call a haircut night any time any of the brothers started to get even a little shaggy. I grew up looking like a baptist missionary for the most part.
Eventually, as I started to grow it out, I decided I no longer wanted to. I have fairly fine hair that doesn't react well to length. I exhibit hat head quite a bit more than is right on top of being a fairly low maintenance type person (lazy) in terms of personal appearance.
Lately though, as I've put off the springtime head shave, I've had thoughts of just letting it grow a bit. This is fine with me. It'll be nice to have a bit of change, and Momma seems to like it. The problem is the complete lack of sense my hair has. Hair doesn't naturally grow in any recognizable or desirable style usually. As the hair over my ears and on the back of my head keeps getting longer, the hair on top and toward the front doesn't seem to be keeping up.
I'm quite sure that the hair is starting to thin and creep back a bit. Momma, bless her heart, insisted recently that she's never noticed this, but I can't help but feel she's just being nice.
While in Idiotapolis recently I begged a quick trim around the ears from a friend. She's a skater on Momma's team and an all 'round lovely person. She didn't do a perfect job, but I can't complain at all. It wasn't like I made an appointment, and I knew going in she had a beer or two in her. Also the barber/stylist chair was actually a cooler, and I'm pretty sure we had to pause the haircut once so someone else could get a beer.
Anyway, I'm finally, after many, many years, thinking thoughts of getting a real haircut. I really only need the sides and back trimmed a bit, and I'm sure the old guy down the street at the barber shop can do it right. I so prefer just stripping down to my britches and kicking the bathmat into the hall. I can sit on the toilet and lean far forward so that all the hair falls into a nice little pile between my feet. Quick and easy, low mess and easily cleaned. The thing is, I just don't miss being bald yet. I'm sure I will at some point, but we'll see when it comes.
I need to do it soon. With the front and sides as short as they are, the back, which currently has a certain duck's ass quality will soon be all out mullet. The da might not be too bad, and may even fit in with my jeans and tshirt kind of look. I really don't want a mullet. I'd have to kick my ass at least once a day. The only thing that could be worse would be a rat tail. And while you scoff at the rat tail, possibly remembering your own so long ago, believe me when I say that some people are still wearing them.
I think I'll leave you with that thought, that some people still wear rat tails. I offer you one of the most boring posts I've ever written, and sadly, I won't give too much thought to editing. The boys are watching Naruto behind me, and if that little orange clad son of a bitch shouts like a baby girl one more time I'm going down the street to find someone to slap.
I've never been especially happy with my hair. Years ago I'd have jumped at the chance to grow it long. My father was always quick to call a haircut night any time any of the brothers started to get even a little shaggy. I grew up looking like a baptist missionary for the most part.
Eventually, as I started to grow it out, I decided I no longer wanted to. I have fairly fine hair that doesn't react well to length. I exhibit hat head quite a bit more than is right on top of being a fairly low maintenance type person (lazy) in terms of personal appearance.
Lately though, as I've put off the springtime head shave, I've had thoughts of just letting it grow a bit. This is fine with me. It'll be nice to have a bit of change, and Momma seems to like it. The problem is the complete lack of sense my hair has. Hair doesn't naturally grow in any recognizable or desirable style usually. As the hair over my ears and on the back of my head keeps getting longer, the hair on top and toward the front doesn't seem to be keeping up.
I'm quite sure that the hair is starting to thin and creep back a bit. Momma, bless her heart, insisted recently that she's never noticed this, but I can't help but feel she's just being nice.
While in Idiotapolis recently I begged a quick trim around the ears from a friend. She's a skater on Momma's team and an all 'round lovely person. She didn't do a perfect job, but I can't complain at all. It wasn't like I made an appointment, and I knew going in she had a beer or two in her. Also the barber/stylist chair was actually a cooler, and I'm pretty sure we had to pause the haircut once so someone else could get a beer.
Anyway, I'm finally, after many, many years, thinking thoughts of getting a real haircut. I really only need the sides and back trimmed a bit, and I'm sure the old guy down the street at the barber shop can do it right. I so prefer just stripping down to my britches and kicking the bathmat into the hall. I can sit on the toilet and lean far forward so that all the hair falls into a nice little pile between my feet. Quick and easy, low mess and easily cleaned. The thing is, I just don't miss being bald yet. I'm sure I will at some point, but we'll see when it comes.
I need to do it soon. With the front and sides as short as they are, the back, which currently has a certain duck's ass quality will soon be all out mullet. The da might not be too bad, and may even fit in with my jeans and tshirt kind of look. I really don't want a mullet. I'd have to kick my ass at least once a day. The only thing that could be worse would be a rat tail. And while you scoff at the rat tail, possibly remembering your own so long ago, believe me when I say that some people are still wearing them.
I think I'll leave you with that thought, that some people still wear rat tails. I offer you one of the most boring posts I've ever written, and sadly, I won't give too much thought to editing. The boys are watching Naruto behind me, and if that little orange clad son of a bitch shouts like a baby girl one more time I'm going down the street to find someone to slap.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
win-loss
Not to liquefy a dead horse, assuming you have read this same sort of thing at Shannon's or Chris's place, but I'm thinking about the difference between children in sports being driven to win and children in sports being treated as children.
I hadn't planned to write about this aside from a largish stack of comments combined between their blogs, but as I sit here now watching soccer, it's on my mind again. The game is Chelsea versus Liverpool, part of the UEFA cup, so it features some of the very top teams in the world. These are men who have devoted a great portion of their lives to the game, and they would not be here themselves if they weren't some of the best and most skilled players in the world.
