I can do magic, at least according to my children. However, some of my powers are more suited to adults.
Here is an example. Bears and worms have very little in common, but my powers allow me to turn them into virtually the exact same thing. I use the power of one single magic word...
GUMMY!
Friday, March 9, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
February 29th
Today is Leap Day. Happy Leap Day everyone. Please take advantage of the time to jump over something.
I hate Leap Day. I don't get paid for Leap Day. It's a free day of work for me. Anyone who gets paid a salary should dislike Leap Day. Your annual salary doesn't go up a smidge every four years. But you're still at work all day long. Remember this while you're busy goofing off at work today. Today was a freebie anyway.
I hate Leap Day. I don't get paid for Leap Day. It's a free day of work for me. Anyone who gets paid a salary should dislike Leap Day. Your annual salary doesn't go up a smidge every four years. But you're still at work all day long. Remember this while you're busy goofing off at work today. Today was a freebie anyway.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach #5
"Here, take a drink of this." That was German, I don't speak German do I?
I knock back the glass and grimace. Jagermeister. "So smooth," I reply in Polish. Polish, since when do I speak Polish and understand German? Stach what have you done this time?
Judging by our winged out collars and swinging attire it must be the seventies. Since we are speaking German and Polish we must be in Eastern Europe. I swill down another shot of cough syrup and my face reacts accordingly. The German photographer in front of my squeals with delight. "That's it! That's it! We've got a perfect ad campaign idea. So smooth, so perfect."
I spend the next few hours in various poses holding bottles, holding glasses, and swilling Jager while my German counterpart snaps pictures. The next day (late in the day thanks to my hangover), the photographer and I select the best. We rush off to Jager-HQ and pitch an ad campaign. Jager-Powers-That-Be are immediately impressed with our creative idea, our showcase of their swill, and my impressive lip warmer. The invention of the Jager-Face is born, and my picture inspires a series of magazine and billboard adds that will run for the next seven years.
I enjoy my new found Eastern European fame by making guest appearances on Polish state run TV, state run mandatory morale events, and state run radio. I even cut a state run album called Jager, the Stach, and me. I have komrades o'plenty. Looking back it was a pretty awful time. Communist Poland sucks, thanks Stach.
I felt a need to help the Polish people throw off the reigns of collectivism by organizing my own collective group. Inspired by the stern and forthright nature of my Stach they named this first non-government trade union after it, "Stach". A movement was born. Unfortunately in the West a poorly trained translator mistranslated "Stach" into "Solid", so in the US the movement is still erroneously known as "Solidarity".
It all came to a tragic end for me one day when government minders rounded me up, sent me to Siberia, I wrote a 7,000 page book on crime and punishment (only to find out later that someone already beat me to it), and charged seven dollars (SEVEN DOLLARS? for one round?) for the bullet that would be used in my execution.
I give you: The Jager Stach (a.k.a. So Smooth)
I knock back the glass and grimace. Jagermeister. "So smooth," I reply in Polish. Polish, since when do I speak Polish and understand German? Stach what have you done this time?
Judging by our winged out collars and swinging attire it must be the seventies. Since we are speaking German and Polish we must be in Eastern Europe. I swill down another shot of cough syrup and my face reacts accordingly. The German photographer in front of my squeals with delight. "That's it! That's it! We've got a perfect ad campaign idea. So smooth, so perfect."
I spend the next few hours in various poses holding bottles, holding glasses, and swilling Jager while my German counterpart snaps pictures. The next day (late in the day thanks to my hangover), the photographer and I select the best. We rush off to Jager-HQ and pitch an ad campaign. Jager-Powers-That-Be are immediately impressed with our creative idea, our showcase of their swill, and my impressive lip warmer. The invention of the Jager-Face is born, and my picture inspires a series of magazine and billboard adds that will run for the next seven years.
I enjoy my new found Eastern European fame by making guest appearances on Polish state run TV, state run mandatory morale events, and state run radio. I even cut a state run album called Jager, the Stach, and me. I have komrades o'plenty. Looking back it was a pretty awful time. Communist Poland sucks, thanks Stach.
I felt a need to help the Polish people throw off the reigns of collectivism by organizing my own collective group. Inspired by the stern and forthright nature of my Stach they named this first non-government trade union after it, "Stach". A movement was born. Unfortunately in the West a poorly trained translator mistranslated "Stach" into "Solid", so in the US the movement is still erroneously known as "Solidarity".
It all came to a tragic end for me one day when government minders rounded me up, sent me to Siberia, I wrote a 7,000 page book on crime and punishment (only to find out later that someone already beat me to it), and charged seven dollars (SEVEN DOLLARS? for one round?) for the bullet that would be used in my execution.
I give you: The Jager Stach (a.k.a. So Smooth)
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach #4
Ouch, that hurts. Hey, quit slapping me around. Stach what have you gotten me into this time?
1980's, I'm in an area, maybe Madison Square Garden, and the crowd is going nuts, shouting for blood. Some kind of gladiator event is taking place and I'm right in the middle of a ring wearing a speedo. Good Lord, Stach, you've made me a pro-wrestler? The beefcake across from me sprints away, rebounds off the ropes, runs past me, and delivers a crushing close line that drops me to the turf. Man that hurt, I thought this was supposed to be fake. Guess I'm doing it wrong? I gather my wits just in time to notice that beefcake has thrown himself from the top of the ropes in a move that will kill us both. I roll out in the nick of time and the crowd goes nuts. Apparently forethought wasn't part of beefcake's plan, because he made himself semi-unconscious with a 1.2 landing (according to the Romanian judge) or a 6.0 (according to Richter).
Now's my chance. I look around the ring and notice that a folding chair has been conveniently left just outside the ring easily within arm's reach. I grab the chair, give beefcake a donk on the head for good measure, and set up the chair in the middle of the ring. Stach tells me to ham it up a little so I circle the ring, work up the crowd, and turn back to beefcake. His bell is still ringing so I pick him up and settle him in on the chair. Now the Stach and I come up with an amazing wrestling hold that will become my signature move. I call it the "Cobra Claw". Down goes beefcake and a new pro-wrestler is born, Sgt. Slayer.
For the next few years I travel the US on the T&A Wrestling Tour, make a few guest appearances on TV shows, and eventually become one of the most popular figures in the "sport". They even make a He-Man action figure after my likeness (kung-fu grip equipped of course). Unfortunately it all comes to an end when I'm accidentally killed in a wrestling stunt involving a foreign object, the top rope, a steal cage, a midget, a ref that wasn't looking, a "friend" that betrayed me, and a wrestler that returned from the dead.
I give you: Sgt. Slayer Stach
1980's, I'm in an area, maybe Madison Square Garden, and the crowd is going nuts, shouting for blood. Some kind of gladiator event is taking place and I'm right in the middle of a ring wearing a speedo. Good Lord, Stach, you've made me a pro-wrestler? The beefcake across from me sprints away, rebounds off the ropes, runs past me, and delivers a crushing close line that drops me to the turf. Man that hurt, I thought this was supposed to be fake. Guess I'm doing it wrong? I gather my wits just in time to notice that beefcake has thrown himself from the top of the ropes in a move that will kill us both. I roll out in the nick of time and the crowd goes nuts. Apparently forethought wasn't part of beefcake's plan, because he made himself semi-unconscious with a 1.2 landing (according to the Romanian judge) or a 6.0 (according to Richter).
Now's my chance. I look around the ring and notice that a folding chair has been conveniently left just outside the ring easily within arm's reach. I grab the chair, give beefcake a donk on the head for good measure, and set up the chair in the middle of the ring. Stach tells me to ham it up a little so I circle the ring, work up the crowd, and turn back to beefcake. His bell is still ringing so I pick him up and settle him in on the chair. Now the Stach and I come up with an amazing wrestling hold that will become my signature move. I call it the "Cobra Claw". Down goes beefcake and a new pro-wrestler is born, Sgt. Slayer.
For the next few years I travel the US on the T&A Wrestling Tour, make a few guest appearances on TV shows, and eventually become one of the most popular figures in the "sport". They even make a He-Man action figure after my likeness (kung-fu grip equipped of course). Unfortunately it all comes to an end when I'm accidentally killed in a wrestling stunt involving a foreign object, the top rope, a steal cage, a midget, a ref that wasn't looking, a "friend" that betrayed me, and a wrestler that returned from the dead.
I give you: Sgt. Slayer Stach
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach #3
The Stach takes control. I open my eyes to the shout "...and, ACTION!" Cautiously I look around and take stock of my new Stach predicament. I appear to be on a movie set of some type. Judging by the hair, collars, gold chains, and cigars it must be the mid-seventies. By the look on everyone's faces I must be expected to do something...just what I'm not sure. From the stage settings I appear to be a very ill dressed pizza delivery boy.
I knock on the door in front of me. It opens and I ask, "Anyone order a pizza?"
The scantly clad women before me answer suggestively without words. From nowhere a funky seventies baseline fills the room. I cannot repeat what happens next. Needless to say this Stach causes a number of little deaths.
I give you: 70's Adult Film Stach
I knock on the door in front of me. It opens and I ask, "Anyone order a pizza?"
The scantly clad women before me answer suggestively without words. From nowhere a funky seventies baseline fills the room. I cannot repeat what happens next. Needless to say this Stach causes a number of little deaths.
