Because a certain site promoting horrid religious exercises in suffering the little children to suffer decided to mismanage the Carnival of Homeschooling, a few sensible homeschoolers have decided to resurrect the Country Fair. Sure, it sounds like the CoH, so you might ask why we need another.
You probably know the story of the post that was pulled due to "questionable" material at the blog, and if you don't know the story, try to imagine some scenario based on what I've told you. Now build up a bit of resentment toward Home School Blogger (to whom I don't link) for being such weineyheads. Now think about visiting a nicer carnival, where all the rides are scary for the right reasons.
The Country Fair is basically a carnival of home education. The bloggers who will submit posts are homeschoolers of all kinds, types and varieties. They worship or don't worship in their own way and won't tell you that your god or lack of gods is good or bad. They might mention tactics and strategies used by their own family, and they will do this without damning you or your family for doing things differently.
The Country Fair is inclusion at its best. The posts in the fair will be written by everyone from liberal christians to conservative atheists. If I offer something then you can count on at least one Discordian point of view, whatever the hell that means. So, if you are a blogger and a homeschooler, then head over to the site with your best piece . . . of writing jackass! Otherwise, wait around till it's all put together and ready to read, then head over to look at our best pieces . . . damn, perv, it's writing!
Want to read what Doc has to say about it?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
handkerchief
Today's mail was apparently not entirely worthless, or so it would have you believe. The credit card offer of course was immediately tossed as we've certainly learned our lesson there, sort of. The other letter seemed at first as if it were no more than the usual religious based scheme. In a sense, the two offers aren't so different.
Do you like my Bible handkerchief? That's what I'm holding in the picture. It came soaked in prayers. Ministers have been called by god to send these out to people. They always seem to show up whenever people are in real need, according to the testimonials from real people. This begs the question, what do they know about me? Do I need something I'm not aware of that the prayer soaked Bible handkerchief will allow be to gain?
I'm sure there's more to it. I didn't read all the material, because I don't need to look at every item in the garbage can to tell me where I am. Likewise, I don't need to read through the entire scam to figure out what it could become if I were one of those kind of people who sends this thing back. To get my blessing, I write my name and need in the center of the paper handkerchief, then I place it strategically inside my Bible over a certain verse. I place all this under my side of the bed before I go to sleep tonight. It all ends with my sending the prayer handkerchief back to whomever sent it to me, then I sit back and wait for my blessings.
I'm assuming this whole thing is a scam, a targeted marketing device used to seek out people who will willingly "donate" money to whatever organization is behind this. It wasn't even addressed to me or anyone else here but to "Resident-To A Friend." The return address is to Prayer By Letters, Saint Matthew's Churches.
This isn't the first of this sort of thing I've ever gotten, but it was the first I've received right when I needed some sort of post fodder to kick start the ol' blog writing. So maybe I've already received my blessing. If that's so, then I not only don't have to write anything on the prayer handkerchief, but I also don't have to hunt down our copy of the Bible or sleep over it.
I'm wondering though if maybe I should at least try. I could think of a few things that I'd like to be blessed with, Powerball being as likely as blessings. Maybe they could make the credit card debt magically disappear. Maybe I could, through my paper prayer handkerchief, cause the complete end of all legal prohibitions on marijuana. Yes, I think I know what I'll put on my handkerchief. And to be sure, I will dig out the Bible and sleep over my need. What NORML has failed at for so many years, I will attain through my need being soaked in prayer from some scam organization. I will triumph!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
birds
The birds are back in my gutter. I have a portion of gutter over my back door that has come a little loose. I haven't really helped matters any by being highly ignorant of even the most basic of home care.
I really want to be a handy kind of guy, and often I'm quite certain I know exactly how to fix something. Just as often are those things that I just don't notice. The gutter is sort of one of those things, except that I noticed it, but I only noticed it when it was raining and I was dashing through after a smoke in the garage. I'd think to myself thoughts of nicer days and getting the ladder out and cleaning the gutter.
Too many nicer days passed without that curtain of water to remind me that the gutters were fucked and needed my attention. Then spring finally came, and with spring came the birds. I'd begun to notice random drops of water on the back porch, often a sign that it's raining, but I'd know for a fact that this wasn't rain.
The gutter was so full of shingle bits and maple seeds that had dammed it up and the birds were using it, I'm guessing as a highly suspect source of drinking and/or bathing water. I have nothing against birds. I may have mentioned recently the removal of a bird nest from the hydrangea, so it might seem that I'm after the birds. I'm really not, but I can't very well let them have the gutter for themselves.