I'd love to see the Americas drawing the world's greatest, or at least our share, but that's another post for another day. We won't go into my Americas (North, Central and South) versus Europe debate just now.
Any U8 soccer team can have a big enough kid that powers through the other kids and whangs the ball into the net. I've coached kids that were like that, and I very easily could have had the entire team feed this child the ball, and I could have had a number of undefeated seasons if I were willing to play this way.
My own son has some amount of skill, and if he were currently more interested in soccer, and if he worked more at home on his skills, I have no doubt he could be a top player in our local AYSO region. That isn't what he wants right now. While he loves soccer, he also loves meeting new friends and playing with them, be it soccer or tag or even just a couple dashes around the playground. Sometimes he'd rather hold an interesting leaf and twirl it in his fingers.
Watching top level soccer however points at skills that are necessary to be good at the game, skills that must be learned young, before the drive to win becomes to strong. If I rely on my ringer, I will win games, but at what expense?
Skills needed are vast, and many children need years of play time to start to see the variety of situations that arise in the game.
-passing-soccer is often primarily a game of passing. A good team is always aware of each other in terms of distance and angles. Many teams seem to play the game and pass in constantly moving triangles. A great run at the goal often involves exact passes, not to a player but to where that player and the ball will meet. Children don't often think to pass and are too young to keep their heads up and look for the pass or to put themselves in position in relation to the ball holder in order to be open for a pass in a useful place on the field.
-aggressiveness-a problem I've often faced is wanting my teams to be the right kind of aggressive. I don't want to teach meanness or cheating. I want my kids to learn to face the opponent, to be able to approach someone and not be afraid to be hurt or embarassed. This is also apparent in goalkeeping at the age. A goalkeeper has to be able to throw themselves into danger, to leap at the ball, to pounce at a moments notice into a frightening situation. Young kids fear being kicked or run into or over. They don't naturally want to go toe to toe with each other to attempt to win the ball. Youth and childhood is the time to learn that most little hurts of soccer are just that, little hurts you forget a moment later, though at the same time, they need to know that their safety is more important than anything else. They need to know that if they are hurt they will be cared for.
-ball handling-soccer is also a game of touches on the ball. Whether that touch is a pass or a fast dribble, kids need to learn some things that seem completely unnatural at first. To kick the ball with the side of the foot may be the single most difficult thing to teach kids, but it is completely neccesary for ball control. Toe kicks not only hurt your toes, but they provide no real control on passes and shots. Passing and shooting doesn't just mean side of foot kicks either. There may be a time when a quick jab with the outside of the foot is the right response, while many times the need is to get the whole of the foot under the ball. Does the situation call for a blazing shot or a wide arc over the heads of most of the other players or maybe a chip up into the air to a teammate's head?
-dribbling-dribbling falls under ball handling, but it is more about personal control. Dribbling involves so many more ways to touch the ball, tricks that look fun when watching but are again necessary to be a successful player. You have to be able to make hard fast runs, head up, confident in your ability to keep the ball at your feet, confident that no other player will be able to tackle the ball away. Dribbling involves all parts of the foot through a range of moves to keep possession and to place yourself and the ball in the best position to benefit your team.
-selflessness-soccer is a sport based on playing where you belong. Some kids are natural shooters. Their dribbling skills are beautiful to watch and they know how to take the shot and when to take the shot. The perfect shot often falls within a momentary window when the lane to the goal is gone often before it's noticed. Often enough that shot opens up for a teammate and selflessness comes in seeing that and being willing for the teammate to get credit for the goal. At the same time, some players belong in the box as the keeper. Some kids live for denying the other team goals. Some kids belong in the back, possibly never to score in their entire soccer career, but a good defense has won plenty of games especially in a sport like soccer where goals are often notoriously difficult to come by. Selflessness is the key to being a good midfielder. The players in the middle are the workhorses of soccer, often keeping up a constant run, end to end, jumping back and forth between defense and offense.
These skills are not learned sitting out while the strong players win games. These skills are learned at a young age by kids who are given fair treatment and equal chances. These skills are bit learned by winning games as children, but they are learned over time when a child's love for a game is nurtured. These skills are learned by kids who have coaches that give their best and strive to get the same from their children. We have to accept that, when our kids are young, maybe picking a flower is the best thing they can think of to do no matter how much we might wish they would have seen the ball that just zipped past them.
I hadn't planned to write about this aside from a largish stack of comments combined between their blogs, but as I sit here now watching soccer, it's on my mind again. The game is Chelsea versus Liverpool, part of the UEFA cup, so it features some of the very top teams in the world. These are men who have devoted a great portion of their lives to the game, and they would not be here themselves if they weren't some of the best and most skilled players in the world.
I'd love to see the Americas drawing the world's greatest, or at least our share, but that's another post for another day. We won't go into my Americas (North, Central and South) versus Europe debate just now.
Any U8 soccer team can have a big enough kid that powers through the other kids and whangs the ball into the net. I've coached kids that were like that, and I very easily could have had the entire team feed this child the ball, and I could have had a number of undefeated seasons if I were willing to play this way.
My own son has some amount of skill, and if he were currently more interested in soccer, and if he worked more at home on his skills, I have no doubt he could be a top player in our local AYSO region. That isn't what he wants right now. While he loves soccer, he also loves meeting new friends and playing with them, be it soccer or tag or even just a couple dashes around the playground. Sometimes he'd rather hold an interesting leaf and twirl it in his fingers.