I give you: 70's Adult Film Stach
Friday, February 10, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach #2
Today's Stach took me to exotic Hawaii, circa 1980. These were fast times with swinging beach babes and cool cars. But there was a dark underside. Drug dealing and general criminal mayhem was rampant. An elite police team called Hi-Five, oh...is that the name....wait...something like that...anyway was just canceled...er disbanded, and crime was back. I don't know how to dance Hula, but the stach provided me a job as a Private Investigator under the name, Colt PI. In no time at all I find a rich benefactor who likes my idea of non-lethal vigilante justice and my ability to ferret out a seemingly endless supply of attractive women who, by no fault of their own, are caught in impossibly complicated situations. I take up residence in the benefactor's guest house, swill free beer from an endless beer fridge, and tool around in his Ferrari. Strangely I never meet the rich guy, I just interact with his ambiguously gay butler. For kicks I also pick up a black helicopter pilot sidekick, who doesn't want one of those?
I did this for about eight seasons...er years. I was finally killed in one of my adventures in a freak accident involving taro root, a lei, a beach fire dance, a coconut drink, and another Hawaii cliché I can't remember at the moment. I heard that my high jinks were turned into a TV show where the main character was a prop, dressed in flower shirts, for the real hero of the show...A Stant-Alone-Stach.
I give you: Colt PI Stach
I did this for about eight seasons...er years. I was finally killed in one of my adventures in a freak accident involving taro root, a lei, a beach fire dance, a coconut drink, and another Hawaii cliché I can't remember at the moment. I heard that my high jinks were turned into a TV show where the main character was a prop, dressed in flower shirts, for the real hero of the show...A Stant-Alone-Stach.
I give you: Colt PI Stach
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach #1
My first stach took me back to Wild Western times. I found myself somewhere in frontierland USA. This proved a real problem for me, as I do not know how to farm, ride a horse, or rustle dogies or outlaws.
Fortunately my stach rescued me. I took up gambling and drinking, two things a stach allowes rogues to do. I gained some noteriety as a gambler named Doc and invented Texas Hold'em. Unfortunately I was killed and misidentified shortly after playing the hand pictured.
I give you: Wild West Poker Stach
Fortunately my stach rescued me. I took up gambling and drinking, two things a stach allowes rogues to do. I gained some noteriety as a gambler named Doc and invented Texas Hold'em. Unfortunately I was killed and misidentified shortly after playing the hand pictured.
I give you: Wild West Poker Stach
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Stand-Alone-Stach Introduction
I sport a goatee. I've had it for about five years now. Originally I grew it out of necessity, not choice. But now the goatee has grown on me. You can see it in most of my pictures.
What was the necessity, you ask? When we moved to Houston I got a job with an Oil & Gas consulting firm. When these guys pay for our services they expect to see grizzled old consultants that have been around the block and know a few things. They did not like to see a baby faced thirty-something. I was getting blown off in meeting after meeting, so I grew some manly facial hair to fix the problem perceived incompetence. Originally it was a beard. It didn't exactly suit me. Too many chins made it hard to decide where the beard should stop. In the end I had a facial hair that merged with chest hair, and two worlds collided. Crossing these streams should only be done in emergency situations like facing down State Puff. I cut the wooly beast back to a goatee my look was born. It looked sharp and helped at work. Instantly I was treated differently in meetings, got a promotion, and was invited to swank afterword parties. All due to my chin whiskers.
Every year I attend a Mardi Gras ball that requires that I shave the goatee. I like to take advantage of this window to reset the goatee. As an added bonus I take the time to experiment with different looks I wouldn't have the guts to grow and show in public. Unusually this results in some crazy goatee variations. Amazingly the one thing I've never done was a Stand-Alone-Stach.
Only a certain kind of man can sport the Sand-Alone-Stach. You need a number of things working in your favor to pull it off. You need a cooperative wife/girl friend/gal pal, she has to approved of the worm on your lip. You need a cooperative occupation, we can't all be cops, firefighters, or lumberjacks. You need a strong personality, it's no coincidence that Hitler and Stalin are known for the hair on their lips. Maybe you don't need to murder millions of people, but you still need to pull it off.
This year I shaved the goatee down to a Stand-Alone-Stach. It was amazing. Liberating. Magical. I never realized how much a mustache would allow you to do. Worlds of opportunity open before me. Clean shaven guys, can pretty much only be the good guy. Goatee folks can only be thugs or evil twins from alternate dimensions. But mustaches can do anything. The world was laid bare before me.
To paint a picture of opportunity for you, my readers, I went through a weeklong transformation, experiencing a new persona every day. We chronicled these adventures for your amusement. I will post a new Stand-Alone-Stach picture every day (or so depending on my ability to leave my newfound persona behind) for a week.
Feel free to vote on your favorite. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Stand-Alone-Stach of the Day.
What was the necessity, you ask? When we moved to Houston I got a job with an Oil & Gas consulting firm. When these guys pay for our services they expect to see grizzled old consultants that have been around the block and know a few things. They did not like to see a baby faced thirty-something. I was getting blown off in meeting after meeting, so I grew some manly facial hair to fix the problem perceived incompetence. Originally it was a beard. It didn't exactly suit me. Too many chins made it hard to decide where the beard should stop. In the end I had a facial hair that merged with chest hair, and two worlds collided. Crossing these streams should only be done in emergency situations like facing down State Puff. I cut the wooly beast back to a goatee my look was born. It looked sharp and helped at work. Instantly I was treated differently in meetings, got a promotion, and was invited to swank afterword parties. All due to my chin whiskers.
Every year I attend a Mardi Gras ball that requires that I shave the goatee. I like to take advantage of this window to reset the goatee. As an added bonus I take the time to experiment with different looks I wouldn't have the guts to grow and show in public. Unusually this results in some crazy goatee variations. Amazingly the one thing I've never done was a Stand-Alone-Stach.
Only a certain kind of man can sport the Sand-Alone-Stach. You need a number of things working in your favor to pull it off. You need a cooperative wife/girl friend/gal pal, she has to approved of the worm on your lip. You need a cooperative occupation, we can't all be cops, firefighters, or lumberjacks. You need a strong personality, it's no coincidence that Hitler and Stalin are known for the hair on their lips. Maybe you don't need to murder millions of people, but you still need to pull it off.
This year I shaved the goatee down to a Stand-Alone-Stach. It was amazing. Liberating. Magical. I never realized how much a mustache would allow you to do. Worlds of opportunity open before me. Clean shaven guys, can pretty much only be the good guy. Goatee folks can only be thugs or evil twins from alternate dimensions. But mustaches can do anything. The world was laid bare before me.
To paint a picture of opportunity for you, my readers, I went through a weeklong transformation, experiencing a new persona every day. We chronicled these adventures for your amusement. I will post a new Stand-Alone-Stach picture every day (or so depending on my ability to leave my newfound persona behind) for a week.
Feel free to vote on your favorite. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Stand-Alone-Stach of the Day.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
We Are All South Carolinians Now
So I'm sitting at my computer trying to do a little work this morning. Normal morning, normal work, nothing special today. As I'm tooling through my day, I notice The Misses has sent me an e-mail. Then another...then another...then, you get it. Here's the thing about The Misses and her work day e-mail's, she sends them in batch. Her job keeps her busy. She manages to squeeze some personal time to do a little family management, and sends e-mails out in batch. But she also likes replies in batch. This allows her to feel like I'm on top of whatever just landed on my lap and she can get back to her real work of saving lives while I'm mired in Kling-Family minutia.
Today's Honey-Do e-mail, contained something Monty Python would consider "completely different". A seemingly random e-mail was forwarded from Amazon.com in order to let me know I may owe some state taxes to South Carolina. Huh? Did we live in SC sometime last year? Do we live there now? Did we visit the Palmetto State? Did we even set a toe in the lesser Caroline? No to all the above. So what it this all about? Time to do some Interweb research.
Home of the Catfish Stomp is also home to zany internet taxes. Sitting around the South Carolina state capitol building, smoking North Carolina tobacco cigars and sipping Kentucky whiskey, the legislature has discovered interweb shopping is bleeding the state dry. By golly something needs to be done. We can't have people who don't live in our state, or make things in our state, go around giving things to people in our state without good South Carolinians getting a piece of the action. Yep that's right. Apparently if you buy something in another state and use it in SC (or in my case give it as a gift), you owe SC some tax money. They call it a South Carolina Use Tax. There you go.
It took about thirty minutes of my life to get someone on the phone to explain this to me. Surely they don't mean to levee this tax on non-residents. Yep the do, Brian you need to pay us some taxes. Next I needed to create an account on the SC tax assessors web site. This took forever; they wanted the regular user ID and password (with 2 numbers?), then they wanted four security questions, then they wanted my SSN and birth name, then they wanted to know where and when I was born, then they wanted my current address, then they wanted the address that the product would be used, then they wanted to know the month of the purchase (why?), then they wanted the a picture of my mother's-mother's garter belt...what that one was a different site, skip it. You get the idea. It took a long time to actually get to the what-do-I-owe part of this process. Finally I get to the place where I can calculate taxes. One dollar, eighty-nine cents.
That's it? A buck eighty-nine? All this for less than two dollars? It reminded me of the kid from Better Off Dead, "Two dollars".
