Wednesday, December 10, 2008
REVISITING THE NETHER-LANDS
[From my friend Dennis comes this bit of Internet folk wisdom. It’s especially apropos because I will be going in for my next scheduled Inspection of the Nether-Lands in just a few short weeks...]
A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his (predominantly male) patients while he was performing their colonoscopies:
What a month! Eye exam today, Brown-Eye Exam on the 30th. Oofah!
A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his (predominantly male) patients while he was performing their colonoscopies:
- “Take it easy, Doc. You’re boldly going where no man has gone before!”
- “Find Amelia Earhart yet?”
- “Can you hear me NOW?”
- “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”
- “You know, in Arkansas, we’re now legally married.”
- “Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?”
- “You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...”
- “Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!”
- “If your hand doesn’t fit, you must quit!”
- “Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.”
- “You used to be an executive at Enron, didn’t you?”
- “God, now I know why I am not gay.”
- “Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?”
- “Am I gonna leave a vapor trail?”
What a month! Eye exam today, Brown-Eye Exam on the 30th. Oofah!
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
MAD DETECTIVE SKILLZ
We were out at dinner yesterday evening with our friends M. and S. and the topic of discussion shifted over, briefly, to the extensive remodeling work they are having done in their home.
“Extensive” does not, perhaps, do their project justice, since they are spending more on it than we did on our entire house. But when they are done, they will have a showplace.
Apparently, in the process of doing some work at the margins of the property – tearing out a fence, or some such task – their contractors discovered an old cache of empty liquor bottles. The supervisor speculated was that M. and S.’s kids and their friends may have been engaging in a little illicit partying, once upon a time, after which they buried the evidence at the edge of the yard where it wouldn’t be discovered.
There were several problems with this theory, the biggest one being that M. and S.’s kids never lived in that house – they were all on their own or away at college by the time it was purchased about ten years ago. “Did the neighbors have teenage kids?” asked the supervisor. Unlikely, answered S. – the neighbors on that side of the property were in their seventies, and no teenagers lived in any of the nearby houses.
Well, then, perhaps it was workmen, offered the supervisor. Maybe from when the pool was put in. He then dropped the subject, evidently getting tired of trying to figure out a plausible explanation for the Backyard Bottles.
She Who Must Be Obeyed had her own ideas. No, the culprits were not workmen, nor were they teenagers. The empties – all Crown Royal 1.75 liter bottles – were not what you’d expect a day laborer or high school kid in search of a boozy high to buy. Too big...and way too expensive.
No, what we were probably seeing was the hastily hidden evidence from an alcoholic homeowner – a previous owner or a neighbor, perhaps - who did not want the spouse discovering his or her quiet addiction. My guess would be the wife. Imagine her, living a life of suburban desperation, drowning her misery and rage in a sea of fine Canadian whiskey, then burying the empties in the back yard in a well-hidden spot before attacking the Listerine and waiting for hubby at the front door with a happy smile and glazed eyes.
A look at the actual bottles would help confirm the timeline, using clues such as label design, price tags, and the presence or absence of tax stamps. But, alas, the contractors tossed them out with the trash.
Ya gotta give the Missus props for her Mad Detective Skillz, though, eh?
“Extensive” does not, perhaps, do their project justice, since they are spending more on it than we did on our entire house. But when they are done, they will have a showplace.
Apparently, in the process of doing some work at the margins of the property – tearing out a fence, or some such task – their contractors discovered an old cache of empty liquor bottles. The supervisor speculated was that M. and S.’s kids and their friends may have been engaging in a little illicit partying, once upon a time, after which they buried the evidence at the edge of the yard where it wouldn’t be discovered.
There were several problems with this theory, the biggest one being that M. and S.’s kids never lived in that house – they were all on their own or away at college by the time it was purchased about ten years ago. “Did the neighbors have teenage kids?” asked the supervisor. Unlikely, answered S. – the neighbors on that side of the property were in their seventies, and no teenagers lived in any of the nearby houses.
Well, then, perhaps it was workmen, offered the supervisor. Maybe from when the pool was put in. He then dropped the subject, evidently getting tired of trying to figure out a plausible explanation for the Backyard Bottles.
She Who Must Be Obeyed had her own ideas. No, the culprits were not workmen, nor were they teenagers. The empties – all Crown Royal 1.75 liter bottles – were not what you’d expect a day laborer or high school kid in search of a boozy high to buy. Too big...and way too expensive.
No, what we were probably seeing was the hastily hidden evidence from an alcoholic homeowner – a previous owner or a neighbor, perhaps - who did not want the spouse discovering his or her quiet addiction. My guess would be the wife. Imagine her, living a life of suburban desperation, drowning her misery and rage in a sea of fine Canadian whiskey, then burying the empties in the back yard in a well-hidden spot before attacking the Listerine and waiting for hubby at the front door with a happy smile and glazed eyes.
A look at the actual bottles would help confirm the timeline, using clues such as label design, price tags, and the presence or absence of tax stamps. But, alas, the contractors tossed them out with the trash.
Ya gotta give the Missus props for her Mad Detective Skillz, though, eh?
