Regular Life

Blog has Moved

2005-11-22T18:21:00.000-06:00

Please see the blog here now, and update links and Bookmarks/Favorites as needed:

http://blog.markwill.com/

If you are just now finding this out, then the first entry you see at the new site will be many days beyond where this one left off.

To read all of the Bessie Story (which is where this version of my blog ended), go here:

http://blog.markwill.com/bessie_story/

Thanks,
Mark

Bessie Crashed and Crunched

2005-11-21T21:06:00.000-06:00

Hey, I’ve been looking for that, was the first thought that ran through my head. All the cassette tapes that had been under my seat had rushed forward to rest under my feet. A homemade copy of Led Zeppelin III had re-appeared after weeks on the MIA list. I never risked playing original tapes in that $29 deck I had bought at Rex.

Dad’s going to kill me was my next thought, and those are the words I was saying as I got out of the car and walked to the front to assess the damage. “Oh man, oh man, oh man. This is bad. This is bad.”

One of the two young ladies who had climbed out of the Camaro walked over to me. “So, are YOU okay?” she asked, with a tone of sarcasm in her voice.

“Oh, yeah, I think. I’m sorry. Are you?”

This is when I was pretty sure I recognized one of them. Yep. She had been one of my babysitters years before. That certainly added to the embarrassment.

In an odd bit of timing, a police car pulled up and stopped at the end of the road the Camaro lady had intended to take.

After declaring Bessie a disaster area, and thanking myself for always wearing my seatbelt, I checked out the Camaro. It didn’t seem too bad to me. It was probably about two or three years old, and besides a little pushing in of the rear bumper, there was just a wrinkle above the doors. Apparently that last part is where it got nasty. The Camaro lady’s insurance company said it was totaled. Ouch.

In addition, I got ticketed for following too close, and was not helped by a witness who said I was “fiddling with the radio.” Dad’s insurance company would not like that one bit. I was not following too close. And I wasn’t messing with the radio, I was... oh, nevermind.

While the wrecker driver hooked Bessie up to his rig, I was reminded of another misadventure.

My first (undocumented) moving violation came behind the wheel of Bessie, before I even had a driver’s license. What’s the statute of limitations on this, anyway?

One day, after my buddy Travis and I had been listening to music, riding our three-wheelers, and probably playing a few games on our Atari 2600, I let my brother know that Travis could use a ride home.

“Why don’t you just drive him home. It’s not very far, and it’s mostly on backroads,” my brother said. He probably was watching some sort of football game or other event, and back in those days we didn’t have a way to pause TV as we watched it. I’m sure being of driving age and hauling around your younger brother and his friends gets old. I was 14 or 15 at that point, and I had driven quite a bit with Dad riding shotgun.

Although part of me told me not to do it, I took my brother up on the offer. It wasn’t the first time I had made a bad decision in this arena; I had driven my dad’s Suburban (unbeknownst to him) to friends’ houses in the past. On the way there, Travis and I decided I would drop him off at the end of his driveway so that his parents would not see who drove him home. They would just think that my brother had driven him, as long as neither of us did anything stupid.

It was that last part that got me.

Bessie's True Colors

2005-11-20T20:13:00.000-06:00

At one point when I lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas, when I was a new kid in town trying to prove himself, I did something rather stupid. I couldn’t have just painted my face. Okay, painted my face again. Sheesh. Get off me. This time, under cover of darkness, I went out to the street, where Bessie was parked, minding her own business. In my hand I held a container of dark brown shoe polish, the kind with the sponge applicator tip. Her hood was a light tan color -- the perfect canvas for my planned artwork.

It was the week of the big football game against the crosstown archrival Northside Grizzlies, so I thought it would be cool to draw a large bear paw print on the hood, with a circle around it and a slash through it. Effectively, I was saying, “No Grizzlies.” Pure genious. I was up very late making it look just right. I would drive to school displaying my school pride and park it in the lot for all to see. We had an open campus policy for lunchtime, so I could get some exposure then, too.

About halfway through second period the next day, I started thinking that 1) I now was a target for angry opposing team fans, and 2) brown shoe polish was made to stay on. That last revelation resulted from a rather brusk comment a friend made in first period. “That was stupid” is pretty close to a direct quote. I asked to be excused, borrowed Windex and paper towels from the band hall, and headed out to try to undo my fiasco. CTRL-Z was not an option. Already I was formulating a story of vandals drawing graffiti on my car. My apologies to anyone who heard that version.

I ripped paper towels from the roll, one after the other, as I rubbed, scrubbed, sprayed, cussed, and did it all over again. I made a muddy brown mess, but finally managed to get the last vestige of the polish off the hood. I grabbed all the used paper towels and the Windex and stood back to see how it looked.

Faintly, as if under the surface, my artwork still shone through. I hadn’t read Macbeth yet, so I didn’t know to say, “Out, out, damn spot!” In retrospect, had I known the line, I’m sure I would have used it. From that day forward, Bessie bore the stain of my impetuous youth.

That is, until I mangled her beyond recognition.

I was innocently driving down the road after school one day, headed to my dad’s office. Just before entering a curve I had navigated hundreds of times, I noticed a bug on the outside of the windshield. I was going to shoo the bug using the wipers.

Before you start laughing, stay with me.

The windshield wiper control on Bessie was not conveniently placed on a stick protruding from the steering column. Instead, it was on a knob on the lower left side of the dashboard. I had to tilt my head down to see what I was doing.

After rounding the curve with my head down, I looked up to see if the wipers had knocked off the bug.

Camaro. Left turn signal. Brake lights.

SMASH!!

Bessie was a Good Girl

2005-11-17T22:01:00.000-06:00

Bessie was loyal. She never fought me when I pushed her to her limit. Sure, she had her bad days, but what old lady doesn’t? She was there for my grandfather, my brother, me, and then my first cousin. I have no idea where she is now.

Bessie was my first car, a 1976 Dodge Aspen Sedan, and in 1987 I bought her from my dad for $900. In the two years before I got her, Bessie had been my brother’s first car. My grandfather bought her off the lot back in the 1970’s. As I recall, a high school buddy of mine named her Bessie at a time when I just called her “Rawhide,” in reference to her leather-look hard top.

Ah yes, on the open road in a car that got me second looks, but not the kind most teenage boys wanted.

Dodge Aspen was a car line that started out strong, and was Motor Trend’s Car of the Year in 1976, but then dropped until Chrysler pulled it and its Plymouth counterpart in 1980. Evidently it had numerous problems. It had rusting front fenders, as well as recalls on seemingly everything but the vaunted drivetrain.

If you’re old like me, you might remember the commercial jingle of the Aspen’s sister car, the Plymouth Volare. That corny song still rings in my ears. “Volare, oh oh OH oooh.”

My Bessie sported a 225 Slant Six engine that had a kick. I never tried to burn rubber from a dead stop, probably because I usually ran her on dangerously worn tires. She rode smooth, with soft shocks that made it feel like I was riding on waves. She didn’t exactly corner on rails, though.

Later in my two years behind Bessie’s wheel, any time I slowed below about 20 mph, I had to put her in neutral and rev her engine to keep her from dying. This made for some fun shifting in and out of tight curves, and got some strange looks from people stopped alongside me at intersections. I must have seemed like some crazed adolescent daring them in a car that had little business on the road, much less in a race.

She had spunk, though, and I think I would have had the advantage for about the first 10 or 20 feet. That’s how long it would take the opposing driver to overcome his or her amazement that Bessie had not fallen into pieces.

The one time I did race her, it was up a 4-mile stretch of steep, curvy mountain highway. We had two lanes so we could “safely” pass each other if needed. The other guy, a friend in a ragtop Jeep of some kind, probably was lucky he didn’t tip over. He ended up barely beating me because I just couldn’t bring myself to take that last curve fast enough to pass him.

Once, heading down that same mountain with my brother driving, I saw something silver out of the corner of my right eye. My brother saw it and we both realized it was one of Bessie's hubcaps. It had popped off the wheel and was rolling up the hillside on our right. It almost seemed to accelerate up the hill as we laughed ourselves breathless.

This next part, I’ve never told anyone the truth about since the day it happened. I can't detail it here right now. Tune in Monday.

Tornadoes, Shmornadoes

2005-11-15T20:34:00.000-06:00

My mobile phone rang as I swigged motel orange juice from a tiny foam cup. The storms had let up a little from the night before, but the motel lobby TV still showed tornado watches and warnings in the area. I figured the pilot was calling to say the flight had been delayed. I pulled the phone from my belt clip and flipped it open. Somehow, that never makes me feel as cool as Captain Kirk looked when I was a kid. With good reason that morning, it seemed.

“This is Mark.”

“Are you joining us today?” the man on the other end asked.

“Yes, at 7:30, right?”

He replied, politely, “No, it’s at 7:00.”

“Oh, jeez. Yes, I’m just at the Super 8. I’m on my way.” I glanced at my watch. 7:09.

Ignoring the fact that I said, “Oh, jeez,” I grabbed my things and ran to the waiting Chevy Malibu rental, wind-blown rain spitting on me all the way. I drove through the small town as quickly as I could without attracting unwanted attention, to the small airport in the middle of cattle pastures. I parked under the covered loading area at 7:16.

“So, we’re okay for today?” I asked the pilot who had just taken my luggage.

“It will be a little rough on the climb out,” he said. Then, to the other pilot, who sat in the cockpit. “Hey, you have the keys?”

Clearly in a rush, the pilot in the cockpit stood and leaned out far enough to toss the keys through the small doorway. The keys went past the luggage pilot’s hurried hands and hit the ground.

“Sorry I’ve put everybody in such a rush,” I offered, somewhat lamely.

Another man emerged from the hangar and walked quickly toward the plane. “Is the window of opportunity closing?” he asked, clearly privy to information I did not have.

The cockpit pilot said, “Yes, it’s getting close.”

”That would be our window for takeoff?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Cockpit said.

“There’s a storm surge moving in,” said Hangar Guy as he climbed the few steps into the cabin and walked past me to take a seat.

Luggage pilot joined us and, as he pulled up the steps behind him and secured the door, said, “Guys, we’ll have a bumpy ride for about the first five minutes, and then it will be smooth sailing.”

Yeah, it’s the first five minutes that get you. I couldn’t believe it. After all that worrying last night, now I had made us late and possibly complicated things.

My part in it notwithstanding, I figured they wouldn’t need me for a while. I pulled out my music player, inserted the earbuds, and pushed play. Eddie Grant’s “Electric Avenue” took us down the runway and up into the clouds. When the first big bump hit, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

It was rough. The plane once dropped enough for my seatbelt to dig into my hips. We bumped and bounced through the storm, and then the bumpy ascent was over almost as soon as it started. Eddie Grant turned my ears over to The Who, and the opening bars of “Who Are You” played as we leveled off above the clouds. Storm clouds are a striking sight from above.

I pulled out my laptop to start this post while it was fresh in my mind. Joe Satriani accompanies me as I type. We’re getting closer to the clouds. We were at cruising altitude less than 45 minutes.

I always think of my wife and son when I’m flying. The movie Spanglish, which I watched last night in my motel room, again reminded me to appreciate what we have. Now, heading back down into storm clouds on our descent, I close my eyes as Sister Hazel plays “The Best I’ll Ever Be.”

I miss you.
I miss being overwhelmed by you.
And I need rescue.
I think I’m fading away.

Stormy Flight

2005-11-14T23:38:00.000-06:00

I had the sensation that the plane's rear end was fishtailing in the clouds, and it made a series of unplanned drops. I wanted the descent to be over, to stop the 9-passenger jet's shaking and bumping, but I didn't want it to end any sooner than the pilots had planned. I cranked up the volume on my Rio mp3 player, the sounds of No Doubt's "Don't Let Me Down" drowning out all others.

Laughing so hard
I got tears in my eyes
Walk in the park
Under sapphire skies

Just when things had smoothed out during our final turn toward the runway, it got rough again as we got down to about 200 feet.

Oh, I can't believe that you're still around
Almost forgot how you let me down

There was still a slight tilt to our attitude as we touched down, and I never had been happier to be on the ground.

I'm supposed to fly out on the same kind of plane Tuesday morning. The forecast calls for high wind and severe storms in the area, and storms at my destination. This morning's approach already had me a bit shaken, so I'm not looking forward to flying out again. I now wish I had looked at the forecast earlier so I could have driven back. I'm expected back at work by 8:30 in the morning, which leaves me little choice.

I've never been afraid of flying, and I know that driving is more dangerous statistically. Never while driving have I felt the way I did on that approach. Being up there among only strangers, at the mercy of nature's power, made me want to play the odds on the road.

The TV meteorologist just said that the atmosphere here is "all jacked up," and detailed the tornado watches and warnings. I'm waiting anxiously to see whether he says the system is moving faster than originally expected, and will be gone by morning. One way or another, I will.

I Don't Wait Tables Anymore

2005-11-10T00:15:00.000-06:00

Ten years ago this year, I started something that can’t end soon enough. It’s something that most people I know do, and the few who say they enjoy it are under suspicion of lying like dogs. I would say I’m indifferent about it, but the better word is ambivalent. There are moments I like it, because I always enjoy a feeling of accomplishment. Most moments, however, it gives me a hollow feeling.

I’m writing, of course, about working in an office job, the sole purpose of which is to help make somebody richer. If you do not do it and never have, then I hope that you are working as a stay-at-home parent, or enjoying fresh air somewhere while you earn a living. I’ve held other kinds of jobs, and I can think of nothing that compares to being stuck at a desk, staring like a drone at a computer screen, typing and clicking in random rhythms in an effort to please the company. I didn’t say nothing worse; I said nothing comparable. The occasional meeting breaks me out of the familiar, but breeds an ennui all its own. Although the company I work for is one of the best, it still has all the trappings of the corporate world and its bureaucracy.

Don’t get me wrong; it isn’t work itself that I dislike. When my efforts result in some sort of positive achievement, I feel satisfied. That last part is where the rub lies. Positive in relation to what? Teaching the starved to grow crops? Thriving on hostile takeovers?

Here’s where I assure you I’m not trying to put myself on a pedestal. I love my electronic gadgets and am in other ways just as materialistic as most people I meet. And, although I do drive a rental-blue Ford Contour with 150,000 miles on it, it is not by choice.

Put simply, I would like my motivation at work to be something more than money. Whether it be expressing myself artistically or helping others, I know that I have more to give than a small bump in the bottom line. If increasing the company’s profits or trading personal or family time for a higher salary is what makes someone happy, then I cannot judge that. It just doesn’t fulfill me. There are some very close to me who I’m sure cannot understand that, and that’s fine.

That said, I know that there is more to a career than just supporting oneself while of working age. There’s preparing for retirement, in which I do not want to be a financial burden to anyone. I also know that there are other ways to make a difference, and I take part in some of those.

I am not the only one who wants something more intrinsically rewarding on the job. One long-time friend earned an art degree, and briefly struggled before becoming a computer helpdesk technician. Now he’s in an architecure program. More than 10 years after graduating college, perhaps finally he will be able to create for a living. Someone else, whom I met recently, would love to be an anthropologist or a writer, but like me is in the computer industry. Another close friend from decades back pursued his dream right from the start, and is in a well-paying recording studio job I often fantasize that I could do well and enjoy. The only catch? He lived with his mother until his late 20’s. Everybody’s situation is unique, but I’m fairly certain neither of my parents would have accommodated me. They gave me everything I needed and more in my childhood.

Certainly, there are hobbies, but time for them has dwindled greatly since my wife and I started a family. That last thing, by the way, is the best thing I’ve ever done. Being a father is more rewarding than a wordsmith of my meager talent could hope to convey.

I’m sure that part of my professional discontent stems from my lack of friendships at work. The first man I tried to make friends with spent exactly 3.2 minutes on pleasantries, then launched into gossip about various men in our company. I don’t care to know who cheats on his wife. That’s one part of my childhood innocence I think there’s no harm keeping. Once his usual lunch crowd arrived, they all absently ingested their pack lunches, and then passed out photocopies of that day’s New York Times Crossword. “If you don’t use it, you lose it,” one of the ladies said. I can think of more enjoyable ways of keeping my mind tuned up than gang-tackling a crossword puzzle. Other available personalities obsess over sports, dating, cars, hunting, and other things that hold little to no interest for me.

There are two people with whom I can hold a mutually interesting conversation.

One is a very cool 50-year-old man who likes much of the same music I like. His sense of humor is similar to mine. He would be the perfect office buddy, except that his job description includes the pesky detail of being my boss. In one regard, I’m more fortunate than many -- he’s arguably the best boss I’ve had, and I can’t count them all on my fingers.

The other “guy” I buddy up with at work happens to be a woman. Though I suspected it within .05 seconds of meeting her, she and I did not breach that most personal aspect of her lifestyle until I was three months into the job. She is one of the nicest people I know, and if she harbors any of the stereotypical ill-will toward men in general, then she hides it well.

I have friends outside work, so making them at the office is not a priority for me. I suspect that as choosy as I am, having a different type of job would make little difference. When I start thinking like that, however, I remember the proven adage, “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.” Never building bridges is just as harmful to a career as burning them.

I keep coming back to that deeper meaning, that meaningful individuality -- the desire to have a job that yields different results depending who does it. Data does not care who manipulates it. It all comes out as bits. The company will go on and my presence or absence will be transparent to the customer. On some level, I know that I also have a somewhat selfish need to be noticed.

I’m not sure how to make a change, but I know that I don’t need to do it right now. We need some stability for a while.

Each time my son names out loud a fire engine or a firefighter, he says, “help people.”

I like that he knows that, and I hope that if he doesn’t now, he will grow to understand just what it means. I smile and reply, “Yes, that’s right. They help people.”

IKEA The Hot Dog Store

2005-11-07T22:36:00.000-06:00

And I quote:

IKEA is a fully immersive, 3D environmental adventure that allows you to role-play the character of someone who gives a shit about home furnishings.” - Matthew Baldwin, self-proclaimed non-expert and columnist for online magazine The Morning News.

Something strange happened tonight. Shannon told me when I got home that she wanted to look at Garden Ridge's barstools. We have an island in our kitchen, and just enough of the countertop juts out to make it look like something’s missing.