Watching top level soccer however points at skills that are necessary to be good at the game, skills that must be learned young, before the drive to win becomes to strong. If I rely on my ringer, I will win games, but at what expense?
Skills needed are vast, and many children need years of play time to start to see the variety of situations that arise in the game.
-passing-soccer is often primarily a game of passing. A good team is always aware of each other in terms of distance and angles. Many teams seem to play the game and pass in constantly moving triangles. A great run at the goal often involves exact passes, not to a player but to where that player and the ball will meet. Children don't often think to pass and are too young to keep their heads up and look for the pass or to put themselves in position in relation to the ball holder in order to be open for a pass in a useful place on the field.
-aggressiveness-a problem I've often faced is wanting my teams to be the right kind of aggressive. I don't want to teach meanness or cheating. I want my kids to learn to face the opponent, to be able to approach someone and not be afraid to be hurt or embarassed. This is also apparent in goalkeeping at the age. A goalkeeper has to be able to throw themselves into danger, to leap at the ball, to pounce at a moments notice into a frightening situation. Young kids fear being kicked or run into or over. They don't naturally want to go toe to toe with each other to attempt to win the ball. Youth and childhood is the time to learn that most little hurts of soccer are just that, little hurts you forget a moment later, though at the same time, they need to know that their safety is more important than anything else. They need to know that if they are hurt they will be cared for.
-ball handling-soccer is also a game of touches on the ball. Whether that touch is a pass or a fast dribble, kids need to learn some things that seem completely unnatural at first. To kick the ball with the side of the foot may be the single most difficult thing to teach kids, but it is completely neccesary for ball control. Toe kicks not only hurt your toes, but they provide no real control on passes and shots. Passing and shooting doesn't just mean side of foot kicks either. There may be a time when a quick jab with the outside of the foot is the right response, while many times the need is to get the whole of the foot under the ball. Does the situation call for a blazing shot or a wide arc over the heads of most of the other players or maybe a chip up into the air to a teammate's head?
-dribbling-dribbling falls under ball handling, but it is more about personal control. Dribbling involves so many more ways to touch the ball, tricks that look fun when watching but are again necessary to be a successful player. You have to be able to make hard fast runs, head up, confident in your ability to keep the ball at your feet, confident that no other player will be able to tackle the ball away. Dribbling involves all parts of the foot through a range of moves to keep possession and to place yourself and the ball in the best position to benefit your team.
-selflessness-soccer is a sport based on playing where you belong. Some kids are natural shooters. Their dribbling skills are beautiful to watch and they know how to take the shot and when to take the shot. The perfect shot often falls within a momentary window when the lane to the goal is gone often before it's noticed. Often enough that shot opens up for a teammate and selflessness comes in seeing that and being willing for the teammate to get credit for the goal. At the same time, some players belong in the box as the keeper. Some kids live for denying the other team goals. Some kids belong in the back, possibly never to score in their entire soccer career, but a good defense has won plenty of games especially in a sport like soccer where goals are often notoriously difficult to come by. Selflessness is the key to being a good midfielder. The players in the middle are the workhorses of soccer, often keeping up a constant run, end to end, jumping back and forth between defense and offense.
These skills are not learned sitting out while the strong players win games. These skills are learned at a young age by kids who are given fair treatment and equal chances. These skills are bit learned by winning games as children, but they are learned over time when a child's love for a game is nurtured. These skills are learned by kids who have coaches that give their best and strive to get the same from their children. We have to accept that, when our kids are young, maybe picking a flower is the best thing they can think of to do no matter how much we might wish they would have seen the ball that just zipped past them.
modern parenting?
Momma and I were busy in the kitchen slapping a lasagna together. The boys were outside playing, though they were being a little on the quiet side and my peeks out the back door had not revealed them or what they were doing.
I finally had to check on them. I saw Big Brother approaching the garage, though he immediately turned around and tried to sneak away as he heard the screen door.
I wouldn't generally mind them being in the garage, but it's a typical garage full of garage type things in addition to the fact that it's become somewhat of a storage center for more crap than we really want. Because of this, the garage is mostly off limits to them apart from the area where their outdoor/riding toys are.
I turned the corner of the house to find The Boy holding a spray bottle that is not labeled properly. I'm not sure what's in it as it's a remainder from when Momma's grandparents lived here. The smell was similar to WD40, and from the gleam on his hands and the dark spots on his shirt, I new he was pretty well covered in whatever the chemical actually is.
I sent him inside and instructed Big Brother to pick up and put up all the toys they had out. The Boy was soon in a bath, and the toys were put away. Big Brother was brought into the house. I explained to them about the dangers of chemicals on top of the fact that I've told them numerous times about the garage ban.
So, how to make them understand my point? I did a Google image search for chemical burns and was quickly rewarded for my efforts. There were of course the gruesome images, but I wasn't trying to frighten them more than was needed. I found a nice picture of someone's arm, nice and red and puffy skin burned by some sort of acid. After showing them the picture I read to them from the same page about the different types of burns, concentrating mostly on chemical burns.
I hope they've learned a lesson. I love them and want their skin to stay just how it is. And these modern days provide us some great tools for this sort of thing. Go ahead and google the phrase yourself, gather the kids around, and show them a pretty picture of someone's skin dripping off. What better way to educate the young?
I finally had to check on them. I saw Big Brother approaching the garage, though he immediately turned around and tried to sneak away as he heard the screen door.
I wouldn't generally mind them being in the garage, but it's a typical garage full of garage type things in addition to the fact that it's become somewhat of a storage center for more crap than we really want. Because of this, the garage is mostly off limits to them apart from the area where their outdoor/riding toys are.