Sunday, December 07, 2008
OBSOLESCENCE
This we all know: As time passes, new technologies replace old.
When I was of Snot-Nose age, I would watch “Lassie” on TV and marvel at the old-fashioned telephones. Why, they didn’t even have a dial! Now, the only evidence that telephones even had dials once upon a time is the verb we use: We still talk of dialing a telephone even though dials have gone the way of the buggy-whip.
What astonishes me - when I bother to think about it - is the number of technologies that were the Next New ’n’ Exciting Thing when they appeared within my lifetime, and that are now dusty relics. Some examples:
The Instamatic camera. Before Kodak’s easy-to-load Instamatic cameras appeared were unveiled in 1964, you loaded a camera by sticking a roll of film or a 35mm cassette in the back and threading the film through the camera and onto a take-up roll. But with the Instamatic, you just dropped a cartridge in and snapped the camera back closed. No switching rolls from spindle to spindle, no rewinding, no manual dexterity or thinking required. So what if the cameras were cheap pieces of crap that took blurry snapshots? They were easy to use. Now, the Instamatic is as obsolete as any other film camera in the Digital Age.
Flashcubes and flashbars. If you wanted to take flash pictures back in the day, you’d stick a flashbulb into the socket of your flashgun, then try not to burn the crap out of your fingers removing the hot, burnt-out bulb. One bulb was good for one shot...and once in a while, a bulb would explode, showering hot glass on your Aunt Tillie. Electronic flashes were expensive, the provenance of the Serious Photographer. And then along came the flashcube, four bulbs mounted in a cube that plugged into a socket atop your (what else?) Instamatic camera. You could take four shots in quick succession before having to change out the cube...and later, the flashbar would give you a half-dozen shots. Now, who uses flashbulbs? Who remembers flashbulbs?
Videodiscs. Pioneer’s Laservision discs made their debut in 1980, followed by RCA’s CED (Capacitance Electronic Disc) system a year later. The Laserdisc was an LP-size platter (the audio LP being yet another obsolete technology, albeit one that was around before I was born) that eventually evolved into today’s DVD; the RCA discs were analog platters that, like audio LP’s, were played with a needle, but that had video encoded in them. The extremely delicate discs were encased in a plastic sleeve so that you never touched (or even saw) the actual disc itself when inserting it into the player. We owned an RCA system back in the early 1980’s, along with a pile of movies. Videocassettes killed off the RCA discs by 1986...and now they, too, are on their way out.
Eight-track audio cassettes. Need I say more?
Digital watches with red LED readouts. When these came out - in the early 1970’s, I believe, they seemed hella cool. But you had to push a button to make the numbers appear. Liquid-crystal displays killed this technology off.
Floppy discs. Remember them? I still have a pile of them, but there’s no point in keeping them because not a single computer in the house is equipped with a floppy disc reader. The hard-case 3½" floppy - the most popular format - appeared in 1984 and originally could hold 720 kB of data when formatted. One modern double-layer DVD can hold 8.55 GB - equivalent to 11,875 of those floppies. Of course, the entire field of Electronic Computational Engines is strewn with technologies that appeared, blossomed, withered, and crumbled to dust, seemingly within moments.
Beepers. I knew a guy who used to carry not just one, but two beepers...he had Beep Waiting. (Harh.) With cellphones and PDA’s as ubiquitous as they are today, there’s not much point in owning a device that someone would call in order to tell you to call him back. But that is exactly what the pocket pager is for. Of course, finding a pay telephone (another technology that is rapidly becoming obsolescent) with which to make that call may be problematic. Pagers are still around as they are more reliable than cell phones, especially in times of disaster...but their use is increasingly confined to emergency personnel.
I could go on and on. So many New Things have come along, only to end up on the dust-heap of history. You probably remember a few of your own. But who knew that we would see so many of them...and years later, wonder what happened to them?
When I was of Snot-Nose age, I would watch “Lassie” on TV and marvel at the old-fashioned telephones. Why, they didn’t even have a dial! Now, the only evidence that telephones even had dials once upon a time is the verb we use: We still talk of dialing a telephone even though dials have gone the way of the buggy-whip.
What astonishes me - when I bother to think about it - is the number of technologies that were the Next New ’n’ Exciting Thing when they appeared within my lifetime, and that are now dusty relics. Some examples:
The Instamatic camera. Before Kodak’s easy-to-load Instamatic cameras appeared were unveiled in 1964, you loaded a camera by sticking a roll of film or a 35mm cassette in the back and threading the film through the camera and onto a take-up roll. But with the Instamatic, you just dropped a cartridge in and snapped the camera back closed. No switching rolls from spindle to spindle, no rewinding, no manual dexterity or thinking required. So what if the cameras were cheap pieces of crap that took blurry snapshots? They were easy to use. Now, the Instamatic is as obsolete as any other film camera in the Digital Age.
