Stumbling down memory lane

I have started working again on a very old story. I first published this in several installments back in May 2011. You can go peruse the archives if you want more. It is very rough, and I wrote it entirely from stream of conciousness. I have not even corrected the grammar or spelling.

May 11, 2011

I stare at the paper plate full of rubbery Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. It is the sauce kind, not the skinny powder stuff. Nothing but the best for me! I am a little surprised to find myself eating. Usually, I drink my lunch. I feel a little sick.

Typical. The sick part anyway.  The food -- not so much.

The clock on the wall ticks an even staccato but the hands do not move. The battery has just enough juice to drive the little motor: tick, tick, tick, but not enough power to move the hands from a perpetual 9:23. AM, PM it does not really matter. Eventually it will tell the correct time.

I don't remember fixing the food. I have eaten some of it. An unnatural yellow smear marks the spot I scooped the pasta with my fork. The fork is clenched tightly in my right fist. Kraft cheese sauce coats my tongue. I give a little shudder and bile backs up in my mouth. I swallow it back down.

Real men don't puke. Even I have standards.

I see a bottle of beer on the table. There is also a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol next to it. I am more than a little confused. Alcohol weeds choke my brain.

I lift my chin from my chest. I must have blacked out for a minute. The fork is in my lap. The macaroni mocks me. The light is dim. Four of the six bulbs in the light over the table are burned out. The blinds are firmly closed.  I do not know if it is day or night. I feel like I am swaying in my chair. I reach for the beer, but it is just beyond my grasp.

"Not until you eat". I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and then search for the body that goes with the voice. I don't want beer anyway. I know that voice.

I am in that half-drunk half hungover state I deplore. Dee- plore. The word rattles around my throbbing skull. I try it out loud. "Deplore". I screw my eyebrows into what my mind thinks is a haughty sneer. I imagine my nose is a thin blade above an Errol Flynn mustache.  I purse my lips and try it again. "Deplore". The effort hurts.

"What did you say, Daddy?"

My little girl is here. I don't want her to see me like this. I gag and and dry heave a little trying to stifle it. I really do not want her to see me like this. Little girls should not see their parents all weak and helpless and pathetic. I am so ashamed.

Of course, she is not a little girl anymore. She has a house and family of her own. Me, I just have my place and a collection of empty liquor bottles thrown at the general direction of the trash can. I push the joystick on my chair.  Nothing happens.

"I unhooked the battery." she says.

 I tell her I need a real drink. She just stares me down. I tell her I have to piss. She tells me to eat.

I try to take one more bite of the Kraft Dinner. I throw it up down the front of my faded gray Cubs T-shirt. I want to cuss and swear.

Instead, I cry.

I close my eyes to stifle the tears. I see an image in my brain.  A tall cool glass with fruit and an umbrella. A beach drink. I breath deeply. I can almost taste the rum and juice and froth. I wish I had one in my hand now, only without the umbrella and fruit and juice and rum. A tall glass of sweet whiskey screams my name. I want it. I need it. Desire. I try that word out loud too.

 "Dee-zire".

Desire and deplore.  The cycle of my life.

A bit of everything

Etta James famously sung “At Last”, and that is exactly how I feel about the arrival of this promising Friday. The weather promises to be warm for November. The oldest granddaughter is out of school today so I think the wife is going to take the girls to the zoo.  Me,  I have to work. I may try to knock off early this afternoon. 

I had to get up early for a meeting yesterday morning. I was sitting in the old recliner in my office, sipping coffee, slowly starting my work day. Imagine my surprise to hear an owl hooting just outside. I think I know what has happened to the swarm of chipmunks and rabbits that used to live around here. Between the neighborhood fox and the owl, it is a dangerous place. Depending on the size of the owl, the three raccoons that were lined up at the patio door Sunday night may be a late night snack at some point. Isn’t an owl hoot outside your window a harbinger of death or disaster? 

We were looking at a store display of Christmas trees last night. One of the trees was flashing in crazy patterns of reds, greens and multi-colored lights. On and off, climbing up the tree, now one color now the next, sometimes the lights were white, sometimes steady for a few seconds in a crazy LED display. The wife stared for a moment and moved on to a stately tree with soft white lights. My wife is strictly  a white Christmas lights girl. She glanced back at the flashing light spectacular and laughed. “My mom would have loved that one”, she said.

She is right, my long-gone MIL loved flashing multicolored lights, one string blinking at a different rate than the next. She even had a revolving tree stand and loved to coat the tree in silver tinsel icicles. That is what makes Christmas decorating fun, we all have different tastes. 

It won’t be long before it is time to drag the stuff from the attic and spruce up the house into a Christmas wonderland, inside and out. The wife goes overboard, but the house always looks great, like a Hallmark movie house or a show place when she is done. 

I know all the words to this one

Peter Gunn was a Private Eye series that ran from 1958-1961first on NBC then on ABC. It was created by Blake Edwards and starred Craig Stephens. I can say I have never watched an episode. But I can state that the series had one terrific theme song. Written by a Henry Mancini (who often teamed up with Edwards), it is a Jazz and blues staple.

Even the Blues Brothers covered the tune;

On this date in 2016, in the early hours of the morning, the Cubs won the greatest baseball game ever played. 

The President caused it and hates the effects

I guess this stuff is too hard for the President. I’m not sure why, I am certainly no economist, I was a history major for goodness sake. 

Let’s say you own a business making little vases that allow you to wear flowers in your hair if you go to San Francisco. We have looked at this business model before. You decide that you have to make money and choose a paltry 2% profit margin. After costs, taxes, cost of goods sold, etc., you decide that all those costs equal $1. You set a sell price of $1.02. That means you will make two cents for every vase. 

Are you with me? That means if you sell 100 vases you made two dollars. 

Now imagine that because the government restricted the supply of raw materials, the cost of your vases went up to $2 each. You still want to make your lousy 2% margin, so you now charge $2.04 for each vase. 

If you sell 100 vases your profit will be $4. Your profit margin did not change. There was no windfall profit. Your percentage did not change. You just want to make the same percentage profit as before. 

Now we shall put another layer on the cake. What if no one traveled to San Francisco for a couple of years because of, let’s call it a pandemic. After restrictions are lifted everyone wants to go. Demand for you little vases doubles, even at the higher cost. Now you sold 200 vases. At the same profit margin, 2%, you now made a whopping $8. 

I ask again is this windfall profit or just capitalism at work? Should you take less profit because your costs went up or demand increased? Should you never earn more than $0.02 per vase? 

I’m just asking for a friend in the oil business.

A graveyard smash

 

The three year-old granddaughter drew this portrait of me Friday. You can embiggen for a better view including the yellow smile and accurate capturing of my baby blue eyes (a trait she shares). She explained the squiggly line is, and I quote; “the wrinkles on your forehead”. 

Yes, I feel old, why do you ask.