Sorry to all my friends in SC, you will never get another present from me. If you want me to continue to celebrate Christmas or birthday's, or Bar Mitzvah you need to get a post office box or a shipping address in Georgia.
Today's Honey-Do e-mail, contained something Monty Python would consider "completely different". A seemingly random e-mail was forwarded from Amazon.com in order to let me know I may owe some state taxes to South Carolina. Huh? Did we live in SC sometime last year? Do we live there now? Did we visit the Palmetto State? Did we even set a toe in the lesser Caroline? No to all the above. So what it this all about? Time to do some Interweb research.
Home of the Catfish Stomp is also home to zany internet taxes. Sitting around the South Carolina state capitol building, smoking North Carolina tobacco cigars and sipping Kentucky whiskey, the legislature has discovered interweb shopping is bleeding the state dry. By golly something needs to be done. We can't have people who don't live in our state, or make things in our state, go around giving things to people in our state without good South Carolinians getting a piece of the action. Yep that's right. Apparently if you buy something in another state and use it in SC (or in my case give it as a gift), you owe SC some tax money. They call it a South Carolina Use Tax. There you go.
It took about thirty minutes of my life to get someone on the phone to explain this to me. Surely they don't mean to levee this tax on non-residents. Yep the do, Brian you need to pay us some taxes. Next I needed to create an account on the SC tax assessors web site. This took forever; they wanted the regular user ID and password (with 2 numbers?), then they wanted four security questions, then they wanted my SSN and birth name, then they wanted to know where and when I was born, then they wanted my current address, then they wanted the address that the product would be used, then they wanted to know the month of the purchase (why?), then they wanted the a picture of my mother's-mother's garter belt...what that one was a different site, skip it. You get the idea. It took a long time to actually get to the what-do-I-owe part of this process. Finally I get to the place where I can calculate taxes. One dollar, eighty-nine cents.
That's it? A buck eighty-nine? All this for less than two dollars? It reminded me of the kid from Better Off Dead, "Two dollars".
Sorry to all my friends in SC, you will never get another present from me. If you want me to continue to celebrate Christmas or birthday's, or Bar Mitzvah you need to get a post office box or a shipping address in Georgia.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Musing
Why do two slot toasters direct you to use a particular slot when only toasting one piece of bread? Both wires still get hot. Both holder/popper things slide down. Why only one side?
And why is it that even though I don't believe the label on the toaster, I've never tried putting the bread in the other slot, just to see if it would work?
I must be a follower.
And why is it that even though I don't believe the label on the toaster, I've never tried putting the bread in the other slot, just to see if it would work?
I must be a follower.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Fall Guy
I called the boys to get ready for school today. They were messing around on the computer wasting time before we had to leave. Both were sitting in the same chair staring blankly at their game, harassing one another like good brothers.
"Get your shoes on," I bellowed.
Number One Son clicked off the computer game, stood up, and walked away. Number Two Son stood on the chair, put a foot on the armrest, and launched himself into the air. The chair swiveled, and stole his momentum. The only thing that moved was his launch foot...in the wrong direction. Number Two Son was left hanging in the air, with no where to go until gravity realized his predicament and pulled him down.
It's amazing how long you can just hang there, it seemed like an hour. It was enough time for him to realize this wasn't going to end well, look at me, verify that I wasn't pleased with his dismount choice, and come up with an answer before I could bark at him. He also had enough hang time to learn about Newton's Laws one and three, and the importance of securing a braced launching point before jumping. Finally gravity woke up, at the last moment he learned that once you are in the air, there is no way to change course; even if there is a desk in your way.
SMACK. Head meet desk. But luckily for Number Two he had already worked on his excuse and this accident only played into his hands. He rolled on the ground, rubbed his head and popped up at my feet. The lump was already sticking up.
"Part of the job!" he yelled as he scooted out of the room.
He b-lined for the stairs, ran up to the fourth, spun around and launched himself into the air again. This time he had learned to use the railing for a guide. With one hand he guided the fall and executed a perfect 10 point landing (according to the Romanian judge).
"I'm working on my stunt man moves." Number Two says offhandedly. Meanwhile his hand runs up and gingerly checks the damaged forehead. "Bumps come with the business, I guess."
From the other side of the room Number One Son has been watching the whole affair unfold. "Only when they do it wrong," he replies. "I'm just going to stay in school. Unless a book falls off a shelf, my head will be pretty safe, and as for stairs, that's what elevators are for."
"Get your shoes on," I bellowed.
Number One Son clicked off the computer game, stood up, and walked away. Number Two Son stood on the chair, put a foot on the armrest, and launched himself into the air. The chair swiveled, and stole his momentum. The only thing that moved was his launch foot...in the wrong direction. Number Two Son was left hanging in the air, with no where to go until gravity realized his predicament and pulled him down.
It's amazing how long you can just hang there, it seemed like an hour. It was enough time for him to realize this wasn't going to end well, look at me, verify that I wasn't pleased with his dismount choice, and come up with an answer before I could bark at him. He also had enough hang time to learn about Newton's Laws one and three, and the importance of securing a braced launching point before jumping. Finally gravity woke up, at the last moment he learned that once you are in the air, there is no way to change course; even if there is a desk in your way.
SMACK. Head meet desk. But luckily for Number Two he had already worked on his excuse and this accident only played into his hands. He rolled on the ground, rubbed his head and popped up at my feet. The lump was already sticking up.
"Part of the job!" he yelled as he scooted out of the room.
He b-lined for the stairs, ran up to the fourth, spun around and launched himself into the air again. This time he had learned to use the railing for a guide. With one hand he guided the fall and executed a perfect 10 point landing (according to the Romanian judge).
"I'm working on my stunt man moves." Number Two says offhandedly. Meanwhile his hand runs up and gingerly checks the damaged forehead. "Bumps come with the business, I guess."
From the other side of the room Number One Son has been watching the whole affair unfold. "Only when they do it wrong," he replies. "I'm just going to stay in school. Unless a book falls off a shelf, my head will be pretty safe, and as for stairs, that's what elevators are for."
Monday, January 30, 2012
Pinewood Derby
This past weekend was the first Pinewood Derby for my boys. That might not sound like exciting fodder for a blog post, but my kids found a way to make it interesting. Sometimes they provide little insights on how their evolving minds work. As a parent I like to believe I’m somehow responsible for the good stuff and find a way to blame The Misses or the In-Laws for the bad. I don’t know who to blame for this one.
A little background on the Pinewood Derby. If you are/were/know a Cub Scout you’ve lived this already. A non-satirical description can be found on Wikipedia here, but that’s just not my style. Ahhh, Pinewood Derby, where to start? Well it’s one of the biggest events of the Cub Scout year. The Cubbies have three events, an annual banquet, an annual (or semi-annual) camping trip, and the Pinewood Derby. So the Cub Scout PR machine builds this up in the minds of little scouts to be the Superbowl of Scouting. The event itself is pretty fun, and pretty simple in concept. Each scout enters a “car” of their own creation. These cars are placed on a track with four lanes about 30 feet long. The first 1/3 of the track is a 45 degree angle. Gravity provides the energy and momentum carries the cars to the finish line. Simple as pie. Not so fast.
The thing was invented sometime in the ‘30’s, and not a bit has changed since then. The Cub Scouts provide each eager scout “all” the provisions they will need (yeah right). In the kit, scouts find a block of wood (I assume it to be pine, just because of the Derby name. But Joseph the Carpenter I am not. If it were ash, palm, or balsa, I’d have no way to know), four wheels and four nails for attaching said wheels to said wood. Simple as pie. Not so fast.
Now remember this even has a big build up. What self respecting scout would slap four wheels on a chunk of wood and parade it in front of his peers? No, no, no. You see something has to be done to make these cars unique. Maybe some paint? Maybe a cut here or there? A little sanding perhaps? Once upon a time in the 30’s seven year olds were encouraged to break out their jackknives, whittle down a block of wood, and learn valuable lessons in aerodynamics, friction, and first aid. But those days are gone.
Today’s Pinewood Derby cars come in only two classes. The cars that Daddy built, and the cars Daddy refused to build. Seven year-olds should be nowhere near today’s jigsaws, electric sanders, and soldering irons, but the cars that arrive on Derby Day, have had a heaping helping of all the above. Superbowl, how can they not? The Derby turns out a test of how well parents can build the perfect racing car with just enough imperfection to allow for plausible deniability. Most of this deniability comes in the form of a seven-year-old’s-paintjob.
As a parent I have worked out for myself a number of guiding principles. Some of those principals came into play for the Derby. As much as possible I believe in non-intervention. Failure and pain will provide much better life lessons than a fatherly lecture, with the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. Everyone’s a winner (although technically the kids a losers in the short run). Another principal is let the kiddies own their projects. This gives them an outlet to think through problems, come up with answers, and allows a sense of pride in the final outcome (even when the final outcome sucks-balls compared to the NASA engineered competition). This also has the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. And I always like to remind myself (and test the theory) that if any of this not-helping gets too tough, bourbon will put me back into the proper frame of mind.