Flashcubes and flashbars. If you wanted to take flash pictures back in the day, you’d stick a flashbulb into the socket of your flashgun, then try not to burn the crap out of your fingers removing the hot, burnt-out bulb. One bulb was good for one shot...and once in a while, a bulb would explode, showering hot glass on your Aunt Tillie. Electronic flashes were expensive, the provenance of the Serious Photographer. And then along came the flashcube, four bulbs mounted in a cube that plugged into a socket atop your (what else?) Instamatic camera. You could take four shots in quick succession before having to change out the cube...and later, the flashbar would give you a half-dozen shots. Now, who uses flashbulbs? Who remembers flashbulbs?
Videodiscs. Pioneer’s Laservision discs made their debut in 1980, followed by RCA’s CED (Capacitance Electronic Disc) system a year later. The Laserdisc was an LP-size platter (the audio LP being yet another obsolete technology, albeit one that was around before I was born) that eventually evolved into today’s DVD; the RCA discs were analog platters that, like audio LP’s, were played with a needle, but that had video encoded in them. The extremely delicate discs were encased in a plastic sleeve so that you never touched (or even saw) the actual disc itself when inserting it into the player. We owned an RCA system back in the early 1980’s, along with a pile of movies. Videocassettes killed off the RCA discs by 1986...and now they, too, are on their way out.
Eight-track audio cassettes. Need I say more?
Digital watches with red LED readouts. When these came out - in the early 1970’s, I believe, they seemed hella cool. But you had to push a button to make the numbers appear. Liquid-crystal displays killed this technology off.
Floppy discs. Remember them? I still have a pile of them, but there’s no point in keeping them because not a single computer in the house is equipped with a floppy disc reader. The hard-case 3½" floppy - the most popular format - appeared in 1984 and originally could hold 720 kB of data when formatted. One modern double-layer DVD can hold 8.55 GB - equivalent to 11,875 of those floppies. Of course, the entire field of Electronic Computational Engines is strewn with technologies that appeared, blossomed, withered, and crumbled to dust, seemingly within moments.
Beepers. I knew a guy who used to carry not just one, but two beepers...he had Beep Waiting. (Harh.) With cellphones and PDA’s as ubiquitous as they are today, there’s not much point in owning a device that someone would call in order to tell you to call him back. But that is exactly what the pocket pager is for. Of course, finding a pay telephone (another technology that is rapidly becoming obsolescent) with which to make that call may be problematic. Pagers are still around as they are more reliable than cell phones, especially in times of disaster...but their use is increasingly confined to emergency personnel.
I could go on and on. So many New Things have come along, only to end up on the dust-heap of history. You probably remember a few of your own. But who knew that we would see so many of them...and years later, wonder what happened to them?
DECEMBER GUILD EVENT
This evening, there will be a lot of Drinky Business at the Club Room at 1010 Midtown. Yes - it’s the December Guild Event!
Traditionally (not that I am in any way an expert on Guild tradition), the December event is a Champagne tasting. This one will be light on the food - mostly a bunch of fancy-pants hors d’oeuvres - so as not to detract and distract us from the Fizzy Wines.
Will Denny be there? Anybody’s guess, but my money is on “Yes”...and both Houston Steve and I will (space permitting) be joined by our Spousal Units, a first!
Here’s the Wine List:
Speaker’s wine
Domaine Carneros Brut 2004
1st Flight
Gloria Ferrer Blanc de Blancs 2004
Kluge SP Blanc de Blanc Brut 2004
Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc Brut 2005***
2nd Flight
Lanson Rosé Brut NV
Ruinart Rosé Brut NV
Moët & Chandon Rosé Nectar Imperial NV
3rd Flight
Bollinger “Vintage” 2003***
Moët & Chandon “Dom Perignon” 2000****
Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin “La Grand Dame” 1998****
Dessert
Banfi Rosa Regale Brachetto d’Acqui 2007***
There will be food as well, an assortment of lah-di-dah Hors d’Oeuvres, to wit:
[Update: My favorites are highlighted with *asterisks.]
Hey, not to mess with the Highly Cultured Tone around here, but anyone know what you call a Fizzy French Wine Enema?
Traditionally (not that I am in any way an expert on Guild tradition), the December event is a Champagne tasting. This one will be light on the food - mostly a bunch of fancy-pants hors d’oeuvres - so as not to detract and distract us from the Fizzy Wines.
Will Denny be there? Anybody’s guess, but my money is on “Yes”...and both Houston Steve and I will (space permitting) be joined by our Spousal Units, a first!
Here’s the Wine List:
Speaker’s wine
Domaine Carneros Brut 2004
1st Flight
Gloria Ferrer Blanc de Blancs 2004
Kluge SP Blanc de Blanc Brut 2004
Schramsberg Blanc de Blanc Brut 2005***
2nd Flight
Lanson Rosé Brut NV
Ruinart Rosé Brut NV
Moët & Chandon Rosé Nectar Imperial NV
3rd Flight
Bollinger “Vintage” 2003***
Moët & Chandon “Dom Perignon” 2000****
Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin “La Grand Dame” 1998****
Dessert
Banfi Rosa Regale Brachetto d’Acqui 2007***
There will be food as well, an assortment of lah-di-dah Hors d’Oeuvres, to wit:
- Smoked salmon on hickory ham flavored crostini with Meyer lemon and tarragon yogurt
- Caviar on crisp fingerling potatoes with crême fraiche and wild chive
- Brie with toasted almonds on Sardinian flat bread
- Hand-cut smoked duck ravioli with sage brown butter and Parmesan
- Seared diver scallops with curry cream sauce
[Update: My favorites are highlighted with *asterisks.]
