A long flight home, a party, and fun at the beach

The California seaside, at the Moss Beach Distillery restaurant south of San Francisco. It was a windy day - we broke two wine glasses and nearly broke the bottle when the wind blew them over as we had a before-dinner drink on the patio. They gave us plastic goblets after that.



The head of the brachiosaurus in one of the terminals at O'Hare in Chicago. This guy is like 30 feet tall. I can't imagine meeting such a thing in real life - it would scare the crap out of me.


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We threw a Halloween party for our neighborhood's kids at the local civic center.

There were stories...

and crafts...

and games.


Outside, the menfolk gathered six months of yard waste and brought it to the civic center parking lot so that they could load it into rollaway dumpsters provided by the county. Me, I'd rather just burn it.

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There was a stiff wind at the beach. It blew ashore some crab traps which had broken free of their concrete bases, floated to the surface, and washed up on the beach. One of the traps had half a dozen blue crabs in it, slowly suffocating in the air.

We went home, grabbed some gloves and tools, and went back and cut the trap open and dumped the crabs out. They were so feeble, they couldn't struggle back into the ocean, so I carefully picked each of them up and tossed them out beyond the surfline. None came back up on the beach, so I hope they all survived. We couldn't just let them die... that would have been a waste.

The crabber came by while we worked. I doubt he missed his traps. They're cheap.

This enterprising ghost crab actually managed to drag a dead fish about six feet up the beach back to his hole. I've never seen a ghost crab do that. Usually they move their den to be next to whatever they're eating. This was a really strong crab. Look at all his little footyprints on each side of the groove where he dragged the fish.

Fun in San Francisco, Days 2 and 3 and 4

Here's a smattering of pix from the last 3 days during the daytime.

Larry Ellison's big racing yacht, parked in the exhibition hall. He's the head of Oracle. I think he phoned in his speeches via satellite from his villa in the Italian Alps. I don't know - I didn't watch. They always talk about this new thing or that new device that's going to revolutionize software and business, and it almost never turns out that way. Plus they have a way of reintroducing existing products with new names, trying to make you think they've created something new. Usually not.

Paula, the security guard who was stationed in our corner of the exhibition hall. She's a grandma, she said. I don't believe her.

Streetcars.

Big hills.

Scenes from the exhibition hall.

A yellow Ferrari, and a silver Lamborghini. This is one of the nice things about visiting a big city, is seeing the cool cars. We don't have those where I live. They had these things parked here to do a photo shoot, which I saw them doing later, as we walked back from dinner.

A wonderful concert

One of the Oracle trade show's sponsors threw a big party at the Cow Palace, which is a big rodeo complex.



There were 5 stages set up - one in the big arena, and four others scattered around the grounds. They had several tribute bands (imitators) representing The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Cheap Trick, David Bowie, and so on. They also had "real" bands, like Berlin (from the 1980s, they did "Take My Breath Away" from the movie "Top Gun"), Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, Elton John, and the most important band on Earth (Devo).


The inside of the Cow Palace. I got in just as Berlin was ending their set. Teri Nunn, the lead singer, is in her mid-40s now, but she looks just as hot as ever. And they put on a good show, the two minutes I saw of it.


There was "Space Oddity," which is a David Bowie tribute band. They did a VERY good job of covering Bowie's tunes. This is "Under Pressure," which he did with the band Queen. Each of them had their own version of the song, much like "Excellent Birds," which Peter Gabriel and Laurie Anderson shared, and each did their own version of the song. I like Laurie's version better.


Elton John. Or, Sir Elton John, to you. Personally, I've heard "Benny and the Jets" enough on classic rock radio to make me wanna barf. But he is a virtuoso pianist, and really gives the performance his all. I could really appreciate his artistry, even though I don't particularly care for his music. He's a piece of rock history, and as vibrant as ever. My wife ordered me to see him. I could appreciate him, but I left after 20 minutes to go next door where Devo was playing. I had to see Devo. It's been 18 years since I've seen them. Last time, in 1988, they were tired, pissed off at their record company, and lackluster on their Total Devo tour. This time, though - wow. They're all in their 50s now, but they're using steroid-laced Ben-Gay or something, because they were insane. They never stopped bouncing around the stage.


Mark Mothersbaugh (the leader) and Bob Mothersbaugh (aka "Bob 1"). Look at the stomp boxes (guitar pedals) that Mark has bolted to his guitar. What a goof. You're supposed to have those on the floor, and you step on them to activate them. Not Mark, though.


Bob Casale (aka "Bob 2").


Bob/Mark/Bob, and the Bobs together. Their yellow nuclear radiation suits looked good at the beginning of the show, then they started to get rips at the seams. I thought this was unplanned, but no, it WAS planned. They shucked their suits later, down to black t-shirts, shorts, and knee pads.