I went to the doctor this morning. He was less than happy about my A1c. I wasn’t happy either. I drowned my sorrow with a Twinkie on my way home.  

That’s a joke. 

Halloween is upon us. The grandgirls will be out dressed this evening. Me, I’ll be costumed as a grumpy old man. I fully expect visitors at the homestead to be less than a half-dozen. I’ve finally convinced the wife to buy candy accordingly. 

I fully expect you to limit your pranks to the harmless chucking of shelled corn or at worst a roll or two of toilet paper strewn across tree branches and bushes. No soaping windows or destruction please.

Strikes and spares

We got to hangout with the  grandgirls last night while their parents went to a Halloween party. We went bowling. What a great time. I can’t remember the last time I went bowling. 

When we were dating and first married the wife and I went often. There wasn’t much else to do in my little hometown. After we had kids they went some and we had some bowling birthday parties, but we were shepherding kids, not throwing balls. 

Oh yes, I sucked. I started off with a strike on the first frame and went downhill from there. It was a good time. Everyone got at least one strike or spare, even the three year-old. 

We had some pizza and the girls played some video games when we finished bowling. It was a fun night all around. 

Oh, heck yes my muscles were sore afterward.

I don’t understand

When did it become acceptable to wear pajamas and slippers and take a blanket to the movie theater? 

The cinema is not your living room. 

Besides, I thought you were supposed to just wear your pajamas to WalMart?

The Grim Reaper Finally Got Him

 

One of the greatest rock and roll entertainers ever. EVER.

Free Talking

Musk has completed his purchase of Twitter and promised to loosen the unofficial gag order the previous management put in place on political opinions they found unpleasant. I don’t use the platform and do not care. I think if you don’t like what I say here you can not bother to read. I never censor comments.* I think opening up twitter is a good thing. 

Don’t even start with the “we have to stop fake news” garbage either. The press has operated via fake news since the first printing press and via a myriad of other means since rumor started. Big time news sources from every side of the political pathways spews lies, half-truths, and bias. So do little ones. Even the tiniest of blogs, like this one, have a bias. If you think the NYTimes does not have an agenda I invite you to grow up. 

I am not aware of plans for the weekend. I am on a need-to-know basis, I guess. I am sure I won’t be going to a Halloween party. The semi-holiday has no appeal to me. 

That said, I offer up some sorta seasonal music for your Friday selection.

Enjoy your day.

* I deleted one comment (not talking about spam) several years ago that contained unbelievably hateful and ethnic smears.

I don’t give up easily

Memory is a funny thing. My brain tells me I watched My Three Sons during its original run (1960-1972).  I certainly was old enough to see it at the end of its run. It is far more likely my memories are of watching reruns in the seventies. During my formative years we had one TV and we watched whatever dad wanted to see (mom didn’t watch much TV). So if he liked MTS, then we watched it. I really don’t know. 

When I was maybe 12 or 13 I got a little 12” portable TV, so I could watch reruns and UHF stations with along with the three over-the-air channels we got normally. Of course it was black and white. 

My Three Sons starred Fred MacMurray as the widowed father of, you guessed it, three sons. Along with his uncle, who served as housekeeper, we saw the comedic adventures of everyday family life. It was pretty much standard sixties all-American sitcom fare. The show had two things going for it: a smoking hot Meredith MacRae as the girlfriend/wife of the oldest son, and a catchy theme song.

Biden goes Banking

 Did you hear what happened to President Biden at his local Bank last Friday in Delaware? He was going to do a photo op and went to grab some cash at the bank to buy lunch for himself and Delawares Governor. 

He walked in with Secret Service all around him and the beast and motorcade outside. He had a short chat and a few pictures with those in line, before approaching the teller he didn’t recognize. 

“Hello”, said President Biden to the teller with a pause. The tellers name was Julie and she was brand new, but said “Hello Mr. President!” after watching everything in the lobby. Biden handed her the slip for cash withdrawal and she looked up his account and got the cash in hand. She then just asked to see ID quick to verify his identity, before giving him the $100. Biden looked at her confused and she said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience sir, but it’s policy to verify and I’m new.”

President Biden looked to his left, then right and finally turned around and told the lead Secret Service Agent the issue. All of a sudden everyone in the immediate entourage was digging through their bags. One Secret Service Agent went to the beast and looked for Biden’s wallet and came up empty handed. After a few minutes things settled down and President Biden told the teller, “come on man” because this was getting embarrassing! 

Julie said, Mr. President, a few weeks ago this very same thing happened to Tiger Woods and he was able to verify his identity. He forgot his wallet at the house, but he had golf clubs and balls with him. He asked me that if he could putt the ball across the entire bank lobby going around a desk and hit a small spot near that door more than 30 ft. away would I believe it was him? I said of course, that’s something only you could do. Mr. Woods did as he said and he was on his way with his money! So, Mr. President is there anything you could do or show me to prove you are infact the President?”

Biden: Well, I don’t know, I’m clueless! 

Julie: Mr. President, you should’ve said so to begin with. Here you are! 

On Things

My voter registration may state otherwise, but I’ve not been a big R Republican for a very long time. I picture myself a solid conservative and that is something the national Republicans have not been for ages. What we have running things are liberals and not quite so liberals and really big spenders and not quite as big spenders.

Were I in charge, large very large banners would stretch across the wall in both Chambers of Congress that reads simply “That is not your money you are spending”.  In fact, I might require it to be tattooed on each elected officials’ forearm. 

I think every spending bill should have a line that clearly and specifically spells out how many dollars spent will cost each individual taxpayer. Imagine if your local Representative had to justify spending each and every $150 or $200 the Feds confiscated right off the top of your paycheck.

If I was listing big things that bother me, the riots/insurrection of January 6 would be far, far down on my list. It was a bunch of stupid people doing remarkably stupid things. I have no compassion for the fate of any of those who participated. I also think that if it was an insurrection, it was the most pathetic effort in history, ranking right up there with the hippies’ attempt to levitate the Pentagon back in the sixties. 

Don’t even get on about election deniers. Some of those most recently outraged claimed Bush and Trump were illegitimate Presidents and their elections were stolen. There were more rioters at Trumps’ inauguration four years previous. 

If you are one of those who equate January 6 as one of the worst days in American history than I invite you to peruse your local library history section. You might want to read about the riots of the sixties, Aaron Burr’s attempt at a western kingdom, the Whiskey Rebellion, Shay’s Rebellion, the Bonus Marches, John Brown’s Raid, the NY Draft Riots, and even the Black Lives/anarchist riots of the previous year. The Weathermen were more effective. Sorry, while I’m disgusted, I’m not appalled. Your opinion may vary. That is why it is opinion and we will have to agree to disagree. 

Trump lost the election. That doesn’t mean it is not reasonable to question that Biden’s margin of victory came for the most part from unvetted mail-in votes. Was there enough questionable stuff to overturn the election — I don’t think so, but again, read the whole opinion thing above. 