Hey, not to mess with the Highly Cultured Tone around here, but anyone know what you call a Fizzy French Wine Enema?
A Champagne in the Ass!
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Friday, December 05, 2008
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN
Friday? Friday? How did it get to be Friday so soon?
This week has seemingly flown by; the Holiday Season proceedeth apace. Right now, Chez Elisson is reverberating to the pounding of the Tile Guy, who is preparing our master bathroom for its brand-spanking-new tile floor. At the very least, it should make it easier to clean up those miscellaneous spatters of makeup, toothpaste, toenail clippings, earwax chunks, and Gawd knows what else. I hate to think of all the crap that has been trodden into that carpet after all the years we’ve lived here...
But you didn’t come here looking for Tales of Earwax and Carpet. You came here looking for the weekly Random Assortment of Music as disgorged by the Little White Choon-Box. And, so, let’s have a listen...
This week has seemingly flown by; the Holiday Season proceedeth apace. Right now, Chez Elisson is reverberating to the pounding of the Tile Guy, who is preparing our master bathroom for its brand-spanking-new tile floor. At the very least, it should make it easier to clean up those miscellaneous spatters of makeup, toothpaste, toenail clippings, earwax chunks, and Gawd knows what else. I hate to think of all the crap that has been trodden into that carpet after all the years we’ve lived here...
But you didn’t come here looking for Tales of Earwax and Carpet. You came here looking for the weekly Random Assortment of Music as disgorged by the Little White Choon-Box. And, so, let’s have a listen...
- Ballad of Bilbo Baggins - Leonard Nimoy
Created when Nimoy was riding the crest of his Star Trek fame in 1967, and when Lord of the Rings was being rediscovered by the Love Generation. The resulting tune is such a monumental Clusterfuck of Personal Mortification, I’m surprised Nimoy hasn’t slit his wrists knowing it’s out there on YouTube for everyone to snicker at. - Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (from Bach Cantata #1 47) - Wendy Carlos
- The Contest - Stephen Sondheim, Sweeney Todd
- Organic Love - Moonraker
- Eminence Front (live) - The Who
- Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life) - Green Day
- Blackbird/Yesterday - The Beatles
From the “Love” mashup album. - The Twelve Inches (with Tom Waits) - Frank Zappa
Frank Zappa and Tom Waits. Gotta love it! - Neon Meate Dream of a Octafish - Captain Beefheart
Captain Beefheart is, of course, Don van Vliet, a longtime Zappa associate. This piece of dadaist dub poetry is from the good Captain’s “Trout Mask Replica” album, one of the strangest pieces of vinyl ever created.
Lucid tentacles test ’n’ sleeved
’n’ joined ’n’ jointed jade pointed
Diamond back patterns
Neon meate dream of a octafish
Artifact on rose petals
’n’ flesh petals ’n’ pots
Fack ’n’ feast ’n’ tubes tubs bulbs
In jest incest injest injust in feast incest
’n’ specks ’n’ speckled speckled
Speckled speculation
Fedlocks waddlin’ feast
Archaic faces frenzy
Ceramic fists artificial deceased
’n’ cysts rancid buds burst
Dank drum ’n’ dung dust
Meate rose ’n’ hairs
Meaty meate rose ’n’ hairs
Meaty dream wet meate
Limp damp rows
Peeled ’n’ felt fields ’n’ belts
Impaled on ’n’ daemon
Mucus mules
Twot trot tra la tra la
Tra la tra la tra la
Whale bone fields ’n’ belts
Whale bone farmhouse
Cavorts girdled ’n’ latters uh lite
Cavorts girdled ’n’ latters uh lite
Uh dipped amidst
Squirmin’ serum ’n’ semen ’n’ syrup ’n’ semen
’n’ serum
Stirrupped in syrup
Neon meate dream of a octafish - Brazilian Stomp - George Benson and Earl Klugh
INTERESTING BUT USELESS
From Houston Steve comes this collection of interesting (but useless) information:
Women reading this will be finished now.
Men who read this are probably still busy checking their thumbs...
- It takes your food seven seconds to get from your mouth to your stomach.
- One human hair can support 3 kg (6 lb).
- The average man’s penis is three times the length of his thumb.
- Human thighbones are stronger than concrete.
- A woman’s heart beats faster than a man's.
- There are about one trillion bacteria on each of your feet.
- Women blink twice as often as men.
- The average person’s skin weighs twice as much as his or her brain.
- Your body uses 300 muscles to balance itself when you are standing still.
- If saliva cannot dissolve something, you cannot taste it.
Women reading this will be finished now.
Men who read this are probably still busy checking their thumbs...
FUZZY FRIDAY
The animals, they all remember
How cold it gets in mid-December;
But on the Ark, assorted fauna
Gather ’round the hearth, where it is warma.