Since about 1999, they have a new drummer, Josh Freese, who used to drum for The Vandals and is a professional studio drummer. He's appeared on over 2500 different albums by artists like Suicidal Tendencies, The Offspring, Guns & Roses, etc. (His little brother Jason has played keyboard for artists like Green Day, Jewel, the Goo Goo Dolls, Liz Phair, and Dr. Dre.) He is VERY good. But somehow it's still never been the same since the late '80s when longtime drummer Alan Myers left the band to become an electrician. Most of the rest of them have day jobs at Mark's company, Mutato Muzika. They do music for television shows, like The Rugrats, South Park, The Power Puff Girls. Jerry Casale (the other leader besides Mark) directs music videos and movies nowadays.


Jerry Casale on the left, brother Bob on the right.


Bob Mothersbaugh sings quite well. He's a very energetic guitarist. He leaped and cavorted around the stage. Mark even jumped off the stage and ran around in front of the crowd, singing.

When the show started, there were something like 200 spuds in the crowd. Spuds are DEVO fans - Devo's shtick is that we're all devolving backwards from humans into potatoes . When I left, as the first encore started (had to go catch the bus back to the hotel), there were at least 2,000 people there. It was fantastic. A good time was had by all.

Fun in San Francisco, Day 1

Fun in San Francisco!

The view from my co-worker's room on the 33rd floor of the Marriott San Francisco.

The view from MY room. I have an interior courtyard room which overlooks the restaurant and a fountain or some such. After a bit of confusion over my reservation, and its being canceled when I didn't show up Saturday (though they had been told I would be arriving SUNDAY), and the threat of being tossed out into the street for lack of rooms - well, all that's been sorted out. I hope. There are NO hotel rooms left in SF this week. Even the homeless are renting out their refrigerator boxes under the highway overpasses for $100 a night. Paranoid rantings about George Bush reading their minds are still free, though.

Our booth. We have a corner spot in the hall, next to the first aid station, which will become important in a moment.

I find the tactics of some vendors to be annoying. Most common is the use of "booth babes" (BBs) to attract conventioneers, who consist mostly of middle-aged men. These BBs don't necessarily have to know anything about the product they're selling, or even have to be employees of the company. They just have to wear the company polo shirt, smile, and be willing to banter with potential customers. I find that irritating, because it's based on the premise that "sex sells," and also because it seems to work.

Another annoying tactic used by some vendors consists of stationing a BB in the hall, in front of the booth. This attracts a knot of middle-aged men (who are often large and slow-moving anyway), and causes traffic to slow down and get stuck in the traffic jam around the BB. Very annoying, especially when this knot of people lies between your booth and the bathroom. At most trade shows I've been to, the rule is, "You WILL stay in your booth, and not block traffic in the hallway." Apparently that rule doesn't apply here.

As we set up this morning, Bernie commented on our proximity to the First Aid station, and wondered how long it would be before one of us needed their services. Turned out it was about 6 hours. Guess who needed their services? (Hint - it was NOT me.) I'm not sure you can file a worker's comp claim for a paper cut, even though it was a vicious paper cut, delivered by a sharp-edged shiny marketing folder.

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There is a concert tomorrow night. Everyone's blathering that some guy named Sir Elton John will be playing, like he's anyone important. No indeed. There are MORE important people, such as Berlin, and Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, AND the main event of the evening.... (drumroll please...) DEVO. DEVO!!!!! What are the odds of one of my all-time favorite bands playing? Nine billion to one, or something. Especially since they're technically defunct, and just get together a couple times a year for a one-off concert here and there. Oh, wait, I think I heard they were on tour again. Anyway. I was just lamenting the fact that living in the jungle means no bands that I like ever come to a city near me. Now, none of that matters anymore. For I am going to see DEVO tomorrow!!!!!! AAAAAGHH!!! Now I can't sleep.

I miss my friends

This weekend I went back to my old city where I used to live until last year. It was wonderful to see all my friends. I miss them so much!

My next-door neighbors, Buddy and Eula. Wonderful people. They are like parents to me and my wife. They've been married more than 50 years!

My IT manager Guen, and my office manager Angela. Together they keep me and my co-workers happy on the road.

This is one of the reasons I moved away from the city. It's too crowded.

My wife's best friend Katie, and her daughter McKenna. Katie's a hoot. McKenna will be a hoot too, when she can talk.

My dear friend Loy and her little boy Szabo, an American Eskimo dog. And her little girl Keiko, an African Grey parrot. Loy has the most beautiful singing voice in the world - she's a coloratura soprano, and sings opera beautifully. Similar to my dear friend Becki, who is a virtuoso pianist and violinist. I am lucky to have such gifted musicians as friends.

Our friends Robin and Michael. I've worked with Robin for years, and she still talks to me - amazing.