I wasn’t crazy about the idea of going to Garden Ridge, so with all manner of manliness, I looked her right in the eye and said, “Let’s go to IKEA.”

*Tires screeching*

What?

I had driven by the massive new furniture store on my way to and from a class, and obviously the deep blue walls and bright yellow letters affected my brain. Maybe the combination somehow reminded me of things nautical. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a fever. Whatever made me say it in the first place, I certainly didn’t have to tell Shannon again. We put some hoof-covers on Ben and took off.

We pulled into the parking lot saying, “Look, Ben, it’s IKEA. I-K-E-A.”

“I kee uh,” he said.

It was a new experience. Like other furniture stores, much of the space features complete rooms with matching or complementary pieces. Unlike most, however, it also leaves lots of room for kids to walk around, with play areas here and there. Also different from most stores is that most of the pieces are just that -- pieces. It seemed that only the toys did not require self-assembly. Ben went bonkers in a section of rocking animals and children’s chairs. Throughout the store, he ran from chairs to couches, determined to sit on all of them.

Question: Hey Nonexpert, my girlfriend drags me to IKEA almost every weekend and it’s driving me crazy. What should I tell her? –Brent Flagg

Answer: There is no known treatment for IKEA addiction. The best you can do is learn to survive. - Matthew Baldwin

The coolest thing I got from our trip? All four wheels of the shopping cart turned, making for some great cornering. I didn’t touch the cart until the home stretch toward the checkout, and was a little miffed that Shannon had held out on me.

I almost made it without putting my foot in my mouth.

When a woman pushing her wheelchair-bound, emphyzemic husband commented that the carts were neat, I said, "Yes, but it makes me want to ride in it, which I guess is why most stores don't have them."

He's in a wheelchair, idiot. He'd probably like to walk.

After checking out for an amazing total of just under $10 and no barstool, we dined on the IKEA Bistro's delicious 50-cent hot dogs and 75-cent fountain sodas, except that Ben had water. Because he had done such a great job of hanging in there a little past his bedtime, I grabbed a piece of gummy candy out of a free sample jar and handed it to a grateful Ben as I said, “Here, you get one piece of candy, because you did so great tonight.”

On the way out, Ben repeated over and over as we walked to the car, “One candy. One candy.” Shannon and I again read off the letters that spell the store’s name, and Ben said, “I kee uh.” Then reverted back to, “One candy.”

After writing most of this, I found Baldwin’s column had the perfect pull-quotes.

I’m sticking to my story that I liked it because Ben had so much fun.

Stick It

2005-11-03T11:49:00.000-06:00

I'm married and I have a child, but I'm just not ready for the kind of commitment required by a bumper sticker. They instantly target the bearer for quick judgment by a label-happy populace. I believe what I believe and I like what I like, but that's for me to know, and it may change tomorrow. Consequently, I rarely put it out there for everyone to see.

Just yesterday, I saw a white, early '80's-model Toyota pickup that typified the opposite school of thought -- "if you feel it, stick it." The mobile media stated (*cringes at the search engine hits this will garner*):

"Powered by Witchcraft"
"Re-defeat Bush"
"Outrageous Older Woman"
"Be Witched"

That said, I trust everyone reading this knows the difference between reporting and supporting. (In my days as a reporter, I found that some of the groups I covered assumed I was on their side, as if reporters choose where they are assigned based on their personal ideology). If not, then there must be some interesting opinions of me after Antjuan of the Pink Boots. As with Antjuan, on some level I admire the fortitude it takes to sport these phrases in the North Dallas area.

Besides religion and politics, however, there is another popular category -- parental pride.

I fear that day will come when Ben asks me to affix a bumper sticker declaring, "My kid is on the honor roll at (insert school name here)."

Although I hope he qualifies, I do not relish the thought of his walking up to me, glossy rectangular statement of his accomplishment in hand. A lot of parents don't think about things like this before they happen, and I'm not sure it helps much to do so. My answer right now is that humility should win, but the fact that this is out here for you to read shows that I don't adhere too closely to that tenet.

The dad in me says, "Where's the sticker for the other car?"

I expect my dad side will win this battle. We drive our cars until they are worth nothing, anyway, so a mess of messages on the back bumper will only add to their character for the future owner. That reminds me of a minivan my father in-law once bought for a cool grand, a price that included a pre-mounted bumper sticker urging, "Save our Mother Earth." Not that there's anything wrong with that, and not that he doesn't care about the environment. I just don't see him using bumper stickers. Unless it said something like, "Visualize Whirled Peas," because he likes literate humour.

Which category do I truly abhor? Those bearing obscenities. Now, I know "obscenity" is up for debate. To some, that simplest of stickers bearing one letter -- "W" -- is emblematic of evil that should not be spoken. Then, there are those who get mad enough to spit when they see one that reads Kerry/Edwards. In this post I can't begin to cover the depth of constant one-upmanship in the Christian Ichthus versus the Darwin "fish" with legs.

What I'm talking about are words and meanings that young children simply should not see. I would say that they are anything you wouldn't use in conversation with your grandmother, but I've heard of some pretty crass old ladies who let fly at will.

So, if you feel it, and you want the world to know, then stick it and let it shine (you can create your own online). If not, then join me in the ranks of the anonymous drivers, and hide it under a bush (where the sun don't shine).

Near Miss in the Old West

2005-10-31T13:18:00.000-06:00

It was just Ben and me. A man and his boy. Father and son. The bond that can be neither understood nor broken. Or something like that.

Now, on to complete sentences. Well, mostly.

Ben and I headed out at about 6:00 Friday evening, and finally got to my mom and dad's at 1:15 a.m. At the time, I didn't know just how lucky I was that he fell asleep at 9 p.m. and stayed that way the rest of the trip.

Saturday we went to Dad's farm, where members of the local SASS chapter were shooting at his range. I've never participated in the shoots, but if lawlessness ever broke out, I would want these folks on my side. They've beaten FBI agents in a direct challenge.

When Ben and I arrived, the BANG-PING! BANG-PING! sound of bullets hitting metal targets filled the ear. The occasional BANG!, with no PING, meant a miss, and misses meant lower scores.

I got Ben out of the car seat and he said, "Make a noise. Make a noise." That's his standard response when he hears a sound he doesn't recognize.

"That's right, Ben, they are making noise. Let's go see what it is," I said.

"Yes."

I outfitted Ben with ear and eye protection (which all shooters wear at all times) before we headed down to the range so he could see what was causing all the clatter. All I could find were a pair of orange, hard-plastic noise-cancelling earmuffs and a pair of dark sunglasses. He was the complete image of gun safety, or maybe a miniature airport runway guide without the neon orange batons.

We were immersed in a wild west world. At a typical SASS range, most of the "stages" feature some sort of old west building facade -- either a saloon, a livery stable, or something else straight out of the late 1800's. It could be something as simple as an old wagon or a campfire ring. Their clothes and their guns also are from that period.

Then we were jarred back into this century.

We saw Dad's golf cart. He uses it to haul his guns and ammo to the range, or just to run other small errands without having to start up his gas-powered four-wheeler. At least, I figure that's why he uses it. Oh, I mean "figger." Almost forgot we were in the old west.

Mom suggested that Ben and I take the golf cart for a ride around some of the wooded roads (but not downrange, of course), so I set Ben in the seat. I noticed a large, white travel mug in the open left dashboard compartment. I shook it to make sure it was empty, then put it back. After taking some pics of Ben at the wheel, I took it and moved him to the passenger's seat. I wondered if hybrid cars ran as quietly as golf carts. It's so strange to hear nothing as you move. Like sailing, but without the wind and the water. Ben asked to sit in my lap. Considering it was a golf cart and we were on a grassy forest road with no other vehicles, I acquiesced.

As we headed down a small hill and started getting bumped around pretty well, I moved my foot to the brake pedal. When I pressed down, it didn't move. We kept speeding up, getting closer to where the road met another to form a "T." I pushed again, this time with both feet. Nothing. I looked down at my feet, where I saw the travel mug lodged between the brake pedal and the floor. Ben bounced on my lap as our speed picked up. I wrapped my left arm around him as I tried to kick the travel mug loose.

The woods at the top of the "T" in the road were fast approaching. Figuring my feet could match the cart's speed if I had to bail, I prepared for it.

"Hold on, little man!" I said.

I gave the travel mug one more kick and it came free. I hit the brake in time to make a controlled left turn. It was a very boring finish to an exciting few seconds. Even people into risky hobbies like skydiving, rock climbing, hanggliding -- whatever -- will tell you that boring finishes are the best kind.

We had a great visit with my folks, and dropped by to see an old friend's mom. I left missing the natural beauty of the area. Ben kept saying, "Trees," during the first few hours of the drive, perhaps because now we're surrounded by old corn fields with the occasional patch of trees. His tone didn't tell me whether he was fondly recalling a time when we saw woods every day, but I certainly was.

Swallowing Goldfish

2005-10-28T07:58:00.000-05:00

Here's a history of how swallowing live goldfish began (at Harvard), including a back-and-forth battle between schools and the records set throughout the years. See? The highly educated can be just as stupid as everybody else. Sheesh.

No doubt most of you (that's two?) have heard that an Assembly of God Church actually included swallowing live goldfish as part of its youth ministry, ostensibly to help kids conquer their fears. The AP story on Yahoo! stresses PETA's angle, but my take is that this is ridiculous nonsense regardless of how the fish feel about it. I mean "fishers of men" and all that, but come on.

I did a little "fishing" for information, just to find any reports of injury from this kind of thing. I wouldn't want some live fish wriggling around in my stomach even for a few seconds. The link at the top of this post is the only thing I found that was not related to the church youth group story.

Have a great weekend! Not sure I'll post again before it's over.

Deep Thoughts on Aliens

2005-10-26T15:51:00.000-05:00

A friend sent me a link to SNL's Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy, and I had to share this one, considering my previous post.

If aliens from outerspace ever come and we show them our civilization and they make fun of it, we should say we were just kidding, that this isn't really our civilization, but a gag we hoped they would like. Then we tell them to come back in 20 years to see our real civilization. After that, we start a crash program of coming up with an impressive new civilization. Either that, or just shoot down the aliens as they're waving goodbye.

What if We're All There Is?

2005-10-26T00:35:00.000-05:00

I've been reading a lot of science fiction lately, but stay with me on this.

What if we're it? What if the creatures of Earth are the only living things in the universe? Authors and scientists long have fantasized that we are not, but we have yet to find any proof otherwise. I think.

Given time, we will use up the Earth's resources. Humans and other creatures on our planet will fade from existence. We just happen to be doing a lot of things to speed up that process, so that humans might be gone much sooner than the rest.

Now, many would like to think that there is life out there, somewhere, and some folks even like to think there are intelligent life forms. The problem they see is that we're just too far away from them for our current space travel methods to bring us together.

I'm not so sure that's a problem.

Don't we have enough awe and wonder here on Earth? I guess exploration is just in our nature. Aren't there former civilizations on Earth who wish they had never seen an explorer, and who did everything in their power to stop them from invading their territory?

Do we explore to find signs of life? Do we explore so that we will have a place to settle when Earth is no longer habitable? Can we maybe try to put that need off a little longer?

It seems the attitude of too many people is, "As long as I get what I want while I'm on this rock, I'm happy."

Would it make people feel any differently if they knew Earth was the only host to life? The only host to intelligent life?

We might be unique in this dark expanse. There might be nobody else.

Backseat Flashback

2005-10-24T13:25:00.000-05:00

If you are a grown person and can help it, do not take an extended ride in the backseat of a Ford Explorer with another adult, a two-year-old, and a dog. By "extended ride," I mean any time whatsoever. Regardless of who's driving, your mother, brother, father in-law, best friend, just do not do it.

I'm sure the good folks at Ford Motor Company might not appreciate this, but I mention their vehicle only because it happened to be the one involved. I'm sure had it been any other SUV, the experience would have been about the same.

To save some gas money and do our part in conservation, we rode to Tulsa with the in-laws. It's about a four-hour drive.

First, we didn't take my bicycle because it could have scratched the paint if we strapped it to the luggage rack. I had planned to take my first street ride with a guy I had met online. It could have made for a good blog entry, as I met him through my somewhat misplaced tirade about people riding bicycles in inappropriate places. Kind of a "rivalry-turns-to-friendship story" straight out of Hollywood. Or, Tulsa, anyway.

On the other hand, it could have ended up a headline in the Tulsa World. Cycling Tourist Killed by Known Local Maniac. "Why anyone woulda took a ride with that whacko is beyond me. After he got out of prison, he always kind of kept to hisself and tinkered with them bikes." (Don't flame me; it's just a joke about trusting strangers. I have no reason to believe he ever broke the law or is criminally insane. But every person in Tulsa talks exactly like that.)

On the way up, I started out in the front seat, and Ben was difficult until we stopped to get some toys from his bag. (That wasn't so easy on the trip back.) About halfway through I switched with my mother in-law. In the backseat we now had: me at 5'11" (about 2 meters, for those who see things that way), my wife at 5'7" with long legs, Ben in his carseat, and our cocker spaniel at 28 lbs. (12.7 kilos). I added that last detail because the dog had to be in a lap for this trip.

The backseat proved to be okay -- at first. Anybody with moderately long legs will notice within five minutes that the floorboard on an SUV is raised, I guess for more clearance than cars. Funny, because most SUV's see no more offroad action than a compact car. My knees were uphill from my hips, so my feet took all the weight.

That's not so bad until you put a cocker spaniel on your lap.

My left foot (a great movie), already unhappy with the heel spur brought on by planter fascists -- I mean plantar fasciitis, got pissed. I'm just glad my knees aren't arthritic -- yet.

Getting out felt good, and the weekend went well. I saw Serenity for a second time, confirming my belief that it truly is a good movie. If it's still on in theaters in your area, treat yourself to at least a matinee. Then watch the series "Firefly" for more time with these characters and their adventures. It's currently on Sci-Fi channel on Friday nights, and available on DVD. Ben had a blast seeing family. He and his mommy and daddy skipped Oktoberfest to find a Halloween costume. We came up dry, but the nuclear family time was good, much better than nucular family time.

On the return trip, I was in the backseat all the way. My poor wife had no break from the backseat either direction. I took lap-dog duty, because my better half was handling most of the Ben management. My feet did fine, I guess because they hadn't just been on a hard office floor all day.

Ben was quite tired by the time we left and, whereas he normally would fall asleep in his carseat, he wanted to stay awake with his mommy and daddy. Anybody who has been around kids knows that even a mild-mannered child will do things completely out of character when tired. Wait, maybe that's adults. Anyway...

A toy car in each hand, Ben hit various passengers and did his loud grunt-growl. Here's how that sounded:

Ben's car on his mommy's hand: Whap!
Ben's mommy: Ben, no, do not hit. I'm going to take that car away if you hit again.
Ben's car on his daddy's arm: Whap!
Ben's daddy: No, Ben, I'm taking your car away because you are hitting with it.
Ben: Want it a coa! Want it a coa!
Ben's daddy: Whining won't get your car back.
Ben: Want it a coa! (grunt-growl)

Most of the Rice Krispies Ben had in a Solo cup ended up in his carseat, so I at first had a time keeping the dog from turning that direction. The hardback book Read to me, Grandma held Ben's attention for a few minutes, but mostly served as a surface to roll his cars. About two hours into the trip, just as I was about to pull out the secret weapon (my laptop with its DVD player), he fell asleep. To our delight, he stayed that way and the rest of the trip was uneventful.

Let me revise my first sentence. Do not ride in the backseat with a cranky two-year-old, period. Sorry, Ben, but that's essentially where this catharsis has led me.

All Over the World

2005-10-21T07:47:00.000-05:00

Go to a science fiction convention, have your words and deeds spread to every continent.

Now, I'm not new to the Internet. I got my first dialup account and made my first meager Web page in 1995 (the one I have still is pretty meager). Viewership of my online content was few and far between, rarely extending outside family and a few friends.

Another first in my life changed all that.

The first expansion of my tiny readership came when I started reading the blognovel Simon of Space, published in serial format, the author writing it on-the-fly. Readers could (and boy did we) comment at any time on our thoughts about the story's progress, the characters foibles and hopes, or on the weird word verifications we were getting when posting comments. We formed an online community, although admittedly it had help from the folks who already had formed one around Darth Side: Memoirs of a Monster. Some of us now read each other's blogs, and eagerly await the book's "dead-tree" version, coming soon.

Fast-forward to October 16, 2005, when for the first time I attended a science fiction-related convention. It was not a Star Trek convention, nor was it for any specific entertainment franchise. It was the Dallas Comic Con, a gathering of comic book artists, sci-fi and horror movie stars, and -- this is the part you can't believe until you see it -- lots of people in costumes. A Klingon had us form a line that didn't block traffic. We did exactly what he said. Here's more detail on the convention itself, if you want.

Attending this event was an actor whose movie was still in theaters. Still is as I write this. It is called Serenity, and it's one heck of a flick, based on a great TV series called "Firefly." Like so many quality programs on TV these days, it was cancelled after its first season back in 2002. The movie was second at the box office on its opening weekend, behind Jodie Foster's Flight Plan.

The actor's name is Adam Baldwin (no relation), and he plays a hilarious character who speaks precious few lines in the movie. Such is the way of movies versus television. He appeared in an open Q&A session at the convention. Anybody who paid their $5 for that day, or who had special passes for more money, could raise their hand and ask that burning question that had been plaguing their mind since the first time they saw "Firefly" on TV. "Did you really have a crush on Inara?" was one such mind-boggling query.

I never saw a rule prohibiting video cameras, so I toted my trusty miniDV Handycam along with me. I taped some of Baldwin's session, mainly just to show I was there, but also to test my video camera's capabilities. After it was all over and I got home, I decided to edit the video a little and create a web page linking to my pictures, video, and blog post of the event. I posted a link on the dallascomiccon.com message board and left it at that.

