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.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
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/.
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