The happy crackle of gunfire

Home sweet home. One of the 50-yard rifle/shotgun/pistol lanes at my old gun club.

Proper sight picture on a Colt .45 ACP automatic. The rule is, focus on your target, and keep the sights in line with the target.

Improper sight picture - the business end of the .45 automatic. This should be the last thing any criminal ever sees. We spend way too much money on prisons. A single bullet to the head is much cheaper. That way we can harvest the organs for the needy, and the criminal can repay his debt to society.


On the left: a Smith & Wesson Model 625 in .45 Long Colt. On the right, a Smith & Wesson 5-screw .357 from the mid-1950s, before they had model numbers for it. I like the .357, and that's why I own three of them. Eventually I'll get a .45 Colt, I just don't know when. I like the .45 because it makes a bigger hole, and whatever it hits is very likely going to go down.


The nearby air base was busy that morning. UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter, and an F-18 Super Hornet fighter.

Mine's on the left. Not a bad day at the range.

Fashion IS run by morons

Proof positive - the winner of "Project Runway" last night. It's hard to take the fashion world and its inmates seriously, but "Project Runway" has just managed to destroy any shred, any semblance of credibility that they might have had. Heidi Klum and her buddies make the OJ Simpson jury look wise, impartial and informed. Puh-LEASE.

Aimbots SUCK - or, The Philosophy of Cheating

I've been playing "Halo" online. I'd love to acquire "Halo 2" but since I only use PC-based games (not consoles, because I travel), and because Microsoft won't release "Halo 2" for PC until Windows Vista is released (sometime in 2012) , I'm passing the time with regular old "Halo."

I've found a fun server, which is pistols only - no rockets, sniper rifles, tanks, or other heavy weapons. This means you have to get close to your enemy to hit him, and you're not going to get drilled from across the map by somebody with a sniper rifle or a tank, whom you can't even see. Except Luigi(WON) was cheating this morning, hitting me from quite far beyond the pistol's normal range. It was quite clear that he was using an aimbot, which is a piece of code that helps the player aim at the target. Depending on what kind of aimbot it is, it can increase your chances of hitting the target anywhere from 1 percent to 100 percent. His was set around 50% - just enough to help him hit, but not enough to make it blatantly obvious (such as facing the opposite direction and still hitting me).

Luckily I am a good enough shot naturally that I could hold my own against him. But it was still irritating. If you have to cheat, don't f*cking play. That's why some Halo servers have anti-cheat software installed. Quake-based games use Punkbuster, which works wonderfully, booting anyone who is detected with a "corrupted" (modified) client file, which indicates that cheats are in use. But unfortunately, most Halo servers are modded to permit different game rules, and they don't have anti-cheat software. So you pays your money and takes your chances.

After I figured out Luigi(WON) was cheating, I jumped in a jeep and drove around like a madman, running over him and his teammates with impunity. It was easier than standing around waiting for that little weasel to shoot me. It worked quite well, too, especially because my network ping was terrible, meaning that my character did not move smoothly, but instead would jump around, which makes it hard for them to hit me. Luckily a jeep is a large vehicle, and cuts a wide swath through clumps of enemy. Including Luigi(WON) and his f*cking aimbot.

"But how," asked my best friend Bill, "is Luigi(WON)'s behavior different from you camping out behind a bush and whacking the enemy when they pop out of the teleport pad?" An excellent question. Mhmmm. Er, well. I was just spawnkilling (camping out on a spawn-point and whacking the enemy as they re-spawned, coming back to life after being killed). Spawnkilling is merely "unsportsmanlike conduct." I'm not invulnerable, or invisible, or clipping (able to walk through solid objects like walls), or carrying unlimited ammo, or using an aimbot. I'm just using my normal game abilities to get into a position where I can score kills more easily. If the server administrator sees me doing it, he can kick me off the server, because spawnkilling is rude. But it's not "cheating" in the technical sense. "Unsportsmanlike conduct." Yeah, that's what it is.

Plus, it's not really spawnkilling, because the enemy spawns at their base. It's their choice to step through the teleporter at their base and pop out at the other end of the teleport conduit, right in front of my gun. They could (and did, in fact) just run a mile across hill and dale and converge on me from another direction, against which I couldn't really defend myself. So, what I was doing was not as bad as, say, parking a tank on the hill overlooking their base, waiting for a bunch of them to spawn simultaneously, and then blasting them in all directions with a well-placed shot from my tank gun, like confetti in the wind, before they can even move or attempt to save themselves. That's really spawnkilling. And I would never do that. Except for last Wednesday night. Boy, that was fun!

Ahem.

But aimbots are a whole 'nother level of misconduct. Deserving of being run over by a jeep.