So a few weeks ago, my kids got their Derby kits, opened the boxes and wondered what this was all about. I explained the rules like this, “You make a car by slapping those wheels on the block of wood. You get to shape the wood how you want (I’ll cut it for you – I had to cave in and help somewhere, so I figured I’d help with the part that guaranteed no one [but me] looses a digit), paint it how you want, and decorate it how you want. Once that’s done all the Scouts will get together and race the cars on a track. Four will enter, one will leave, losing cars will be set on fire, or blown up with cherry-bombs, or launched into space via catapult. The winning cars will continue to race one another until there is only one car left standing on the ashes and broken dreams of his fellow scouts. Then Mad Max will buzz the arena in his flying machine and set all the children free while Tina Turner sings Tiny Dancer and...something else happens, anyway it’ll all be cool.” Wow, they were hooked now. Or so I thought. Number Two wasn’t so sure about this.
“So what do we get?” asked Number Two Son.
Get? Hmmm, life skills, if you want to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer, life lessons if you need to be taught not to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer; the enjoyment of pitting your woodworking skills against your fellow Scout, or his dad the guy who invented deep directional drilling. There has to be a better sell than that, I checked the Scout Pack’s literature. “A trophy for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place.” I replied. Now he perked up. Apparently that stuff about Thunderdome, didn’t move him. I guess he figured he could do that on his own. But the idea of gold lacquered plastic sent an Obama speech thrill down his leg.
“Are those the only trophies? Just for the first three finishes?” Number Two Son said after some thought.
Again I had to do some research. “Let’s see. Ah, nope. It seems you get a trophy for some fan favorites in different categories. Best scout theme, Best military theme, Most creative, some other categories I don’t remember. All the scouts will get to vote, and the winner in each category gets a trophy. Oh, and something else, looks like the ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ gets a trophy too.”
“What’s ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ mean?”
“Slowest. Last place.”
“Oh. That’s stupid, why didn’t they just say that?”
My boy.
After learning the rules, the Boys ran off to design their creations and develop a plan. I walked to the wet bar to work on my own plan. Each kid came back with a design scribbled on the side of the wooden block. “This is how we want it cut.” A day later they had cars in hand, and learned sanding wood sucks. “Stay in school, if you don’t like sanding things.” I’m an excellent shaper of young minds. Of course I could have introduced them to the electric sander in the garage (sanding wood sucks for Dad’s as much as kids. We just know how to drive to HomeDepot and power tool our way to laziness), but I didn’t. I’m an excellent shaper of young minds.
Number One Son went for the straight forward Pinewood Derby car. Neat design, made faster by a cool paint job. Every nine-year-old knows 90% of speed derived from the paint. Red obviously being the fastest color, violet the slowest. Even before they learn about Roy G. Biv, children have an inert understanding about the universe around them. And of course, the colors can be augmented by speed educing shapes, flame stickers, and stripes. The only reason the Bandit could out run Beaufort T. Justice was the giant thunderbird thing on the hood. Pinewood Derby rolls down these logic tracks all the way to Boy Scout junction.
Number Two Son presented me with something I’ve never seen before. Like me, both of the boys are Out-of-the-Box thinkers. We live within the rules, and rarely break them. But if you’re creative enough you’ll find there is a lot of room in the rule box. Especially for those who make it a point to take rules to their literal extreme. Something you should know about Number Two Son, he’s competitive. This boy wants to win, and he often does. He’s a natural physical talent at almost everything he tries. Lead scorer on the basketball team, pitcher for his Tee Ball baseball team, after watching me chip golf balls in the empty lot he gave me pointers on my back swing. True story when he was four he once played forward and goalie for his soccer team…AT THE SAME TIME. The kid is everything at sports that I was not. He’s a natural at everything, and a natural at winning, and kinda my hero. When he plays, he expects to find a way to win. Number Two Son is that kid that’s good at everything and doesn’t realize it. He plays with his peers and his brother’s peers and doesn’t notice the difference he’s a natural leader. So it surprised me when he presented me with his car, his “add-ons”, and his plan.
Number Two Son, had painted and bedazzled his car in expected six-year-old fashion with fireballs, “fast” paint, pin stripes and patriotic flags, but he had a secret weapon. Number Two provided me with a plastic monkey wearing a parachute. It was the kind of toy children throw in the air and watch slowly return to Earth. Then they find stairs and drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. Then they get ladders climb the roof to the fourth story of the tallest house in the neighborhood, drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. If they don’t break a leg falling off the roof they climb to the top of the tallest tree in the land drop it off and watch it slowly return to Earth and call the fire department to get them down, but bring that parachute monkey back up with you.
“I need to attach this monkey to the top of the car. After that I have a few more modifications,” Number Two Son instructed me.
“You know this parachute is going to slow it down.”
“Yep, that’s the idea. I’m trying to win this thing, Dad.”
“???”
“This is how I see this Derby-thing going. There are like a hundred kids out there. All of them are competing for three slots, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. That’s a lot of competition. And I’ve never done this before so I don’t even know what the track looks like or how to make cars fast or anything about anything. I don’t have a chance against Webelos. Now I could come up with some neat decorations and try for a prize in the categories. But I’m sure lots of kids thought of that too. Besides there’s no way to know how people will vote. That’s just too risky. So the way I see it, no one likes to come in last. Hardly anyone will COMPETE for last place. Even if someone does it’s going to be like one or two other kids. There’s no way I’ll lose to one or two kids. With this parachute my car will be super-slow. I want a trophy, I want to win. Besides, no one will know why I have a trophy, it COULD be for 1st, who can tell? Let’s attach this monkey and find some sand paper. If I sand down a tire, I can get a flat tire too. Those are always slow.”
He’s kinda my hero.
A little background on the Pinewood Derby. If you are/were/know a Cub Scout you’ve lived this already. A non-satirical description can be found on Wikipedia here, but that’s just not my style. Ahhh, Pinewood Derby, where to start? Well it’s one of the biggest events of the Cub Scout year. The Cubbies have three events, an annual banquet, an annual (or semi-annual) camping trip, and the Pinewood Derby. So the Cub Scout PR machine builds this up in the minds of little scouts to be the Superbowl of Scouting. The event itself is pretty fun, and pretty simple in concept. Each scout enters a “car” of their own creation. These cars are placed on a track with four lanes about 30 feet long. The first 1/3 of the track is a 45 degree angle. Gravity provides the energy and momentum carries the cars to the finish line. Simple as pie. Not so fast.
The thing was invented sometime in the ‘30’s, and not a bit has changed since then. The Cub Scouts provide each eager scout “all” the provisions they will need (yeah right). In the kit, scouts find a block of wood (I assume it to be pine, just because of the Derby name. But Joseph the Carpenter I am not. If it were ash, palm, or balsa, I’d have no way to know), four wheels and four nails for attaching said wheels to said wood. Simple as pie. Not so fast.
Now remember this even has a big build up. What self respecting scout would slap four wheels on a chunk of wood and parade it in front of his peers? No, no, no. You see something has to be done to make these cars unique. Maybe some paint? Maybe a cut here or there? A little sanding perhaps? Once upon a time in the 30’s seven year olds were encouraged to break out their jackknives, whittle down a block of wood, and learn valuable lessons in aerodynamics, friction, and first aid. But those days are gone.
Today’s Pinewood Derby cars come in only two classes. The cars that Daddy built, and the cars Daddy refused to build. Seven year-olds should be nowhere near today’s jigsaws, electric sanders, and soldering irons, but the cars that arrive on Derby Day, have had a heaping helping of all the above. Superbowl, how can they not? The Derby turns out a test of how well parents can build the perfect racing car with just enough imperfection to allow for plausible deniability. Most of this deniability comes in the form of a seven-year-old’s-paintjob.
As a parent I have worked out for myself a number of guiding principles. Some of those principals came into play for the Derby. As much as possible I believe in non-intervention. Failure and pain will provide much better life lessons than a fatherly lecture, with the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. Everyone’s a winner (although technically the kids a losers in the short run). Another principal is let the kiddies own their projects. This gives them an outlet to think through problems, come up with answers, and allows a sense of pride in the final outcome (even when the final outcome sucks-balls compared to the NASA engineered competition). This also has the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. And I always like to remind myself (and test the theory) that if any of this not-helping gets too tough, bourbon will put me back into the proper frame of mind.
So a few weeks ago, my kids got their Derby kits, opened the boxes and wondered what this was all about. I explained the rules like this, “You make a car by slapping those wheels on the block of wood. You get to shape the wood how you want (I’ll cut it for you – I had to cave in and help somewhere, so I figured I’d help with the part that guaranteed no one [but me] looses a digit), paint it how you want, and decorate it how you want. Once that’s done all the Scouts will get together and race the cars on a track. Four will enter, one will leave, losing cars will be set on fire, or blown up with cherry-bombs, or launched into space via catapult. The winning cars will continue to race one another until there is only one car left standing on the ashes and broken dreams of his fellow scouts. Then Mad Max will buzz the arena in his flying machine and set all the children free while Tina Turner sings Tiny Dancer and...something else happens, anyway it’ll all be cool.” Wow, they were hooked now. Or so I thought. Number Two wasn’t so sure about this.
“So what do we get?” asked Number Two Son.
Get? Hmmm, life skills, if you want to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer, life lessons if you need to be taught not to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer; the enjoyment of pitting your woodworking skills against your fellow Scout, or his dad the guy who invented deep directional drilling. There has to be a better sell than that, I checked the Scout Pack’s literature. “A trophy for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place.” I replied. Now he perked up. Apparently that stuff about Thunderdome, didn’t move him. I guess he figured he could do that on his own. But the idea of gold lacquered plastic sent an Obama speech thrill down his leg.