Friday Ark #220 sets sail this morning, ably captained, as always, by Steve, the redoubtable Modulator.
For those in search of an additional Kitty-Fix, drop by Mind of Mog Sunday evening for the 247th edition of Carnival of the Cats. Purrs for Pearl Harbor Day!
Update: CotC #247 is up.
How cold it gets in mid-December;
But on the Ark, assorted fauna
Gather ’round the hearth, where it is warma.
Friday Ark #220 sets sail this morning, ably captained, as always, by Steve, the redoubtable Modulator.
For those in search of an additional Kitty-Fix, drop by Mind of Mog Sunday evening for the 247th edition of Carnival of the Cats. Purrs for Pearl Harbor Day!
Update: CotC #247 is up.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
DO THE (HIC) MATH
Riddle me this: At the Big New Booze Shoppe, a 750 ml bottle of Rémy Martin VSOP Cognac costs $28.99. A one-liter bottle of the same Cognac costs $64.99, more than twice as much for only 33.3% more drink.
How stupid do you have to be to buy this stuff in liter bottles?
[Giant Economy Size, my aching ass.]
How stupid do you have to be to buy this stuff in liter bottles?
[Giant Economy Size, my aching ass.]
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
A HOLIDAY TRADITION
One of our revered traditions here at Chez Elisson is that one known as “The Disposal of the Carcass.” For after we have eaten our fill of the Meat of the Turkey - in all its happy disguises - we have a frame of bones, gristle, and meat that must be dealt with.
Generally, what I will do is take a cleaver and hack the Turkey-Skeleton into manageable chunks. If there are any wings or legs left I’ll strip them of their meat and throw the bones in the Stock-Pot, along with a chopped-up yellow onion, a mashed clove of garlic, a couple of sliced carrots and celery stalks, some parsley stems, a bay leaf, and a few whole peppercorns. I add water to cover, then bring the pot up to a gentle simmer and just let it sit for a few hours, skimming the surface occasionally.
This Turkey Stock, once it is strained and cooled, is full of gelatin and rich flavor. It’s a fine base for all sorts of good things. Soup, f’r instance.
All you do is take any remaining turkey meat, cut it into cubes, and add it to the stock, along with a diced-up yellow onion, a sliced carrot, one minced garlic clove, a 12-ounce bag of split peas, and about six ounces of pearled barley. (Be sure to pick through and rinse the peas and barley before adding it to your soup, lest your bridgework encounter a stone.) Mushrooms? Up to you. I didn’t use ’em this time.
Simmer for a few hours. When the split peas have begun to disintegrate, it’s done. Add salt and pepper to taste...and a healthy dollop of fino sherry, if you like, and serve it forth. It’s traditional!
Generally, what I will do is take a cleaver and hack the Turkey-Skeleton into manageable chunks. If there are any wings or legs left I’ll strip them of their meat and throw the bones in the Stock-Pot, along with a chopped-up yellow onion, a mashed clove of garlic, a couple of sliced carrots and celery stalks, some parsley stems, a bay leaf, and a few whole peppercorns. I add water to cover, then bring the pot up to a gentle simmer and just let it sit for a few hours, skimming the surface occasionally.
This Turkey Stock, once it is strained and cooled, is full of gelatin and rich flavor. It’s a fine base for all sorts of good things. Soup, f’r instance.
All you do is take any remaining turkey meat, cut it into cubes, and add it to the stock, along with a diced-up yellow onion, a sliced carrot, one minced garlic clove, a 12-ounce bag of split peas, and about six ounces of pearled barley. (Be sure to pick through and rinse the peas and barley before adding it to your soup, lest your bridgework encounter a stone.) Mushrooms? Up to you. I didn’t use ’em this time.
Simmer for a few hours. When the split peas have begun to disintegrate, it’s done. Add salt and pepper to taste...and a healthy dollop of fino sherry, if you like, and serve it forth. It’s traditional!
GIVING BIRTH
Gawd.
Now I have a vague idea of how it feels to be pregnant. Over this past week, I’ve been growing a serious Food-Baby...and soon it will be time to give birth.
I’'m hoping for an eight-pounder, at least.
Now I have a vague idea of how it feels to be pregnant. Over this past week, I’ve been growing a serious Food-Baby...and soon it will be time to give birth.
I’'m hoping for an eight-pounder, at least.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
OUR PERIPATETIC ELDER DAUGHTER...
...is, as I write this, on her way to South Africa for a two-week Bidnis Trip. She’ll be dividing her time between Johannesburg and Cape Town, and, at the recommendation of her Corporate Salt-Mine Overseers, she’ll be throwing in some vacation time as well.
Sweet.
Elder Daughter lives hundreds of miles away from us, so we are used to her not being under our roof...but there is another layer of Daughter-Missage when we know she is really far away. We will both rest a lot easier once she is back on familiar shores.
In the last eighteen months, she has been to Mexico, Egypt, Morocco, Uganda, and, of course, Japan. Now that she can add South Africa to the list, she is well on her way to out-traveling her Old Man.
Godspeed, Elder Daughter. While you’re there, try to remember that a “bra” is something you wear, and a “braai” is something you eat.