What I’m am tired of is bad choice and worse choice for every election. 

On that, I suspect,  we do agree. 

The classics are classics for a reason

 In the days of the Wild West, there was a young cowboy who wanted more than anything to be the greatest gunfighter in the world.

He practiced every minute of his spare time, but he knew that he wasn’t yet first-rate and that there must be something he was doing wrong.

Sitting in a saloon one Saturday night, he recognized an elderly man standing at the bar who in his day had the reputation of being the fastest gun in the West. The young cowboy took a place next to the old-timer, bought him a drink and told him the story of his great ambition. “Do you think you could give me some tips?” he asked.

The old man looked him up and down and said, “Well, for one thing, you’re wearing your gun too high. Tie the holster a little lower down on your leg.”

“Will that make me a better gunfighter?” asked the young man.

“Sure will,” replied the old-timer. The young man did as he was told, stood up, whipped out his 44 and shot the bow tie off the piano player.

“That’s terrific!” said the hot shot. “Got any more tips for me?”

“Yep,” said the old man. “Cut a notch out of your holster where the hammer hits it. That’ll give you a smoother draw.”

“Will that make me a better gunfighter?” asked the younger man. “You bet it will,” said the old-timer.

The young man took out his knife, cut the notch, stood up, drew his gun in a blur, then shot a cufflink off the piano player.

“Wow!” exclaimed the cowboy. “I’m learnin’ somethin’ here.. Got any more tips?”

The old man pointed to a large can in a corner of the saloon. “See that axle grease over there? Coat your gun with it.”

The young man went over to the can and smeared some of the grease on the barrel of his gun. “No,” said the old-timer, “I mean smear it all over the gun, handle and all.”

“Will that make me a better gunfighter?” asked the young man.

The Old Timer said , “No, but when Wyatt gets done playing the piano, he’s gonna shove that gun up your behind, and it won’t hurt as much if it’s all greased up.”

Down in old Madison

The wife awoke yesterday with a hoarse, yet almost recovered voice for the first time in 10 days. I was at about 80 percent. The day was was gorgeous, so I wrapped my neck in tie and the wife pulled on a dress and we headed to attend a wedding in deep southern Indiana at Clifty Falls State Park. The wedding was an outdoor affair overlooking the majestic Ohio River. It was a perfect mid-seventies, sunny late fall afternoon as the couple said their vows.

We have know the groom since the day he was born. He lived around the corner from us and the young man’s mother s one of my wife’s oldest friends. The groom is a few months older than my youngest and the boys grew up together. 

At the reception they did the dance thing where all of the married people take to the dance floor. Then couples are asked to leave in reverse order, starting with the newlyweds until only the longest-married couple remains. Lo and behold, as the DJ called for everyone married less than 35 years to leave, there were only two couples left: we and the grooms’ aunt and uncle. The other couple exited at 36 years. It was the wife and I left on the dance floor as the longest-married couple in attendance. As the crowd cheered, the wife looked deep in my eyes. She smiled and said “thirty-eight years, boy you are old”. Of course she laughed. 

It was good to see old friends and acquaintances. The wife talked and visited while I listened to the music. I had but one beer since we had a two hour drive back home. In all, it was a good time.

Hey little sister

I guess, based on views, the Thursday TV theme song feature is not popular. That doesn’t mean I will stop. Time, or next Thursday, will tell. 

He wife is still voiceless, but marginally better today. She has graduated from a slight whisper to a regular whisper. The doctor says time is the cure. They gave her codeine-laced cough syrup to stop her sporadic coughing since it is the cough that strained her throat. She hasn’t been able to speak for nine days now. Since everything is about me, it makes life pretty boring. 

I had a cold last weekend, and was better by Monday morning. Suddenly, in the overnight hours Wednesday/Thursday I started feeling miserable again. I don’t know if it was my Tuesday flu shot, or I recaught the weekend bug or what. I’m loaded on various forms of cold medicine to get through the day. I will be OK. No need to go into a prayer chain or anything.

We are supposed to go to a wedding Saturday. It is 50/50 if we grace our presence upon the assembly. No need to be superspreaders of any viral bug. Besides, if the wife can’t talk, there is no point. It’s not like I want to talk to any of those people.

Have a great Friday

Crockett and Tubbs

Never one to give up on a mediocre idea, I offer the next installment of Theme Song Thursday. No compilation would be complete without this classic:

 Miami Vice ran for five years on NBC - 1984-1989. It was must watching for the wife and I, young and just married and broke. We had our first two kids in that timeframe — which had nothing to do with Miami Vice.

Late to bed, early to rise

I crawled out of bed a little after 3AM this morning. Not to pee (not the prime reason anyway), not nightmares, not hunger, not insomnia, not illness. No, I had a conference call with a customer. It is hard to coordinate a time that is convenient for all attendees when one is in a China, one in France, and me, here in the good old USA. Admittedly, had I known the guy in France would beg off, I would have scheduled the meeting for nine or ten at night since China is 12 hours different in time from me. So it goes. 

When I start at 4AM, I can be done by noon. That is a win anytime. 

On Friday, we took a mini road trip back to the old home town and general environs. Cruising on a two-lane state highway, we saw a guy out putting up Christmas decorations. I love the holidays, but when you start decorating before Hallmark even launches the Christmas movie marathon extravaganza, then you are a bit premature. On the other hand, the big box has had their Christmas stuff out for several weeks. In ten years the early creep will come a full circle and decorations will sprout a month or six weeks prior to the holiday - only they will be almost a year in advance. Christmas decorations for 2035 will be out in November 2034. 

We had snow flurries Sunday night, so I guess we are heading to that time. 

For those of you trying to keep up, I don’t have an update on the wife’s inability to speak. She was still voiceless when I went to bed. No improvement at all. Baring a miraculous recovery when she gets up, she will be off to the doctor this morning. 

I guess break time is done. Back to work.

Have a great hump day. 

Left Speechless

Star log 53.27.6: We are on day 6, the wife still has no voice. I don’t mean in a woke kind of way; there is no patriarchy here at the homestead. I mean she cannot talk, her voice is but a very faint whisper. I called yesterday to make her doctor’s appointment. After a long conversation with the nurse, she is going in tomorrow if there is no improvement. After forty plus years with me I clearly leave her speechless. 

I feel like one of those sanctimonious jerks when we go to dinner. We went to her favorite Mexican food emporium last evening and I had to do the ordering. “She will have the...”. I hate those guys. My wife has her own voice. She can speak for herself. 

Well not right now.

From a selfish point of view, she’s pretty damn boring as a conversationalist these days.  

Is it petty to say I enjoy seeing Tom Brady lose his sh*t?

Life is always better when your sports team wins. That’s a fact. 

To the more important stuff, I’m feeling better. I know you are worried. The wife is still virtually voiceless, she can only speak with a faint whisper. She says she is feeling much better, she just cannot speak. 