Shortly after, all manner of heck broke loose. I was getting hits from all over the world, and when I looked at my sitemeter.com stats, I saw that they were coming from other forums of which I had never heard, and from other fans' own blogs. On that first day I got about 1200 hits. By the next day, that number exploded to more than 9,000. They downloaded the 12MB video more than 1300 times, and the shorter clips more than 1600 times combined. My photos on Fotki got their fair share of views, too.

Visitors came from countries including Germany, France, Australia, Malaysia, USA (just about every state), Canada, New Zealand, Russia, Italy, England, Spain, Africa, and many others. I don't drop these names to impress anyone -- just to share my amazement at how communication has changed in the past 10 years. Before the Internet, the average individual would rarely reach a group that large, much less that widespread.

Now, for any major Web site, this number of hits is no big deal. For me, though, it has been a wild ride. The last time I've had that many people see or read anything I produced was when I worked as a reporter/photographer. It was nice to be "out there" again. The hits have slowed considerably now that the link is no longer in those sites' latest entries. Good thing, too, as I got halfway to my bandwidth limit in two days.

Just today, I found another site that had posted a link to my site on October 18. One of the members asked if anybody had contact information for the guy who shot the video of Adam Baldwin. I contacted them and now I have another acquaintance.

This weekend? I'm going cycling with a guy I met online when I posted a comment that rubbed him the wrong way. Tune in later to see how that went.

Antjuan of the Pink Boots

2005-10-18T07:48:00.000-05:00

There was no way I was buying a magazine.

His name was Antjuan, an African-American young man who told me he was 19 and had lived in a Syntaxis Youth Home. He wore a denim jacket over a long-sleeved pink shirt. His jeans matched his jacket, and the tops of his pink boots were folded down to reveal white fur. The hands on his neon green wristwatch pointed to Roman numerals.

Antjuan (spelled that way on his ID) was a good-looking kid with a fast-paced, very effeminate talking style. Considering that coupled with his outfit, I could only imagine the responses he was getting going door-to-door in the North Dallas area. He had an engaging personality, though, and I was bored, so I listened to his pitch.

He spoke in phrases like "live positively" and “investing in America’s youth," and when he asked, "So would you like to take an interest in me today?" he meant, "How many magazines do you want to buy?"

Antjuan said he wanted to go to Juliard to learn to be an actor and to dance. I barely kept myself from telling him that they would furnish him the pink boots if he got the part.

He gave me a somewhat disappointed look after I asked what was the cheapest magazine he offered. “Hey, if I buy anything from you, it’s better than if I turn you away.”

He replied without missing a beat.

“Like my grandmother used to say, ‘Oatmeal is better than no meal.’"

He asked me for advice for a rising young man looking for success. Take off the pink boots. I said something my brother once told me: "Work hard and always do a little more than what is asked of you." Now that I think back, my brother actually said something more like, "Do everything that's asked of you and a little more," but it was close enough. I'm pretty sure my father told me this, too, but at a time when I was less receptive to sage advice.

I wanted to find out a little about Antjuan, besides the fact that he smelled like women's perfume, and help curb my suspicions that his backstory was a line to sell more magazines. "So, who was your favorite person at the Youth Home? There must have been some great people working in a place like that."

"Well, sir, I had a bad time at that home, so nobody really."

That was either the truth, or a very bad dodge. I let it slide.

It was 85 degrees and sunny.

"So, where are you from?" I asked.

"Columbus, Ohio."

"It gets cold up there."

"Yes sir, why do you think I'm wearing all these warm clothes?"

Later, we saw another young man walking along our neighborhood sidewalk with a folded packet of magazine order forms similar to Antjuan's. His back was to us as he headed down the street.

"So, are you selling magazines?" I called out.

"Yes sir," he said as he turned to face me, continuing his progress by walking backward.

"Do you know Antjuan? He already found us," I said.

"Did you take an interest in him?" the young man asked, still walking backward.

Did I take an interest in a girly teenage boy who smelled like my Aunt and looked like a Vegas dancer? "Yes, we did. We got Nick JR." Hey, he doesn't watch Nick, but it will give Ben something to look forward to when he goes to the mailbox with his mommy.

As I finished strapping Ben into his car seat, the young magazine peddler smiled and asked, "How did you like his boots?"

Comic Con October 2005

2005-10-16T23:58:00.000-05:00

Adam Baldwin talks to fans in the main auditorium.

First, here is the page that has my pics and videos of the event.

I did it. Although I do not own any clothing or costumes resembling famous sci-fi characters in movies or TV, I went to the Dallas Comic Con this weekend. I went only Sunday, but my buddy Alvis and I had a good time.

When we got there at about 11:30, we had to wait in line to pay. We saw Marc Singer, who played Beastmaster and the lead guy in the "V" miniseries. Hands stamped for proof we were nerds just like everybody else, we went back outside to wait in line for the start time. The line extended across the street to the east parking lot, until a Klingon directed us to swing the line over to the sidewalk.

Which put us inside just in time to watch Peter Mayhew (Chewbacca) walk right past us for a smoke break. I have a pic of his private moment here. I couldn't help it. It just hit me funny.

Our first activity was a great Q&A session by Adam Baldwin, of "Firefly" and Serenity fame. He's been in other things you might have seen, too, such as Full Metal Jacket, "Angel," The Patriot, and others. I've seen a total of about two of those things he's been in, but that was years before I knew who he was.

(Serenity spoiler alert)
Baldwin was funny and gave some memorable comments about working on the series and the movie. He admitted somewhat reluctantly that he was "pissed" that Wash died in Serenity. First he said that, for him, any future involvement in the franchise would strictly be in movie form, but later said that if the offer and the treatment were right, he would do it on TV again. He also mentioned that he disagreed with one comment that there was too much western flavor in the series, and that he wished there were more horses.

Lady in the crowd: Do you have any advice for someone aspiring to be an actress but who doesn't know where to start?

Baldwin: Stay in school.

Overall, he seemed much smarter and more grounded than the stars who usually make the talkshow rounds. It takes guts to do an open Q&A with no question screening.

After Baldwin, Alvis and I wandered into the main autograph room. Jonathan Frakes (and his wife), Erin Gray, Kenny Baker (R2-D2), Peter Mayhew, Marc Singer, Adam Baldwin, and a few whose names I can't recall, were in there, gladly taking $25 to autograph basically anything a fan put in front of them. We politely declined. When Kenny Baker came back to the room after a short break (sorry about the pun), he brushed against Alvis's knee.

There were lots of people dressed like Jedi, stormtroopers of various types, sandpeople, Darth Vader -- and a notable dearth of beautiful women. I don't say this because it made any difference to me. I only noticed it as someone with a minor in sociology. In the Dallas metroplex, if a gathering of any size lacks beautiful women, you know there's something nerdly going down. I don't think that's the way Durkheim or Weber would have put it, but it was only my minor.

When I stopped at the booth for Feeping Creatures, the artist commented that he liked my shirt. I had picked it out because it was the only thing I owned with a nerdly theme. The front of it reads, "I'd like to change the world, but I can't find the source code."

Note to the technical people at the Plano Centre: Test your sound system in the main auditorium before handing the microphone to the celebrities. Feedback is not a feature.

Strange Dreams

2005-10-14T23:20:00.000-05:00

In the past month or so, I have had at least 10 dreams featuring the same people. The content of the dreams is nothing unusual, which is very unusual for me. I rarely ever dream of actual people or places in my life, and the subject matter is just shy of “too strange to describe in words.” In these dreams I’m with the popular kids from my high school, some of whom I saw at my 10-year reunion, but most of whom I haven’t seen in 16 years. We’re mostly just hanging out.

Now, in a school like mine at that time, where the senior class numbered 99, you might not think there was a lot of room for cliques. When we were in the fifth and sixth grades, this still was true for the most part. Although this changed a bit starting in seventh grade, in high school we all knew each other and on some level we were friends during school hours. However, when it came time to get together in the evenings or on weekends, the lines of separation became clearer. Understand that I’m not talking about race here. The entire county I grew up in was populated by white folk, with a few Hispanics and Asians in the mix. Most of the minority children still were in elementary school at that time, so the skin color of faces in my high school rarely varied unless there were freckles (and I was among the latter).

I never aspired to be like the popular kids, and I never felt a need to look up to them. I didn’t dislike them, either, and had no delusions of being intellectually superior. Academically, we generally ran about even, and were in the same classes. They mostly were nice kids with social interests that did not interest me.

That is not to say I have no history with these people. I do have childhood memories of their coming to my house for birthday parties, and of my going to theirs. We played soccer together on the playground. We kissed the same girls on the playground. Then things like sports, band, and drinking parties started driving wedges between us.

This is where it gets confusing. It makes sense that in these dreams we are not adults, because I never knew them as adults. However, we’re not the same age as when we used to play together. We are in high school again. There was one weird scene in which one of the guys, the star athlete who played quarterback in football, center in basketball, and won a lot in track, lived with me for a while. He has lots of baseball caps and has trouble fitting them in the small section of closet I was able to spare.

Neither my wife nor any of my family makes an appearance in these dreams, but there’s no romance, either.

Breaking the normalcy was one dream in which snow fell in the middle of a hot summer day, while about five or six of us enjoyed a lunch at a local diner. I was familiar with the location, but the diner itself was a construct of my subconscious imagination. Or something like that. The snow did not seem out of place to me during the dream, which follows my normal pattern.

In the past, I’ve had other dreams featuring these people, but very seldom. Am I having them more often now because I just moved to a new state even farther from my roots? Because I am a father?

I just got an e-mail after telling a friend about these dreams. It reads:

"That is really weird because I was telling my wife this past Monday I had a dream about (your brother) and then the next night a dream about you... same deal just hanging out... although (your brother) was shopping for a bow tie!"

So, it’s good to know I’m not alone in these dreams. Anybody else?

American Movie (Un)Classics

2005-10-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

Playing tonight on American Movie Classics (AMC):

Pet Sematary 2

Oh my. What has this channel come to? Has Turner Classic Movies (TCM) really cornered the market so much that AMC can't show a decent flick anymore? I remember when AMC had the great Hitchcock festival, in which they showed the restored, letterbox versions of some of the filmmaker's best movies. It introduced me to many of the lesser-known but great works in his body of work.

No more quality movies will come from this channel, I guess. Good thing I recorded almost every movie during that Hitchcock fest.

Pumpkin Farm Fun and Swerving for Cyclists

2005-10-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Pumpkin Farm Fun

As we waited in our minivan for a cop directing traffic so a group of cyclists could get through, Ben said, "Mowcycle." Motorcycle

"That's good, Ben, but those are bicycles. See?" I pointed to a few pedalers passing in the opposite direction.

He looked at them, then looked the other direction and said, "Yeyyo mowcycle." Yellow motorcycle

We were about 10 or 15 cars back from the traffic light, and when I looked again I barely saw a yellow cruiser bike leaving the intersection headed to the right.

My wife and I both chimed in, "That's right, Ben, yellow motorcycle. Very good."

"I told you, if he says it, you know it's gotta be there somewhere," my wife said.

She was right. Ben has this uncanny ability to spot things we didn't even know were there, even after looking for them. I guess all young eyes, coupled with young brains, can do this, but I haven't been around other kids very much. Yet another perk of being a father is being around children and their amazing view of the world.

At the Big Orange Pumpkin Farm, Ben got to feed goats, cows, and sheep. He called out their names and gave them a "moo" and a "baaa" where appropriate, but they didn't seem to notice that he had learned their respective languages. My favorite was "Cock-a-dooo" for a rooster. Ben smiled each time a goat pushed its snout into the paper cup of feed, but laughed out loud when one goat would butt another for eating rights.

"Goats a sunny," Ben said.

"Yes, Ben those goats are funny," we replied. Still working on that F sound.

Now, I grew up with a best friend who lived on a farm, and this place was lacking one distinctive smell. Unless you've experienced it, then you will not be able to appreciate it just from my words. It is the rank stench of a billy goat's beard. Evidently these animals urinate on their own beards to make themselves more attractive to females or to warn away other males. Whatever the reason, with my considerable human nose I can only understand it working for the latter.

The hayride was uneventful, and somehow lost the charm I had hoped for when we passed two volleyball nets and saw a large building with a sign that read, "Bill Bates Cowboy Ranch." Nevertheless, Ben seemed to like it.

When a pig started squealing loud enough to get everybody's attention, a lady near us mused "maybe we're about to see what a farm is really all about." Turns out it was just an employee picking up the pig to give some patrons a closer look. That tiny pink pig made quite a scene, screaming its head off and flailing its stubby little legs. A supervisor walked over quickly and told the girl to put down the pig, as she was making guests think the pig was hurt. Clearly the girl was embarrassed by the reprimand. She cowered in one corner of the pig's cage, lifting little handfuls of its feed and letting it fall through her fingers. Then she jarred me completely out of the farm environment by calling somebody on her mobile phone. I can only imagine what she was saying.

We saw a train of sorts. It featured a John Deere lawn tractor pulling a string of about five "cars" made of cutout barrels, on their side, each just large enough for two or three little kids to sit and ride. I decided Ben needed to ride that, and bought a $2 ticket. I finally got his mom's attention as she chatted with a Mom's group member, and she decided to climb into the car with Ben. There were no safety straps, so we thought she could make sure he didn't fall out.

Stay with me.

Although my wife stands just a little over 5'7", she has fairly long legs. By the time she crammed herself into that little barrel with him, Ben was pinned against the front and had a look on his face that asked, "Now what am I supposed to do?" or maybe, "Dad, you paid two bucks for this?" Shannon likewise was unable to move, and barely managed to get out by herself, as I was busy readying the camera in the event she landed on her head.

A very nice woman behind us volunteered to let Ben ride with her two daughters, one of whom was about five and loved to help with her little sister. "She'll make sure he doesn't get out," she said. We asked Ben if that was okay with him, introduced him to the girls, and plopped him between them. He was so tired by that point that he probably wouldn't have cared if they were two bearcats. Ever the dutiful and nerdly dad, I followed along beside the train, my miniDV Handycam capturing every pontentially boring moment.

Later we let Ben pick out his own pumpkin from one of the patches. There were actual plants growing in rows of dark soil, with a few pumpkins lying near each. The stems were cut, so I'm not sure that was where they grew into the proud pumpkins they had become. The plants resembled the squash plants in my childhood garden, so I knew it was possible. Obviously caring little about their birthplace, Ben eagerly chose the first pumpkin he saw once we told him to get one. He gave a few textbook straining grunts as he tried to lift it, but neither of us knows where he got that. Probably from Grover lifting his mailbag on Sesame Street.

Before we finished our 10-minute drive home, Ben was fast asleep in his car seat. He didn't even stir when I unbuckled the straps to lift him out.

One thing that breaks my heart after outings like that? Although it will help shape who he becomes, Ben may have abolutely no conscious recollection of that day or any day prior to it. Some children claim to have memories of when they were two, but I certainly can't claim that. I guess we'll know some day whether he remembers it. We'll just have to make sure we ask him before he sees the pictures and video.

I don't want to say I have mixed feelings, because that carries with it a negative connotation, so let's say I have various feelings about the Big Orange Pumpkin Farm.

At $5 per person over two years old, which includes a hot dog, a hayride, and a paper cup full of animal feed, it is not a bad deal. Add to that drinks, chips, and a take-home pumpkin, and you're set back about $22 for a family of three to have a few hours of fun. I was surprised they charged $1 for a 16oz bottled Ozarka water (the best bottled water, right up there with Aquafina), considering how much I would pay for that at any other event in the area. I recommend it for a family outing in the fresh air. Well, fresh in a farmy, animal-dung kind of way.

-----------------

Swerving for Cyclists

On the drive out to the pumpkin farm Saturday morning, we saw and had to swerve for lots of cyclists. I have no problem with that, but when cars coming the opposite direction swerve into my lane to pass a pedal pumper, I get a little nervous. We had no idea what the occasion was. Several miles down the road, two guys on bicycles were riding abreast, just like Ponch and John did in "CHiPs". As soon as I had the chance, I passed them. I said something like this:

"Can't they find a better place to ride together? I wouldn't be out here riding on a road where the speed limit is 55 mph. It's crazy. I know the law says they have the right to the lane just like a car does, but come on. I come over that next rise and there are two people riding like that, I won't see them in time. These people think they're the next Lance Armstrong or something. 'Oh, Lance isn't coming back, I have a shot.' Idiots."

Potential scoring for Deathrace 2000 notwithstanding, my wife nodded a couple times and said she agreed it was pretty risky. We were on our way, dodging bicycles the remaining five miles of our drive.

Later we found out that they were participating in the Velo Bash Bike Rally, to benefit and increase awareness of the Children's Brain Tumor Foundation of the Southwest. I felt a little smaller for having complained as loudly as I did, but I still think there has to be some safer solution for charity bicycle rides. Perhaps they were not "idiots" in the strictest sense.

A Major Milestone and Verbal Flubs

2005-10-09T11:28:00.000-05:00

First Time Ever

I never knew just how I would feel when it finally happened. I had heard others talk about it, and had considered in passing how I would react.

Yesterday, I heard the sound of Ben's voice as I napped on the couch. That's nothing unusual. He wakes up from his nap, gets restless, and starts saying things like, "Ben, get out," or just the standard "Daddy. Daaaadeeeee." Then there's the unintelligible, low groan. Anyone who knows Ben knows that sound.

I also heard his doorknob moving. Ben likes to close doors, but cannot open them yet, so this also was not unusual. So what's the big deal? Right?

Ben still naps in his crib.

Visions of Crushed Head Faeda* dancing through my head, I rushed to find out if Ben was okay. I managed to curb my enthusiasm enough to keep from knocking him over with the door. He was fine, and only later as I changed his diaper and asked how he got out of his bed did he say, "Ben bump a head." He seemed to be relating facts more than complaining, so I guessed the bump was not too bad.

After I told my wife about it, we discussed getting a toddler bed. It just wouldn't do to have our boy tumbling from his crib each day.

I chuckled to myself a bit and imagined what he'll do on the day he first wakes up, stretches his adorable little legs, and opens his room door onto the rest of the house, his mommy and daddy sleeping obliviously on the opposite side of the split floorplan. When that day comes, I hope for our sake that my post is no more eventful than this one.