Sweet.
Elder Daughter lives hundreds of miles away from us, so we are used to her not being under our roof...but there is another layer of Daughter-Missage when we know she is really far away. We will both rest a lot easier once she is back on familiar shores.
In the last eighteen months, she has been to Mexico, Egypt, Morocco, Uganda, and, of course, Japan. Now that she can add South Africa to the list, she is well on her way to out-traveling her Old Man.
Godspeed, Elder Daughter. While you’re there, try to remember that a “bra” is something you wear, and a “braai” is something you eat.
JUST A SLIGHT LEXICAL ADJUSTMENT
From the Fox News website:
Indian police have heard the first full account of what led up to the devastating attacks in Mumbai from the only asshole captured alive, who told authorities that he was ordered to kill “until the last breath,” the U.K.’s Daily Mail newspaper reported Sunday.
Azam Amir Kasab, 21, the only asshole to survive a raid by Indian commandos, told authorities that the attacks included 10 assholes in a heavily orchestrated plan devised six months ago, that hoped to kill 5,000 people — targeting mostly “whites, preferably Americans and British,” the Mail reported.
Kasab was captured after being shot in the hand by police in south Mumbai on Wednesday night, the Sunday Times of London reported. A policeman and one other terrorist were killed in the same encounter.
Kasab was captured after being shot in the hand by police in a standoff near Chowpatty beach, a popular evening destination for local families, in south Bombay, also known as Mumbai, on Wednesday night. A policeman and one other asshole were killed in the same encounter.
The assholes reportedly posed as students during a visit to Mumbai a month ago, to familiarize themselves with the city’s roads and to film the “strike locations.”
Kasab confessed to being a member of the Pakistani asshole group Lashkar-e-Taiba, a Pakistani motherfucker group believed to be connected to Al Shithead.
Perhaps it would be helpful if news agencies adopted a new lexicon when dealing with events such as the recent attackes in Mumbai. To call these people “militants,” “gunmen,” or “fighters” gives them an undeserved legitimacy...and even the term “terrorist” is losing some of its stigma in a world grown numb to the most atrocious of acts.
So let’s start calling them what they really are, these cowards who kill innocent civilians.
They are assholes. Twats. Motherfuckers. Shitheads.
Indian police have heard the first full account of what led up to the devastating attacks in Mumbai from the only asshole captured alive, who told authorities that he was ordered to kill “until the last breath,” the U.K.’s Daily Mail newspaper reported Sunday.
Azam Amir Kasab, 21, the only asshole to survive a raid by Indian commandos, told authorities that the attacks included 10 assholes in a heavily orchestrated plan devised six months ago, that hoped to kill 5,000 people — targeting mostly “whites, preferably Americans and British,” the Mail reported.
Kasab was captured after being shot in the hand by police in south Mumbai on Wednesday night, the Sunday Times of London reported. A policeman and one other terrorist were killed in the same encounter.
Kasab was captured after being shot in the hand by police in a standoff near Chowpatty beach, a popular evening destination for local families, in south Bombay, also known as Mumbai, on Wednesday night. A policeman and one other asshole were killed in the same encounter.
The assholes reportedly posed as students during a visit to Mumbai a month ago, to familiarize themselves with the city’s roads and to film the “strike locations.”
Kasab confessed to being a member of the Pakistani asshole group Lashkar-e-Taiba, a Pakistani motherfucker group believed to be connected to Al Shithead.
Perhaps it would be helpful if news agencies adopted a new lexicon when dealing with events such as the recent attackes in Mumbai. To call these people “militants,” “gunmen,” or “fighters” gives them an undeserved legitimacy...and even the term “terrorist” is losing some of its stigma in a world grown numb to the most atrocious of acts.
So let’s start calling them what they really are, these cowards who kill innocent civilians.
They are assholes. Twats. Motherfuckers. Shitheads.
THE PERVERSE ACCOUNTANT
Did you hear about the perverse accountant? He was auditing a veterinarian’s practice, and they had to fire him from his job...
...when they caught him with his hand in the kitty.
Monday, December 01, 2008
UNDERFOOT
I wish that my room had a floor;
I don’t care so much for a door,
But this walking around
Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore!
- Gelett Burgess
[Here’s a piece of useless trivia for you: Gelett Burgess coined the word “blurb” in 1907.]
The Missus and I need wish no longer. Soon our room will have a floor. Actually, our whole frickin’ house will have new floors.
The main driver for this project is the need to replace our carpet, which is showing major signs of age. It also does not help that Hakuna likes to scratch and chew the margins, resulting in a lot of places where bare carpet backing is visible.
The Missus is willing to bet that Hakuna will not molest a new, properly installed carpet. We’ll see. If I catch her scratching any spots on the new carpet, we’ll simply have to exile her to the sunroom - which has a hardwood floor.
As long as we’re replacing the old carpet, we’ll also correct a couple of things that have driven us nuts for the past ten years (And it’s a short drive.)
For one thing, except for the area right around the toilet, our master bathroom is carpeted. This is insane, considering the potential for stainage from things like makeup spills...not to mention the moist environment. Tile is the way to go...and that is what we’ll be installing.