“Are those the only trophies? Just for the first three finishes?” Number Two Son said after some thought.
Again I had to do some research. “Let’s see. Ah, nope. It seems you get a trophy for some fan favorites in different categories. Best scout theme, Best military theme, Most creative, some other categories I don’t remember. All the scouts will get to vote, and the winner in each category gets a trophy. Oh, and something else, looks like the ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ gets a trophy too.”
“What’s ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ mean?”
“Slowest. Last place.”
“Oh. That’s stupid, why didn’t they just say that?”
My boy.
After learning the rules, the Boys ran off to design their creations and develop a plan. I walked to the wet bar to work on my own plan. Each kid came back with a design scribbled on the side of the wooden block. “This is how we want it cut.” A day later they had cars in hand, and learned sanding wood sucks. “Stay in school, if you don’t like sanding things.” I’m an excellent shaper of young minds. Of course I could have introduced them to the electric sander in the garage (sanding wood sucks for Dad’s as much as kids. We just know how to drive to HomeDepot and power tool our way to laziness), but I didn’t. I’m an excellent shaper of young minds.
Number One Son went for the straight forward Pinewood Derby car. Neat design, made faster by a cool paint job. Every nine-year-old knows 90% of speed derived from the paint. Red obviously being the fastest color, violet the slowest. Even before they learn about Roy G. Biv, children have an inert understanding about the universe around them. And of course, the colors can be augmented by speed educing shapes, flame stickers, and stripes. The only reason the Bandit could out run Beaufort T. Justice was the giant thunderbird thing on the hood. Pinewood Derby rolls down these logic tracks all the way to Boy Scout junction.
Number Two Son presented me with something I’ve never seen before. Like me, both of the boys are Out-of-the-Box thinkers. We live within the rules, and rarely break them. But if you’re creative enough you’ll find there is a lot of room in the rule box. Especially for those who make it a point to take rules to their literal extreme. Something you should know about Number Two Son, he’s competitive. This boy wants to win, and he often does. He’s a natural physical talent at almost everything he tries. Lead scorer on the basketball team, pitcher for his Tee Ball baseball team, after watching me chip golf balls in the empty lot he gave me pointers on my back swing. True story when he was four he once played forward and goalie for his soccer team…AT THE SAME TIME. The kid is everything at sports that I was not. He’s a natural at everything, and a natural at winning, and kinda my hero. When he plays, he expects to find a way to win. Number Two Son is that kid that’s good at everything and doesn’t realize it. He plays with his peers and his brother’s peers and doesn’t notice the difference he’s a natural leader. So it surprised me when he presented me with his car, his “add-ons”, and his plan.
Number Two Son, had painted and bedazzled his car in expected six-year-old fashion with fireballs, “fast” paint, pin stripes and patriotic flags, but he had a secret weapon. Number Two provided me with a plastic monkey wearing a parachute. It was the kind of toy children throw in the air and watch slowly return to Earth. Then they find stairs and drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. Then they get ladders climb the roof to the fourth story of the tallest house in the neighborhood, drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. If they don’t break a leg falling off the roof they climb to the top of the tallest tree in the land drop it off and watch it slowly return to Earth and call the fire department to get them down, but bring that parachute monkey back up with you.
“I need to attach this monkey to the top of the car. After that I have a few more modifications,” Number Two Son instructed me.
“You know this parachute is going to slow it down.”
“Yep, that’s the idea. I’m trying to win this thing, Dad.”
“???”
“This is how I see this Derby-thing going. There are like a hundred kids out there. All of them are competing for three slots, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. That’s a lot of competition. And I’ve never done this before so I don’t even know what the track looks like or how to make cars fast or anything about anything. I don’t have a chance against Webelos. Now I could come up with some neat decorations and try for a prize in the categories. But I’m sure lots of kids thought of that too. Besides there’s no way to know how people will vote. That’s just too risky. So the way I see it, no one likes to come in last. Hardly anyone will COMPETE for last place. Even if someone does it’s going to be like one or two other kids. There’s no way I’ll lose to one or two kids. With this parachute my car will be super-slow. I want a trophy, I want to win. Besides, no one will know why I have a trophy, it COULD be for 1st, who can tell? Let’s attach this monkey and find some sand paper. If I sand down a tire, I can get a flat tire too. Those are always slow.”
He’s kinda my hero.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Welcome Back Cott-Kling-er
I'm going to take a shot at reviving the blog. Back by semi-popular demand. At least a hundred...er...dozen...er...couple of you said you'd like to spend five minutes listening to my disembodied voice in your head while you were putting off more important things. What is the Interweb for if not procrastination? And who better to procrastinate with than Brian the lying-story-teller? No one, that's why you're here.
I did a little research on the blog topic during my hiatus. In the off season (off years?) I spoke to a number of professional bloggers. Turns out I had this whole thing wrong. I thought the key to blogging was to be interesting, wrong. I thought the posts had to be articulate, wrong again. And I thought the posts had to be long...strike three. Turns out the key to blogging is consistency. I'm not good at that. I do the other three better.
Seasoned bloggers have given sage Interweb advice. So I will follow sage Interweb advice. Keep your eyes out for a couple or three posts a week. I won't vouch for the length, content, or quality of the posts, but I'm told that doesn't matter anyway. If you do happen to read one of these posts, feel free to offer comments in the aptly labeled comments section. Professionals have told me that's important. If I had been paying attention I would have asked "Why?", but I wasn't paying attention so I didn't. Sorry. Maybe if you know the answer you can post it in the comments section.
Last week I told The Misses I was thinking about breathing life back into this thing. "Why now?", she said. I was hoping for "GOODIE", "HURRAY", or "That makes me HOT". Nope, I got "Why now?". And I wasn't sure how to answer. At the time I hadn't reflected on it so, I wasn't sure why now either. Just seemed right, but why? I think there are a combination of reasons.
For one thing the kids are getting a little older. That means they don't require 100% of our time anymore and there is a glimmer of free time that will need to be filled. Also, now that they do things besides roll around, burp and poop on me, they are into cooler stuff, and that might be fodder for one of those stories I'm now required to post.
Another reason has started to reveal itself lately. Apparently interesting things happen to me. I wasn't so sure this was true. Recently a close friend of mine started dating a new gal. This gal is hanging around drinking all my beer and getting to know her new beau's pals (that's me). So we find ourselves swilling booze and reliving old stories. Some of those are funny. Wheels turning (slowly) in my head said this might be fodder for some of those stories I'm now required to post.
So I'm back. And now you know why. Welcome back to those of you who have returned, and plain old welcome to those of you who have showed up for the first time. I hope we can all have a little fun, and kill a little time. If you're employer doesn't block the site, feel free check steal work hours and read this. There shouldn't be any "Not Safe for Work" posts as long as the boss isn't reading over your shoulder.
You can see I've already blew the rules on the first day back. This is interesting, articulate, and long. I'll try and stop that in the future.
I did a little research on the blog topic during my hiatus. In the off season (off years?) I spoke to a number of professional bloggers. Turns out I had this whole thing wrong. I thought the key to blogging was to be interesting, wrong. I thought the posts had to be articulate, wrong again. And I thought the posts had to be long...strike three. Turns out the key to blogging is consistency. I'm not good at that. I do the other three better.
Seasoned bloggers have given sage Interweb advice. So I will follow sage Interweb advice. Keep your eyes out for a couple or three posts a week. I won't vouch for the length, content, or quality of the posts, but I'm told that doesn't matter anyway. If you do happen to read one of these posts, feel free to offer comments in the aptly labeled comments section. Professionals have told me that's important. If I had been paying attention I would have asked "Why?", but I wasn't paying attention so I didn't. Sorry. Maybe if you know the answer you can post it in the comments section.
Last week I told The Misses I was thinking about breathing life back into this thing. "Why now?", she said. I was hoping for "GOODIE", "HURRAY", or "That makes me HOT". Nope, I got "Why now?". And I wasn't sure how to answer. At the time I hadn't reflected on it so, I wasn't sure why now either. Just seemed right, but why? I think there are a combination of reasons.
For one thing the kids are getting a little older. That means they don't require 100% of our time anymore and there is a glimmer of free time that will need to be filled. Also, now that they do things besides roll around, burp and poop on me, they are into cooler stuff, and that might be fodder for one of those stories I'm now required to post.
Another reason has started to reveal itself lately. Apparently interesting things happen to me. I wasn't so sure this was true. Recently a close friend of mine started dating a new gal. This gal is hanging around drinking all my beer and getting to know her new beau's pals (that's me). So we find ourselves swilling booze and reliving old stories. Some of those are funny. Wheels turning (slowly) in my head said this might be fodder for some of those stories I'm now required to post.
So I'm back. And now you know why. Welcome back to those of you who have returned, and plain old welcome to those of you who have showed up for the first time. I hope we can all have a little fun, and kill a little time. If you're employer doesn't block the site, feel free check steal work hours and read this. There shouldn't be any "Not Safe for Work" posts as long as the boss isn't reading over your shoulder.
You can see I've already blew the rules on the first day back. This is interesting, articulate, and long. I'll try and stop that in the future.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Not Very Handy
I went to an Indian restaurant for lunch today and saw the most amazing thing.