I shouldn't mention the actual cleaning, the rank odor wafting into my face as I removed more handfuls of gunk than should exist in such a confined place. I shouldn't go into the feeling of waterlogged maple seeds and random other detritus filling your hand as you move from the gutter to the bucket, dropping the mass with a lovely flop kind of a sound. The gravelly bits that wash off the shingles weren't so bad, but they were an added aspect into what could very well have become the hidden mosquito breeding ground of '07.
Removing all of that nastiness took enough strain off the gutter that it seemed as though I'd be okay. From the ladder, the gutter seemed to drain pretty well. I thought I'd taken care of the problem before it was too late, though late as it was should be really embarrassing to me no matter how I dress it up.
And speaking of birds, this may be the year they turn against me. I've discovered yet another nest that I disturbed before the birds were even able to finish. They tried to move into one of my recycling boxes. Because the garage door has a bit of gap in it, some sort of birds are getting in and out of the garage. I also found where in the garage they've shitting, though I caught that early in the process as well, so that mess isn't too bad. I've seen birds flying toward other parts of the garage, so there may be another nest attempt somewhere else that I have yet to completely disturb. This is also the year I swear to clean the garage, and I've actually already begun.
This isn't the place to post anything about cleaning the damn garage. There are certainly horrible stories to come about that. There will be the drive out Central to the scrap metal place. There will be the finally getting nearly two decades of home computers somewhere the hell else. There's also the gargantuan heating and air conditioning unit that is completely out of my hands. Remind me to tell you about that sometime. And for now, it seems I'll keeping running the birds out of all their new favorite haunts. I do really like birds, but there's only so much of their shit a man can stand.
I really want to be a handy kind of guy, and often I'm quite certain I know exactly how to fix something. Just as often are those things that I just don't notice. The gutter is sort of one of those things, except that I noticed it, but I only noticed it when it was raining and I was dashing through after a smoke in the garage. I'd think to myself thoughts of nicer days and getting the ladder out and cleaning the gutter.
Too many nicer days passed without that curtain of water to remind me that the gutters were fucked and needed my attention. Then spring finally came, and with spring came the birds. I'd begun to notice random drops of water on the back porch, often a sign that it's raining, but I'd know for a fact that this wasn't rain.
The gutter was so full of shingle bits and maple seeds that had dammed it up and the birds were using it, I'm guessing as a highly suspect source of drinking and/or bathing water. I have nothing against birds. I may have mentioned recently the removal of a bird nest from the hydrangea, so it might seem that I'm after the birds. I'm really not, but I can't very well let them have the gutter for themselves.
I shouldn't mention the actual cleaning, the rank odor wafting into my face as I removed more handfuls of gunk than should exist in such a confined place. I shouldn't go into the feeling of waterlogged maple seeds and random other detritus filling your hand as you move from the gutter to the bucket, dropping the mass with a lovely flop kind of a sound. The gravelly bits that wash off the shingles weren't so bad, but they were an added aspect into what could very well have become the hidden mosquito breeding ground of '07.
Removing all of that nastiness took enough strain off the gutter that it seemed as though I'd be okay. From the ladder, the gutter seemed to drain pretty well. I thought I'd taken care of the problem before it was too late, though late as it was should be really embarrassing to me no matter how I dress it up.
And speaking of birds, this may be the year they turn against me. I've discovered yet another nest that I disturbed before the birds were even able to finish. They tried to move into one of my recycling boxes. Because the garage door has a bit of gap in it, some sort of birds are getting in and out of the garage. I also found where in the garage they've shitting, though I caught that early in the process as well, so that mess isn't too bad. I've seen birds flying toward other parts of the garage, so there may be another nest attempt somewhere else that I have yet to completely disturb. This is also the year I swear to clean the garage, and I've actually already begun.
This isn't the place to post anything about cleaning the damn garage. There are certainly horrible stories to come about that. There will be the drive out Central to the scrap metal place. There will be the finally getting nearly two decades of home computers somewhere the hell else. There's also the gargantuan heating and air conditioning unit that is completely out of my hands. Remind me to tell you about that sometime. And for now, it seems I'll keeping running the birds out of all their new favorite haunts. I do really like birds, but there's only so much of their shit a man can stand.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
alike
When I think of my childhood, it's usually a particular memory of something. I often feel that I don't really remember childhood, not that I've blocked it out but that it's just sort of a gray sort of thing.