Another thing is the dining room. For some completely mysterious reason, the builder installed hardwood in the living room/office and carpeted the dining room, the exact opposite of the way any rational human being would arrange things. The Missus suspects that the flooring contractors simply screwed the pooch, and that nobody cared at the time since the house was built on spec. So you have a room in which the carpet is especially vulnerable to damage from spills, ground-in food, et al.
Not any more. We’re hardwoodin’ that sumbitch, and we’ll stick an area rug under the dining room table.
When those new floors arrive, first thing I’m gonna do is take off my shoes and walk around barefoot, digging my toes into that nice, new pile and feeling that cushy padding. No. Second thing. First thing will be to wash my feet.
I don’t care so much for a door,
But this walking around
Without touching the ground
Is getting to be quite a bore!
- Gelett Burgess
[Here’s a piece of useless trivia for you: Gelett Burgess coined the word “blurb” in 1907.]
The Missus and I need wish no longer. Soon our room will have a floor. Actually, our whole frickin’ house will have new floors.
The main driver for this project is the need to replace our carpet, which is showing major signs of age. It also does not help that Hakuna likes to scratch and chew the margins, resulting in a lot of places where bare carpet backing is visible.
The Missus is willing to bet that Hakuna will not molest a new, properly installed carpet. We’ll see. If I catch her scratching any spots on the new carpet, we’ll simply have to exile her to the sunroom - which has a hardwood floor.
As long as we’re replacing the old carpet, we’ll also correct a couple of things that have driven us nuts for the past ten years (And it’s a short drive.)
For one thing, except for the area right around the toilet, our master bathroom is carpeted. This is insane, considering the potential for stainage from things like makeup spills...not to mention the moist environment. Tile is the way to go...and that is what we’ll be installing.
Another thing is the dining room. For some completely mysterious reason, the builder installed hardwood in the living room/office and carpeted the dining room, the exact opposite of the way any rational human being would arrange things. The Missus suspects that the flooring contractors simply screwed the pooch, and that nobody cared at the time since the house was built on spec. So you have a room in which the carpet is especially vulnerable to damage from spills, ground-in food, et al.
Not any more. We’re hardwoodin’ that sumbitch, and we’ll stick an area rug under the dining room table.
When those new floors arrive, first thing I’m gonna do is take off my shoes and walk around barefoot, digging my toes into that nice, new pile and feeling that cushy padding. No. Second thing. First thing will be to wash my feet.
DODGING A BULLET
If you search this blog for posts that use the phrase “dodging a bullet,” you’ll find quite a few.
It’s a useful term, handy for describing a situations where one escapes relatively free of harm while others do not. Generally, it is the result of, for lack of a better term, good luck. Being in the right place at the right time...or, more appropriately, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Aunt Marge and Uncle Phil know what it’s like to dodge a bullet. In July of 1996, they flew from Athens to New York on their way home from Israel. They changed planes to catch a flight to Miami, while the aircraft they had been on took off for Paris. It was TWA Flight 800...and as everyone knows, that flight never made it to Paris.
Israeli blogger David Bogner, who writes at Treppenwitz when he’s not guest-posting here, knows that feeling too. For he was just in Mumbai, returning home only five days before the recent terror attacks began.
He had stayed at the Oberoi Hotel, one of the hotels that would come under siege. And he had had dinner with Rabbi Gavriel and Rivka Holtzberg, who, only days later, would be murdered in cold blood by the terrorists - targeted as Jews, a microscopically small fraction of India’s population.
A few days - or minutes - can be the difference between life and death. Ask anyone who was in New York or Washington on September 11, 2001.
I am grateful that my friend dodged that particular bullet and is home safe in the arms of his family...while at the same time my heart breaks for the victims of this latest terrorist atrocity. May their souls be bound up in the bond of life and may they rest in peace, while we do what we can to eradicate those whose twisted beliefs have made a god of death.
It’s a useful term, handy for describing a situations where one escapes relatively free of harm while others do not. Generally, it is the result of, for lack of a better term, good luck. Being in the right place at the right time...or, more appropriately, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Aunt Marge and Uncle Phil know what it’s like to dodge a bullet. In July of 1996, they flew from Athens to New York on their way home from Israel. They changed planes to catch a flight to Miami, while the aircraft they had been on took off for Paris. It was TWA Flight 800...and as everyone knows, that flight never made it to Paris.
Israeli blogger David Bogner, who writes at Treppenwitz when he’s not guest-posting here, knows that feeling too. For he was just in Mumbai, returning home only five days before the recent terror attacks began.
He had stayed at the Oberoi Hotel, one of the hotels that would come under siege. And he had had dinner with Rabbi Gavriel and Rivka Holtzberg, who, only days later, would be murdered in cold blood by the terrorists - targeted as Jews, a microscopically small fraction of India’s population.
A few days - or minutes - can be the difference between life and death. Ask anyone who was in New York or Washington on September 11, 2001.
I am grateful that my friend dodged that particular bullet and is home safe in the arms of his family...while at the same time my heart breaks for the victims of this latest terrorist atrocity. May their souls be bound up in the bond of life and may they rest in peace, while we do what we can to eradicate those whose twisted beliefs have made a god of death.