* Crushed Head Faeda is a memorable character from the soon-to-be-classic, Simon of Space. I didn't link to it, because that site will be removed before long, due to the paper publisher's contract. I'll announce here when you can pick up your own hardbound edition. It will entertain you and make you think, but not in a sad way.

-------

Verbal Flubs

Relating a story someone else had shared about her new house's state of ill-repair, my wife said, "She's going to call the builder and tell them her house is a melon." (for all those unfamiliar with the problem here, the word should be "lemon," not "melon.") Note added later: she knew immediately that she had said it wrong -- sorry for that omission, dear.

The next day, she had another. First, let me say that it was about midnight-thirty. I had just been to see the US Marine Drum and Bugle Corp, who played a great arrangement of one of my favorite pieces -- Rimksy-Korsakov's Sheherazade, and had videotaped it for prosperity. I mean, posterity. Dang, she has me doing it, too.

I was playing the video for her and her mother when they both noticed a man standing near the field wearing bright orange pants. "Look at those pants," my wife said.

"What was he thinking?" my mother-in-law said.

My life laughed and replied, "I don't know. Those things make him stick out like an orange thumb." (hint: should have been "sore thumb.")

To her credit, she realized what she had said and laughed as I told her I was going to blog it. Here ya go, dear.

Razor Sharp Marketing

2005-10-06T08:04:00.000-05:00

The pushers have addicted me.

For more than 12 years, I have been using the same type of razor, and probably have had to replace it two or three times. Sure, I had to buy the replacement blade cartridges, but that's all part of the evil of using manual razors. Many fancier models with an extra blade and more pivot points have come along since then, but I've remained true to the SensorExcel that has always met my needs. I've tried electric -- so no thank you to anybody about to suggest that.

On Monday morning, I picked up my trusty Gillette SensorExcel and realized I'd been shaving on that particular blade refill too long. I judge this by how much shaving cream scum has accumulated on the plastic parts. Now that's scientific.

I turned over the razor's base, where there is space for five blade cartridges to rest comfortably until I need them. Rats! The four remaining had the telltale white stains and the fifth was on the razor. I had skipped a shaving day over the weekend, so my face was kind of stubbly. I had to shave.

That's when 12-plus years of undying loyalty met its match.

In Bentonville, Arkansas, there is an atmosphere unique to the known universe. The largest company in the world has its headquarters there, and vendors of all stripes have converged on the humble community of 20,000 (but quickly growing) to court its business. In fact, Wal-Mart informed said companies not long ago that in order to do business with them, they had to have a physical presence within 30 miles of the headquarters. Since then, it's been almost like watching birds converge on a huge billboard (constructed by Wile E. Coyote) reading "free bird sed."

In such an environment, it is ridiculously simple to find sponsors for a golf tournament. What do some of these companies do to get their name out to the participants? You guessed it. Goodie bags.

In one of the three times I set foot on a golf course that year, I participated in one of said tournaments. Although I didn't score well, I got brand new stuff in plastic bags.

Back to now, where I opened the bathroom cabinet to find a razor, packaged in a transparent plastic shell that's impenetrable without a knife or scissors. Oddly, the back of the package featured a rectangular perforation that made opening it quite easy. Why can't 99.9% of manufacturers catch on to this?

After getting over the amazement of Edge gel turning to shave cream as I applied it (I'm a simple man), I gripped the razor's comfortable handle and carefully dragged the blades down my cheek, then over my chin and down my neck.

I then knew the name of my latest addiction. It is called Gillette Mach3 Turbo, and although it makes my teeth grind to type the words, it lifted me to a new level in shaving comfort. The pushers have won.

Digital Media issues

2005-10-04T17:41:00.000-05:00

I started this as a rant on the woes of the ever-increasing space demands of digital media, but turned into a sort of primer.

Digital Photos

Do you use a digital camera? Do you scan in your film photos? If so, and you've been doing this for any length of time, then you know how much fun it is keeping photo files organized and backed up.

You're not backing up your photos? Please start now. Copy them to another hard drive, put them on a CD or a DVD. Something. Anything. You can lose pictures forever if you do not have a backup plan.

If you copy some photos to an optical disk of some kind, don't rely on that as the only copy. The CD's and DVD's you create today are not infallible. I've placed a CD in my drive, and other drives, only to find that the data on it is inaccessible. I was lucky it was only some freeware I could download again, but it could just as easily have been photos.

So, you say that storing all those photos is starting to take up too much space? The moment you copy photos from your camera onto your computer, before you've deleted them from the memory card, look through them and weed out the pictures you do not want. This should not be hard for most folks, as even the pros shoot frame upon frame to get the "right" shot. This can save an enormous amount of space. If you do not do it right away, then you probably will not do it.

Once you have weeded out the pics you don't want, make a second copy of the keepers somewhere (remember that backup I was talking about). Then, and only then, should you clear the memory card, and you should do that within the camera, not with your computer. Otherwise, you can end up with a card that the camera will not read correctly.

You can, of course, weed through the pictures in the camera, before you even copy them to the hard drive. If you have a large number of pictures, though, this can be fairly time-consuming and you cannot always tell from the small LCD whether a picture is a keeper.

Digital Video

Do you shoot digital video and then download it to your computer? If so, then all of the above apply, but deleting the parts you don't want is trickier. You can use a video editor to cut them down, and then save the final cut onto the hard drive. Windows Movie Maker 2 (freely downloadable from Microsoft) is pretty good. Otherwise, use something like Pinnacle Studio or another of the products in that range. Mac users, you have the excellent iMovie. Enough said there.

Then, if you have the capability, output your edited video to DVD. Most modern DVD players will play DVD's you make yourself, and it is a great way to share you videos. Remember, though, that your miniDV camera records an image that is higher quality than a DVD, so just paying someone to archive your tapes to DVD will result in quality loss. Many people do not know that.

I encourage you to keep the original, whether on tape or on the hard drive. If you keep every minute of all your originals on a hard drive, then you will start using up hard drive space very quickly. I recommend you keep the original tapes and just buy a new tape when you fill one. Sure, archive the best moments to avoid losing them to tape damage and/or degradation, but keep the original tapes, too. Until there is some inexpensive way of archiving the full-quality original, that seems the best way to do it.

This obviously is not meant as a comprehensive guide, but it was on my mind, and that's why I have a blog.

Serenity the Movie

2005-10-01T00:49:00.000-05:00

We saw Serenity on opening night.

I saw it was good, and I said it was good.

Shannon, who has never seen one episode of Firefly, was bored through half of it, indifferent through the third fourth, and thought it was a'ight for the last 35-40 minutes.

I can understand a lot of that, for someone who has not watched the show at all. She did laugh out loud several times, however, at some funny parts. She also gasped pretty big at one point, but not as much as those who watch Firefly.

I thought it was very good. I won't say any more, lest I spoil something, but there were two significant surprises, and one big shocker that still bothers me (not because it was bad, but just sad). Also, do not watch the trailer or read any reviews that mention plot points before you see the movie. As usual, I wish I had not. Big time here, though, especially if you are a watcher of Firefly.

The place was absolutely packed, so that at 7:15 (show started at 7:25), we could not find two seats together in the middle section (except the front-most section), so we sat way over on the side, about 10 feet from a side speaker. That's saying something, because it was the largest capacity layout in the multiplex. It made dialogue hard to hear, having background sounds and music right there in our right ear.

Funniest moment (besides a few choice movie lines) was when we saw a woman picking her nose in her car, right at a very busy intersection where basically anybody could see her. She kept looking around to make sure nobody could see her (I guess), but she never looked to her left and slightly behind her, which is where we were. Wow, was she digging. First she just casually slipped her thumb in there, but then she really got serious and stuck a finger up there. She then just rubbed her finger and her thumb together, I suppose to make the spoils disappear. Yuck. The things people do in their cars. See my post about other (not disgusting) things I've seen.

It was a great date night. We ate at the Blue Goose in Plano before the movie, and had dessert at Cold Stone (ice cream place where they mix together the flavors you choose). I had peanut butter ice cream mixed with banana, and Shannon had a coffee/amaretto ice cream mix. Both very good. Better than Marble Slab Creamery, which I've mentioned in an earlier post.

After dessert, we headed over to a place called Main Event. It features, in a non-smoking environment, 34 bowling lanes, tons of pool tables, the longest shuffleboard table I've seen, and lots of video games.

The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful

2005-09-29T23:42:00.000-05:00

Wow. We hit 104 degrees here on Wednesday. A little thunderbanger blows through that night, and we get not one drop of rain. We wake up to a day with a high of 78 degrees, our first break from 100-degree heat in at least a month. It felt like San Francisco out there (only west coast city I've been to, so that's why I mentioned it), only it was a little bit warmer. A slight breeze, actual temperature variance in the shade. I half expected a Rice-a-Roni cable car to stop and wait for me to jump on board. Wouldn't give my wife the front spot this time, though (see pic). That was taken before we had a digital camera. See more of my San Francisco pics here, categorized. Muir Woods, Monterey Bay, etc.

Ben and I played outside for about an hour after I got home from work. If you're watching reruns or playing video games instead of spending time with your child, then shame on you. If you don't have a child, then stare at a screen if you want. We're not supposed to hit above 90 in the next 10 days, and lows in the 60's and 50's. Okay, enough weather geekery.

I got 27 pages into An American Tragedy, but dropped it like a brick (which it resembles at 800+ pages) when I found a borrowed copy of Ringworld. I'm getting back into sci-fi after a long hiatus. Thanks to Simon of Space and its community of commenters for rekindling my love for the genre. It's one thing to watch it on the silver screen, but quite another to read it. The movies generally sacrifice character depth for number of explosions. Oh, wait, that's not just in sci-fi. ;-)

Plus, I'm stoked about sci-fi again because Ben says "rocketship" as plain as you please. There's one on a set of his pajamas, but we don't know where he heard the word.

Probably going to see the Serenity movie this weekend. It's based on the short-lived but excellent TV series Firefly (Serenity is a Firefly-class cargo ship). I think sticking with the original name would have made it more attractive to the uninitiated than the other. Oh well. As they say on Seinfeld - Serenity now!

Have an excellent weekend, my faithul (if few) readers.

Four Car Pileup, My Book, and SCSI

2005-09-28T23:48:00.000-05:00

I got off work right on time today, and on my way home I saw a fire truck, an ambulance, and a police car in the opposite lanes. Four cars had managed to smash into each other. Well, the guy in the front didn't do any smashing, so I guess only three. All the cars were in pretty bad shape. Funny thing is that the fourth car back had the most damage, as if it hit hardest. And no, I didn't rubberneck and slow down traffic. The guy in front of me did, so of course I looked while we were going slow.

So, I'm trying to put together in my mind how four cars end up like that on a road where the traffic was not very heavy, and when it is, it's moving very slowly. It is a very flat road, and visibility was excellent. Were three drivers paying that little attention? They had to have been looking at something else. We were between two corn fields, so I'm pretty sure they weren't gawking at a woman when it happened.

I finished reading through my book and making notes of what to move where, what to add, and what to change to a different point of view. It's tricky business, keeping track of a novel-length piece of work. If you can't take time to read it in fairly large chunks so that you don't forget any details, coherent revisions are very difficult. I might post it online in chunks. If you want to see it, then please encourage me in a comment. It will be a great motivator for me to work on this thing once and for all. I wrote it in one month about three years ago-- start, middle, end, and it's time to finish it.

Did I mention that Ben is awesome?

I went back to work at 8 p.m. to complete a couple of scheduled tasks that had to be done during downtime. They actually went off without a hitch.

(computer nerdly passage approaching)

Interesting part? I had to update the SCSI controller drivers and firmware on an IBM xSeries server running Windows 2000 Server. I think it's a 345. After I updated the driver (always do that first), I rebooted onto the ServeRAID Manager Support CD. I was pleasantly surprised to see Tux appear on the screen, and then a Linux GUI. It required only two clicks from me to flash the SCSI firmware. After it was finished doing this critical hardware-level work, it prompted me to reboot, where the server then loaded back into Windows. Oh well, I'm sure it enjoyed the brief time it spent with the penguin.

(computer nerdly passage over. post over. goodnight to me)

They're on Our Side

2005-09-26T01:29:00.000-05:00

For the second time in the last 10 years, I went to a high school football game Friday night. I went with my wife and our son, a 26-month old redheaded spitfire (also sometimes a firebrand). My first cousin's son is the first-chair trumpet player in the Pilot Point High School band, and for the second year in a row he was up for Band Beau at Homecoming. They never had such things when I was in school.

It was a breezy night, not too hot. We had just grabbed some hamburgers and a hot dog from the band's concession stand, and Ben was devouring the Cheetos. He kept leaning on my legs to get a better look at something, effectively fingerpainting cheese coating all over my shorts. I demonstrated licking the cheese off my fingers so he might get the hint. Good thing I love him. He dropped his sippy cup, which then bounced through the Mac truck-sized gap in the bleachers and hit the dirt far below. By the time I got to it, it had been kicked repeatedly through the dirt. I headed to the Men's room to rinse it off.

Through Ben's Eyes

Ben sat in the stands for a while without getting bored. He pointed at the field at one point to say, "Paying sootball," which I think we can all translate if we try. Keep working on those "L" and "F" sounds, buddy.

I walked Ben around a little bit when he got restless. Along the journey we saw an ambulance, a fire truck, and a police car. The fireman opened the door for Ben to look inside with his wide blue eyes. That was a highlight of the night for Ben.

When the inflatable, oversized bearcat the football team uses as its "tunnel" was deflated, Ben said, "Bearcat fell down." He was scared of the mascot when we got close to it. Yeah, son, just you wait until we go somewhere with a Disney theme. Looks like he might be a shrieker.

The Fervor
I got to a point in my life that I started thinking of sporting events as just another form of entertainment. After going to a couple of them live in the same week, I have to admit they are much more than that. At a live concert or a play, the crowd certainly applauds and/or yells in approval of the performance. To an extent, this behavior is contagious. Once a few people stand up to give a standing ovation, for instance, the rest usually follow, whether or not they truly feel it is deserved.

At a sporting event, there is competition, which means the fans take sides, and that makes it alive in a much more dynamic way than other forms of entertainment. High school sports amplifies this effect.

At a high school football game, parents of players are peppered throughout the stands. Some spectators are conscious of this and make an effort not to badmouth the players; some ignore this and complain about them after every down. Regardless, the parents usually do a good job of ignoring these idiots and try to enjoy watching the opposing team knock the living spit out of their sons.

Also in attendance are former students of that school who still feel a connection to the team. They often are more rabid fans than those currently enrolled, perhaps in an effort to recapture their youth, or just in their excitement that there still is a place one can pay $5 for an evening out.

When something good happens, it's more than just a singer hitting a note, or a guitarist firing off a burning solo run. When that happens, a concergoer might lean to another and say, "These guys are amazing!" or "Dude, they are killing tonight."

In sports, though, it's "We scored!" or "I can't believe we're losing like this," followed by high-fives or hand-wringing, respectively. Cheerleaders encourage spectator participation. Some fans can admit when the other team makes a good play; some would not be caught dead saying anything complimentary of the opponent. The players feed off all these forms of energy more than anyone who's never been out on the field could ever know.

I have no doubt that sports are entertainment. They charge admission, there is a stage, and the participants dress up for their performance. The fans, however, make the difference, because sports provide a venue for them to do much more than passively be entertained. They yell and rejoice as if they can make a difference in who wins or loses. More often than not, they are right.

Simon of Space update

2005-09-24T01:47:00.000-05:00

The author of Simon of Space has announced that he is in negotiations with a publishing company to have the book published "for real." As in, not paying to have it printed, but having an editor and a publishing company handle his work of art and present it to the world, then send him money.

There's no telling how long all this might take, but it's exciting news for him and all of us who have been following along. Not to mention those of us who also have dreamed of becoming paid published authors.

Simon of Space is over

2005-09-22T23:34:00.000-05:00

It ended. Simon of Space, a rollicking ride around an imaginary universe, written over a fourth-month span and meted out to a loyal fan base with typos and plot holes galore (hey, he was making a lot of it up on the fly, and a story evolves), came to an end.

(begin obsolete paragraph)
The good news for those who haven't read it? You can get your own softcover copy of it. It appears in the book almost exactly like it did online, as diary entries of a man who starts life with a clean slate. If you want to buy it, you can. It's an on-demand printing service, so don't expect to pay $5 for it. Besides, it will end up being worth much more than that to you.
(end obsolete paragraph)

As of this writing, you can still read it online, guided by a handy table of contents instead of having to read the posts from the bottom up.

Read it somehow, though. If you remember that it is a 366 page book written in a linear fashion with no re-writes or revisions, and just enjoy the wonderful characters and the amazing worlds they inhabit, you will not regret spending time on this. Matthew Frederick Davis Hemming (writing here as Cheeseburger Brown) is a talent you will hear from sometime in the future.

Toothbrush and Nose Honk

2005-09-22T07:59:00.000-05:00

Just a couple of things this morning before I start working.

On the way in this morning, a driver in front of me at a red light was brushing his teeth. I wasn't sure at first, because all I could see was his head moving back and forth. When he tilted his head back just enough for me to see his mouth in his rearview mirror, there it was, the toothbrush, going back and forth across his pearly whites. That was a first for me. I've seen people doing all kinds of things in their cars, but not that. I held off trying to share the song I had learned as a youngster and that we sometimes sing to Ben. "Brush your teeth, round and round. Circles small, gums and all."

The smog was particularly heavy to the south, above Dallas, and it looked like the wind had carried it our direction. Gotta love living in an urban megaplex. Not LA mega -- heck, not even Houston mega, but pretty big nonetheless. We moved Ben from the fresh air of the Ozarks to "air pollution caution level red." There, son, a gift from us.

After I got to work, I heard a co-worker blow his nose. You know how on TV and movies, when people blow their nose it makes a big honking sound, almost like a Canadian goose? Well, this was one of those. I rarely hear those in real life, so it gave me a good chuckle to start the day.

Here's hoping Hurricane Rita doesn't give anyone, much less Katrina survivors, as much trouble as some are predicting.

Spacebat

2005-09-21T08:08:00.000-05:00

Have to share a dad thought (or more).