Unfortunately, since the wife was sick the entire week, we didn’t get the carpets cleaned, we didn’t paint, we didn’t weed out some of the toys. Oh well, those projects will still be there tomorrow. 

Our family room couch is old and broken down. It’s springs are broken on one end and the lining is torn behind the cushions so stuff is always getting lost inside. It is pretty much what you would find in a college dorm room at this point. It needs replaced. 

The wife started looking at sofas last summer. Of course we were in no position to buy one then, I was transitioning from the big box to the short-lived insurance gig at that time. Catching up the bills and the mortgage was priority numero uno. She found the sofa she wanted, but we had to wait. 

On my day off Friday we spent part of the day couch shopping (hooray for me). The store had the sofa she liked last year back in stock. The price had almost doubled. Thanks Bidenflation. 

Did you know when the government calculates inflation it does not consider gas or food? Imagine what the economy would look like if those commodities that most affect or wallets were included.

The downside to taking a vacation day is the work you didn’t do still needs done. At this point I have fifty plus emails I need to deal with. The normal Monday load will continue to arrive. Time to work instead of goofing around on the blog.

Enjoy your Monday.

Maybe a true story

A brunette bowling ball walked into Portillo’s wearing a sports bra and yoga pants, every thread of which was crying out in tensile pain. Her face was made up like a stripper working the Tuesday morning shift. You know she got ready, looked in the mirror and decided “I look hot”. You know there were tattoos.

Sorry, feeling mean in my writing today.

"I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine"

 I was going to trot  out a rerun today, but opted for this instead. Don’t thank me. The retread post was probably more entertaining than this dreck is likely to be.

I broke down and turned on the furnace yesterday morning for a few hours. It was 63 inside when I  got up. I was sitting on the couch freezing a decided it was crazy to shiver in a house with a perfectly good furnace. It is chilly this morning too, but I can live with 67. It looks like I’ll only save on gas for a few more days as sub-freezing weather and highs in the forties are in the forecast this week. 

If cars ran on snot I would be as rich as the sheiks of OPEC. Near constant nasal drip has left my nose irritated and sore from constant blowing and wiping. So far I have avoided for the most part the hacking cough the wife has. The wife has had complete and total laryngitis for two days now. She can only talk at a whisper. 

You might be saying “that’s great”. I will admit it makes for a long boring day when you cannot have even the most mundane conversations. Of course her situation allows me to launch into long diatribes, bad jokes, and historical dissertation without  her telling me “I don’t care” or rolling her eyes. It is just like living the old blog in real life. Imagine that! 

For those of you missing a music post yesterday I offer this ear worm. Have a great Saturday :

New and Improved Blogging! Now with Bonus Features!!

The granddaughters have been sick off and on for a month. The youngest one has been especially hard hit. The wife started feeling bad last week and is pretty sick now with bronchitis. Guess what? I am up early, with a sore throat, runny nose, headache. Thanks girls. I have no doubt that by the time the weekend rolls around I will be hacking and coughing just like the rest. The only difference is I will be way sicker than the girls ever were. In fact, I’m certain the average person would be checked into a hospital if they are as sick as I expect to be. I will tough it out as an exemplar of manliness. 

I was scheduled to get a flu shot today. If I don’t feel better by noon, I’ll cancel that. No point in putting more germs in my body. 

Looking ahead it appears a spate of cold will move in next week with sub-freezing overnight lows and forties in the daytime. Sigh. It is that time of year, I guess. It will not be long until I’m writing about Christmas decorations. 

It has come to my attention you want more features here on the blog. After careful consideration I have decided to give in to your whims. I have long stood fast in my refusal to let readers dictate content, but this one time Kay, I will discuss my blog business. 

I have decided to add a new feature — Theme Song Thursday. I will go back in time and post the great theme songs of TV shows from yesteryear. 

At least for this week. I may forget all about this easy content filler great idea by next week. Here is one of the best to kick things off:

At least it is not Tuesday

The wife is off “work” this week. The granddaughters are on fall break and they have skipped off to the beach. I wish I was at the beach...

Unfortunately, the wife is also sick. A rough case of bronchitis has her hacking and coughing. I know she feels miserable. She woke me in the night coughing and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Now I will be groggy for my monthly sales meeting call; an event that nearly puts me to sleep when I get a full night’s rest, let alone when I get up at four in the morning. I did get caught up on House of Dragon, so there is that. I ain’t mad at the wife , she cannot help being sick. 

Yesterday, as I finished off work, I thought I’d enjoy the nice fall weather and retire to the patio to read a bit while the wife was at the doctor (see above). I no sooner sat down and it started raining. So it goes, I moved in to the couch with my Kindle. It looks like a gloomy, rainy day is on tap for today. 

I took Friday off, hoping we could do something for a long weekend. It doesn’t look like that will happen. The bank is a bit low on Monopoly money right now. The wife has hinted about painting the family room/kitchen instead. Yay. 

A quick check of the clock confirms it is well past noon in Germany. I need to fire up the work computer and prompt my Prussian colleagues  to respond to Big Customer who has asked for answers for more than a week. I hate that a big part of my job is making sure other people do theirs. 

Suburban Moon

 

I took this picture Sunday night when I went outside to put a bag of garbage in the bin. I suppose it has the proper seasonal mood. I really wanted to get a picture of the big full hunter’s moon, but the limitations of the iPhone camera fuzzed the shot when I tried to zoom in. I think the end result of the non-zoom image framed between my house and the hard maple made for a better shot anyway. Or not. Art is in the viewers’ eye.  

If I ever write the great American novel I have decided I am going to call it Suburban Moon. I don’t care if the title matches the story or not. I just like the sound of it. It’s not like titles have ever matched content on the old blog, why should it in other aspects? Anyway, don’t steal my half-thought out title. 

It probably won’t matter if you do steal it. I won’t write the great American novel, and it is even more likely I will forget about the title “Suburban Moon” long before I get the first chapter done even if I tried to write a book. Truth be told, I will forget that title before tomorrow most likely. 

another great one is gone

I did not post nor read blogs this weekend. A mini-break as it were. It is with great sadness I discover this morning that Denny Wilson, The Grouchy Old Cripple, has passed on. GOC was the first blog I ever read, I don’t remember how I ended there or from what search. I started reading him every day. A year or so later when I started my blog he was very kind. He sent me a crippleanche early on, boosting my readership. I will miss reading his blog. The world is a little less enjoyable today. RIP.

A drunk pretending to be a poet

I stayed up and watched what might have been the worst football game I have ever seen. What garbage. If the Colts weren’t playing, I would have turned it off. 

Say, did you hear about the Italian chef who died? 

He pasta way.

Yeah, I’m tired and I have a lot of work to do. 

Tip of the fedora to Cappy who went back in time to 2006 to comment on a post about the worst President ever with a vote for Biden. 

Enjoy your Friday.