I turned the corner of the house to find The Boy holding a spray bottle that is not labeled properly. I'm not sure what's in it as it's a remainder from when Momma's grandparents lived here. The smell was similar to WD40, and from the gleam on his hands and the dark spots on his shirt, I new he was pretty well covered in whatever the chemical actually is.
I sent him inside and instructed Big Brother to pick up and put up all the toys they had out. The Boy was soon in a bath, and the toys were put away. Big Brother was brought into the house. I explained to them about the dangers of chemicals on top of the fact that I've told them numerous times about the garage ban.
So, how to make them understand my point? I did a Google image search for chemical burns and was quickly rewarded for my efforts. There were of course the gruesome images, but I wasn't trying to frighten them more than was needed. I found a nice picture of someone's arm, nice and red and puffy skin burned by some sort of acid. After showing them the picture I read to them from the same page about the different types of burns, concentrating mostly on chemical burns.
I hope they've learned a lesson. I love them and want their skin to stay just how it is. And these modern days provide us some great tools for this sort of thing. Go ahead and google the phrase yourself, gather the kids around, and show them a pretty picture of someone's skin dripping off. What better way to educate the young?
Monday, April 23, 2007
'cuz i'm bad
I can't really come up with anything to add. I tried writing something funny about how bad ass we are, but if you can't tell that from looking then my pithy little lines are going to open your eyes.
Honestly, I just feel happy to be a part of the picture. And the brass knuckles you can't really see, yeah, not real brass. I think they are actually part of a belt buckle, and I'm pretty sure the words "for amusement purposes only" were imprinted on the inside.
But don't let your amusement with the words lull you into a false sense of security. I don't need brass knuckles or even steel toes or titanium knees. The hot woman next to me doesn't either. We'll stomp a mudhole in your ass quick as look at you.
friday night
In my continuing efforts to catalog our weekend, I offer you our Friday. Friday was mostly spent rushing about wanting to leave followed by a few hours of driving. We reached the hotel, dropped off our luggage, peed, and set off for downtown.
Most of the league had arrived before we did by a couple of hours. They were already well into supper with a couple of the Naptown girls. We were hungry and knew that crashing that party wasn't doable, and it was nice to have some time to ourselves. Keep in mind that we were completely childless for the weekend, the longest we've ever been apart from the boys.
Downtown Indianapolis, or what we saw of it, probably isn't nearly as confusing as it seemed. We got through 21st Street becoming something else as it bounced off the train tracks. We finally even got downtown to find it lively and crawling with all sorts of people.
I'm not sure what their Friday nights usually look like as this wasn't likely the average. The town was hosting a firefighter convention that raised the population by about 35,000 people. I have no idea how that changed the usual Naptown Friday night, but given the amount of things to do downtown, I'd imagine it's a popular place.
We parked next to the fountain which is next to the World War memorial, a large ancient looking structure that seemed worth a visit had we had the time on this trip. Not sure which direction to walk, we chose to go toward the place from which so many people seemed to be walking.
We hoofed it a couple of blocks and found ourself in a circle area, a fair sized fountain, sitting up on a sort of pedestal made of steps. That's a shitty description for the beautiful area, and it gave me an impression of what I'd expect an old European city to look like, a public space, beautifully built where people were hanging out.
We slipped into Rock Bottom Brewery only to find not a single seat at the bar. We tend to prefer the bar when we're just a couple and didn't want the hassle and time of being dining room customers. We stepped outside to reconsider when Momma spotted the word brewery on another place.
We walked toward that light which turned out to be Alcatraz Brewing. The beer earned a very strong Meh, not good enough to go back, but made by a very well trained corporate brewer. I don't really like chain brew pubs any more than I like most chain restaurants. I'd have been much happier finding the local place with the local brewer.
Alcatraz is where we hung out with the firefighters from New York. I don't quite remember now what got us talking with them. We may have been agreeing about the very noisy gentleman who seemed to think his companions were hearing impaired. Or perhaps he had vision issues that makes one foot seem like twenty. Whatever his problem was, he was one loud and obnoxious son of a bitch, the kind of guy you're glad to see go.
We considered eating at Alcatraz, but our new firefighter friend mentioned another brewpub across the street and a couple doors down. We were willing to walk and check out another place, though we later learned we'd have been happier staying at Alcatraz. I don't even remember the name of the place, but since I'm only going to trash it, that may be for the best.
I don't like corporate sports bars any more than I like corporate brewpubs. I want some soul, some local flavor. I want the bar with employees that love the place they work. I also want my wings to come with the pointy, inedible part removed. I also want my reuben to be a reuben, not some crap laced with what I'm quite certain was horseradish, totally out of place. We couldn't even finish our food, even though we took it to go after eating half. The maid threw it away for us though as we left it sitting cold and ick in the hotel room when we left.
Momma and I were nice enough then to try and fight about where we'd left the car. As it turned out, neither of us was quite right, though once we found the circle again, we were able to retrace our steps back to the car immediately. We apologized to each other for having been buttholes and insisting on our individual rightness. Then we got in the car and did the same thing all over again.
We finally arived back at the hotel. Most of the skaters were asleep, though it was early enough that we suspected someone had to be awake. Someone was, so we went and had a couple of last beers before wandering back to our room.
As an aside, a little message to the people of Indianapolis, it would really help if the people who sold beer knew what the laws were concerning late night beer sales. There's some crazy shit headed law that allows cold beer retail sales only in liquor stores. I don't get it, but I don't live there, so it's no big deal. We did get our beer and a bag of ice, so the law didn't hamper our intent in any way, though the kind lady who sold it to us wasn't quite sure if it was even too late to be selling it.