There's plenty that I remember from those years, and my brothers and I certainly have lots of stories ranging back as many years as we've been around. But parts of childhood, feelings about things, my view of the world I was part of, those things sometimes seem as if I never had those thoughts. This is what I don't remember. That puts the grayness over the memories, as if they aren't quite as real somehow. It's as if I were a spectator, and I wonder now if I felt then as if I were merely a spectator, or maybe I was just someone who ran out between scenes to help change the props.
Something I do remember was brought up accidentally by Big Brother tonight. He's in bed, has been in bed for over an hour as this story happens. I was sitting here writing some crap about having writer's block, and I probably boohooed about it at least a little. I'd just finished posting, had long since sipped the last bit of beer out of my glass, and was headed toward the kitchen both for a new beer and for the back door so I could step outside for a smoke.
I was in the kitchen, had just poured my new beer when Big Brother was there, out of bed and out of nowhere, getting his water cup for yet another last drink. The night has grown late of course, the time he would usually be asleep, and I reminded him that he needed to get to sleep. It was then that he informed me that he sometimes doesn't get to sleep till dawn, but that he does get some sleep.
And I was taken back for bit. He told me goodnight and went on to bed, and I was remembering as a child, being so certain that I never slept. I'd go to bed, I'd play and squirm and roll around, and it usually took me some time to get to sleep. It didn't help that there were four of us in the room in two sets of bunk beds. And it didn't help that a certain older brother liked to open the closet door secretly from the top bunk, knowing that I feared the skeletons that were going to come out and somehow do ill deeds to me but who were unable to open the door for themselves. But neither was that at all the problem.
I know I slept, and I know Big Brother sleeps. I've checked on him often enough at night. I hear the sounds of his play coming through the wall as well as the sounds of his not play. I know when he wakes up and how much sleep he needs. And I don't doubt that my parents knew these things about me. And I'm quite certain I complained to them at times that I never got any sleep.
But I remember that feeling, that laying in bed trying to be still, to keep my eyes closed, to will myself to sleep. Roughly half an hour has passed since my short conversation with Big Brother, and I'm quite certain he's asleep. I haven't heard any noises, no bed thumps, nothing in long enough, that I'm sure of myself. He's very likely already asleep.
To this day it can take me a long time to get to sleep. I do take my sleeping medicine, twelve ounces at a time, and very often, I am asleep much before my brain gets a chance to take over. But there's still those nights quite often that I just lay there feeling the time slide past, slowly as if willing me to be awake that much longer. My brain runs the gauntlet of things inappropriate to think about when trying to sleep.
I wonder what keeps Big Brother awake at night, though often I'm pretty sure it's just playing. He took two Hot Wheels motorcycles to bed tonight. Sometimes he takes stuffed animals and probably plays out Pokemon battles. I doubt it has anything to do with George Taylor and Nova, but I was a bit older at that point than he is now, so I imagine his fantasies will be somewhat different. Of course, when I was his age, I didn't have Hot Wheels motorcycles. If I did, I would have had one that I shared with my two younger brothers, and none of us would have been allowed to take it to bed.
I guess we're just night owls. It's easy enough now, but these kids, if they don't do anything else they get bigger and older. Many years of bedtimes never trained the late night restlessness out of me, so I can only imagine what we'll see as the years slip past. And that's one more thing that kids are great for, seeing your past in them as a catalyst for wondering if you're seeing their future in you.
There's plenty that I remember from those years, and my brothers and I certainly have lots of stories ranging back as many years as we've been around. But parts of childhood, feelings about things, my view of the world I was part of, those things sometimes seem as if I never had those thoughts. This is what I don't remember. That puts the grayness over the memories, as if they aren't quite as real somehow. It's as if I were a spectator, and I wonder now if I felt then as if I were merely a spectator, or maybe I was just someone who ran out between scenes to help change the props.
Something I do remember was brought up accidentally by Big Brother tonight. He's in bed, has been in bed for over an hour as this story happens. I was sitting here writing some crap about having writer's block, and I probably boohooed about it at least a little. I'd just finished posting, had long since sipped the last bit of beer out of my glass, and was headed toward the kitchen both for a new beer and for the back door so I could step outside for a smoke.
I was in the kitchen, had just poured my new beer when Big Brother was there, out of bed and out of nowhere, getting his water cup for yet another last drink. The night has grown late of course, the time he would usually be asleep, and I reminded him that he needed to get to sleep. It was then that he informed me that he sometimes doesn't get to sleep till dawn, but that he does get some sleep.