When camera phones were first introduced I asked myself, “What’s the point?” Rarely have I found myself out-and-about and felt the immediate need for a camera; certainly not often enough to warrant the need for one in EVERY cell phone. Now some people feel the need to snap shots of themselves doing every day things, but I’ve never felt important enough to post pictures of myself shopping for flip-flops or pumping gas. If I go somewhere special I remember to take along the camera and that’s that.
Today I learned what camera phones were for. Attached is a real picture I took with my “phone” earlier today. This shot was taken in the parking lot of the afore mentioned restaurant where I had lunch (I will not divulge the name incase there are lawsuits pending). While enjoying my chicken tikki marsala I did not notice the dearth of wheel chaired patrons, but since I don’t often see a lot of wheel chairs around that makes sense. In hindsight I think there might have been something more sinister going on here…
Here is what the front of the building looks like from the parking lot. I added the handicap symbol in order to demonstrate where the handicap parking spot is located. The ramp is a not well maintained and some of the concrete is crumbling making the ride bumpy. And there is a random electrical tube poorly located at the top of the ramp…but I think that these problems can be overlooked once you take into account the obstacle waiting at the top of the ramp. In case it’s hard to tell (I’m no Ansel Adams) there is no gate at the top, just solid fence. This is a real picture.
I laughed and I cried, funny and sad all at once.
When camera phones were first introduced I asked myself, “What’s the point?” Rarely have I found myself out-and-about and felt the immediate need for a camera; certainly not often enough to warrant the need for one in EVERY cell phone. Now some people feel the need to snap shots of themselves doing every day things, but I’ve never felt important enough to post pictures of myself shopping for flip-flops or pumping gas. If I go somewhere special I remember to take along the camera and that’s that.
Today I learned what camera phones were for. Attached is a real picture I took with my “phone” earlier today. This shot was taken in the parking lot of the afore mentioned restaurant where I had lunch (I will not divulge the name incase there are lawsuits pending). While enjoying my chicken tikki marsala I did not notice the dearth of wheel chaired patrons, but since I don’t often see a lot of wheel chairs around that makes sense. In hindsight I think there might have been something more sinister going on here…
Here is what the front of the building looks like from the parking lot. I added the handicap symbol in order to demonstrate where the handicap parking spot is located. The ramp is a not well maintained and some of the concrete is crumbling making the ride bumpy. And there is a random electrical tube poorly located at the top of the ramp…but I think that these problems can be overlooked once you take into account the obstacle waiting at the top of the ramp. In case it’s hard to tell (I’m no Ansel Adams) there is no gate at the top, just solid fence. This is a real picture.
I laughed and I cried, funny and sad all at once.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Twitter?
I'm on twitter now though I have no idea why. I will endevour to use twitter for purposes it was not intended as soon as I figure out what it was intended to do.
Follow me, if you dare! I should be fairly easy to find since I selected the very creative name: Brian_Kling
Follow me, if you dare! I should be fairly easy to find since I selected the very creative name: Brian_Kling
The Preacher Man
I know I’ve been remiss in blogging. My fans, both of you, have sent me e-mails letting me know what a dirt bag I am. Well I will try, once again to be more consistent.
Today’s blog takes a page from Casey Casem and features a long distance dedication. Recently I received encouragement from an old friend of mine who enjoyed the blog. As you will read he lives over seas now, and is diligently trying to spread the good word of the blog to unwashed masses. At least that’s what I understood him to be doing, maybe he meant “spread the Good Word” and I just got confused. Either way, this blog is dedicated to you my friend, The Preacher.
The Preacher befriended my way back in high school. He and I were kindred spirits, with a keen eye for lazy times, slacking off, underage booze and easy dates. But The Preacher had every high schooler’s dream situation. You see his best friend (a fella who would eventually become one of my college roommates) was a year older than us. In high school one year makes a big difference, especially when we were seniors and our buddy was a freshman in college. This older guy’s parents moved away from Baton Rouge our senior year and left their son a house to live in while he attended LSU. This meant that for all practical purposes, we had our own party pad for our last year of high school. The Preacher grew up spitting distance from this house, so about half way through our senior year, he moved in.
Fast times ensued. We threw party after party in that place. I remember one night, inspired by Belushi and the gang’s antics, we threw our own toga party. A house full of high school kids with kegs and bed sheets. Yours truly had an exceptional arrangement with Budweiser sheets and a full crown of laurel (I think the foliage was a classy touch). Sometime during the night we were inspired to carry on the Roman theme and hold our own Roman Marathon. Yep. Roman Marathon. High school kids obviously don’t study the Classics so one ignorant kid’s Greek is another ignorant kid’s Roman. Anyway The Preacher lead the throng of two dozen drunk high school kids in bad imitation 1200 BC garb in a drunken stumble around the block of his neighborhood. I do not remember who won the race, but I do have vague memories of dogs, someone running into a parked car, a couple getting “lost”, and a casualty or two. It’s foggy and I’m not sure if that’s because of Time or Natural Light. I do remember it was nights like this that helped make The Preacher and I close friends.
We remained friends throughout most of college (a six year event for your friendly blogger). But somewhere along the way The Preacher started to lose his way. While most of us could handle the usual college party scene, there are always a few who take their freedoms in the wrong direction. It’s the same old cliché that has probably touched most of us at some point in our lives. Once close friends fall in with “the wrong bunch” of people. Soon they grow distant, and when you do see one another it’s uncomfortable and awkward. Before you know it you’re being asked for money, “not much, just enough”. Next thing you know you’re also being asked if you want to buy a little here, or make a small “purchase” there, then you’re even recruited to help with larger deals or asked to get friends of friends involved. It doesn’t take long before the wedge is too much and you have to break the friendship off completely. Luckily it never got to that point between me and The Preacher, but it could have if he had stayed on that dark path. I tell you I’m always saddened when I hear that good people have turned to Amway. Swimming in a sea of detergent, paper towels, and “household goods you would have bought anyway” is no way to live. Like so many Coronado’s searching for the Seven Cities of Residual Income, you see them shuffling to meetings and striking out at any pyramid shaped form they happen apon. Shameful and saddening when it happens to someone you care about.
Somewhere in the depths of that direct selling hell, The Preacher found God and turned his life around. How it all happened is shrouded in mystery to me. Maybe he was riding a horse and was struck blind, maybe he was taking a little siesta under a bodhi tree, or maybe he just remembered all of his good Catholic upbringing, but whatever it was my hedonistic running buddy was gone, and The Preacher took his place. Before I knew it The Preacher had graduated from Jr. Preacher to Sr. Preacher and was ready to take on his own flock. I left Baton Rouge for the Army and while I was gone I received word that The Preacher had gotten himself hitched to, by all accounts, a wonderful woman. At last count The Preacher and Ms. Preacher had something like seventeen kids (or four whichever comes first).
But that’s not the end of the story. It seems when God taps you to do something He rarely makes it something as simple as taking out the garbage. Sometimes He asks you to build a big ole boat. Sometimes He asks you to build triangle mausoleums that last hundreds of thousands of years. In this case He asked The Preacher to pack up, move his family to the other side of the world and convert the heathen masses. He calls people to do this a lot but there’s a wrinkle, there’s always a wrinkle with Him isn’t there? The Preacher was sent to preach to peasant Chinese people without the benefit of government sanctions, the ability to speak a lick of Chinese, little formal experience with local culture, or anything other faith in Him. And away The Preacher went just like that. I don’t go to the grocery store without more information than he had, I guess that’s the power of faith for you.
The Preacher has been over there for a number of years now. His Chinese is better, and it appears that he had some success thwarting their godless commie ways. I’ve never told The Preacher this, but I respect him greatly. I can’t imagine moving my family to a foreign land on faith alone. The Preacher has a strength of belief that I envy and a courage of conviction that I aspire towards. You were a good friend Preacher and you are a model for spiritual strength. For that reason you are the subject of my first blog dedication.
If you would like to learn more about The Preacher, or you’re just curious and/or bored, check out his page http://www.chinesegumbo.com/.
Today’s blog takes a page from Casey Casem and features a long distance dedication. Recently I received encouragement from an old friend of mine who enjoyed the blog. As you will read he lives over seas now, and is diligently trying to spread the good word of the blog to unwashed masses. At least that’s what I understood him to be doing, maybe he meant “spread the Good Word” and I just got confused. Either way, this blog is dedicated to you my friend, The Preacher.
The Preacher befriended my way back in high school. He and I were kindred spirits, with a keen eye for lazy times, slacking off, underage booze and easy dates. But The Preacher had every high schooler’s dream situation. You see his best friend (a fella who would eventually become one of my college roommates) was a year older than us. In high school one year makes a big difference, especially when we were seniors and our buddy was a freshman in college. This older guy’s parents moved away from Baton Rouge our senior year and left their son a house to live in while he attended LSU. This meant that for all practical purposes, we had our own party pad for our last year of high school. The Preacher grew up spitting distance from this house, so about half way through our senior year, he moved in.