* the title is how a Rolling Stone editor described the Doors’ Morrison

Battling Biden, he learned to fight in a tough Puerto Rican gang called the Sharks

It was just a few weeks ago that President Biden leaped at the chance to take credit for reduced gas prices. And while they remained higher than we have seen in years, he only focused on the fact they were lower than the historic highs we saw back in the late spring/early summer. 

Since he brought down those prices — his claim — isn’t he therefore responsible for the recent hikes as well? 

Did you hear old Joe bragging on a hot mic in Florida yesterday that “you don’t fuck with a Biden”? I suppose that is true except for OPEC, Afghanistan Taliban, Russia, the Saudis, plagiarism checkers, Joe Manchin, Republicans, SCOTUS...

I bet Dr. Jill says “Oh, shut up Joe” about ten times a week. Biden reminds me of this old guy:

What a blowhard. 

deliberate disdain

As I stayed with my dad in his last days the TV was tuned 24/7 to the Grit channel. Westerns played loud and always as he dozed in his recliner. Interspersed at very frequent intervals were commercials for ambulance chasing lawyers and Medicare hustlers. 

The commercials starring Joe Namath especially irritated Dad. Every time Broadway Joe came on dad would mutter “ I hate that son of a bitch. I’m so tired of his commercial.”

I knock off work around five. My wife has taken the littlest granddaughter home to greet the oldest as she gets off the school bus. I pick up the toys that litter the family room and watch a couple of episodes of the old police drama Adam-12. Just like the western channel, the oldies channel is paid for with commercials from ambulance chasing lawyers and lots and lots of Medicare commercials from that son of a bitch Joe Namath. I understand why my dad hated his commercials so much. 

Just call to check your zip code my ass. 

Extreme navel gazing

It is a chilly 37F outside this morning.it is a far more comfortable 69F inside. I suspect I will have to break down and consider turning on the heat by the end of the week as daytime highs are expected in the mid-fifties. Coupled with nighttime’s in the thirties, the house will not retain enough warmth to keep the wife from complaining she’s cold. The crabapple is starting to drop a few leaves and the hard maple is starting to turn. Fall is upon us. I’m not ready. The holidays are not far off. 

I need to decide if I want to do another foot surgery or live with it. Unless I am on my feet for long periods  I can manage the low level pain. I do walk with a slight limp. I sometimes wonder if it is habit or necessity. I rarely have swelling anymore. Much depends on what shoes I wear. 

It isn’t the surgery that bothers me. That’s no big deal, even if the doc re-breaks or reconstructs my foot. It is the eight weeks of recovery. Long John Silvering it around with no weight on my foot at all has no appeal. Crawling up the stairs, crutches, scooters, one-legged showers, no driving,wholly dependent on my wife - that has me reconsidering. Even going to pee in the middle of the night becomes an ordeal as I navigate on crutches. A little limp doesn’t seem so bad. I know, boo hoo, boo hoo. 

Yes,I know my problems are small, my complaints large, my worries insignificant. Most people in the world face a life far, far more difficult than my little foot pain in suburbia. I am blessed beyond measure.

Have a great Tuesday. 

Mundane Monday Musings

I suppose I should post something. The ghost of Acidman is frowning at me. He admonished me to post something every day. 

Mom always told me if I could not say anything nice, I should not say anything at all.

I’ve pretty much ignored that advise. 

I’ve always ignored a lot of advise. 

You have to be sixteen most places to drive. Seventeen in most states to marry. You have to be 21 to buy a beer. All because minors cannot make adult decisions. Somehow we are letting pre-teens and teenagers decide they need hormone blockers and sex change surgery? 

I wish I could report a busy, exciting weekend. I cannot. I mowed the yard Saturday. Does that count? 

My actual dinner plate

I fixed beef and noodles and mashed potatoes for dinner last night. 

The Colts are a bad football team.

The Cubs are a bad baseball team. 

The youngest granddaughter makes me smile every day.

do the math

Today marks my youngest boys’ 29th birthday. He was playing Little League when I started this blog. I wish him the happiest of days. 

Longtime readers know what is next. I wish my oldest son / middle child a happy birthday tomorrow. Yes, the boys’ birthdays are a day apart. Their sister’s birthday was two weeks ago. 

The Christmas/New Years holidays have always been good at my house.

Did you see Biden calling out for a dead Congresswoman yesterday? Where are those “experts” who claimed Trump had mental issues and needed to be removed via a 25th Amendment process? Chirp, chirp. 

It was a cold night last night. Time to get the blankets out for the bed. I will resist turning on the heat as long as possible. Too many nights in the thirties will chill the house quickly though. 

How about some old Midwest classic rock today?

Have a Good Friday.

After School Special

One day a 12-year-old boy was walking down the street when a car pulled up beside him and the driver lowered a window.

“I’ll give you a large bag of M&Ms if you get in the car,” said the driver.

“No way! Get lost!” replied the boy.

“How about a bag of M&Ms and 10 dollars?” the driver asked.

“I said no way,” replied the boy.

“What about a bag of M&Ms and 50 dollars?” asked the driver.

“No, I’m not getting in the car,” answered the boy.

“Okay, I’ll give you a bag of M&Ms and 100 dollars,” the driver offered.

“No!” replied the boy. “What will it take to get you in the car?” asked the driver.

The boy replied: “Listen, Dad: You bought the Prius, live with it!”

Come to Vegas, leave with the Clap

The state of California is putting up billboards in Indiana inviting Hoosiers to come to California — to get abortions. 

Is abortion tourism a thing? 

No matter where you fall on the abortion spectrum, I would hope it is not something you would promote or encourage, rather it was a tough medical procedure taken after careful consideration. Somehow “Come to California, kill a Baby” is just unseemly. 

Butt Punt and other things

I am sure psychologists have written reams on why we feel better when our sports teams eek out a victory, even an ugly one. I am not going to delve into an internet search. I just don’t care that much. I doubt you do either. If you happen to be interested, Google it yourself. I am merely glad my sports team won. 

I watched the Colts game via a recording last evening. It is nearly impossible to avoid hearing the score, but it did not lesson my enjoyment of the game. The good news is if you watch the game on record, you can skip the commercials and the halftime show. Partial win for me.

This was the funniest thing in the NFL yesterday:

We had a great weekend. I outlined the plans in Saturday’s post. Now I need a bonus weekend to recover from my real weekend. 

Now it is time for Monday. Have a great day.

Like the proverbial beaver

We are heading off late this afternoon for a cruise. No, not on giant ship see the Caribbean kind, a boat cruise and concert on Lake a Freeman in north central Indiana.  This evening we will see venerable Hoosier rocker from the 70s and 80s Henry Lee Summer. You might remember we saw old Henry Lee last summer at a free concert in downtown Fishers, IN. I’m sure I posted about it. 

We have seen Henry Lee more times than we can count. He had a hit record in 1988 with I Wish I Had a Girl. Summer is probably one of the best entertainers I have ever seen on stage. Humor, energy, talent — he brings it all, even as he pushes 70. I expect a good time.