And I was taken back for bit. He told me goodnight and went on to bed, and I was remembering as a child, being so certain that I never slept. I'd go to bed, I'd play and squirm and roll around, and it usually took me some time to get to sleep. It didn't help that there were four of us in the room in two sets of bunk beds. And it didn't help that a certain older brother liked to open the closet door secretly from the top bunk, knowing that I feared the skeletons that were going to come out and somehow do ill deeds to me but who were unable to open the door for themselves. But neither was that at all the problem.
I know I slept, and I know Big Brother sleeps. I've checked on him often enough at night. I hear the sounds of his play coming through the wall as well as the sounds of his not play. I know when he wakes up and how much sleep he needs. And I don't doubt that my parents knew these things about me. And I'm quite certain I complained to them at times that I never got any sleep.
But I remember that feeling, that laying in bed trying to be still, to keep my eyes closed, to will myself to sleep. Roughly half an hour has passed since my short conversation with Big Brother, and I'm quite certain he's asleep. I haven't heard any noises, no bed thumps, nothing in long enough, that I'm sure of myself. He's very likely already asleep.
To this day it can take me a long time to get to sleep. I do take my sleeping medicine, twelve ounces at a time, and very often, I am asleep much before my brain gets a chance to take over. But there's still those nights quite often that I just lay there feeling the time slide past, slowly as if willing me to be awake that much longer. My brain runs the gauntlet of things inappropriate to think about when trying to sleep.
I wonder what keeps Big Brother awake at night, though often I'm pretty sure it's just playing. He took two Hot Wheels motorcycles to bed tonight. Sometimes he takes stuffed animals and probably plays out Pokemon battles. I doubt it has anything to do with George Taylor and Nova, but I was a bit older at that point than he is now, so I imagine his fantasies will be somewhat different. Of course, when I was his age, I didn't have Hot Wheels motorcycles. If I did, I would have had one that I shared with my two younger brothers, and none of us would have been allowed to take it to bed.
I guess we're just night owls. It's easy enough now, but these kids, if they don't do anything else they get bigger and older. Many years of bedtimes never trained the late night restlessness out of me, so I can only imagine what we'll see as the years slip past. And that's one more thing that kids are great for, seeing your past in them as a catalyst for wondering if you're seeing their future in you.
Monday, May 14, 2007
sad lag
I've been sadly lagging in my writing lately. I've gotten to the point where I think of blogging randomly throughout the day, which happens as I sometimes find my posting has grown sporadic. I never even bother with the ol' stat counter when I get like this. I've noticed downward trends every time this sparseness happens.
Sometimes it's simple writer's block, or so I often think. I find that when it comes, I'm often also spending time doing delaying tactic sorts of things, but they creep up on me subconsciously. I find I'm doing them after I've been doing them.
Myspace is a great time waster for me. If you are one of the couple of people who might read this and also know me through that hell hole of teen meh, you might notice that you read me less here and more there on occasion. But I do love the surveys. I know that the majority were written by someone half my age who lied to get their account, but I do them justice, in my own mind. Of course that's not the point here. I certainly won't pretend that the witty answers I put in the surveys is writing, though I can pretend it's practice.
The other delaying tactic that I use way too often is checking back for comments. I'll read random blog some time in the day, be captivated for some reason, either by the currently existing comments or by the comments I expect based on either the post or the comments. I also know who in my Bloglines can be expected to have comments. So I go back through everything I read throughout the day, giving all these lovely people a couple more hits, too often only to find nothing new. I comment sometimes, but I often feel like I'm the comment thread killer because I'm too much of a crank or because my joke doesn't read like it sounds to people used to hearing my jackassery.
And there's another thing. How do you make sure that, when conversing via the internet, people realize you're a jackass and not just a plain ol' cunt? And don't get all up in arms at the use of the word cunt, because sometimes when I say cunt I really mean dick. Sometimes though, someone being a dick is really being a total asshole. And sometimes, the cunts are just being assholes because they're pissed off that those other cunts were being dicks, and they just couldn't take it anymore.
And that's where I find myself. I think I'm just at a low point for post fodder. Maybe it really is writer's block. Either way, as soon as I publish this I'm going to check Myspace and the roller derby fan forum. I might check my family's board, though I doubt there's anything new there.