THAT (MINI) SINKING FEELING
Years ago, our family did something a little different from the usual: We took a vacation in Pennsylvania instead of Florida.
I should say “in addition to” rather than “instead of.” We did not forgo our annual trip to Florida to visit the Maternal Grand-’Rents; rather, we took a week-long trip to the Poconos with Aunt Zelda, Uncle Gerry (the Bro d’Eli Hizzownself), and our cousins.
It was August 1963, just a couple of months before my eleventh birthday. I remember the year only because I remember the cover of the Mad magazine I bought to read on the journey from Long Island.
That journey took, seemingly, forever. I recall sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike - in Secaucus, no less - as a violent thunderstorm played itself out over the spires of Manhattan to our east. We could see lightning strike the mast of the Empire State Building. Awesome!
Thanks to the storm-snarled traffic, a trip that should have taken two-and-a-half hours ended up taking closer to five. I’m sure the Old Man was fit to be tied by the time we arrived at the bungalow colony in Minisink Hills - hard by East Stroudsburg, at the edge of Pennsylvania Dutch country - that was to be our home for the next week.
We settled in for the night. The following morning, I made two discoveries: one good, the other not-so-good.
Not-so-good: The ’Rents had no intention of hanging out with us, having planned instead to deposit us in the bungalow colony’s convenient day camp. Their agenda was golf and tennis, and we kids were in the way. Today, I can sympathize...but back then, I was furious. I pitched a fit and refused to be encamped along with my brother and cousins. Miraculously, the parental units acquiesced. To this day, I think they were secretly hoping I’d drown myself in the swimming pool. A funeral would have been an inconvenience, sure, but at least they wouldn’t have me pestering them 24-7 to take me along on their golf outings at the nearby Tamiment resort.
Good: The Poconos were home to the richest, most addictive chocolate milk in the world. It was chocolate right out of the carton (no pain-in-the-ass mixing in Bosco or Fox’s U-Bet syrup), and it had the consistency of whipping cream.
In hindsight, it probably was whipping cream. Whipping cream with chocolate. You really had to cut it with milk (whole milk, of course - that 2% crap hadn’t been invented yet) to make it drinkable, so rich it was. I’m still carrying a few pounds around on my ass as souvenirs of that summer.
Years later, the Missus and I lived just a few miles on the other side of the Delaware Water Gap, in Hackettstown, New Jersey. It was a short drive to East Stroudsburg and Minisink Hills, but I never felt the burning desire to explore those places again. Some memories, I guess, are not to be messed with.
Sure do miss that chocolate milk, though.
I should say “in addition to” rather than “instead of.” We did not forgo our annual trip to Florida to visit the Maternal Grand-’Rents; rather, we took a week-long trip to the Poconos with Aunt Zelda, Uncle Gerry (the Bro d’Eli Hizzownself), and our cousins.
It was August 1963, just a couple of months before my eleventh birthday. I remember the year only because I remember the cover of the Mad magazine I bought to read on the journey from Long Island.
That journey took, seemingly, forever. I recall sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike - in Secaucus, no less - as a violent thunderstorm played itself out over the spires of Manhattan to our east. We could see lightning strike the mast of the Empire State Building. Awesome!
Thanks to the storm-snarled traffic, a trip that should have taken two-and-a-half hours ended up taking closer to five. I’m sure the Old Man was fit to be tied by the time we arrived at the bungalow colony in Minisink Hills - hard by East Stroudsburg, at the edge of Pennsylvania Dutch country - that was to be our home for the next week.
We settled in for the night. The following morning, I made two discoveries: one good, the other not-so-good.
Not-so-good: The ’Rents had no intention of hanging out with us, having planned instead to deposit us in the bungalow colony’s convenient day camp. Their agenda was golf and tennis, and we kids were in the way. Today, I can sympathize...but back then, I was furious. I pitched a fit and refused to be encamped along with my brother and cousins. Miraculously, the parental units acquiesced. To this day, I think they were secretly hoping I’d drown myself in the swimming pool. A funeral would have been an inconvenience, sure, but at least they wouldn’t have me pestering them 24-7 to take me along on their golf outings at the nearby Tamiment resort.
Good: The Poconos were home to the richest, most addictive chocolate milk in the world. It was chocolate right out of the carton (no pain-in-the-ass mixing in Bosco or Fox’s U-Bet syrup), and it had the consistency of whipping cream.
In hindsight, it probably was whipping cream. Whipping cream with chocolate. You really had to cut it with milk (whole milk, of course - that 2% crap hadn’t been invented yet) to make it drinkable, so rich it was. I’m still carrying a few pounds around on my ass as souvenirs of that summer.
Years later, the Missus and I lived just a few miles on the other side of the Delaware Water Gap, in Hackettstown, New Jersey. It was a short drive to East Stroudsburg and Minisink Hills, but I never felt the burning desire to explore those places again. Some memories, I guess, are not to be messed with.
Sure do miss that chocolate milk, though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)