Tomorrow, I promised the wife I would go with her to the Atlanta Earth Festival. I always have a semi-good time walking around the booths and stalls. It is interesting when several thousand suburbanites decent on a small town of a few hundred. The vendors will far outnumber the residents. 

Have a great weekend. I plan on it.

no muskrats were harmed in creating this post

I had a strange dream about my great grandmother and my dad. I won’t relate it here, other people’s dreams are non-sensical. I have had weird dreams all week. That is unusual in itself as I usually do not dream or at least remember them if I do. Shrug. 

I’m up early this morning. Whatever. You don’t care about that either. In fact, based on my page views, you don’t care about much that I post these days. I suppose the blame falls upon me. Content is my purview. It certainly isn’t your problem. 

It is that life has become monotonous. Not in a boring way. I work, I read I watch TV. The small variety is blurred by the utter sameness. Sure, every day is different, but not individually distinctive. I’m not bored. It is just that so little of my current life is remarkable. 

I like my job. It has changed, post-pandemic. There are lots of on-line meetings, far less windshield time. Sometimes I miss the nights in new cities, different hotels, the sights along the highways. Then I think there is a lot to be said for being home every night. I have driven over a million miles. I have flown about one thousand flights. I’ve been to a hundred different airports. I’ve spent more nights than I can count in various hotels. 

Even that volume became monotonous over time. 

Frankly, I am boring. I am not bored, just boring. No wonder my blog is too. 

Actually, I have plenty I could rant about. The world has become such a corrupt, messed up place. I have become  the quintessential out of step “boomer”. Raging against the idiocy and head scratching millennial world is like Don Quixote and his windmills. For instance, if you fail to see why giving kids puberty-blockers while they still eagerly anticipate Santa on Christmas is wrong, then there is really no conversation possible between us. There is no point in preaching to the choir every day.

Maybe I should tell you about this dream I had about my great grandmother...

Hello Fall

Temps were in the low nineties yesterday. Today we are going to have highs in the sixties. Hello fall. Glancing across the cul-de-sac, the neighbors’ maple tree is suddenly showing signs of color in the upper foliage. 

I’m OK with it. 

It doesn’t matter if I am or not, Mother Nature does what she wants. Kind of like my wife does. 

The big question before me today is lunch. We have white bread. We have Kraft American slices. I have the ingredients for the only real grilled cheese. Maybe. I might do with PBJ. Decisions, decisions. 

Once I get lunch figured out, I will have to think about supper..

If wishes were horses we would all ride

 I’ve been to Mexico. I’m talking real Mexico, not just the tourist beaches. I’m talking of Reynosa, Monterrey, Puebla, Mexico City. I’ve seen how poor some people are, how difficult their lives. I’ve seen how people live in some parts of China. I’m told by people who have been there that’s parts of South America, India, and the Middle East are worse. I imagine life in parts of Africa is hard and miserable. 

I get it. I wish we could help them all. If I lived in those conditions I would do everything in my power to improve the lot of my family. 

It doesn’t make it right. 

The fact they are looking for a better life doesn’t mean we should open our borders. Before you tell me what a jerk I am, let me know how many homeless people you let move into your spare bedroom? How many immigrants have you housed in your garage? 

What is the difference? 

Immigration proponents argue that migrants actually commit fewer crimes than American Citizens. I posit that is false on the surface. Every single one committed a crime when they illegally crossed the border. That is 100%. 

I’ve said it before, crack down on the employers of illegal workers. Fine them out of business. Tax bank and wire transactions to Mexico. If any “migrant”  is caught committing a SECOND crime, even a traffic ticket, immediate deportation upon conviction. 

Anyone caught using a stolen SSN should be charged with fraud, just as an American citizen would be. The IRS could do this easily enough. Maybe some of those new 80000 new agents could get on creating that database.

Learn something today

 I know you don’t read links. 

You should read this one. READ THIS

I cannot argue a single point. 

I doubt you can either.

Easy fruit salad

 Happy Monday. I was up mucho early for a meeting with the Euros and Asians. Since things were arranged for their convenience, that meant the alarm was chirping at 3:30 am so I could blink awake and sip a bit of coffee prior to the 4:00 start. I will knock off early this afternoon in compensation this afternoon. 

The weekend was good, I hope yours was too. Friday night we watched the grandgirls while the daughter had a grown-up birthday dinner. Saturday we hung out at the pool, laughing and enjoying the company of great friends. Then came Sunday. I mowed the yard early. I put stuff in the attic and dragged down the fall/Halloween decorations as directed by the wife. Then I watched the absolutely horrid, pathetic, putrid, embarrassing performance by the Colts. I could have switched over and watched the Cubs, but they are pretty much just as awful. Did I say just how awful the Colts were? 

We went out for a quick dinner then I helped the wife put out decorations on the porch as dusk started to settle. 

But hey, I read this morning President Biden says inflation is under control, the border is secure and the check is in the mail. I want some of whatever his speech writer is smoking. 

I am fighting off the yawns. Maybe I need some more coffee. 

Have a great Monday.

Relaxin’

 

Smoke the days’s last cigarette

Happy Friday. It has been a long week. Actually, it has lasted as long as every other week, it just seems like a longer week than normal. 

It is hilarious to see the reactions of Blue cities and states on the arrival of a few “migrants”, aka illegal immigrants. Southern states are facing an onslaught of 8,000/day and the Governor of Massachusetts is going nuts over a dozen or so dropped in Martha’s Vineyard. Does the leftist hypocrisy bring no shame? 

I got up early to compile numbers into spreadsheets for a meeting with top management in just a bit. 

In other news, nothing. How about I grab the old phone and post the next song in my queue?  Think of it as musical Russian Roulette.

Looks like we win today.

Have a great Friday.

Lemmings

Can someone, anyone, explain to me how we are going to get the power to charge all of these tens of thousands of new charges Biden is planning for all of the electric cars the lefty government types are forcing upon us? 

I see no plans at all to strengthen the grid to the extent we need to keep up with current demand as we shutter coal plants, let alone increasing demand exponentially.

If we cover the entire Midwest farm land with solar panels, where are we going to get our food?

To the surprise of no one who bought groceries, inflation rose again last month

Dense fog blankets the neighborhood as I nestle in the office recliner. I woke a little after four AM, and after tossing and turning I stumbled down to the kitchen, fired up the coffee maker, and started the day. I read work emails from overnight, personal emails (all junk), and the normal morning first reads. Those internet stops include a daily Bible verse, Dilbert, Kim DuToit, and a couple of news sites. Now I have turned to the old blog. 

I have a TV in the office. I rarely turn it on. About once every few weeks the granddaughter comes in while I’m at work and sits in the recliner and watches kids shows. This lasts about ten minutes before she is dragging in toys and begging to spin in my office chair. That said, I have the morning news playing quietly as I type. I will shut it off before I start the work day in earnest.