Sometimes it's simple writer's block, or so I often think. I find that when it comes, I'm often also spending time doing delaying tactic sorts of things, but they creep up on me subconsciously. I find I'm doing them after I've been doing them.
Myspace is a great time waster for me. If you are one of the couple of people who might read this and also know me through that hell hole of teen meh, you might notice that you read me less here and more there on occasion. But I do love the surveys. I know that the majority were written by someone half my age who lied to get their account, but I do them justice, in my own mind. Of course that's not the point here. I certainly won't pretend that the witty answers I put in the surveys is writing, though I can pretend it's practice.
The other delaying tactic that I use way too often is checking back for comments. I'll read random blog some time in the day, be captivated for some reason, either by the currently existing comments or by the comments I expect based on either the post or the comments. I also know who in my Bloglines can be expected to have comments. So I go back through everything I read throughout the day, giving all these lovely people a couple more hits, too often only to find nothing new. I comment sometimes, but I often feel like I'm the comment thread killer because I'm too much of a crank or because my joke doesn't read like it sounds to people used to hearing my jackassery.
And there's another thing. How do you make sure that, when conversing via the internet, people realize you're a jackass and not just a plain ol' cunt? And don't get all up in arms at the use of the word cunt, because sometimes when I say cunt I really mean dick. Sometimes though, someone being a dick is really being a total asshole. And sometimes, the cunts are just being assholes because they're pissed off that those other cunts were being dicks, and they just couldn't take it anymore.
And that's where I find myself. I think I'm just at a low point for post fodder. Maybe it really is writer's block. Either way, as soon as I publish this I'm going to check Myspace and the roller derby fan forum. I might check my family's board, though I doubt there's anything new there.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
handiwork
Part of the reasoning behind the trusty ol' digital camera is all the great things you can do with them. Momma got one for the family for christmas, and it's been great fun to play with. I did read the book that came with it, the basic book, but I barely scanned the more advanced version of the book. Months later, I still only know how to complete the most basic of functions.
Today being Big Brother's last game of the spring soccer season, Momma figured it would be a good time to finally take the camera to a game and try to get some pictures of him and his teammates. One problem with this plan is that neither of have really looked at the camera to find the proper mode for action shots. I've tried a couple of things in the past, most derby related, but the constant motion of derby makes it difficult to catch any thing worth catching. Soccer can present a similar problem, but soccer's catch worthy moments can so often appear out of, as they say, your ass, so of course it carries it's own difficulty.
None of those issues are really of concern as we drive to the soccer fields today, Momma intently poring over the advanced version of the book. We still aren't convinced we found what we want, but what she did find is some sort of continuous shutter something or other. I could find out the real name, but the book is all the way in another room, and seriously, I don't care that much. It won't make this story suck less to know that it is called this as opposed to that.
So all that shit build up for this. Momma grabbed a great series of pictures of Big Brother. It's a race for the ball and you just don't know who will get to it first. That smooth kid in the blue is Big Brother.
Today being Big Brother's last game of the spring soccer season, Momma figured it would be a good time to finally take the camera to a game and try to get some pictures of him and his teammates. One problem with this plan is that neither of have really looked at the camera to find the proper mode for action shots. I've tried a couple of things in the past, most derby related, but the constant motion of derby makes it difficult to catch any thing worth catching. Soccer can present a similar problem, but soccer's catch worthy moments can so often appear out of, as they say, your ass, so of course it carries it's own difficulty.
None of those issues are really of concern as we drive to the soccer fields today, Momma intently poring over the advanced version of the book. We still aren't convinced we found what we want, but what she did find is some sort of continuous shutter something or other. I could find out the real name, but the book is all the way in another room, and seriously, I don't care that much. It won't make this story suck less to know that it is called this as opposed to that.
So all that shit build up for this. Momma grabbed a great series of pictures of Big Brother. It's a race for the ball and you just don't know who will get to it first. That smooth kid in the blue is Big Brother.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
back baby
Indeed we are back baby. Momma finally got paid and we're back to drinking the good beer. We even bought the boys some fast food today without them having asked. We like to include them in the celebration.
You have to know that the very first beer I wanted cleansing the debris away was a St. Terese. The first sip confirmed something I hadn't expected though. I had become a bit colorblind in terms of beer. I have a somewhat limited variety to choose from in my small town. I do think that I have fairly decent options in that availability.