Fast times ensued. We threw party after party in that place. I remember one night, inspired by Belushi and the gang’s antics, we threw our own toga party. A house full of high school kids with kegs and bed sheets. Yours truly had an exceptional arrangement with Budweiser sheets and a full crown of laurel (I think the foliage was a classy touch). Sometime during the night we were inspired to carry on the Roman theme and hold our own Roman Marathon. Yep. Roman Marathon. High school kids obviously don’t study the Classics so one ignorant kid’s Greek is another ignorant kid’s Roman. Anyway The Preacher lead the throng of two dozen drunk high school kids in bad imitation 1200 BC garb in a drunken stumble around the block of his neighborhood. I do not remember who won the race, but I do have vague memories of dogs, someone running into a parked car, a couple getting “lost”, and a casualty or two. It’s foggy and I’m not sure if that’s because of Time or Natural Light. I do remember it was nights like this that helped make The Preacher and I close friends.
We remained friends throughout most of college (a six year event for your friendly blogger). But somewhere along the way The Preacher started to lose his way. While most of us could handle the usual college party scene, there are always a few who take their freedoms in the wrong direction. It’s the same old cliché that has probably touched most of us at some point in our lives. Once close friends fall in with “the wrong bunch” of people. Soon they grow distant, and when you do see one another it’s uncomfortable and awkward. Before you know it you’re being asked for money, “not much, just enough”. Next thing you know you’re also being asked if you want to buy a little here, or make a small “purchase” there, then you’re even recruited to help with larger deals or asked to get friends of friends involved. It doesn’t take long before the wedge is too much and you have to break the friendship off completely. Luckily it never got to that point between me and The Preacher, but it could have if he had stayed on that dark path. I tell you I’m always saddened when I hear that good people have turned to Amway. Swimming in a sea of detergent, paper towels, and “household goods you would have bought anyway” is no way to live. Like so many Coronado’s searching for the Seven Cities of Residual Income, you see them shuffling to meetings and striking out at any pyramid shaped form they happen apon. Shameful and saddening when it happens to someone you care about.
Somewhere in the depths of that direct selling hell, The Preacher found God and turned his life around. How it all happened is shrouded in mystery to me. Maybe he was riding a horse and was struck blind, maybe he was taking a little siesta under a bodhi tree, or maybe he just remembered all of his good Catholic upbringing, but whatever it was my hedonistic running buddy was gone, and The Preacher took his place. Before I knew it The Preacher had graduated from Jr. Preacher to Sr. Preacher and was ready to take on his own flock. I left Baton Rouge for the Army and while I was gone I received word that The Preacher had gotten himself hitched to, by all accounts, a wonderful woman. At last count The Preacher and Ms. Preacher had something like seventeen kids (or four whichever comes first).
But that’s not the end of the story. It seems when God taps you to do something He rarely makes it something as simple as taking out the garbage. Sometimes He asks you to build a big ole boat. Sometimes He asks you to build triangle mausoleums that last hundreds of thousands of years. In this case He asked The Preacher to pack up, move his family to the other side of the world and convert the heathen masses. He calls people to do this a lot but there’s a wrinkle, there’s always a wrinkle with Him isn’t there? The Preacher was sent to preach to peasant Chinese people without the benefit of government sanctions, the ability to speak a lick of Chinese, little formal experience with local culture, or anything other faith in Him. And away The Preacher went just like that. I don’t go to the grocery store without more information than he had, I guess that’s the power of faith for you.
The Preacher has been over there for a number of years now. His Chinese is better, and it appears that he had some success thwarting their godless commie ways. I’ve never told The Preacher this, but I respect him greatly. I can’t imagine moving my family to a foreign land on faith alone. The Preacher has a strength of belief that I envy and a courage of conviction that I aspire towards. You were a good friend Preacher and you are a model for spiritual strength. For that reason you are the subject of my first blog dedication.
If you would like to learn more about The Preacher, or you’re just curious and/or bored, check out his page http://www.chinesegumbo.com/.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Chasing Windmills (a.k.a. Bluebonnets)
I currently live in Houston Oklahoma and I’m from Louisiana Texas shares a regional culture with our home states, but if you remember the Texas tourism slogan, “Texas
We have seen the elephant, and it was a good day. But it was a late day, and dinner was nearing. We had an hour plus drive back to Houston, so The Misses and I decided to give the good people of Bluebonnet Mecca some of our hard earned cash. We would get something to eat in the town just up the road. So we journeyed father west into The Heart of Blueness. Soon we became aware of our rookie mistake – pre-mature bluebonnet elation. The world around us slowly faded into a deep blue hue. What we had previously believed to be a field of bluebonnets was a nothing more that a scattering of wild flowers compared to what we saw here. It was like mistaking a swollen drainage ditch for thePacific Ocean . Here we found seas of blue fields that would have had made Captain Nemo homesick. It was truly amazing. Stones had been removed from my eyes and I now understood what the bluebonnets are all about. These fields make me want to threaten bluebonnet pickers under penalty of law, check the message boards for blooming reports, tune in to watch the umpteen news reports of wildflowers, heck, I might even put a tin pot on my head and jaunt around the land in bare feet, throwing bluebonnet seeds to the wind. I do like blue flowers and ham, I do like them, Sam-I-Am. These flowers were nothing short of amazing. It was as if the Hand of God ran out of yellow paint to mix with blue for a landscape, but He decided to finish the painting with what He and available. A truly moving sight.
Since the first spring of our arrival in the
This is the background for an adventure I launched the family on a few weeks ago. It was only a matter of time before I had to find out what the big deal was about. I mean it’s a flower. A wild flower. Growing on the side of the interstate. Sure that’s nice and everything, but really is that all there is to it? Can’t be. If I stop cutting my grass a few weeks I get some pretty pink flowers that pop up, but no one drives slowly past my yard with camera in hand. No, I get a nasty-gram from the HOA complaining about growing shrubbery without a permit or something. So one Saturday night after watching the 15th report about pretty weeds in a field outside of
Sunday afternoon I load The Misses and three kidd-o’s into the car and sally forth to see Lupinus texensis. The Misses was not amused, because I didn’t have much of a plan. (The Misses NEEDS a plan, clearly written, all possibilities and solutions accounted for, an emergency contact number, a notarized signature, and an updated will) I didn’t have any of that. All I had was a full tank of gas, a digital camera, a sunny day, a carload of uncooperative family, and a compass point [West]. The latest news report made it sound like all of the land west of
Forty minutes later things we’re not coming up roses (or bluebonnets), and the natives were getting restless. We found nothing but brown grass and weeds. Here I was, driving 45mph on the highway staring at the side of the road. “Look there is that a flower? Nope that was a blue dixie cup.” “What about that? Nope that was an abandoned tarp with a human leg hanging out of the side.” I never paid that much attention to neutral ground in the absence of a Mardi Gras parade in my life. Eventually The Misses found something. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a whole field of blue off of the feeder road on the right. I cut three lanes of traffic, cause an 18-wheeler to jackknife, and tip over an old lady in a walker and exit the highway. It took about 15 minutes to backtrack to the spot. We pull over and survey the landscape of blue. Blue yes, but not exactly what we expected. Despite a month without any rain it was wetter than we expected. What The Misses saw out of the corner of her eye was actually a very large pond reflecting a pretty, cloudless, blue sky. We had found the Blue, but not the Bonnet part of the equation. Everyone, back in the car!
Twenty minutes later we had a success in patches of flowers on the side of the road. Not the fabled bluebonnets, but at this point we were going to take some pictures of something floral even if we had to find a florist shop to do it. We pressed on. Soon small patches became larger patches, and a few blue patches could be seen. Eventually these patches of flowers turned to patches of bluebonnets. Little groups here and there, pretty, but not enough to fill a picture. As the patches get bigger crowds start to gather. At each group of bluebonnets there are a half dozen cars pulled over on the shoulder of the highway. Adults kneeling around smartly dressed children angrily shouting, “Look happy, damn-it!” We must be here.
The Misses and I spy a large vacant patch of bluebonnets, conveniently located in the grassy section of a highway cloverleaf. Perfect place for children to frolic, let’s go! We pull over and kick the children out of the car as trucks and cars wiz past like a blurry, metal version of a dark robed skeleton carrying a scythe. “Go play” we tell them. And out they ran, cooped up for an hour and a half in the car was motivation enough for them to have played in a broccoli (aka children kryptonite) factory. We managed a few pictures before reality set in. “Is that poison-ivy?”, “Are those bees gonna sting me”, “I itch”, “Wow, how many ant piles are out here?” With uncut grass up their waist, dangerous flora and fauna buzzing, crawling, and creeping all around, and the wind blown wake of high speed death tussling their hair, being cooped up in the car seemed like a good idea. “I wanna go home,” they cried. “No you’ll sit in the grass and enjoy yourself.” We took as many pictures as they would let us. I lasted a little more than 10 minutes then we retreated to the car.