Warm weather is in the forecast for the weekend with the temps pushing 90F. We have been invited to go hang out at our friends’ pool on Saturday if the nice weather holds. Those same plans have been canceled due to weather the past few times we were invited. As autumn gains momentum this could’ve one of the last days relaxing around the pool with friends, beer, and nice cigars.

I may try to get in a little nap before the work day starts. I have an online monthly sales meeting this morning. The affair is a snoozer even when I have a whole night’s sleep. It will be a challenge this morning with just a few hours sleep. 

I hope you got a good night’s rest. The soporific tone of this post blog will work like a good melatonin supplement.

As I have often opined, you get what you pay for.

Today is my baby girl’s birthday. She may be thirty-something and a mom herself, but she will always be that little girl with pigtails in her hair to me. 

Update:  The queen is still dead. Can we back off the coverage a little?

I think this was my wife

 After their barn burned down,

Bob’s wife Sally called their insurance agent to file a claim and demand the amount the barn was insured for, $60,000.

“Hold on just a second there, that’s not the way it works. First, we’ll send out an adjuster to assess the damage, then we’ll provide you with a replacement barn, just like the original,” stated the agent.

After a lengthy pause, Sally replied,

“What! Well, if that’s the way it works, cancel the life insurance on my husband immediately.”

Lesson Learned

 One Saturday evening a teenage girl came downstairs for her date and she was wearing a see-through blouse and no bra.

Her grandmother, on seeing her dressed like that, threw a right old fit, telling her that she looked like a slut and not to dare to go out dressed like that!

The teenager told her grandmother:

“Loosen up Grams. These are modern times. You gotta let your rosebuds show!”

And with that, out she went and slammed the door behind her.

The next day, the teenager came down the stairs and was shocked to find her grandmother sitting in the living room with no top on.

The teenager was so embarrassed that she wanted to die.

She explained to her grandmother that she had friends coming over and that the way she was dressed was just not appropriate.

Her grandmother said:

“Loosen up, Sweetie. If you can show off your rosebuds, then I can display my hanging baskets.!”

Maybe underhanded slow pitch is the answer

I suppose there is something incongruous in penning a rant about baseball when I am eagerly anticipating the general start of the NFL season this afternoon. Football replaced baseball as the National Pastime long ago. I’m sure social scientists have mused on the topic somewhere, but the easy reason is football is much better suited for TV. Period. There is nothing baseball can do about it. That is what makes the recent spate of rule changes so senseless. 

In the past few years baseball has tinkered with everything from how managers manage the pitchers to extra inning rules. I’m sorry to tell you baseball, none of this will help. None of your efforts to speed up the game are going to draw in the millennials. Baseball is a slow game. You like it or you don’t. Golf isn’t constantly fidgeting with its rules. Soccer plays an hour with no scoring. Somehow people watch it. 

It was bad enough when they instituted a universal DH (spit). Then they added the stupid “ghost man” on second for extra inning games. They are eliminating the two leagues for all practical purposes (next year every team will play against each other regardless of league). Now we are enlarging bases, putting in a pitch clock, limiting pick off attempts, and designating where players must position themselves on defense.  If we are going to turn baseball into small “L” little league, why don’t we just increase offense like they do for beginners in baseball — get two strikes and we drag out the tee to make it easier to hit the ball. 

All these tweaks and changes are just driving off the die-hard fans who love the game. Want to fix baseball? Figure out how to keep teams from tanking in order to not pay players. Fans will watch competitive games. Twenty-five teams that are competitive is far more interesting than watching the same ten franchises win year after year.

Divide that TV revenue based on win percentage and you would see teams like the Royals, Reds, Pirates, and yes, the Cubs, start to try and win again. 

*yes I’m aware it is the anniversary of 9/11. I’ll never forget. I’ve said enough words over the two plus decades about it. I hope you don’t need me to remind you.

Random Ramblings

The Queen has died. May she Rest In Peace. I don’t know if she was a good person or not. Her progeny and descendants seem like a bunch of privileged dolts. As for the monarchy, I think we threw them out for good reason. But hey, if the Brits want a king or queen, what do I care? My taxes don’t support their lifestyle. All know is if I ever chance meet the King (or Pope), no one better expect me to kneel or bow or even mutter an insincere “Your Grace”. It won’t happen. Charles is just a man born into the lucky sperm club. 

We went to dinner with the youngest’ new girlfriend last night. At some point she mentioned she loves to mess with the boy’s hair (eww). My wife pointed out that I don’t like my hair touched and added “he doesn’t like to be touched at all”. The boy nodded. Fifteen minutes or so later, as we left the restaurant, the new girlfriend proceeded to hug me. I crossed my arms when she hugged my wife before she reached for me, but apparently the new girl is not fluent in body language. I guess she doesn’t listen either. 

The Biden Administration is trying to walk back the despicable characterization of half the country as semi-fascist and a threat to democracy, instead saying that applied only to election deniers. Except those Democrats that denied Bush won, or refused to certify Trump, or called Trump illegitimate, or never conceded the Georgia gubernatorial election....

The Buffalo Bills sure look very, very good.

I hope Bloggers’ spotty counting metrics were nonfunctional again yesterday. I hate to think only eleven of you read my post yesterday. That’s a 26% decrease over my normal fifteen readers. 

Probably you just want more Friday Music:

Me one, ants nothing

My wife gets that eyes glazed look whenever I talk about history. I am not surprised most of you do as well. It is OK. Numbers don’t lie, you like me to rant about politics. Unfortunately, that is one of my least favorite subjects these days. 

I am floored by the strangeness of the world, and I’m not just talking about the liberal’s vision of a perfect society. For instance I noticed a big black spot on the drive as I drug my garbage can to the curb Tuesday afternoon. “Is that oil?”, I wondered. 

Why no, as I got closer I saw it was a moving, undulating teeming herd of ants swarming along the expansion joint of the concrete. No big deal, says you. Well here is the flock of ants compared to my size tens. Three minutes later after a massive coating of bug juice, the mass was no longer swarming, nor moving at all. Take that. Later, I blew them away with the leaf blower. I win.

 

the setting

The shallow valley ran east to west. A road bisected it running north. Three farms were spread in the valley. The chateau  Hougoumont on the west, la Haye-Saint in the center at the foot of the gentle northern slope, right next to the road. To the east lie a scattering of farm buildings called Papelotte . A large elm stood at the top of the northern slope beside the road. The distance from Hougoumont to Papelotte was about 2.5 miles. The valley was around 3/4 mile wide.  By the end of the day, the valley would be filled with the equivalent population of Salt Lake City. 

Beside the road at the center of the southern ridge stood a white ramshackle inn called La Belle Alliance. (aside: I once stayed in a hotel of the same name in Tours, France. Not he same place). 

The southern slope led to a flat plateau. The northern escarpment  was more of a gentle ridge, an east-west track ran behind it. In the northern distance was a thick wood and a scattering of houses called Mont Saint-Jean. Just a bit further north, about a mile away, lie the village of Waterloo.