So I've been drinking all this decent beer, and then we budget the beer and have a couple of weeks of High Life. That's all well and good, and I don't care how you feel that my budget crunch involved not skimping on beer but skimping on the price. At least it wasn't Natural Light Ice. That's almost possibly too low even for me, though if you're buying, that's another story.
Anyway, I finally poured my first St. Terese in ages, one of those lovely commercial pours where the head reaches the very top of the glass and no more. I watched in the shadows of the kitchen that nearly amber shade that turns a beautiful red as I carry the beer into the more flatteringly lighted living room. I take a nice full sip and it all comes back to me. I'm flooded with that flavor that made me fall in love in the beginning, the flavor I'd come to take for granted.
St. Terese is what I think of as an American pale ale. It's based somewhat on the British IPA, but the hops is so much more well thought out than in so many hoppy beers. The hops comes through in these beautiful floral notes combined with what can only be described as a rich hoppiness. This whole paragraph sounds redundant as I read back through it. I stopped for a sip of the lovely ale and was overcome again by this beer.
We still have a shit ton of High Life left in the refrigerator. It won't likely last long, but when I've got decent beer and cheap yellow beer, the cheap yellow beer sometimes tries to call to me in the middle of the afternoon or early in the evening. For all my love of the drink, I do try to contain it in reasonable times and amounts.
Either way, it's time for a smoke, and maybe I'll come back with some lovely post about something that matters. That won't likely happen, but you never know.
You have to know that the very first beer I wanted cleansing the debris away was a St. Terese. The first sip confirmed something I hadn't expected though. I had become a bit colorblind in terms of beer. I have a somewhat limited variety to choose from in my small town. I do think that I have fairly decent options in that availability.
So I've been drinking all this decent beer, and then we budget the beer and have a couple of weeks of High Life. That's all well and good, and I don't care how you feel that my budget crunch involved not skimping on beer but skimping on the price. At least it wasn't Natural Light Ice. That's almost possibly too low even for me, though if you're buying, that's another story.
Anyway, I finally poured my first St. Terese in ages, one of those lovely commercial pours where the head reaches the very top of the glass and no more. I watched in the shadows of the kitchen that nearly amber shade that turns a beautiful red as I carry the beer into the more flatteringly lighted living room. I take a nice full sip and it all comes back to me. I'm flooded with that flavor that made me fall in love in the beginning, the flavor I'd come to take for granted.
St. Terese is what I think of as an American pale ale. It's based somewhat on the British IPA, but the hops is so much more well thought out than in so many hoppy beers. The hops comes through in these beautiful floral notes combined with what can only be described as a rich hoppiness. This whole paragraph sounds redundant as I read back through it. I stopped for a sip of the lovely ale and was overcome again by this beer.
We still have a shit ton of High Life left in the refrigerator. It won't likely last long, but when I've got decent beer and cheap yellow beer, the cheap yellow beer sometimes tries to call to me in the middle of the afternoon or early in the evening. For all my love of the drink, I do try to contain it in reasonable times and amounts.
Either way, it's time for a smoke, and maybe I'll come back with some lovely post about something that matters. That won't likely happen, but you never know.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
the horse
Whenever I see Sarah Jessica Parker, I always find myself wondering the same thing: which one was the horse, her mother or her father?
a visit
Mr. Friendly Codes Inspector Man just paid me a visit. You many remember that my busted ass Buick Skylark earned us an orange sticker, that same orange sticker that we usually see on cars left by the side of the interstate for too long.
I'm sure a certain part of me understands that the city needs codes, needs to require a certain standard of its citizens. I wouldn't want to live next to some neighbors I've seen, porches overflowing with crap, grass allowed to grow wild, cars sitting for years on end rusting away to nothing. But such is not the case with me and my Buick POS.
The car is inoperable, and for anyone looking behind my house, it's probably something of an eyesore. But therein lies the clincher for me, that the car is in fact behind my house. It's not sitting on cement blocks in the front yard, though it is on jack stands. I'd love to be rid of it, but I'd also like to get something in return.
It bothers me that the city has the power to make blanket decisions about the property of its citizens. It makes me a little mad that they have the power to just take a car that they've decided to take. Momma and I paid real money for that car. Her grandparents helped us out some, finding the car and helping us make a down payment, so they too have some investment in it. Momma's grandfather has a fair amount of sweat and even blood donated to that car in terms of repairs and repair help. Anyone who's done auto repair work knows that the gods of auto repair often require some sacrifice of blood, though why it must always come from the knuckles is the greater mystery.