We have seen the elephant, and it was a good day. But it was a late day, and dinner was nearing. We had an hour plus drive back to Houston, so The Misses and I decided to give the good people of Bluebonnet Mecca some of our hard earned cash. We would get something to eat in the town just up the road. So we journeyed father west into The Heart of Blueness. Soon we became aware of our rookie mistake – pre-mature bluebonnet elation. The world around us slowly faded into a deep blue hue. What we had previously believed to be a field of bluebonnets was a nothing more that a scattering of wild flowers compared to what we saw here. It was like mistaking a swollen drainage ditch for the
After a few miles The Misses and I turned off of the main highway. We randomly picked a side road and went to see what we could see. Luck was with us and we happened upon a huge open field of flowers that we had all to ourselves. Unfortunately there was no way to convince Number One and Number Two Sons to get out of the car again. They had been tricked before and wouldn’t budge. But the Little Princess was too young to refuse. With daylight fleeting The Misses, the Little Princess, and I frolicked in our own personal Blue Heaven. It was a great day, and I look forward to going back next year.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Lent
Lent is here. Lent is here and I’m a Catholic. Lent is here, I’m a Catholic, and now I’m sort of required to give something up for 40 days. You see we Catholics have a strange tradition in that the 40 days (not including Sundays – Don’t ask, it’s something to do with the early Church policy of burning anyone good in math, just ask Galileo) before Easter we give up something important to us in order to reflect on the sacrifice we believe Jesus made for all humanity a few days before Easter. Don’t worry this isn’t a theology blog, you just might need some background. Every year Catholics suffer with a mid-year New Year’s Resolution type crisis; what to give up. You see we’re torn in two different directions; we want to give up something that we won’t miss so we can say we did it, but we also can’t get off too easy or our Catholic-guilt will get us for taking the easy way out. Now I’m sure eternal salvation of the soul should be motivation enough, but man is it hard to pass up a free donut when you gave up sweets. So every year the thought process goes something like this:
Ugh, Lent is here already. I need to give up something…hmmmm. What did I give up last year…oh yeah, goat cheese. Don’t think I can get away with that two years running…hmmm. What about fennel? Is fennel in a lot of stuff I like to eat? No, won’t work, I’m not sure I know what fennel is? Plant or seed or something? What about cake? No good, The Misses’ birthday is during Lent. There’s got to be something…
Yeah I go through this every year. And for the last few years it has been even harder. You see the Misses has gotten involved, so now I have a Lenten Sacrifice Gatekeeper with veto power. “You can’t give up talking on the phone to your Aunt Wendy, that doesn’t count. She doesn’t like you anyway, pick something else.”
When I was in college I used to give up meat (all meat except fish) for the full 40 days. That was tough, but I managed. Growing up in
Just before Lent I received results from some blood work I had done. Elevated cholesterol and blood pressure. Not enough to panic over, but something that bears watching. The Misses read the results and decided to use her Lenten veto. A 40 day exclusive diet of fatty meat and grease galore was not a good idea given the test results. So back to the drawing board I go.
I needed to get creative, I needed to get serious, and I needed to hurry. Lent was only days away and unless I thought of something quick The Misses would have to pick for me, and I didn’t want that. Finally it hit me. This year I will try and give up weight. Yep, you heard right, gross tonnage (pun intended). Admittedly it’s unorthodox, but it might be just crazy enough to work.
First I need a diet. But it can’t be overly restrictive or I’ll never make it through. So I’ll invent one on my own. I’m a smart guy I’ve seen the food pyramid, I know the evils of chocolate cake, how tough can it be? So this is what I’ll do, no fried stuff (good start). I can have red meat or pork no more that twice a week. Focus on grilled or baked chicken and fish. More vegetables and fruits (that’s easy, every number is more than zero). And for God’s sake (pun again) eat less, aka smaller portions. Then all the obvious things, no candy, sweets, Cokes, all of that stuff. Good. Simple. Done.
Now I need a workout routine. Remember it’s got to be simple and easy enough that I will actually “do” it. That eliminates just about all of the realistic and proven methodologies. I don’t want to involve myself with anything that a professional trainer would approve of, that wouldn’t be in the proper spirit. Luckily, I live in the internet age, where anyone with a crack-pot idea and a keyboard can post his crazy ideas to the world (i.e. this blog). So it’s to these people I turned, and read, and searched for an interesting, low impact method of losing tons of weight. I interviewed a number of plans, with a number of promises. Finally I settled on a semi-reputable scheme with a stormy name, Turbulence Training. Oooh, that sounds scary, the pounds with get thrashed right off of me. I went with this one for a few reasons: 1) He has a book. This will help sell it to The Misses. 2) He only requires me to workout three times a week and for less than an hour. That’s it, three times a week. YES! I think you can smoke while you work out, it’s just that simple. 3) No diet. Now you know he must be reputable. But this way I won’t feel bad when I slip up and steal a cookie from my children, because technically I’m not breaking the “system”.
I know you are sitting at home/work/in traffic or wherever you read this blog thinking, “I want to know how this all works out.” Well never fear. I promise updates. I’m even going to post some before and after pictures and occasional workout updates over the next few months. By Easter Sunday I expect to be in fighting shape. This is gonna rock!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
25 (+5) Random Things About This Blogger
So there is this thing going around Facebook called 25 Random Things. The jest of the thing is to post 25 random things about yourself. This way you get to show everyone who you know how important you are. Well I’m pretty important. So important I have my own blog. So I’m gonna spend this week’s blog posting my own 25 random things. But to be different, and because I’m so important 25 just won’t do, I’m going to post 30 random things about me. Although I frequently lie in this blog, I’m going to take a break from that habit this week only. Everything listed here is actually true. Enjoy the read.
2. I can’t stand income taxes. I’m an avid supporter of a flat tax, fair tax, consumption tax, or anything that is not an income tax.
3. I have a job that very few people understand. Doesn’t everyone see the inherent value of a properly drawn box-and-arrow diagram? Because of the first sentence only a handful of people get the second sentence.
4. I have friends that go back to high school and even kindergarten. I’m not sure what this says about me. I must not be able to let go of the past or something. Maybe if I could just get a few of them to remove those restraining orders…
5. I was in the Army for four years. I joined to see the world and play outside. The Army caught wind of my desires and locked me in the basement of a building with no windows in
6. I don’t believe in ghosts.
7. When I was in college I drove my dream car, a Jeep Wrangler. When The Misses got pregnant with our first child I sold it. One day I will have another Jeep.
8. I’ve had a job continuously since I was 15 years old.
9. My eye color confuses people. My eyes are hazel, but that’s not a real eye color. My eyes are really brown or green depending on what I’m wearing and, strangely enough, the weather. Sunny days tend to make my eyes green and rainy days tend to make my eyes brown. I haven’t figured how clothing figures into the equation because I can only see my eyes in a mirror and the mirrors are mostly inside the house. That makes testing my eye color is tough to do outside without a partner. I wonder if I should file for a grant? The government seems to be giving away money willy-nilly these days.
10. When I went to LSU I lived in the apartments behind the Tiger Bar (
11. I’ve stood in six weddings and been the Best Man in four. People I know don’t seem to understand the meaning of the word “best” and confuse it with “you’ll do”.
12. I’ve never considered myself to be smart, but I know I’m good at Jeopardy.
13. I’m surprised how different it is to be the father of a daughter compared to being the father of a son (or sons [plural]). After having two boys I pretty much thought I had father-ing figured out. But then The Princess was born I realized she and I are playing a completely different game.
14. I’m streak lucky. I’ll go months where nothing ever goes wrong for me, and months where I can’t catch a break.
16. I think that people who type out 25 Random Things and reference one of their previous answers do not fully understand the concept of “random”.
17. In elementary school I used to pull my pants up to my bellybutton. I have no idea why I thought this was a good idea. Couple this with my braces and Alfred E. Newman classes and you can believe I was really popular with the ladies!
18. I hated living on the East Coast, and couldn’t wait to get back to the South in general, and
19. My father is my hero, I try to be like him now that I am grown up.
20. I plotted and help execute the systematic destruction of at least two foreign countries.
21. I do believe in God, but I’m not sure it matters much by itself. It’s kind of like whether or not you believe in polar bears. I think it’s how you live your life that counts.
22. I have a goatee because it makes me look older. As a consultant clients expect a wise old sage to walk in the door. I don’t look like a wise old sage. For some odd reason the goatee makes me look older and provides me with more respect at work. Now if I can just find the facial hair combination that forces people to throw money at me. I guess you could say I’m a follicle alchemist. Does that make me a folliclemist?
23. I’m a natural storyteller. I don’t let things like truth get in the way. If it helps make the story better I have no problem inventing details. This quality is wonderful at cocktail parties, but has its drawbacks at depositions.
24. When I see people with a flat tire on the side of the road I almost always stop and help them change the tire. I have changed about 50 tires. I do this with the hope that if The Misses ever needs help on the side of the road some nice, non-psycho person stops to help her.
25. When The Misses was pregnant with Number One Son we bought a glider. While shopping for the glider at the Babies-R-Us store we met an elderly lady that was also shopping for a glider. She needed it for her invalid husband who was given only a few weeks to live. After making our selections we all went to the checkout counter together and the clerk said it would take no less than four weeks to deliver the elderly lady’s glider. No way could we let that happen, so The Misses and I loaded her glider into my car. We drove it to her house and set it up that day. We found out later the man got to use his glider but died two weeks later. I think this incident may have bought me a two week pass from purgatory.
26. I have punched and been punched in the face, and I’m not afraid to do either one of those things again; although I prefer the punching.
27. I’m lucky to have In-Laws that I get along with very well. They are dear people whom I respect greatly.
28. I’m surprisingly good at karaoke.
29. The Misses is an amazing person, and I’m lucky to be a part of her life.
30. I enjoy blogging and I’m amazed every time I hear that someone has read what I put up. Thank you for taking the time to peruse my rants. I’ll do my best to keep up my self-imposed at least once a week post.
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