Ben loves to say new words, and often will repeat one until someone else says it in recognition. He always has had a bit of trouble with the word "placemat." We have a few that only Ben uses, because they do not soak up spills like our more decorative placemats. That's a great feature when you consider that toddlers often do not keep food within the boundaries of a dinner plate.

The word has gone through an evolution of sorts, but Ben's latest and most confidently pronounced version of the word is, as you might have guessed by the title of this post, "spacebat." It isn't muddled at all. Sitting atop his booster seat eagerly awaiting whatever we've managed to concoct for him, Ben repeats "spacebat" as clearly and crisply as a finely tuned radio announcer. More often than not, he keeps saying it even after he gets it. It's very hard for my wife and me to keep a straight face, so we are constantly turning our backs to laugh.

It's tempting to repeat back "spacebat," just as many parents repeat back mispronounced words that sound funny. It's better than just any mispronunciation, because in addition to being terrifically cute, it actually forms a real word -- well, real in a science fiction sense. Being a science fiction fan myself (as is my wife to some extent), I will hate to see "spacebat" go.

Trying our best to encourage proper speech, we just repeat it back, "Yes, placemat, that's right. You like to use your placemat," or some similar phrase that in most contexts crosses the line into corny.

Another one, which he comes by honestly, is his slight mangling of the word "magazine." Whenever he sees one of us reading any type of thin, floppy publication with color print, he proudly identifies it as a "mazagine." It has meaning for me, because I said it as a child. Again, we repeat it properly and know that the sad day will come when we'll never again read a "mazagine."

There are many times that Ben says something, and we can tell he really means it, because he will repeat back the same sound after it's clear to him we have no idea what he just said. Once we realize what we think it might be, and repeat it back in English, he gets an excited look in his eyes, nods, and says, "Yes." If we're wrong, he repeats himself until we get it right, or until it's clear that the situation is hopeless and that there are more important things to accomplish.

Things like throwing his milk cup.

Wherefore Art Thou, NFL?

2005-09-20T08:02:00.000-05:00

First, a little translation, because I'm surprise by how many people do not know this.

"Wherefore art thou" does not mean "where are you?" It means "why are you?" Juliet said it to Romeo not to find him in the dark, but to lament the fact that he was, in fact, Romeo, a member of the rival family Montague, yet she was falling for him. So, why are you Romeo Montague, whom I am sworn to hate just by being born a Capulet? Oh, and Shakespeare didn't dream up the story. He adapted it from a poem first published two years before he was born.

On to my original topic, and why I think maybe I'm just not an NFL fan anymore.

I went to the Dallas Cowboys game last night. I first became a fan of the Cowboys back in the first grade, when Roger Staubach was still taking the snaps. Tony Dorsett was the superstar I remember best from those days, because I was only 9 when Staubach retired, yet Dorsett had his best season two years later, and I saw (on TV) his record touchdown run of 99 yards. In my second-grade picture, I am wearing a shirt that says "I'm From Cowboy Country," even though I was from Arkansas.

I know now that there were coked-up players throughout the 70's, a fact my grade-school self was oblivious to as I stared in wide-eyed wonderment at America's Team. I'm sure there also were ridiculous sums of money being paid, when adjusted for the value of the dollar. Again, I never remember the topic coming up when I watched in the 70's (or most of the 80's, for that matter).

Fast forward to the early 1990's, when millions of other fans and I watched the Cowboys suffer through a 1-15 season, then rally to win three Super Bowls in a four-year period. I was happy for the team, but I wasn't crazy about Jerry Jones, and I kind of resented the "bandwagon" fans who wear the jersey of whatever team is that year's champion. Also, I've always been a bigger fan of the humble gridiron warrior than the braggarts who seemed to be taking over. No, not Troy Aikman or Emmit Smith. They were my style. Irvin and others, great as they might have been, grated on my nerves. Abuse of substances both legal and illegal made the NFL news a lot, and some documentaries about past teams revealed that the Cowboys teams I had idealized in the past were riddled with the type of people I would never care to meet.

Once I finished college and started working in the real world, I found that time spent watching football on TV felt like time wasted. My weekend time was precious, and football got knocked down several pegs on the priority pole. In fact, it pretty much got pushed completely off. There I was, married, trying to find an affordable place to live, watching the stars sign multi-million dollar contracts and whine when they didn't get what they "deserved." Yes, I know many of them work very hard to maintain their physical condition, but we're talking about millions of dollars. Yes, I know that there are many guys on the bench making a lot less than the guys starting. Again, we're still talking about a lot of money and pretty much no financial hardship for these guys unless it's self-inflicted.

When we lived in northern Virginia for a while, and the local TV stations gave us a steady diet of the Washington Redskins, I tried again to be a football fan so I could root the Cowboys on in a hostile environment.

It didn't work.

I again dropped the NFL and stopped thinking about it for the most part. If I heard or saw a Cowboys score, that inner child would say, "yea," or "aaaugh," but then life would go on with no more than that small blip on the radar.

Several years later, I was invited to be a part of an online fantasy football league. I liked and respected the guy who asked, so I signed up and formed a team. Evidently it was a bit different from the others, in that everyone participating could have exactly the same lineup. There was a salary cap, but everybody playing could have the same running back, quarterback, etc. Also, no points were taken off for anything, and I could have a different set of players each week if needed.

I don't like to do things unless I do well, so I spent some time on this. I paid attention to the strengths and weaknesses of teams opposing my players, so that I could adjust my lineup. I was in a close second place in my group of about 15 all season long, until one week when I stuck with my same players, not realizing my running back's team had a bye. Oops.

After that season (maybe 2000 or 2001?), I again lost interest in the NFL and never really picked up again.

That is, until I moved to the Dallas area. Here I was, in a place where the local team was my childhood dream team. The local paper had huge sections devoted to them. Former players dotted the media landscape and the car dealership billboards. The nearest NFL game was less than an hour's drive away, instead of six, and it was not just any team. It was the Cowboys.

So, last Thursday when a co-worker announced via e-mail that she had an extra ticket for the upcoming Redskins game, I jumped at the chance. Not only were we playing the rival Redskins, but the "triplets" Aikman, Smith, and Irvin were being inducted into the Ring of Honor. I pictured myself truly caring about this while sitting there watching it live, at only my second Cowboys game in person. I had nothing Cowboys-related to wear (this should have been my first hint that I'm probably not a fan anymore), so I went with a generic blue-ish T-shirt.

While waiting to pick up my car after its repair Monday afternoon, I heard an interview with Troy Aikman, in which he affirmed my belief that he was a genuinely good guy, and I thought what a shame it was that these days he seemed an exception to the rule in the NFL. I'm probably not being fair to the players who don't make headlines with date-rapes and general abuse of women, but it's hard to ignore the other things I don't like about professional sports. Namely, that the players are paid ridiculous amounts of money while the average fan can barely afford to attend a game. On this topic and others, David Letterman made a fool of NFL super-agent Drew Rosenhaus. Apparently, Rosenhaus does that pretty well himself. I admit, Letterman is another entertainer getting paid tons of money. However, he charges nothing at the door.

It's getting to be work time, so I have to sum up (are any of you even still with me?), in exciting present-tense.

I can't get in touch with the guy whose wife sold me the ticket, so I drive to the game by myself. I already paid $49 for the ticket and find out when I get there that it's another $15 for parking. After walking a brisk mile to the door (this is not exaggeration) in 93-degree heat, I get in the door about 10 minutes after kickoff, where the score is 0-0. I introduce myself to my co-worker's husband, who turns out to be a very nice guy. Two ladies behind us manage to spill their beer on the seat next to him, and then his seat. Really slosh it good. I go to the concession area to buy a water, and to grab some napkins for beer cleanup. For 16.9 oz. of bottled water, I pay $3.50. Ouch.

Back in the game, it's 13-0 Cowboys in the fourth quarter. Until, that is, they start playing not to lose and give the 'Skins all the opportunity they need to score 14 unanswered points for the win.

Now, the loss notwithstanding, I didn't find myself enjoying being there, besides the camaraderie with my new acquaintance. We knew quite a bit about each other before it was all over. As far as the Ring of Honor thing? Even with my binoculars to see it better, I didn't get caught up at all. It was nice to see a couple of good guys (Troy and Emmit) join the ranks of Staubach and the other few Cowboys greats in the Ring, and I didn't mind Irvin getting in, too. I found, though, that I would have been fine just watching it on TV, and maybe even not seeing it at all.

I think my interest in professional sports died when I moved from being a child to being a man. I'm not saying that pro sports fans are not adults. I'm just saying that, for me, with my perspective and my personal interests, pro sports have lost their foothold. Despite the fact that now I really am from Cowboy Country.

-------------

On a note separate from the NFL, when I stopped to get gas on the way home, the pay-at-the-pump feature was not working, so I went inside. The cashier was just pulling a beer out of the front pocket of a would-be shoplifter, asking him why he was stealing from him. The boy didn't answer, but replied by pulling out a five-dollar bill and saying, "I'm paying for my gas." That seemed little consolation to the cashier, who said he was going to call the police. I could tell it was getting a little heated, so I took my business elsewhere. Good thing, too, because instead of $2.69/gallon, I paid "only" $2.61. Thanks for shoplifters.

Bratwurst, a Cop, and a Marshmallow Gun

2005-09-19T13:30:00.000-05:00

Lunch time post. Enjoy.

We went to Oktoberfest in Addison, TX on Saturday. Turns out we probably should have just skipped it… also, my first time in years to get pulled over by a cop…

The weekend started off well enough. We ate, in-laws’ treat, at an Italian restaurant in Plano called Paparazzi. The food was great, but with chef-prepared quality comes time in preparation. Ben got a little restless after he spooned all the delicious marinara sauce from around his tasty ravioli. We had run out of things to keep him busy, but we didn’t have a separate car to make our escape. Luckily, they had a kids’ table and a VCR in the back of the restaurant. I walked Ben over there, where two little girls had put in a tape for rewinding. Guessing their ages to be about four and about six or seven, I introduced them to Ben and asked if it was okay if he joined them. They acted excited to meet him and said that would be great. We easily could see them from our table, so I wasn’t too worried about him.

By the time we left, the older girl had lifted Ben into her lap twice and our waitress had taken Ben a milk refill. The little girls loved the way Ben said, “Yes,” when they asked him questions. I introduced myself to the little girls’ parents and let them know that the girls had been very nice to Ben.

Saturday, we took my car in (remember in that previous post when I mentioned an oil leak?), and then took Ben to something called Trade Days. It’s a huge gathering of merchants that can’t seem to decide whether it’s a craft fair or a flea market. As it was getting hot and we were finding few vendors worth a look, we packed it in and headed home, but not before I got my mini marshmallow launcher. Mine is mouth-powered, similar to this one. Later I discovered a more polished-looking model powered by pump-action. I’ll stick to my cheap version, which shoots the little white sugarpuffs about 40 feet and is easy to clean. I tested it strictly to make sure it would work well for the kids in the family. The kids old enough not to choke on mini marshmallows, that is.

Saturday night we went to Oktoberfest. It is huge, complete with carnival rides and live performances – much bigger than the Tulsa event we’ve attended in the past. There were lots of things for kids to do, but it was still about 93 degrees and unmercifully sunny when we got there at 4:30 p.m. We sat inside the air-conditioned main tent for a while, where it was obvious Ben hated the loud music, had no interest in dancing, and would not try our Bratwurst. Sitting still was not an option, either, so we took turns walking Ben around outside until it got cool enough for us to stay outside a while without baking.

There was a petting zoo, where I wondered for about two seconds why they always have farm animals in petting zoos. Because they’re domesticated and generally do not bite your face off, was the answer I gave myself. A tented area featured a clown who held Ben’s attention for about five minutes. Ben’s favorite activity was just walking around amongst all the people, and he fussed only when we tried to keep him in one spot.

Once when I had him outside by myself, I sat him on the edge of a local radio station’s inflatable advertisement and bounced him gently. He loved it. I asked one of the onsite DJ’s if it was okay, and he wasted no time telling me that, no, it was not, but my kid could have a sticker. Can he bounce on it? Didn’t think so.

By the time we decided Shannon’s uncle must be waiting at the car (he was), we left at about 9 p.m., an hour after Ben’s bedtime. He fell asleep in the minivan before we got home, despite that his belly was no doubt underwhelmed by the few bites of soft pretzel and lots of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish (they’re the snack that smiles back, you know).

Later, fading in and out of sleep, I watched the Razorbacks get trounced 70-17 by USC. I kept hoping it was just a dream, but then woke up enough to realize the nightmare was real and the defense was that bad. Anybody who knows me will tell you I generally don’t sacrifice other things for football, so I had skipped a watch party thrown by the Greater Dallas Razorback Club. Besides, it would have made me late for work…

I got to go to work at about 2 a.m. for a scheduled upgrade that took three hours. On the way there, though, I got pulled over for speeding. After watching me fish around in the glove compartment for the proof of insurance, the policeman let me off with a verbal warning. I got a ticket for exactly the same infraction – 46 in a 35 – back in the early 90’s. Maybe a minivan got me the benefit of the doubt more than my two-door Dodge Shadow of yore.

I slept 5:30 – 12:40, waking a couple times to hear Ben asking for me, and then his mommy telling him, “Daddy’s sleeping. Daddy had to work really late last night.” I spent lots of time with Ben the rest of Sunday, and we all just tried to enjoy the last fleeting moments of the weekend. Gotta love the IT field.

Getting to Know All About You

2005-09-15T09:18:00.000-05:00

On my drive into work this morning, three people caught my attention, each in a very different way.

The first was a lady in a shiny black luxury sedan of nondescript styling that matches about any late-model luxury car. As I headed down a connecting street at about 35 mph, two lanes going my direction, she pulled out from the left. Within a second it was pretty clear she intended to come into my lane. Still, I realized it too late.

Fortunately, the lady saw me and tightened her turn to get in the left lane, just barely behind me. She would have plowed right into my rear passenger door had she not woke up from whatever stupor had possessed her mind. Maybe the child in the backseat had alerted her. Whatever the reason, she had made my list of memorable characters. When we had to stop and wait to turn onto the main road, I turned back, waited until she looked my way, then held up two fingers an inch apart to indicate she had come that close to hitting me. She seemed to look right through me, expressionless, so I just smiled and turned around.

Next, as I waited in line at a red light, came my other two characters.

Now, I like to sing in the car when something good is playing and it’s in my range. I also slide my windows down when I’m stopped, to let in fresh air. Except, that is, for the front passenger’s window, which will not come back up on its own. Normally I run the vent during the morning drive, because I can bear 75 to 80-degree heat without AC. I run the vent only when moving, because otherwise the smell of the leaking oil that gets blown onto the exhaust system fills the cabin. Combine open windows, full-volume singing, and two lanes full of other commuters with their windows down? Well, you have yourself an audience.

As I approach the waiting cars at each red light, usually I survey the crowd to see what kind of audience I have. This morning was no different. This is when the other two-thirds of the triumvirate entered my awareness.

As I pulled up on her left, I noticed a woman in a Nissan Altima, or something similar. She had her left hand on her forehead, so that her arm blocked my view of her face. The driver’s sun visor was flipped down and Altima stared into its mirror as her right hand moved repeatedly back and forth. I couldn’t see well enough to tell, but I’m pretty sure she was applying eyeliner. Her driver’s window was open, so I could have asked her through the rear right passenger window. I didn’t.

Next I checked my rear-view mirror.

Behind me was a man in a dark blue Ford F100 pickup, just finishing some type of prayer. I couldn’t see the whole movement, but in finishing up, he moved his left hand back and forth in front of his chest before he balled it up and kissed his thumb. Then he closed his eyes just a second as he bowed his head. He raised his head and then gazed out the driver’s window to squint in the morning sun. I thought I saw a hint of the morning breeze in his hair.

That last detail meant that at least two people would hear my singing. A track from Paul Simon’s “Graceland” was playing, and I’ve listened to that CD so much since it came out that I know pretty much every word to every song. That along with the fact that I love the tunes so much tempted me to belt it out. So, with all manner of abandon, I did.

I figured now that I had been given such a personal glimpse into their lives, why not share? I wonder now, would that woman whip out her makeup at her desk at work and start touching up? Would the man pray in the break room for everyone else to see? I certainly would not sing out loud as everyone gathers for a meeting.

Look around the next time you sit in traffic. You might end up knowing those people better than you know your co-workers.

Latest Comments

2005-09-14T01:28:00.000-05:00

We're back from vacation, and after two days of work, real life is back in full force.

Typically, I come home from work, and then spend time with Ben until I bathe him and put him to bed. We don't even turn on the TV until after he's in bed. It's just a distraction from time with Ben. I have friends and family who are not as fortunate as I am when it comes to family time, and I know that one day I would regret plopping down in front of the great brain sucker instead of living life.

(begin brief foray into computer geekery)

I got a new gadget before our vacation, and tonight was the first chance I had to play with it. It's a wireless router, but I've set it as a wireless access point, since I already had a wired router with all my customizations. It was cheaper to do it that way, as a kit with the wireless PCMCIA card, than to buy just a wireless access point. After the mail-in rebate, I'm only paying $26 for the kit. That's a crazy good deal for an 802.11g router and a PCMCIA card at 54Mbps. Now I can't use the hot computer room as an excuse not to continue revising my novel. I'll use the hot laptop as an excuse instead.

After using a random key generator and turning on the WPA encryption (couldn't get WPA2 going yet), I was connected as securely as I know how. I also cranked my subnet numbers up so that my router only allows the number of computers I have in the house. I'm pulling the plug on the wireless unit when I'm not using it, since our main PC is still connected directly to the wired router. I'm sure I can turn on some IP filtering, too.

(computer nerd speak over)

It's way too late for me to be up.

I live in the Dallas metro area, where reportedly about 50,000 Hurricane Katrina evacuees now live, either in churches, makeshift shelters, or individual homes. Many of them want to stay, and I believe that with time our local job market can handle those who do. I only wish we could give them back what they lost.

Laughable Celebrity Effort

2005-09-07T01:24:00.000-05:00

Sean Penn attempts to aid Hurricane Katrina victims. This is too funny to describe with a summary. Read on...