So what's to be done? I sent a message to the National Kidney Foundation's local office a week ago and have yet to hear from them. I was completely honest in my description of the car. The body is in great shape as is the interior. Most of the engine that we actually still have is in great shape as is the transmission, though neither of those parts are currently in the car. They are in the garage taking up space I'd love to use for other purposes.
But Mr. Codes Man was exceedingly friendly, even when he was reminding me that we'd discussed this problem a year ago. I was under the impression then that the car at issue was the Subaru DL that we did get rid of around that same time. It was in sad condition in terms of body and interior, but it could easily have been made to run and is now gone. That one was not behind the house and was imminently more viewable by random passersby. Apparently both cars were a problem.
So what's to be done? It's doubtful that anyone accepting cars for donation would want this heap. It would cost them more to tow it and its parts than would be worthwhile I'm afraid. It would cost a good deal to replace the broken and missing parts, probably again more than the car would then be worth. Who the hell wants a 1990 Buick Skylark?
I thought I had a lead in selling the car for parts. That lead has had to take some time to visit his ailing father in Chattanooga, and I'm not willing to bother him about this issue right now. So I have seven days to either part with the car for whatever money I can get, hopefully including the engine parts and transmission, or I can find myself, seven days from today, watching the city tow truck haul away part of my problems, leaving me with worthless auto parts, large, cumbersome and not easily removed auto parts. They would willingly take my car and leave me with a greater problem because at least the engine parts are not out in the driveway. Maybe I should just drag the transmission into the driveway next week and let the tow truck driver figure out how to get the car out around it.
I'm sure a certain part of me understands that the city needs codes, needs to require a certain standard of its citizens. I wouldn't want to live next to some neighbors I've seen, porches overflowing with crap, grass allowed to grow wild, cars sitting for years on end rusting away to nothing. But such is not the case with me and my Buick POS.
The car is inoperable, and for anyone looking behind my house, it's probably something of an eyesore. But therein lies the clincher for me, that the car is in fact behind my house. It's not sitting on cement blocks in the front yard, though it is on jack stands. I'd love to be rid of it, but I'd also like to get something in return.
It bothers me that the city has the power to make blanket decisions about the property of its citizens. It makes me a little mad that they have the power to just take a car that they've decided to take. Momma and I paid real money for that car. Her grandparents helped us out some, finding the car and helping us make a down payment, so they too have some investment in it. Momma's grandfather has a fair amount of sweat and even blood donated to that car in terms of repairs and repair help. Anyone who's done auto repair work knows that the gods of auto repair often require some sacrifice of blood, though why it must always come from the knuckles is the greater mystery.
So what's to be done? I sent a message to the National Kidney Foundation's local office a week ago and have yet to hear from them. I was completely honest in my description of the car. The body is in great shape as is the interior. Most of the engine that we actually still have is in great shape as is the transmission, though neither of those parts are currently in the car. They are in the garage taking up space I'd love to use for other purposes.
But Mr. Codes Man was exceedingly friendly, even when he was reminding me that we'd discussed this problem a year ago. I was under the impression then that the car at issue was the Subaru DL that we did get rid of around that same time. It was in sad condition in terms of body and interior, but it could easily have been made to run and is now gone. That one was not behind the house and was imminently more viewable by random passersby. Apparently both cars were a problem.
So what's to be done? It's doubtful that anyone accepting cars for donation would want this heap. It would cost them more to tow it and its parts than would be worthwhile I'm afraid. It would cost a good deal to replace the broken and missing parts, probably again more than the car would then be worth. Who the hell wants a 1990 Buick Skylark?
I thought I had a lead in selling the car for parts. That lead has had to take some time to visit his ailing father in Chattanooga, and I'm not willing to bother him about this issue right now. So I have seven days to either part with the car for whatever money I can get, hopefully including the engine parts and transmission, or I can find myself, seven days from today, watching the city tow truck haul away part of my problems, leaving me with worthless auto parts, large, cumbersome and not easily removed auto parts. They would willingly take my car and leave me with a greater problem because at least the engine parts are not out in the driveway. Maybe I should just drag the transmission into the driveway next week and let the tow truck driver figure out how to get the car out around it.
eight o'clock
No, it isn't eight o'clock right now. It's actually almost ten, in the AM, and I've been up for nearly an hour. That might sound crazy to you, and it sounds a little crazy to me. I try like hell never to be up this early.