And so went our day. You can see for yourself how exciting and full of grand fun we are. That's quite fine though as I don't need grand fun. I got two nights in a row to go out childless with Momma, and that's always better than grand fun. Of course we missed the boys, so don't think we were completely heartless, but they got to have grand fun with grand parents, so I'd call it even.
Most of the league had arrived before we did by a couple of hours. They were already well into supper with a couple of the Naptown girls. We were hungry and knew that crashing that party wasn't doable, and it was nice to have some time to ourselves. Keep in mind that we were completely childless for the weekend, the longest we've ever been apart from the boys.
Downtown Indianapolis, or what we saw of it, probably isn't nearly as confusing as it seemed. We got through 21st Street becoming something else as it bounced off the train tracks. We finally even got downtown to find it lively and crawling with all sorts of people.
I'm not sure what their Friday nights usually look like as this wasn't likely the average. The town was hosting a firefighter convention that raised the population by about 35,000 people. I have no idea how that changed the usual Naptown Friday night, but given the amount of things to do downtown, I'd imagine it's a popular place.
We parked next to the fountain which is next to the World War memorial, a large ancient looking structure that seemed worth a visit had we had the time on this trip. Not sure which direction to walk, we chose to go toward the place from which so many people seemed to be walking.
We hoofed it a couple of blocks and found ourself in a circle area, a fair sized fountain, sitting up on a sort of pedestal made of steps. That's a shitty description for the beautiful area, and it gave me an impression of what I'd expect an old European city to look like, a public space, beautifully built where people were hanging out.
We slipped into Rock Bottom Brewery only to find not a single seat at the bar. We tend to prefer the bar when we're just a couple and didn't want the hassle and time of being dining room customers. We stepped outside to reconsider when Momma spotted the word brewery on another place.
We walked toward that light which turned out to be Alcatraz Brewing. The beer earned a very strong Meh, not good enough to go back, but made by a very well trained corporate brewer. I don't really like chain brew pubs any more than I like most chain restaurants. I'd have been much happier finding the local place with the local brewer.
Alcatraz is where we hung out with the firefighters from New York. I don't quite remember now what got us talking with them. We may have been agreeing about the very noisy gentleman who seemed to think his companions were hearing impaired. Or perhaps he had vision issues that makes one foot seem like twenty. Whatever his problem was, he was one loud and obnoxious son of a bitch, the kind of guy you're glad to see go.
We considered eating at Alcatraz, but our new firefighter friend mentioned another brewpub across the street and a couple doors down. We were willing to walk and check out another place, though we later learned we'd have been happier staying at Alcatraz. I don't even remember the name of the place, but since I'm only going to trash it, that may be for the best.
I don't like corporate sports bars any more than I like corporate brewpubs. I want some soul, some local flavor. I want the bar with employees that love the place they work. I also want my wings to come with the pointy, inedible part removed. I also want my reuben to be a reuben, not some crap laced with what I'm quite certain was horseradish, totally out of place. We couldn't even finish our food, even though we took it to go after eating half. The maid threw it away for us though as we left it sitting cold and ick in the hotel room when we left.
Momma and I were nice enough then to try and fight about where we'd left the car. As it turned out, neither of us was quite right, though once we found the circle again, we were able to retrace our steps back to the car immediately. We apologized to each other for having been buttholes and insisting on our individual rightness. Then we got in the car and did the same thing all over again.
We finally arived back at the hotel. Most of the skaters were asleep, though it was early enough that we suspected someone had to be awake. Someone was, so we went and had a couple of last beers before wandering back to our room.
As an aside, a little message to the people of Indianapolis, it would really help if the people who sold beer knew what the laws were concerning late night beer sales. There's some crazy shit headed law that allows cold beer retail sales only in liquor stores. I don't get it, but I don't live there, so it's no big deal. We did get our beer and a bag of ice, so the law didn't hamper our intent in any way, though the kind lady who sold it to us wasn't quite sure if it was even too late to be selling it.
And so went our day. You can see for yourself how exciting and full of grand fun we are. That's quite fine though as I don't need grand fun. I got two nights in a row to go out childless with Momma, and that's always better than grand fun. Of course we missed the boys, so don't think we were completely heartless, but they got to have grand fun with grand parents, so I'd call it even.
back from up north
I have had the worst time since last night trying to write the welcoming myself back post. The trip was a hell of a time, and I'm sure I should only safely tell you about half of what happened. There was plenty of debauchery, though most of it was the safe showing each other our asses kind. Many asses were shown as well as a pair of testicles and possibly a peach, if you know what I mean.
I'm pretty sure that as a group we drank our weight in beer. I'm certain I helped the average, but it was all in the name of doing my part for the league and the skaters.
The bout was exciting, though I'm sadly unable to post about it. The scoreboard indicated that we lost, but your momma told you not to believe everything you read, and she was right. I'm nearly voiceless from screaming and cheering, and as usual, I could not be prouder of the girls. I can't say enough how beautiful, how awesome, how strong, how amazing the Hard Knox Rollergirls are. Chances are we are coming to your town, and chances are if we do that someone is going to get knocked sillier.
I have this secret trick I use on road trips that I call driving fast as fuck. There's no sane reason a six hour drive really has to be six hours unless it was originally and eight hour trip, but that may just be me. As long as you're careful and watch the road, there's no reason you can't use the interstate as it should be. Wide open highways with limited access via distinct entrance/exit areas are meant for high speeds and getting the fuck out of my way. I may use this as post fodder because, as you might guess, I have some opinions on this as well as about the idiots that surround me on the road. But that's for later.