Drunk, or Just Tired?

2005-09-07T00:37:00.000-05:00

In college, I was a part of two very different scenes (well, not as different as I thought, but stay with me). I was a member of a fraternity, and I was active in a religious group called TNT. It was a non-denominational protestant Christian group. I say they aren't all that different for two reasons. First, when joining a fraternity, a majority of the young men have one unmistakable goal in mind -- to meet young women. I joined TNT for a similar reason, and I'm sure other guys did, too. In fact, I think I joined the Arbor Day club, or some such thing, for the same reason. Oh, and the Biology Club. But I'm getting away from my original point here.

My point is this. While alcohol obviously melts away inhibitions, I'm pretty sure the lateness of the hour also makes a huge difference.

At fraternity parties, where much alcohol was consumed at late hours, inhibitions tended to fall by the wayside. Any emotions, whether elation, sadness, anger, sexual attraction, whatever, tend to come out more.

Go with me now to a nighttime activity during a weekend getaway with TNT. No alcohol was consumed, and yet by the time it got late and they were passing around the mic for folks to share their experiences, the responses were much more emotional than they were earlier in the day. Finally, after a couple of people had become teary-eyed blubbering bags of flesh, the guy leading the session stopped the sharing and suggested everybody go to their respective sleeping quarters.

By the time one has a full week of classes, work, or a combination of both, then feels the stress of social situations, the night can find that person severely fatigued physically and mentally. That mental exhaustion causes one's capacity for resistance to fall. Self-discipline often takes a backseat to self-expression and acting on a whim. Why do you think infomercials are played mostly late at night? Because marketers know that the consumers' resistance is down at that late hour. I've never read a study on it, but haven't you ever ordered anything late at night, or written a heated e-mail (or blog post) late at night, without having had anything to drink, only to realize after waking that you had made a mistake?

Consider whether you think a party at noon, with alcohol, would result in as many one-night stands as does a party that goes into the wee hours of the morning? Likewise, do you think that as many Ronco products would have sold if the infomercials for them would have played during primetime?

I'm no expert, and I'm sure someone will dispute this (if anyone's reading it). I'm just sayin'. Tha's all. Then again, I am writing this late at night.

On Another Blog for a Week

2005-09-03T01:34:00.000-05:00

While we're on vacation, I will post on this blog, mostly about our vacation, including pictures. I may not post here at all until after we return. You may now subscribe to either blog by using the Bloglet service on the right side of the page. First post with "meat" probably won't come until Saturday night. Thanks!

President Bush and trucks arrive

2005-09-02T14:43:00.000-05:00

When I went to get my haircut at SportClips today (hey, they really do a great job, and fast, okay?), they had the TV’s tuned to CNN instead of ESPN. It was kind of interesting, because while trying to check out some news about my home state’s college team, I read this, which includes a pretty good perspective from an LSU sports figure whose team ended up helping move fully body bags instead of preparing for a game. I’m not a rabid football fan, but keeping up with sports news back home is one way to feel connected.

So, I also saw that President Bush is in Biloxi, Mississippi, talking to victims as he puts his arm around them to offer comfort. I don’t point out that last detail because I’m a blinders-on Bush supporter, or even a Bush supporter at all. Even in his final term, his party wasn't about to let him sit down there in Crawford on vacation. I'm not saying he would have, but that his own interests would not dictate his actions. Much of his appearance was for show, and I know that all politicians do that.

Sidenote: Why do so many reporters I hear call him “Mr. Bush” instead of “President Bush.” Like him or lump him, he’s the President, and I think they should address him as such. It’s just another thing that makes the media get labeled as anti-Republican, whacko liberals, and it frustrates me. I was a part of "the media" for a while, and nobody I worked with was anything but fair and even-handed when reporting news. I hate it when the decent folks get characterized by the actions of the ones who get the attention.

The TV also showed convoys of military amphibious trucks carrying huge payloads of meals ready to eat (MRE) to folks in New Orleans. It was about time.

Hurricane Katrina comes to Texas

2005-09-02T11:53:00.000-05:00

A woman whose family evacuated from Jefferson Parish, Louisiana (just west of New Orleans) is visiting our site today. Her company is a customer, so it’s not just a personal side trip.

She and her husband, currently staying in Conroe, TX (just north of Houston), do not know whether their house is still standing, and have not heard from anybody who's been back to the area. While we were talking to her, a loud mobile rang several times before she realized it was hers, because she had to get a new one.

Her brother-in-law got shot, she said, while riding in a boat giving out water to New Orleans flood victims. The idiots shooting people sure make it hard to focus on the folks who are helping, and that kind of behavior seems to be all the media wants to report. I hope someone nearby was armed and shot the idiot on site.

I heard a report on our local NPR station this morning that interviewed a volunteer at Dallas’ Reunion Arena, the site of at least a couple thousand Katrina refugees. She said when she arrived this morning to help, there was nobody there organizing or in charge of anything. She just rounded up a group of volunteers, set up a couple of tables, and started addressing people’s needs. For one thing, they are trying to find job opportunities for those who need work.

This search for employment, and possible permanent relocation of these evacuees, will impact the Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio areas. Each city has said it can take 25,000 people. How many of those do we think will never return to New Orleans? On a criminal note, how many of those are members of New Orleans gangs who will end up not getting jobs and settling down to become contributing Texans, but instead add to the crime rate those cities already battle?

Houston already has about 11,000 refugees in the Astrodome, which officials say is more than they can handle, even though they originally said they could take 24,000. I guess 24,000 sports fans just there to watch a game is a lot different from the same number there trying to make sense of their desperation, get food, water, and jobs.

Meanwhile, the New Orleans mayor has lambasted the federal government for not responding quickly enough, and I can’t say I blame him. That’s one of the things our government’s for. Some say narrow-minded things like, "Well, those people had warning and should have got out before the storm." Yeah, and the people saying that have no idea what it’s like to not own a vehicle, or to not have family who can take you in since you can’t afford a motel. I get aggravated when I hear things like that because the folks who have no tolerance for people who can’t afford a car or the gas to run it tend to believe that we need people who will take low-paying jobs, because not everybody’s cut out for college. You can’t have it both ways, chum. That was a terribly structured sentence, but I'm leaving it.

Hurricane Katrina again

2005-08-31T18:59:00.000-05:00

This is all over the news and everybody knows about it, but this would not be a personal journal, a record of my life, if I didn't comment on Hurricane Katrina.

It's just awful. All those people displaced, many mourning their losses, or unsure whether loved ones survived. Pets left for what their owners thought would be a few days. Photo albums. Daily journals (glad I'm blogging instead of journaling).

Meanwhile, we're gearing up to fly out in a few days for a week long vacation on the Chesapeake Bay and the Eastern Shore. We discussed ditching the trip and helping, but we haven't seen this family in a very long time, and Ben's never met many of them. A tragedy like this hurricane makes us realize that family members might not always be around, so we have to spend time with them when we can. There will be plenty of time and opportunity for us to help after our visit is over.

They're relocating New Orleans folks from the Superdome to the Houston Astrodome, 350 miles by bus. At least 15,000 people have been living there two days and nights without benefit of air conditioning, toiletries, proper facilities, or even enough food and water. There is nowhere else for them to go in New Orleans, as the Superdome area was about the only place buses can still go and still get out of the city -- and the water is still rising.

Jails are flooded to the point that authorities have had to relocate prisoners to state prisons.

Those who left their homes before the waters came are as far flung as Dallas, Little Rock, Memphis. While some motel owners are giving discounts to the displaced, others are price gouging. A Best Western representative was quoted on National Public Radio as saying that, as regrettable as the practice may be, the rules permit individual owners to set whatever price they want.

My boy is calling for me, and I must put him to bed soon. Maybe more on this later.

Mississippi also has suffered great losses. The floodwaters are not still stranding people as they are in New Orleans, but the devastation from the 145 mph sustained winds makes it look like atomic bombs were dropped. Entire neighborhoods are in millions of pieces.

I have heard most of my news of this on NPR, but we are watching a Dateline NBC special right now. A family with four children who returned Tuesday from Florida to Gulfport, MS to survey the damage found their house a flat pile of splinters. They spent the night in their car, and the next morning patrons of the CVS Pharmacy gave them food, water, and Fix-a-Flat for their tire. It's nice to see people doing good things for real, instead of for one of those television shows that replaces a home or a face for advertising dollars.

Hurricane Katrina and My Reporting

2005-08-30T13:34:00.000-05:00

At lunch yesterday as I munched on my canned tuna, Zesta saltines, and baby carrots, I for once paid attention to the television in the break room. Hurricane Katrina was on her miserable march up Louisiana and Mississippi, leaving little room for stupidity. Yet CNN had an innumerable supply of reporters, borrowed and their own, feeding them live footage of themselves getting wind-whipped and rain-soaked. Collectively, I believe they were, as my friend Chris put it, "an idiot for being out in it with a raincoat and a mic." Obviously a substantial chunk of the population believes they need this type of sensationalism with their news. We know hurricanes damage things and kill people, and it's horrible. Do we really want to put more people out there in it just to satisfy our desire for live coverage? If you need footage that badly, post a weatherproof camera on a building or something.

At the same time, I do feel a bit for the reporters sent to those scenes. Most of them don't sign up as reporters specifically to put themselves in harm's way like that. Jumping jobs from journalism to some other field is not a decision one makes based on something that happens once or twice a year. "Nope, sorry, boss, I'm just going to skip this one." Well, that doesn't really happen if you want to keep getting paid.

That said, I was a newspaper reporter/photographer for about a year, so I know that the danger can be somewhat intoxicating, as well as saddening. I covered fires, accidents, and even the murder of a man I knew.

There's a strange disconnect that occurs when reporting a scene, especially when behind the camera. Just that viewfinder could make me feel I was only watching. Fortunately for me, the worst weather events I covered were ice storms. If the roads were icy and there was a pileup on a bridge, I was right there on the bridge, on foot, in case any sliders-by needed a human target.

I went to house and car fires in progress, and followed ambulances to crash scenes. If it was just a fender-bender, then we didn't bother. I could have made quite a lucrative business of toting a lawyer's business card for kickbacks.

In the only fatal accident I covered, I saw the mother of the dead teenage boy, beside her son's flipped Jeep Cherokee, sobbing so deeply I would have been compelled to comfort her if nobody else had been there. I snapped a few pics, loathing the fact that I was capturing what might be the most painful moment in her life, yet being careful to compose good shots. Then I had to start asking those on the scene what happened. I think that's when I realized that business was not for me.

The danger thrill hit me hard during one particularly nasty house fire. That fire department had to cover a 62-square mile area without benefit of a big budget, so if your house caught on fire, it was best to enjoy the show and hope your insurance coverage was as good as you thought. The story goes that the wind had blown the guy's turkey cooker over, snapping the gas line to create a flamethrower with a two-story deck as kindling.

I showed up, parked my Mitsubishi Mirage as close as I could without getting in the way, then ran to the scene, stepping over leaking firehoses all the way. Firefighters would call me back, and I would rush in from another angle. Nobody had been hurt, and large house fires can make for beautiful photographs. Oddly enough, a firefighter taking a break pointed out an octagonal window with blue flame dancing behind it. I wondered if the reporter I replaced had won his firey spot news photography award thanks to a hoseman with an eye. I stopped after realizing I was walking close enough not only to be backed up by the heat, but close enough that no unprotected firefighter was anywhere near me.

I also showed up on a car fire scene to take pictures about three feet away from the car's smoking innards as the firefighters doused it. It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it was my job.

Just as it was my job to cover the murder of a man I had interviewed only a few months earlier.

Our daily's managing editor called me to ask about the disappearance of local marina manager Dave Howard back in 1999. As I gathered information, I found the authorities frantically doing the same. From the local county detective to the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation, I talked to everyone who might be in a position to look at this case. He was last seen alive in Bella Vista, Arkansas, and was found dead beside the freeway in Oklahoma. Had I read about it in a newspaper, I might have thought it was exaggerrated. Because I was the one covering it, however, I knew it was real. Evidence showed he had been in an Internet love affair that resulted in the jealous husband allegedly setting him up and shooting him. I say allegedly because the guy has not been brought to justice yet. I cannot find my story online, but it's a fascinating story, recapped here in March of this year. He was denied a new trial, but plans to appeal, which will be in about a year. Great system, huh?

I got into journalism after a stint as a Web programmer left me wanting to write, but not write code. Took a 50% cut in pay and moved us 230 miles to do it. I found out that being a reporter was not in my blood. On the occasion I got to write a column, I was ecstatic. That was my favorite part. Maybe that's why I blog.

I Yike it a Yot

2005-08-29T08:07:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I managed to install two more of our ceiling fans. Living pretty much anywhere in Texas without fans is not recommended. The second one went in Ben's room, and after I finished it, he looked up and said, "Ben's san."

Now, Ben doesn't use the"f" sound yet. Instead, he uses the "s." I said that yes, he was right, this was Ben's fan, and I asked if he liked it. He said, "I yike it. I yike it a yot." Just to catch you up, Ben's not saying the "L" sound yet, either.

As I came back from putting away the ladder and my tools, I could hear Ben yelling from his room, "Yike it a yot, yike it a yot." Shannon and I always get a big kick out of things like that, because, well, they're cute. There's no better way to put it. When something like that happens, something that you never would have predicted, you can't help smiling.

There's another upside to it. When Ben goes out on the Chesapeake Bay next week with his grandparents, he'll be able to say not only that he's on a boat, but that he's on a "yot."

Find the Differences

2005-08-28T00:40:00.000-05:00

Oops. What I meant was watching the sun rise as Benjamin plays in the sand. Thanks to jim for pointing out that it would be hard to see the sun set over the ocean while on the east coast.

Another thing... I took the two pictures below, before and after getting our new HDTV. That's the most obvious difference between the two, but can you the spot the others? Come on, you obviously have a little time to waste, or you would not be reading this. I have a page with bigger versions, if you need a closer look.

Vacation Coming Soon

2005-08-25T11:39:00.000-05:00

We're loading Ben into an airplane for his first flight, up to Baltimore. Then we'll take a short drive to Queenstown, MD to visit the other in-laws. Yes, I have in-laws there, too. Divorce gives the benefit of two sets. We'll spend some time on their boat on Chesapeake Bay, where I'm hoping we'll go to St. Michael's, a picturesque community with some great Revolutionary War history. Might visit Baltimore Harbor, Annapolis, or any number of locations dating back to the birth of the U.S. (and before).

Then it's off to Ocean View, DE, where we'll visit more family and Bethany Beach. Ben's never been to the beach, and I've never been to the east coast. I have visions of the sun setting over the ocean as Ben goes nuts in the biggest sandbox he's ever seen. Of course, that's followed by visions of photos of same. We'll see, and maybe my faithful readers will, too (who that is, I have no idea).

(Major change of mood and subject)

While I always get a good feeling visiting the area where Francis Scott Key was inspired to write the national anthem, I also think of the relocation and near genocide of the natives of the land. It's an atrocity for which we cannot possibly give worthy restitution. So, we just kind of put it out of our minds and go on with life, most of us seeing them only when we buy souvenirs or play the slots. I often wonder what it would be like to live in a place like Minneapolis, where Sioux work alongside those whose ancestors displaced their own. I'm reminded of the song "Darkness," by Rage Against the Machine. I don't by any means agree with everything they say in their songs, but this one seems to be right on. The first several lines go:

Greed
Causing innocent blood to flow
Entire culture lost in the overthrow
They came to see, take whatever they please
Then all they gave back was death and disease

People were left with no choice but to decide
To conform to a system responsible for genocide.

This blog is written by one of the palest, most freckle-speckled men you'll ever see, with blue eyes and a trace amount of Cherokee blood. If I can get bothered by the thought of this, then just think how those directly affected must feel.

Ben Makes Me Think

2005-08-22T21:44:00.000-05:00

When I was playing with Ben in his room this weekend, I asked him if he could go get a car (which was in the living room). He said, "Yes," and then as he stood up he looked at me, held out his balled-up hand toward me and said, "Wye back." I could tell this meant, "I'll be right back," something we sometimes say to him when we're leaving a room. I repeated back to him, "Oh, you'll be right back? Okay."

He pumped his hand at me again, as if pointing, but without any fingers out, and repeated, "Wye back. Wye back." He walked toward the door, repeating that phrase over and over. As he reached to close the door behind him (not sure why he did that), he said it again. Just when the door touched the jam, he push it back open enough to look in and say, "Wye back." Then he added, "Say here," which I knew meant, "Stay here." I assured him I would do that, and he closed the door.

Upon his return, I could hear his hand fumbling at the doorknob. "Help," his muffled voice said through the door. "Daddy help." It was funny that after so proudly taking charge of the situation, he had to stop and ask for help. I got up and let him in. He walked in with a car and we played for a while. As I continued to ask him where a certain toy was, he would repeat "Wye back," and "Say here," before going to get it.

This is a moment I know I get more out of than I would with someone else's child. It is not just the cuteness of a two-year old reassuring an adult he would be right back, or even that he instructed said adult to stay where he was. Although, that was ridiculously cute. It's that our boy is learning. Not something we tried to teach him, but something he picked up just by observing us. He wants to be like us so strongly that he makes sure we acknowledge what he's doing.

That's when it hit me. Had we brought Ben up as something radically from our current lifestyle, whether something acceptable like the Amish or something hateful like white supremacists, Ben would be right there trying to be the same thing, with absolutely no standard by which to judge. That's how some children go for years being abused, yet still love their parents; they have no idea that their treatment is wrong. It's also why they usually go on to be abusers. That way of thinking and behaving is wired into their brains from such an early age that it's nearly impossible to clear from their minds. I'm not trying to excuse abhorrent behavior, but as a first-time father witnessing how impressionable children are, I'm taken aback by the joy and the concern. It's kind of scary, but it makes me glad that so far Ben watches nothing but commercial-free programs, and only about one or two hours per day.