Lately, I have been trying to wake earlier. I feel I mostly just need to get in the habit. I'm of two minds about this. If I sleep too much then I awake tired, groggy and often prone to bouts of depression. I'm not sure why that is, but I've learned over time that it's true. If I awake too early, I start the day angry, almost excited about the prospect of shouting at someone. It goes away fairly quickly if I'm left alone, but that's a bit much to ask, and it's more than a bit presumptuous to expect with the boys around.
Of course, my being a bitch if I don't get the proper amount of sleep is not the point of this post. I'm a bitch in more ways than one, regardless of time awake or amount of sleep had.
I've discussed in recent posts Momma and I driving recently to Indianapolis. The night before we left we celebrated our anniversary with a fairly high priced meal followed by some high priced drinks. We also paid a number of bills on top of the three tanks of gas we used in driving to and from and around Indianapolis as well as eating out there. That's left a huge gap in our budget for which we've paid the last couple of weeks.
Some of the budget issues involved buying lesser products, and most of these were ignorable. We've been drinking Miller High Life for most of two weeks rather than indulge our usual beer snobbery. We even bought the cheap eggs when we ran out of the good kind. But the lowest blow by far came only a couple of nights ago. We needed coffee, and while we could have spent only slightly more, Momma decided to go with the Eight O'Clock brand. I could almost make up a god and curse his name that such a travesty exists. It's soooo disgusting, even to look at, the beans a uniform poo brown and also uniformly stale. This coffee was likely roasted weeks before it was packaged and then sat for another week or so in a warehouse. It almost makes me want to cry. It even smells bad.
We usually have our pick of coffees. Our local food co-op, home to overpriced items of all sorts, has a delightful assortment of coffees. The beans are, for the most part, roasted locally and are also very fresh. They still retain a lovely luster and sheen regardless of the amount of roasting. We prefer a dark roast, and the sale coffee at the co-op lately has been a perfect example of a great coffee.
Momma gets paid Friday, and the first thing I plan to do is pack a bag full of Yirgacheffe, fly home as fast as the ol' Honda will take me, throw straight to hell whatever unfortunate beans remain from the Eight O'Clock, and grind myself a good cup. Until then I will damn the crap coffee and lament our misfortune that overspending has heaped on our heads.
Lately, I have been trying to wake earlier. I feel I mostly just need to get in the habit. I'm of two minds about this. If I sleep too much then I awake tired, groggy and often prone to bouts of depression. I'm not sure why that is, but I've learned over time that it's true. If I awake too early, I start the day angry, almost excited about the prospect of shouting at someone. It goes away fairly quickly if I'm left alone, but that's a bit much to ask, and it's more than a bit presumptuous to expect with the boys around.
Of course, my being a bitch if I don't get the proper amount of sleep is not the point of this post. I'm a bitch in more ways than one, regardless of time awake or amount of sleep had.
I've discussed in recent posts Momma and I driving recently to Indianapolis. The night before we left we celebrated our anniversary with a fairly high priced meal followed by some high priced drinks. We also paid a number of bills on top of the three tanks of gas we used in driving to and from and around Indianapolis as well as eating out there. That's left a huge gap in our budget for which we've paid the last couple of weeks.
Some of the budget issues involved buying lesser products, and most of these were ignorable. We've been drinking Miller High Life for most of two weeks rather than indulge our usual beer snobbery. We even bought the cheap eggs when we ran out of the good kind. But the lowest blow by far came only a couple of nights ago. We needed coffee, and while we could have spent only slightly more, Momma decided to go with the Eight O'Clock brand. I could almost make up a god and curse his name that such a travesty exists. It's soooo disgusting, even to look at, the beans a uniform poo brown and also uniformly stale. This coffee was likely roasted weeks before it was packaged and then sat for another week or so in a warehouse. It almost makes me want to cry. It even smells bad.
We usually have our pick of coffees. Our local food co-op, home to overpriced items of all sorts, has a delightful assortment of coffees. The beans are, for the most part, roasted locally and are also very fresh. They still retain a lovely luster and sheen regardless of the amount of roasting. We prefer a dark roast, and the sale coffee at the co-op lately has been a perfect example of a great coffee.
Momma gets paid Friday, and the first thing I plan to do is pack a bag full of Yirgacheffe, fly home as fast as the ol' Honda will take me, throw straight to hell whatever unfortunate beans remain from the Eight O'Clock, and grind myself a good cup. Until then I will damn the crap coffee and lament our misfortune that overspending has heaped on our heads.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
boring post
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!
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!
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)