Part Two - The Cast: whenever I feel like it.

Stolen Shamelessly

We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. Most of my school clothes and supplies were hand-me-downs. My calculator was missing the multiplication button.

Times were hard.

No rights were trampled in the name of the State

The weekend has been a sorta rainy bust. The threat of rain canceled the pool party, but we did get together with our friends for some catfish and euchre. 

Yesterday I accompanied the wife to the mall in afternoon. She shopped, I walked around and sat on a bench listening to music on my ear buds. After a quick hamburger (I actually had a salad) we went to the movies. We saw Bullet Train. I will leave no review beyond one star out of five possible. Pay the ticket price at your own peril. The popcorn was good though.

Today? Who knows? I’m not the social director. More rain is predicted. Will we get it? Who knows, rain was forecasted hourly both Saturday and Sunday. It didn’t happen. I suppose we will clean house. It needs it. 

Welcome to my boring fascist life. 

How about some music?

Have a great Labor Day

firing up the way back machine.

I’ve often described I had a baby face and looked far younger than my years for decades. Only in the past few years do I look my age (perhaps even older). 

Sorry, gone. you should read here every day

Here is 14 year-old me in the fall of my freshman year in high school. I could have passed for a 10 year old. For some reason this is one of my favorite pictures of young me. Despite the assumed scowl, the real sarcastic me was about to erupt in wry humor. Trust me. I found much of life amusing in those years. 

My thick wavy hair didn’t lend itself to the styles of 1976, yet I am certain I was probably wearing bell bottoms of moderate flair. 

Since this was my freshman year, I can guess I was about 5’3 or so and weighed right at 100 lbs.. So no, I wasn’t a ninety-eight pound weakling. 

Had any girl spoken to me I would have turned six shades of red. 

I wasn’t one of the cool kids. I wasn’t a nerd/ loser either. I just was. 

this and that and the other thing

It is with a little reluctance that I step away from the rancor of politics today. I have a point I want to make about the current state of things, but I will hold off until next week. Today is the start of the Labor Day weekend. If the weather cooperates, a borderline proposition, we will head off for a pool day today. 

Since the chances of rain increase on the morrow, I think I will try to get the yard mowed this morning. At this point we have no other plans for the weekend. I might smoke some ribs, depending on the rain situation. I do have a very special post already canned and ready for Sunday. You won’t want to miss it. 

No, it is not the account of the Battle of Waterloo I considered. You are welcome.

I have a 3am conference call on the calendar for Monday. These things happen when you have global account responsibilities for customers. This one is pretty much German engineers talking to Chinese engineers so my contributions to the discussion will be nil. I may just skip it. We shall see.

That is the boring stuff of my life. I think I’ll catch up on last week’s House of Dragon before I fire up the lawnmower. 

Enjoy your Saturday.

straight out of the 1930s

Under a backdrop of menacing red lighting and US Marines the President gave a purely political speech where he threatened half of Americans that they better get with his leftist political program or else. The military component was far less than subtle. Just  like telling us we need F-15s if we are going to oppose him earlier this week.

He has labeled me a fascist. A threat to democracy. The irony is so deep. It wasn’t two minutes of hate, it was twenty. 

I thought Biden was going to unite the country? Instead he has denigrated 70 million Americans.

I won’t bother with the Brandon chant. It’s gone too far.

Fuck Joe Biden.

You get what you vote for, or stupid is as stupid does

Liberal stupidity doesn’t stop in California, ultra blue Hawaii is also deep into the Climate Cult:

But critics say that, while ending the state’s dirtiest source of energy is ultimately a good move, doing so now is not. Renewable sources meant to replace coal energy are not yet online because of permitting delays, contract issues and pandemic-related supply-chain problems. So the state will instead burn costlier oil, which is only slightly less polluting than coal. 

If you are a believer that climate change is going to end because we shut down this coal plant, this is a great day for you,” said Democratic state Sen. Glenn Wakai, chair of the Committee on Economic Development, Tourism and Technology. “But if you pay an electricity bill, this is a disastrous day for you.” Source

Sure, we cannot replace that coal fired plant, but we did something. 

Sheesh.  

only Liberals can be this stupid

California voted earlier this week to ban the sale of gasoline powered vehicles by 2035.

The next day the State asked all residents to save power by setting thermostats to 78F and to avoid charging electric cars between 4-9pm because demand could cause a strain on the grid and possible brown outs and rotating power outages. 

Words fail me.

mind numbing boredom

A light rain fell as we ate our supper of biscuits and sausage gravy. After I cleaned the dishes I dragged the garbage bin to the curb. Heavy clouds darkened the northern sky. Thunder rumbled as I plopped on the couch to surf the channels. I have two hundred and fifty channels and there was nothing on. Later in the evening a heavy rain overflowed the gutters on the back of the house. The gutter is too small for that much steep roof. All it takes is money to fix the problem. Around nine my phone started its nightly routine — binging alerts of incoming work emails. The Chinese work day was in full swing for customers and manufacturing. The soft ping would continue intermittently all night long. A quick glance at the screen let me know if the email could wait until morning or needed a response now. I chose to answer one from Very Big Customer. No big deal, two minutes of time from a show I wasn’t really watching anyway. My Kindle was on the couch beside me, but I never turned it on. Rain fell. Time moved. The TV flickered it’s color images of flat people doing stuff. The wife sat next to me after hanging up laundry. A bowl of fresh popped popcorn appeared. I ate a little, not really hungry. I mumbled answers to trivia questions from the worst game show on TV. My phone dinged. Rain fell. I shuffled to the kitchen and poured out pills from various bottles and swallowed them in one handful. I turned off the late local news. I climbed the stairs. Thunder boomed. Rain still fell. I rolled into bed. My phoned dinged. The wife shut off the light. Another day done.

jerks everywhere

I like animals. I like dogs, I like cats. We had a menagerie of pets when I was a kid, including multiple dogs, cats, turtles, and a chipmunk. All at once.

My next statement will likely annoy some of my readers. Dogs do not belong in a restaurant. Period. They especially do not belong in the booth with you.

What is wrong with this man?

This was the scene that greeted us as we walked into a local deli for a late lunch yesterday. 

When the guy left he carried the dog in his arms like a baby. The whole thing was unnecessary. Just like the people who insist on taking their dogs to Lowes or Home Depot, it is nothing more than a narcissistic shout of “look at me”. 

I will go further, if you cannot face the pressure of going to a restaurant without your pseudo comfort animal I would suggest Door Dash was created just for you. 

I’m torn between just venting here or contacting the Board of Health. After all, it is not the business’s fault the patron is a jerk (he was hidden from the counter). 

If you are this guy, then I hold you in total disdain. But then I’m sure you don’t care what I, or anyone else thinks, you proven that by letting your dog slobber all over a table where the next people might sit to eat.