I haven't written much about Ben in this blog until now. Maybe that's because I consciously was trying to avoid being the annoying guy who chatters incessantly about his kid. Other parents react in one of two ways to that kind of behavior; they either love it because it reminds them of when their child was that age, or they can't stand it because they're thinking, "So what, my kid did (or does) that, and I'm not writing about it." To the latter I say, you choose what you do or do not read, not me. I'm not even sure anybody's reading this thing, except Shannon, who is turning out to be my retroactive editor -- for better or worse. I try not to actively bore people.

Honestly, I could go on for quite a while about Ben. I wouldn't do it to brag, because I know the skills children exhibit at any given age vary for reasons doctors cannot name. At the same time, I worry whether he'll stop saying "coa" instead of "car."

Parents who work tirelessly to get their child to walk may get frustrated, while others who take a completely hands-off approach may see their child walk sooner than expected. We were a bit worried about Ben at one point, because we thought he "should" be crawling. He rolled to get around, and at first only in one direction. That meant that someone had to flip him around once he hit an obstacle. He used that method quite a while, and ended up crawling for a somewhat shorter period than many babies. Without any problems at all, though, he started walking right at about one year.

The same thing goes for talking. We don't know for certain whether our efforts are making a difference. We make sure that we repeat back correctly anything he mis-pronounces. I think that might have contributed to Ben's habit of repeating something until someone repeats it back, but I could be completely wrong.

Ben can't jump yet. I've seen kids 6 months younger jumping like jackrabbits, but at nearly 26 months, when he tries he still manages to get only his heels off the ground. Oh well, one of these days, little buddy.

This post has wandered all around. I guess that's why we have journals. We're not writing on assignment -- we're just putting down our thoughts. What will I post about next time, and when?

Wye back. Say here.

Minivan Looks as Good as New

2005-08-19T18:06:00.000-05:00

We had a misadventure with our minivan repair. It's fixed now, and it looks good. Here's from a post I made on a blog I no longer use, back when we first had it "repaired" by somebody who turned out to be pretty much a hack. You won't be surprised after reading this.

He was drilling holes in my van

I pulled into the driveway from work a couple months ago,when we were temporarily staying with my in-laws. This guy is running a sander over the rear hatch of our minivan. Yes, minivan. Get over it. I notice, too that the surface he is sanding sports about eight or nine holes the size of a .45 slug. My mind starts racing a bit. The van is curbside, and a little boy is playing in the back of the guy's pickup. I know exactly why the man is there, but I have no idea who invited him. I also wonder why it isn't Manny.

A few months before that, my mother in-law was driving our van as she and my wife scoped out house possibilities in McKinney. I had interviewed for a job and expected to get it. As they backed out of one of the driveways, she smacked the back of the van into a construction worker's truck. Turns out she hit his bumper, and it didn't damage it at all.

On a more recent visit to Plano, a hispanic man named Manny comes up to the in-laws' door and says he noticed the dent in the back of the van, and asks if we would like a free estimate. We say, sure. He says it will take about $600 for him to do everything but paint it, and it will be good as new. He'll do the work right there in the street. He has a reference letter and some before-after pictures. The fact that he is hispanic really doesn't matter, but when I describe someone, I like to use detail. I tell him we don't have time to wait for that kind of job, because we're about to leave, but I get his card.

A few days ago, my wife and my mother in-law were at Wal-Mart. As my wife was about to back out, a man approached her and said he would fix our van dent, except for painting, for $250. They apparently thought that sounded better than $600 and let the guy and his boy follow them home. Clearly, they don't watch the same kind of movies I watch or read the same kind of books I read. That is a good thing in many ways, but sometimes a little fear of strangers can save your life.

Back to now. When I approach him, the man explains to me that he had to drill the holes to pull out the dents. He could not push them out from the inside as he originally planned. I end up talking to the guy, and find out that he has Romanian parents, but was born and brought up in Massachusetts. He doesn't seem uncomfortable in the least when I tell him that I could tell by his skin color that he probably was not hispanic, that he looked more like a friend of mine who has Syrian blood. As he applies seemingly random dabs of some red compound, the purpose of which I still am clueless, he just tells me more about his heritage and how he ended up in the Dallas area. Perhaps my comments would bother some folks, but after talking to him a while, I just had the feeling he wouldn't mind. It was refreshing after always being so politically correct at work and other places. I would never walk up to the lady across the hall and ask her if her mother is white. Unless she started it.

On another note, though, after setting my son's stroller on the street so he could climb into the back of the van, he didn't move it. It ended up covered with a layer of sanded off paint, body filler, and general muck. When I asked for his last name, he said "Thompson." But, when I presented a check, he asked for cash because, "I need $250 today. That's why I came up to them in the parking lot." Whatever. We paid him, and now our van toodles around town with a back hatch resembling the hide of some newly discovered leopard. I'm just a little worried the body shop guys will find a problem when they start wet sanding that surface. We'll see. Oh, and whereas Manny said it would look like new, this guy just came out and admitted it would not. That's probably just the more honest answer.

Of course, that was the past. The minivan now sits looking fine. We do not back it up the driveway anymore to hide the Bondo-looking back end. Moral? Get it done right the first time.

Laptop Selloff Causes Melee

2005-08-16T14:32:00.000-05:00

Just got this from a co-worker and had to share it. Richmond, Virginia's Henrico County school district decided to sell a bunch of laptops for $50, and it turned into a mob scene, with one guy using a folding chair to swat line breakers like flies. Folks, they are four-year-old Apple iBooks used and carried around by high school students. But it had folks going crazy, to the point of hurting people. Read it here.

Tried Something New Last Night

2005-08-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

Stop that. This is a family blog.

For our anniversary, we went to a place called Studio Movie Grill. Notice that they do not add the pretentious "e" on the end. I like that. My wife found out about it from a Mom's Club member. It is a movie theater with several screens, on which patrons watch first-run movies as they dine on the moderately priced fare. We didn't know exactly what to expect, as neither of us had ever heard of a place like that. It sounded great, though, because we've lamented the fact that having dinner and a movie on a weekday makes for a very late night. We can never get to a restaurant and eat in time to make the 7-ish show, so weeknight movie dates were pretty much a no-go.

Overall, it was good, but it started out a little rocky. The show started at 7:30, but the Web site encouraged everyone to be there by 7:00. This time, it really was not our fault we were late.

We had ordered the tickets online and printed out our confirmation sheet. When we dropped Ben off at the in-laws' place, I called the theater's number to find out exactly where it was located. The recording said it was on West Park, two blocks east of the North Dallas Tollway, in Plano. We kissed Ben and left at 6:40, with about 20 minutes to get somewhere that should take about 10.

When I exited and headed east, as the directions said, we went much farther than two blocks. Probably more like a mile and a half. All we saw were houses. We turned around and started back the other way, figuring maybe the recording was wrong. I called the theater's number and a live person said we had gone the right way the first time. We called the inlaws, who usually give good directions, and they said the same thing. I turned around. Grrr...

It's about 7:00 by this time, so we know we're going to be late. Trying to keep our anniversary positive, I assured Shannon that getting there a few minutes after was no big deal.

Shannon was first to spot the Blue Goose, a landmark the theater guy had given us, on the left side of the road. Grumbling something about that not being anywhere near where he said it would be, I somehow got us across two lanes without crashing and turned into the parking lot of the Blue Goose.

We drove around the front of the Blue Goose and saw no entrance to the Studio Movie Grill's lot. At that point, those two curbs and that small strip of grass were not going to stop me. I very gently eased over the curbs and into the next lot, where I then hit the gas to cross the 100 yards of empty spaces. We had arrived, and it was 7:10.

I like to sit in the middle of the theater, just a little farther back than dead center. A couple sat in the prime spot, so we sat next to them. This was to our advantage later.

I'll describe in detail since it's so much different from a typical movie theater. The seating consists of black office chairs with armrests, the kind that run about $149 at Office Depot. Our row had a table that ran its length, butted up against a short wall. Recessed lights mounted at the top of the short wall shone just brightly enough to light our menus. A row behind us had the same chairs, but with two-top tables instead of the bar approach. Each couple had a lighted coaster (like the kind some restaurants use to page you when waiting for a table), which we could activate when ready to order or when we needed something. Very good idea.

The menu at Studio Movie Grill offers a nice range of choices. The Pizzas had various toppings on a base of honey-wheat crust, red sauce, and provolone and mozzarella cheeses; hamburgers resembled what you might find at Chili's. The prices ranged from $6.99 for the hot dog to $9.99 for a loaded pizza. I was surprised to see that the popcorn was only $1.99. They had mixed drinks aplenty, some of which sounded like they would make good desserts. We happened to be there on Margarita Monday, which knocked $1.50 off the price of a margarita. Shannon was a little queasy, so she passed, and I'm not a margarita drinker.

As we looked over the menu, the couple next to us helped make our anniversary better. They did not know it was our anniversary, which made their offer even nicer. The lady showed me a coupon book, and asked if we would like one of the tickets for "buy one entree, get one free." She explained that they expire in October, and there was no way they were going to use them all. We gave them the usual polite answer, something like, "Oh, well if you really don't think you are going to use them."

The couple asked for their spinach artichoke dip to come out before their meal. I thought maybe they were just being cautious, so I said nothing. Yeah. Nice.

About 10 minutes after we ordered, as we watched the trailers for upcoming features, all of our food came out, including our "appetizer" spinach artichoke dip. Shannon's pepperoni pizza was very good, and my burger was tasty. The lighting was low enough that I couldn't tell whether it was done, but it tasted okay, so I devoured it. I have only about three or four burgers a year at the most, and it was very good.

We saw "Wedding Crashers," which was very funny. The whole crowd laughed out loud many times. The story was a formula seen in several romantic comedies over the years, but Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson did a great job with a funny script. They make a great comedy duo. There's also a hilarious cameo that had my mind racing to guess who it was before he was revealed, but I don't want to spoil it for anybody. We had a hard time buying Owen Wilson as a romantic lead, but maybe that says more about us than it does about the movie. I don't have time for that blog entry.

There were a couple times during the show that we could hear booming bass from one of the other screens, a problem I suspect I would find in any of today's multi-giga-super-plex cinemas.

If you are up for dinner and a movie and there's a Studio Movie Grill nearby, then give it a try. It cuts out waiting for a table and the rush of trying to make it from one place to the next.

That is, if you can find it.

Thought Again of Losing Her

2005-08-14T23:47:00.000-05:00

Shannon's first weekend without Ben...

I took Ben to Arkansas this weekend for my cousin's 30th birthday party and to see family he had not seen since Easter. It was his first time away from his Mommy for more than one night, and the latter has happened only once. It was strange to be somewhere with Ben but without Shannon. She has taken Ben for family visits without me before, and it was no big deal, because she would go during weekdays. Also, when I lived in Plano for a couple weeks before they joined me, we did fine.

I always get up with Ben on weekends to give both of us a change of pace, so that part of it was no adjustment for me. It was the little things, like not being able to turn to Shannon and say, "Did you hear that?" Sure, I could do that with my brother and his wife, but it just wasn't the same. The only time it was at all inconvenient was when Ben and I stopped to eat, and I decided I should use the bathroom one last time before getting back on the road. I didn't have Ben's stroller, and I couldn't just let him wander around a public restroom while I took care of business. Two-year olds generally have little idea of what they should and shouldn't touch, and the colorful "mint" in the urinal might have been quite tempting. So, holding up Ben's 30 pounds with one arm and considerably less weight with the other, I completed my task without too much trouble. No, there was nobody else in there at the time. That probably was for the best.

The weekend did make me think, just for one sad second, what it would be like if for some reason it were just Ben and me. During a tense time in the delivery room, it was more than just my imagination that made me think of that.

Of course, as is the case with all husbands who have children, my wife went through more than I can imagine. I had a little added stress that I wouldn't wish on any of them.

As I watched the nurses get Ben's first footprints, my wife lay almost motionless across the room. I heard the nurses saying things about her blood pressure dropping low and something about how much blood she had lost. Their movements were more hurried and their sentences more succinct. I rushed over to her and saw that her eyelids were very heavy, as if she were trying to stay awake. Concerned that she might be falling unconscious I asked the doctor, finishing up "downstairs," if it was okay for her to be falling asleep. The doctor said, "As long as she wakes up when we ask her to." I'm not sure that comforted me much.

This was not the first time I thought I could be losing her. A year or two before that, a large horse she was sitting on while inside a barn reared up on its hind legs and went down on its side, with my wife still in the saddle. Somehow, she escaped with only bruises and soreness. Viewing the videotape later, which I was using because it was her first time to sit on a horse, I still don't see how her head didn't hit the stall door. I haven't watched that tape in at least three years, and I'm not sure I will again. It makes me sick just recalling it long enough to write this.

There she was, post-partum, taking what I feared were her last breaths, as our baby across the room took his first. She made it through, of course, and each time I see her sleeping I think back to that day when I thought her sleep might last forever. If you've ever thought you were losing someone you've poured all of yourself into for 12 years, then you can imagine how I felt.

They never did a transfusion, which I still question to this day. I know transfusions are not as common as they seem on TV emergency room shows, but she was very weak and anemic for weeks after that. My cynical side says that the doctor was not concerned about how she felt after leaving there.

Origin of Phrases

2005-08-10T12:56:00.000-05:00

That's a true statement (and other sayings)

I try not to judge people by the words they use, because I sometimes catch myself using annoying phrases. There's a guy within earshot up here at work who keeps saying, "That's a true statement," and I'm about to throw my tangle over the cubicle wall at him. Great. Now the guy next to him said, "That's a true fact." Might have to hide in the server room.

That got me ta thinkin'. What makes people start using stock phrases in their everyday speech, or what blocks their brains from realizing what they are saying? Some are passed down by family, I'm sure, but I've heard others that I know were picked up later in life.

An IT instructor from the past was moving some computers and said he needed someone with "a strong back and weak mind." I've heard him say that at least 20 times. He also used the popular, "It's six of one, half a dozen of the other." I think that means that it makes no difference which of the two you choose. Why can't he just say that?

Then there are phrases that the individual might have coined, but that become predictable.

My mother-in-law's favorite, uttered at every family gathering, is, "You can tell when our family is eating, because it gets real quiet." I think she's suggesting that the family is a bunch of loudmouths who can only stop talking long enough to chew. On that subject, I have no room to talk. Ha. Nevermind.

I can't leave out the occasions when one means one thing but ends up conveying the opposite. I often hear, "I miss not seeing you." Huh? I've let that one slip more than once.

"Can you unloosen this for me?" Sure. I think. Just hand me the jar and we'll see.

I could list and try to make funny comments about others, but I'm sure all this has been covered somewhere else, and my lunch break is over.

Quick note, though. I had my first good experience at Blockbuster a few weeks ago. They had the new release I wanted in widescreen format. Almost none of the video stores back in Missouri or Arkansas carry widescreen DVD's anymore, and historically I just don't like Blockbuster because they overcharge me for something I don't need for a week. Everything went off without a hitch, smooth as silk, and I was happy as a clam.

Silent Talking and Ben's New Swing

2005-08-08T21:38:00.000-05:00

Working together and Ben loves his new swing.

Saturday I found out that the in-laws had bought Ben a swingset as a birthday present. His birthday was about a month ago, before we were settled into our new house. Paul brought it over, boxed up, on Sunday morning at about eight. He and I worked on it until about noon. The instructions were horrible, and Shannon told me after we had finished that she had read online reviews of the set that said the same. We had to stop and take pieces off more than once to turn them around, flip them over, or both, because we were not warned at certain times to be wary of which way those parts were installed. The set ended up looking great, and Ben absolutely loves it. We skipped putting in the see-saw for now, because the instructions call for setting it in concrete. We were not up to that challenge at straight-up noon in August. It was not quite 100 degrees, maybe, but we had been out there in it long enough.

Ben's new set has two "regular" swings, one dual swing in which two kids sit facing each other, a slide, and a coming-soon see-saw.

One thing I noticed, which I've noticed before, is that guys get a lot done without saying a word. Perhaps women do, too, but I've never built anything with a woman, except my wife, so I can't speak to that. If both men have at least a little history assembling and/or building things, then there's an inherent understanding of what one should be doing at any given time. Each can anticipate what the other needs, and the teamwork that results is rewarding. Paul and I never had worked on a project like this together, but we executed as if we had.

Maybe that's why my dad would get frustrated sometimes when I would "help" him as a young child. There he was, doing something, and was not particularly talkative about it. Maybe in the back of his mind he was expecting me to act on cue, do the next thing that came naturally in the whole process. As a child, however, I had no reference by which to anticipate what he needed. Finally, I guess after I had not done what was expected, he would direct me what to do.

Marble Slab Creamery

2005-08-06T22:40:00.000-05:00

If you've never been to the Marble Slab Creamery, and there's one near you, then you should go. It's not just an ice cream shop with several hand-dipped flavors and fancy waffle cones. When Shannon, Ben, and I first walked in, we thought that. I sampled the banana flavored ice cream, and it was very good. However, although the few featured flavors sounded good, overall we were not impressed by the dearth of choices. That is, until I said I wanted one scoop of banana and one scoop of the peanut butter ice cream. "Do you want me to mix those together for you?" the girl behind the counter asked.

I lowered my head a bit, as she was shorter than I and wore a baseball cap. I looked her in the eye. "You can do that?" I asked. She nodded. I got a little excited. "Oh, yeah, let's do that," I said.

The mixing was nothing like what Dairy Queen does with the Blizzard machine. Using two generous ice cream scoops, she dipped one flavor with each hand and walked to the end of the line, where a frosty cold marble slab awaited. She tapped the scoops onto the marble and manually pressed and stirred the ice cream.

Peanut butter and banana ice cream? Yes. I recommend it. Other choices included cinnamon, blueberry, cheesecake, and key lime. Shannon had key lime cheesecake. Mine was better, but Ben was glad to enjoy a little bit of both.

Clock Him in the Snotlocker

2005-08-06T11:04:00.000-05:00

I'm not a violent guy, and the last person I punched probably was Christopher, in the 3rd or 4th grade. We had been arguing over who should get the most money after we had walked the highway for about four miles picking up aluminum cans. He was right; his father's primer of beer cans gave us a good headstart, but I wanted half the loot. Thus came my first lesson in not mixing business with friends. On the playground the following week, Christopher made some snide remark (I'm sure you're all gasping in disbelief at that one) and stuck his chest out. I punched him in the stomach. No fight resulted, probably because we both were shocked.