My chest hurts a little, though I really don't know why. Perhaps it was the shouting? Can you strain your chest muscles by having yelled too much and too loudly? I'm sure I can. I can't complain though because I know our skaters have plenty of aches that were earned in battle. One has to wonder why Momma has so many obvious finger marks on her arms, but again, that's another story for another day.
I scalded my tongue at Starbucks, probably some infernal punishment for having gone there in the first place. But we needed coffee, and I can no longer stomach the sort of ick that too often passes for coffee. And for all the complaints I've heard about Starbucks prices, for slightly more than three dollars Momma got a medium coffee, and I got a large, though that isn't how they'd describe it, stupid venti and grande and all that other pretentious fuck awful nonsense. Seriously, just cups of coffee, a little cream and sugar, not the fat content of a porterhouse and not seventeen dollars and not a frappamochadilletante.
Saw lots of dead animals along the roads though no possums. It doesn't seem to me that Ohio or Indiana really cares that their roads seem to contain about three dead animals for every mile travelled. Maybe they need to pass a road kill bill.
We may have been the coolest visitors, but we weren't the biggest group in Indianapolis over the weekend. Thirty five thousand fire fighters were also in town for a convention. I retain to this day my childhood love and admiration for fire fighters. I even smile a little as the big red truck rolls past in non emergency mode. That people are still willing to run in when the rest of us are running out almost gives me hope for humanity. And to the guys from Rochester New York, thanks for a good time. We met them at a bar in downtown Idiotapolis, and though we only hung out and chatted for a bit, they were one of the highlights of the trip.
I'm wrapping this up. Within this post are the roots of a few more posts that are playing nicely in my brain while I think about writing. I leave you with something to ponder, a little gravity in an otherwise light and fluff filled post. Why in 2007 do towns still have a "black part of town," and why is the black side of town always the crappiest least tended to by the local government?
I'm pretty sure that as a group we drank our weight in beer. I'm certain I helped the average, but it was all in the name of doing my part for the league and the skaters.
The bout was exciting, though I'm sadly unable to post about it. The scoreboard indicated that we lost, but your momma told you not to believe everything you read, and she was right. I'm nearly voiceless from screaming and cheering, and as usual, I could not be prouder of the girls. I can't say enough how beautiful, how awesome, how strong, how amazing the Hard Knox Rollergirls are. Chances are we are coming to your town, and chances are if we do that someone is going to get knocked sillier.
I have this secret trick I use on road trips that I call driving fast as fuck. There's no sane reason a six hour drive really has to be six hours unless it was originally and eight hour trip, but that may just be me. As long as you're careful and watch the road, there's no reason you can't use the interstate as it should be. Wide open highways with limited access via distinct entrance/exit areas are meant for high speeds and getting the fuck out of my way. I may use this as post fodder because, as you might guess, I have some opinions on this as well as about the idiots that surround me on the road. But that's for later.
My chest hurts a little, though I really don't know why. Perhaps it was the shouting? Can you strain your chest muscles by having yelled too much and too loudly? I'm sure I can. I can't complain though because I know our skaters have plenty of aches that were earned in battle. One has to wonder why Momma has so many obvious finger marks on her arms, but again, that's another story for another day.
I scalded my tongue at Starbucks, probably some infernal punishment for having gone there in the first place. But we needed coffee, and I can no longer stomach the sort of ick that too often passes for coffee. And for all the complaints I've heard about Starbucks prices, for slightly more than three dollars Momma got a medium coffee, and I got a large, though that isn't how they'd describe it, stupid venti and grande and all that other pretentious fuck awful nonsense. Seriously, just cups of coffee, a little cream and sugar, not the fat content of a porterhouse and not seventeen dollars and not a frappamochadilletante.
Saw lots of dead animals along the roads though no possums. It doesn't seem to me that Ohio or Indiana really cares that their roads seem to contain about three dead animals for every mile travelled. Maybe they need to pass a road kill bill.
We may have been the coolest visitors, but we weren't the biggest group in Indianapolis over the weekend. Thirty five thousand fire fighters were also in town for a convention. I retain to this day my childhood love and admiration for fire fighters. I even smile a little as the big red truck rolls past in non emergency mode. That people are still willing to run in when the rest of us are running out almost gives me hope for humanity. And to the guys from Rochester New York, thanks for a good time. We met them at a bar in downtown Idiotapolis, and though we only hung out and chatted for a bit, they were one of the highlights of the trip.
I'm wrapping this up. Within this post are the roots of a few more posts that are playing nicely in my brain while I think about writing. I leave you with something to ponder, a little gravity in an otherwise light and fluff filled post. Why in 2007 do towns still have a "black part of town," and why is the black side of town always the crappiest least tended to by the local government?
Friday, April 20, 2007
sue their butts off
Thanks to Darryl for posting this so that I could steal it and make a new rant. I haven't ranted in nearly long enough, so it's nice to have a softball tossed out for me.
According to THIS story, a woman in Canada purchased a sofa. Upon getting it to her house she learned that the tag on the furniture described its dark brown color as "nigger brown." The Chinese manufacturer pointed to a translation software problem that the company was sure they had fixed. Apparently it had something to do with an old Chinese/English dictionary.
Part of me thinks it's a little bit funny and wonders if the also sells a couch in a honkey white or wetback tan. Of course, I assume the color is a fairly dark brown, but then that doesn't really do justice to the myriad hues of black people. Big Brother's soccer team includes two kids, cousins even, who are black, though admittedly black doesn't really describe either child's skin color. One of the boys is very light complected while the other is fairly dark. We have a homeschool friend who would be assumed to be white though his skin is actually darker than the light skinned soccer teammate.
How does all this relate to nigger brown? Good question, and it probably doesn't. The rant here is more about the fact that the purchaser of the sofa wants compensation and wants more than just an apology. So now we get to it, the lawsuit. She's wants to get paid over her daughter having supposedly learned the word nigger from a tag on a sofa. I don't know the average age of black children when they are first exposed to the word, and I don't know if the members of this particular family are fans of hip hop music. My own children have heard the word at their young ages due to the little bit of hip hop that Momma and I listen to. I doesn't seem to have stood out as neither child has ever used the word that I'm aware of nor have they asked Momma or I about it.
As a child growing up in the south, I used the word nigger on occasion, sadly even after I began to understand what it meant. I can't pretend to know the power of the word heard through black ears, and honestly, being a fairly typical white guy, I'm sure there are lots of words that I know of or have used that I just won't ever feel the kind of sting they provide for others. I also don't much care what folks may choose to call me (just don't call me late for dinner) and have been referred to in a number of unpleasant ways. I have even once been called a nigger, by a black guy no less.
But what sort of compensation does someone deserve because of an offensive word? Certainly it would be unpleasant to hear, and one has to wonder how many channels this sofa must have passed through bearing the term nigger, and one must wonder how no one else noticed this. Will a large cash payment make this family happy? Will cash change the fact that their daughter saw an offensive word? Will it make the possible sting go away? When the hell did a black family move to Canada?
I've long thought our own country was way too eager to set a lawsuit in motion over any number of imagined or supposed slights. I've read personally of too many ridiculous lawsuits, and I've read of too many idiots winning money they did not deserve. I'm afraid this may be another situation like that. Beyond an apology and maybe a refund of the purchase price of the sofa, the family doesn't really deserve shit.
According to THIS story, a woman in Canada purchased a sofa. Upon getting it to her house she learned that the tag on the furniture described its dark brown color as "nigger brown." The Chinese manufacturer pointed to a translation software problem that the company was sure they had fixed. Apparently it had something to do with an old Chinese/English dictionary.
Part of me thinks it's a little bit funny and wonders if the also sells a couch in a honkey white or wetback tan. Of course, I assume the color is a fairly dark brown, but then that doesn't really do justice to the myriad hues of black people. Big Brother's soccer team includes two kids, cousins even, who are black, though admittedly black doesn't really describe either child's skin color. One of the boys is very light complected while the other is fairly dark. We have a homeschool friend who would be assumed to be white though his skin is actually darker than the light skinned soccer teammate.
How does all this relate to nigger brown? Good question, and it probably doesn't. The rant here is more about the fact that the purchaser of the sofa wants compensation and wants more than just an apology. So now we get to it, the lawsuit. She's wants to get paid over her daughter having supposedly learned the word nigger from a tag on a sofa. I don't know the average age of black children when they are first exposed to the word, and I don't know if the members of this particular family are fans of hip hop music. My own children have heard the word at their young ages due to the little bit of hip hop that Momma and I listen to. I doesn't seem to have stood out as neither child has ever used the word that I'm aware of nor have they asked Momma or I about it.
As a child growing up in the south, I used the word nigger on occasion, sadly even after I began to understand what it meant. I can't pretend to know the power of the word heard through black ears, and honestly, being a fairly typical white guy, I'm sure there are lots of words that I know of or have used that I just won't ever feel the kind of sting they provide for others. I also don't much care what folks may choose to call me (just don't call me late for dinner) and have been referred to in a number of unpleasant ways. I have even once been called a nigger, by a black guy no less.
But what sort of compensation does someone deserve because of an offensive word? Certainly it would be unpleasant to hear, and one has to wonder how many channels this sofa must have passed through bearing the term nigger, and one must wonder how no one else noticed this. Will a large cash payment make this family happy? Will cash change the fact that their daughter saw an offensive word? Will it make the possible sting go away? When the hell did a black family move to Canada?
I've long thought our own country was way too eager to set a lawsuit in motion over any number of imagined or supposed slights. I've read personally of too many ridiculous lawsuits, and I've read of too many idiots winning money they did not deserve. I'm afraid this may be another situation like that. Beyond an apology and maybe a refund of the purchase price of the sofa, the family doesn't really deserve shit.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
busy weekend
This will be a bit of a busy weekend for us, or at least some of us. The boys will not be partaking in the fun, but they will get their own treat, we hope. They get to spend the weekend at Grandma's house.
It all starts tomorrow night, or tonight by the time some people read this, or maybe even some time in the past by the time some other people read it. If that's the case, then maybe I don't even have to write about all this.
Also, I probably won't be blogging much for a few days.
It all starts tomorrow, as early as I can drag my ass out of bed and down to the tire store to get the oil changed. I'll sit around there wishing I'd brought a book, or I'll sit there trying to read a book while also trying not to watch the television. We seriously have to get the oil changed, totally, for tomorrow. Actually, it's the day after tomorrow as of writing time, but we've covered that once, dead horse and all.
Tomorrow night Momma and I have reservations at a restaurant. That's right, we aren't waiting for the host to get to us or for enough people to finally leave. We have reservations which means we are eating at a restaurant that takes reservations. We've heard good things about the place and are looking forward to food we didn't cook, food that we don't have to pick the green things off the Batman plate. Shit, we won't even have to get up moments after we start eating to get someone a cup of milk or to clean up a spilled cup of milk.