My peaceful nature aside, I had to share this phrase (with all two of my readers). I was listening to NPR on my way to work at about 3:45 a.m. a month ago, and a guy was telling a story about a bully who had thrown a rock at his face. It busted up his mouth and his dad ended up taking him to the bully's house for dental bill reimbursement. His dad told him that if he would just fight back, he wouldn't have a bully problem. "Clock him in the snotlocker, and he'll go down like a bag of rocks."

I had never heard that word for "nose" before then, but after two years of wiping Ben's nose, I can't think of a more appropriate term.

Apple's Move to Intel Threatens Linux

2005-08-04T08:42:00.000-05:00

After reading a long article about Apple's switch to Intel, I thought about it a bit. I'm thinking this move could help keep Linux from becoming more mainstream. Until Apple's recent announcement, Linux was the only halfway viable alternative to Windows in Intel desktops. Still, running OSX (legally) and the apps for it (legally) on an Intel machine will be a lot more expensive than running their Linux counterparts. However, the Apple platform is more established and more familiar to the average user. I won't argue which group of users is more loyal, and although Linux historically has been more attractive to those who like to "poke around under the hood," Apple's move to a Unix-based OS immediately caught the eye of those same enthusiasts. Apparently, I was neither the first nor the only one to think of Apple's threat to Linux, but I wrote everything above before reading any of it (be that good or bad). Here's just one online piece I found when I researched it. Enjoy. It should get interesting.

Update: I had to include this link where Apple pretty much comes out and says that nothing will prevent buyers of Intel-based Apples from also installing Windows XP (or other flavors of Windows, I would guess).

The Snake That Lived in Our Grill

2005-08-03T00:24:00.000-05:00

We think maybe it was a black rat snake. It was some kind of king snake, anyway. He was fairly big, and took up residence in our grill between when we put our Missouri house on the market and when we sold it. I'm kind of glad he came back after the two times we thought we were rid of him, because I think he kept down the gopher population. Gopher holes had been popping up in our yard, and getting rid of them is not easy. Those dirt mounds make for an unsightly showing when a potential buyer comes over. And no, they were not moles. They were much bigger. I have video. They were gophers.

Once, after I already had moved to Plano temporarily to my new job location, my wife had to have a neighbor (one of our company's pilots) come down and put the snake over the fence using a stick. The snake was back the next day, coiled up and staring out at my wife when she lifted the grill lid.

The other time we thought we had seen the last of him, I put some moth balls in the grill, because I had heard from a customer lady at Lowe's that they were the best snake retardant. That's when I first noticed he was not in the grill when I was back home for a weekend. Instead, he was on the grill leg, and that's where this image comes in. As I stood just outside our deck door snapping shots of him, he finally slithered slowly into the green watering can on the right. Shannon said she had moved that thing one day and thought it was awfully heavy to be empty. I guess so. Ugh.

I don't adhere quite as closely to my dad's philosophy as others do: the only good snake is a dead snake. However, had someone been there who was willing to kill him, I can't say I would have tried to stop them.

Ben is Relentless

2005-08-02T11:12:00.000-05:00

Ben loves to chase the dog. He's relentless at times. We've tried putting him in his playpen for a couple minutes. We've tried slapping his leg. Nothing phases him. A moving target is just too much fun. Cockers are not known for getting along well with children, and Lexie, who lived with us for 10 years before we brought Benjamin home, is a classic example. Regardless of breed, many dogs would not like that at all. Lexie is at a disadvantage, too, because in the past few years she has lost all her hearing. She has no chance to move if Ben comes at her outside her line of sight. At first she tries to run off, but ends up standing her ground and growling, sometimes snapping. Her displeasure is completely lost on Ben, who just laughs harder the more she reacts.

Even before Ben hit the "terrible two's" he did this. Lexie actually managed to get a tooth on him once. I say "tooth" because she doesn't have many left. That was when she went to live with Shannon's mom. When we moved down to this area, Ben didn't chase Lexie at all. We thought maybe he had outgrown that. No luck. It took him about a week, but once he was back in his own house with her, he was back to his old games, and with a renewed fervor.

It bothers Shannon much more than it does me, of course, because she's the one at home with both of them all day. When she gates Lexie off in a separate room, Lexie just barks incessantly. I've heard it. It would not be fun to listen to all day, and would not be fair to Lexie. To put her outside in 100-degree heat, when she's never been an outside dog, just would not be good, not to mention that we don't want her bark echoing throughout the neighborhood. Disciplining the dog is pretty much impossible, too, since she can't hear. Besides, it doesn't seem right to smack her snout when she's just defending herself.

It is not that they actively dislike each other. We've tried to teach Ben that when he touches the dog, he needs to be "nice" and we illustrate that word by gently stroking her back. He does this sometimes while saying, "nice" over and over. Lexie lets him pet her, and even will try to give him kisses if he leans his face in close to hers. It's all very sweet until Ben decides it's time to chase her around, laughing like a madman.

Anybody want a very sweet, deaf, cocker spaniel who is losing her sight but is otherwise very healthy? I'm halfway joking, but we just don't want her to end up hurting Ben. Sorry, Lexie, but human child trumps canine child every time.

Garage Progress

2005-08-01T11:13:00.000-05:00

The garage is one step closer. Saturday, while Ben spent some time with his grammy, I put together some metal shelves we bought for the garage. Then, we moved some things out to the driveway to make room to work. We emptied every box that said "garage" on it, with most of it going on the new shelves. My wife's organizational bent amazes me.

I'm pretty sure part of me melted when I went into the attic to measure the space for putting down plywood (or whatever is good these days). We'll get that done one of these days, and then maybe get our cars in the garage.

We won't be putting as many books on display in this house as we usually do. There just isn't room, and we really don't need to be reminded visually of what books we've read. All those paperbacks just take up space. Oh no, now I'm starting to sound like her! She's killing my inner packrat!

What Ben Says

2005-08-01T11:04:00.000-05:00

I try to keep up with the words Ben says, but he learns so many new words so fast, I can't really present a list. Also, there's no way for me to remember them all. Mostly he still does not string more than two words together, and one-word utterances are the most frequent. He babbles long sentences sometimes, and although we can tell he really means it, we can't understand it. He says, "I got it," "I want it," "Out of bed," and one or two others I can't remember. He'll tell Lexie to "sit down" when she gets on the furniture, because anytime he stands on the furniture, we tell him to sit down. That was the first time we saw a sign of Ben being bossy at all. He's a delight most of the time, and seems to get wild mostly when he's hungry. As he learns more about us and the world, we learn more about him and try to keep everybody on the right track.

We Really Are Not Stupid

2005-07-29T14:34:00.000-05:00

We bought a dining set from Jeff Bridges.

Stupidity sometimes comes from people who are not stupid. I hope.

Last night I stopped on the way home from work and picked up a dining table and chairs we bought with the proceeds from the sale of our Missouri home. When I got home, I brought in the chairs. Shannon, anxious to get something other than a card table set up in the breakfast nook (is 'nook' still the right word?), tore into the boxes as I watched after and played with Ben. That always pushes any workday stress out of my mind. Sometimes it introduces other stress, but a much better kind. Eustress. I stress. We all stress for... nevermind.

So, as I'm making Ben's supper, Shannon announces that there are no back legs for the chairs. Hmm... have you opened all the boxes? She unwraps and pulls out all the other pieces. No back legs. Okay. Let's call them. 'They' in this case are the folks at The Room Store, in Plano. Our salesperson's name is Jeff Bridges.

At this point Shannon is getting angry, because so many people have put forth incompetent efforts during our move -- people who supposedly are professionals at what they do. I walk over and look at the parts she has unwrapped. Hmm... nope, no back legs. Okay, I'll call them. It's after 7 p.m. at this point, so I'm doubtful we get any good help.

The receptionist quickly discerns that she is not familiar enough with the furniture itself to help. A man gets on the phone asks me to look at the chair backs. I look. "The chair backs are the legs; they extend all the way down in one piece." he says. What the guy might have wanted to say: "Do you still have the boxes they came in? If so, then pack them up and bring them back, because you're too stupid to own our furniture."

The guy was very polite about it and didn't even laugh at me after I laughed at myself. All the parts (made in Malaysia) were there, with a few extra nuts and screws for good measure. Dumbfounded by our collective stupidity, we assembled the chairs and the table and it all fit great in our space. My only excuse, and one I'm not ashamed to admit, is that was my first dining furniture with 'some assembly required.' So, although the box said 'Made in Malaysia,' I know that is not entirely true.

Mowing Misadventure

2005-07-26T16:04:00.000-05:00

I got out there and was ready to mow the new lawn for the first time. I had my new Black and Decker Grasshog, no-bump feed, 5.5 amp, electric weed trimmer that, with just the flip of a switch and a flick of the wrist, becomes an edger.

An extension cord was nowhere to be found. We had boxed it up for the move, and I didn't have time for a swim in the sea of boxes our garage had become. I asked my neighbor if he had one. Nope. He offered to introduce me to a woman across the street, busily pulling weeds from her front yard landscaping, because he was sure she would have it.

Turns out she did, and was very glad to let me use it. I gave her the same explanation as above, but with a lot less literary flair (probably a good thing). Otherwise, she probably would have thought I was a freak and told me to get lost. Normally that's no skin off my neck, but I needed some extension cord and I needed it bad. I told her it was very nice of her and nice to meet her, and left them talking to each other.

I sauntered back across the street to our lawn, ready to make the lawn look the way society expects it to look. I hate lawn work. Always have. Probably always will.

I got all the way down one side of the driveway, stopping the Bermuda grass tendrils' slow but steady crawl and cutting them back to the concrete's edge. Down the sidewalk to the mailbox, then back. About halfway up the other side of the driveway, the factory-loaded line ran out. Where is my extra line?

(pan quickly to the open garage)

Packed in a box.

Curses! I was so close to making some progress on this dreaded task.

Sidenote: We moved in on trash day, and my wife and her crew threw out things that didn't quite stay cold enough in our cooler during the trip. Things like frozen raw chicken breast, ground beef, and other fine perishables. These things tend to stink and attract flies, so our City-provided trash can did not stay in the garage long. Then it just stunk up the world, wherever the wind blew it. The day I was doing the lawn was the following trash day, a full seven days after all those things were placed in there. The garbage collector had emptied it and placed it back on the curb, and now I was to brave the inevitable, face the horror I didn't want to see. Without detailing it, I will just say that I have never had to wash 'those' out of a trash can before. In fact, I rarely had even seen 'those' in my lifetime. I sprayed what insect killer we had found -- ant spray -- then closed the lid to let it take effect while I mowed.

Back to the lawn.

I opened about five boxes that had the 'Garage' box checked and found no weed cutter line. I did, however, find my extension cord. So, I walked back across with the neighbor lady's extension cord and returned it, explaining how I had found mine. She said she had plenty of Weedeater line and I could use some. I grabbed her roll of gin-u-wine Weedeater brand line and headed back.

After tackling the ridiculously neglected Bermuda grass creepers and the borders around the landscaping, I cranked up my mower, in hopes it had enough gas to mow the lawn. We had left our gas can to avoid having gasoline fumes build up in the moving van. Although we already had bought another, I hadn't filled it yet.

I got almost half way through our tiny front yard before a nut and bolt fell off, leaving the left side of the mower handle hanging only by the throttle cable. Maybe my internal expression of my hatred for the whole mowing process had angered some higher Lord of Landscaping, and his approach to vengeance was a gradual wearing down of the blasphemer.

I don't give up that easily, however, and with at least six of my neighbors casually watching as they chatted across the street, I was determined to make a decent showing instead of a memorable show. I'm a ham, but I'm not a glutton for ridicule. I managed to find the nut and the bolt, re-attached the mower handle, and off I went.

That lasted about a minute. I could not find the nut that time, so I mowed the rest leaned over to hold the lower part of the handle (it is a two-piece thing that allows one to fold it for storage) with my left hand. It was a fun sight, I'm sure. The sun was getting low, and a Dallas Morning News carrier already had interrupted me twice. Had he read 'Misery' he probably would not have flagged me down the second time. The guy didn't even have a business card and did not offer to give me his contact information in any other form, so I told him I was busy.

After all that, I managed to finish only the front before nightfall. I cleaned up the clippings, washed out the putrid trash can, and went inside for supper at 9 p.m.

Now it's sinking in that we moved. I have mowed, and it's no different from anywhere else.

One good thing happened. My wife and son came out to say hello to me at one point during all this, and caught the eye of neighbors who had brought their daughter outside. They all met and had a great time on their swingset, and we have our first 'couple friends' on the street. If I had hired somebody to mow, that might not have happened. Take that, evil Lord of Landscaping.

Actual Description

2005-07-26T15:50:00.000-05:00

Found this verbiage on a set of Dragon multimedia speakers:

High Power For Your Good Music
(picture of cannonball with a burning fuse)
For people who love their favorite music, this speaker has wonderful power output to handle your music. No matter what kind of music you like, it always tries its best to satisfy you.

These speakers came with a DYI kit I bought from Tiger Direct to build my own computer. I can honestly say that the speakers satisfy me, but I have no idea whether they are trying their best to do it. What I want to know is... what kind of power do they provide for my least favorite music? That's the trick of it. I'll never be able to test that part, because I'll never play my least favorite music. Wow. Those marketing geniuses.

It's All... Gone

2005-07-21T17:06:00.000-05:00

All of it is gone.

We decided that we like DishNetwork so much, and I've seen such an improvement in their customer service, that we would stick with them. Oh, and the fact that we became irrevocably addicted to pausing and rewinding "live" TV. If anything is the "killer app" of the last 10 years, that would have to be it. It's the ultimate melding of computer and media to create a product that is truly useful to people who watch TV either a little or a lot.

That is, until something goes wrong. Terribly, horribly, teeth-gnashingly wrong.

The guy from DishNetwork showed up at our house this morning, my wife and child present, and proceeded to install a dish and the necessary wires to feed our existing DishNetwork 522 DVR receiver a signal. It had served us well in Missouri, so we figured it would do the same in Texas.

I had hooked up the unit last night to make sure it hadn't got bumped too hard in the move, and I was able to pull up the DVR menu and watch a few minutes of a program. Fine. Everything looked good.

After several short phone conversations with the installer today, I was confident things were turning out just great. I would arrive home in our new house to find digital bliss awaiting me. I would play with Ben a while, have dinner, put Ben to bed, and then maybe find something to watch. If I was watching something while sprinkling the lawn, I would just pause it and go move the sprinkler, then come back and start watching again. Then, I could skip commercials for a while. What a wonderful TV-watching world it is, when one can view programs without the intrusive, edge-of-your-seat commercials leaping off the screen into the living room.

Then came the conversation that brought that to a halt, and yanked me into a chain-choked wheelie like a yard dog that tried to chase after an annoying kid. The receiver was bad, the man told me, and he had one to replace it. I explained that I had many pay-per-view movies on there that I had not watched yet, and some great stuff that could not be had on rental. Even if I could, I had paid a monthly fee for that programming already.

My frantic call to DishNetwork didn't help a thing. They just said that the installer had to leave there with either the working receiver or the non-working receiver, and I could have it replace under warranty later if I wanted to keep the bad one. I asked the installer, who told me that the received wasn't even functional enough to play DVR stuff. I'm pretty sure he did something that fried it, because I was using it fine last night. Oh well. Gotta run.

DishNetwork needs a way to back up their DVR units. I know in the grand scheme it's only TV, but it's a kick in the gut nonetheless.

There May Be a Stupid Question

2005-07-13T08:15:00.000-05:00

Some say there are no stupid questions. That may be so, but there certainly are questions that can make one look stupid. Example. We go out July 11 to a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for Ben. It's a chewable tablet. The pharmacy tech asks us the child's birthdate, which my wife provides her. The tech then says, "We have July 11." My wife, feeling fairly confident in her memory of the day she pushed a bowling ball out of a milk jug, informs her that her records are wrong. My wife corrects her, says again that it was July 2, and then the woman behind the counter asks, "Of 2005?"

(crickets) (crickets) (crickets)

"Yes, he's a week old, so we figured a chewable tablet would be the best way to go -- here's your sign," would have been the memorable thing to say, but my wife held back. I've said things without thinking in the past, and some of those things made me look a bit stupid, but come on.

The woman probably was just a casualty in an avalanche started that morning when somebody entered him as a new record in their system, and typed that day's date in the birthdate field. Oh well.

We Finally Get to Move

2005-07-13T08:05:00.000-05:00

It ended up a bit rushed, but we're looking forward to it. I had lined up some former co-workers to help us load the van July 16. When our house's buyer took longer than expected to secure a loan, I told the guys there was no way we would do it that weekend. They, of course, had made other plans by the time I found out July 11 that the date was a "go" after all. Oh, boy, this should be fun.

My dread for moving is outweighed by the fact that it will free us from living under someone else's roof. We've been eating some fine cooking and haven't had to mow a lawn in two months. That part, I'll miss. Also, Ben has loved being around his grandparents all the time. Even at age two, however, he has some sense of being in his own house. When Shannon and her mom arrived at our Missouri house to start packing it last night, Ben visibly brightened at the sight of it and ran around like he was more comfortable and secure than he'd been in a long time. It will be nice to be out with Ben, and mean it when we say, "It's time to go home."

Welcome to Me and Elvis

2005-07-07T16:41:00.000-05:00

The address of this blog was just the first thing I could think of that was not already used. It's the name of a song by Human Radio, a now-defunct band formerly based out of Memphis. Now Ross Rice is the only former member I follow at all, and he still lives and works in that area. The song "Me and Elvis" does not inspire me because I'm an Elvis fan, but because I love its upbeat tempo, fun tune, and witty lyrics. Yes, I said "witty."

I might not post every day. I will post when something hits me, or when someone who touches my life does something worth jotting down. It's a journal mainly for me, really. I have so many thoughts in my head sometimes, but never manage to get them all out. This will help me do that. An online catharsis. Ah, feel the rush.