We may have to keep our drinking to a minimum as Great Grandmother who is watching the boys has not yet even hinted at an overnight. We'd love for her too, but she's getting the boys back on Friday to hold till Grandma gets off work and picks them up. Great Grandmother may need that few hours break.
Friday afternoon sees us off on the long ass drive to kick some ass. I may have mentioned that a certain local Hard Knox Rollergirls are traveling northish to Indianapolis. I'm afraid some Naptown Rollergirls are in for yet another loss. I'm sure I'm going to hate it for them or something. It will be nice to be far away from responsibility and get to party with a bunch of hard ass derby girls. I don't expect much from the trip itself, lots of driving compared to the amount of time we'll spend in Indianapolis. Either way it's another shit ton of miles on the car, and that's got to be good for something.
We drive back home Sunday having spent all of an entire day for our twelve to fourteen hour round trip. I won't be sure it's worth it till at least a week later when we've forgotten how big a pain in the ass it all was and are getting excited for the next round of derby based ass whooping. It's all about the ass whooping here in derbyville USA.
And that's the weekend. Look for more info sometime next week. I might give you one last goodbye post before tomorrow night, and I may get some great ideas and have to blog any number of time between now and time to get. We'll see.
It all starts tomorrow night, or tonight by the time some people read this, or maybe even some time in the past by the time some other people read it. If that's the case, then maybe I don't even have to write about all this.
Also, I probably won't be blogging much for a few days.
It all starts tomorrow, as early as I can drag my ass out of bed and down to the tire store to get the oil changed. I'll sit around there wishing I'd brought a book, or I'll sit there trying to read a book while also trying not to watch the television. We seriously have to get the oil changed, totally, for tomorrow. Actually, it's the day after tomorrow as of writing time, but we've covered that once, dead horse and all.
Tomorrow night Momma and I have reservations at a restaurant. That's right, we aren't waiting for the host to get to us or for enough people to finally leave. We have reservations which means we are eating at a restaurant that takes reservations. We've heard good things about the place and are looking forward to food we didn't cook, food that we don't have to pick the green things off the Batman plate. Shit, we won't even have to get up moments after we start eating to get someone a cup of milk or to clean up a spilled cup of milk.
We may have to keep our drinking to a minimum as Great Grandmother who is watching the boys has not yet even hinted at an overnight. We'd love for her too, but she's getting the boys back on Friday to hold till Grandma gets off work and picks them up. Great Grandmother may need that few hours break.
Friday afternoon sees us off on the long ass drive to kick some ass. I may have mentioned that a certain local Hard Knox Rollergirls are traveling northish to Indianapolis. I'm afraid some Naptown Rollergirls are in for yet another loss. I'm sure I'm going to hate it for them or something. It will be nice to be far away from responsibility and get to party with a bunch of hard ass derby girls. I don't expect much from the trip itself, lots of driving compared to the amount of time we'll spend in Indianapolis. Either way it's another shit ton of miles on the car, and that's got to be good for something.
We drive back home Sunday having spent all of an entire day for our twelve to fourteen hour round trip. I won't be sure it's worth it till at least a week later when we've forgotten how big a pain in the ass it all was and are getting excited for the next round of derby based ass whooping. It's all about the ass whooping here in derbyville USA.
And that's the weekend. Look for more info sometime next week. I might give you one last goodbye post before tomorrow night, and I may get some great ideas and have to blog any number of time between now and time to get. We'll see.
Monday, April 16, 2007
are thoughts of thinking real thoughts?
Tagged by the meme, I find that I must now go and tag. It's gratifying to know that someone actually feels I deserve the Thinking Blogger award. I don't really feel as if I put a lot of thought into most of what I write. I usually feel like the sieve in my head sometimes gets a little clogged, and I'm not doing anything more when I write than to shake the sieve a little bit so that everything can flow through finally.
Pissed Off Housewife thinks I deserve the Thinking Blogger award, and I can't help but feel a little spark of something. It's like a smile from a stranger seconds after some prick cut you off, the little smile that saw what happened and congratulates you for not murdering the prick. Maybe it's like when the fast food people are nice, and then you're nice back, and you both are happier even if for no more than a moment. Or maybe it's like realizing that maybe people really do read what I write, and I've somehow managed not to drive them away.
The deal is I now have to tag five people. Here is my list, not my top five so much, but five people who think, or so I think, and will hopefully continue the good feelings.
1. We start with Contemplator, a favorite in the halls of academe.
2. Doc is easily one of the best homeschool resource links in the country. She also could stand to stop breaking things.
3. Audrey may be the sexiest homeshooling marxist mommas ever, if we believe everything she says, and the library probably sucks ass without her there.
4. Kim, another unschooling mom, and another fine thinker.
5. Finally I offer you Darryl, my sole dude. He may also be the least likely to play along, but at least he's a thinking blogger, and if nothing else, he can feel included, even if he can get beat by a dead blog. That's not saying anything though as I get beaten by catholics.
It was not my intent to bring you mostly homeschool blogs, though they aren't really necessarily homeschool blogs. Darryl offers news and sometimes some counterpoint. Kim may talk about homeschooling more than the rest, though Audrey and Doc certainly discuss it somewhat. I believe Contemplator keeps herself busy enough for a couple of people. And that is my list.
Does anyone need instructions here? It's pretty simple, and I'm sure we've all been involved in something similar, so have at it. Let's see who else deserves this award.
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