Plant sale

We worked the plant sale on Saturday for the local garden club. Lots of volunteers, including yours truly. I was the only husband who showed up out of all the wives' husbands. I mostly hauled plants to people's cars after they got through the cashier's station here. I also worked the front gate and said "HI! thanks for coming in and shopping today!" in my most cheerful voice to everyone who came in. Unfortunately I don't know anyone, so I was welcoming volunteers as well as the public. "It's okay, I work here" was the answer I got a lot. The whole place suffered from a severe estrogen overload - I felt the craving to go blow the crap out of something at the rifle range afterword, just to reassert my manhood. Instead we hauled home three carloads of unsold plants, including a bunch of banana trees and a coconut palm. Very exciting, in an estrogen-overloaded way. After that, I got online and blew the crap out of the Blue team in "Halo." I managed to find a pistol and a rocky outcrop, and popped Blue team members in the head every time they materialized out of a nearby teleportal. They got annoyed with me, though, and showered bullets at me from their base a mile away until they got lucky and beaned me. Spoilsports.

Daddy's boy

Wolfman helps me save money by lying in my in-box, on top of the mail, where I cannot get to it, and therefore I do not spend so much money paying bills. He's a great savings device. Unfortunately he and the other cats also need regular vet care, such as Jesse, who has a bladder infection and just cost me $117 for a vet visit. Chia pets are cheaper, but much less interactive. However, there would also be less puke, pee, and various other pet emissions and effluvium. It's a trade-off.

A big hawk

This is a big hawk that flew into our yard last Sunday.

He flew so silently. I only realized he was there because I saw him fly in, and disappear into the trees. I hunted around until I spotted him. His coloring made him blend into the tree very well, and I only saw him because his head moved. His head was the size of both my hands clasped together. His body was as tall as the distance from my elbow to my fingertips. He was huge. He sat there for awhile, and we watched each other. Eventually the other birds noticed he was there, and they set up an awful squawk until he finally got tired of it and left. That's how smaller birds defend themselves - they gang up on the big ones. I watched three of them dogfighting the other day...the hawk was circling around some food, and two other smaller birds came up and began harassing him until he flew away. Fascinating. Like a re-enactment of the Battle of Britain (1940), but smaller, and with feathers drifting down instead of cartridge casings.

Stupid commercials

At the risk of offending "Sex and the City" fans, what the f*ck is that stupid commercial they're running now on tv, where all these SATC fans are blissfully enraptured, staring into space at the thought of watching reruns of SATC? Try watching it with the sound off, like I do at the gym. You really get the impression that SATC viewers have all been lobotomized. I won't pursue that line of inquiry, because I may discover some ugly truths. ;-)

And on the radio, they have a stupid ad for the Washington Post (or "WaPo," as they call themselves, or "Wa-Poo" as I call them). They're running a buy-Sunday-and-get-the-whole-week free campaign, which is a money-loser on its face, but it jacks up their circulation so they can charge their advertisers more (advertising rates are based on circulation numbers). In the commercial, a guy calls up the circulation desk and asks how much his Monday paper is. It's free, she tells him. He calls back and asks how much his Tuesday paper is. It's free, she tells him, getting more irritated. He calls back and asks how much his Wednesday paper is (and so on.) It really gives you the impression that the average Wa-Poo reader is an idiot. And maybe they are... I don't read it, I wouldn't know.

Caterpillars and butterflies

I was grossed out by that biiiig caterpillar I saw last weekend, the one that looked like it could eat one of my cats (well, maybe only the oldest and weakest one. Caterpillars, at least in the tropics, hunt in packs, you know. Or maybe that's army ants). But I have to remember that it will grow into a biiiig butterfly like this one. I found this photo on the web. Sunflowers AND butterflies. One time a friend spelled "butterflies" as "buttflies" in an email. I thought that was funny, because it gave me the mental picture of someone farting a beautiful multicolored stream of butterflies. Very funny.

A boating accident Part 3

And an update for my friend who was asking - Pat is doing much better, she's writing coherent notes now from her hospital bed, though she is still full of tubes and catheters and such. As bad as her head injuries were, the doctors are reasonably sure that she has suffered no brain damage. She will be in the hospital for many weeks yet, because they have to reconstruct her shattered face and skull, and fit her with a glass eye in her left eye socket.

Then again, it might be cool if she opted for an eye patch. How many women have you seen who wear an eye patch? I haven't seen any. It could be a fashion statement. But it probably looks better on a man than on a woman.

Thoughts on the approaching end of the current sortie

The project I'm currently on is an odd one, in that it is extremely long-lived. I have been posted in my current city for a total of probably six months now, off and on, and I grew to like it, even though it is a primary target for terrorists and assorted other madmen. Soon, however, I am required to move to a different city, a colder city, a much more alien city, in another country, and I am not happy. Then again, I am already apart from my trainers, who have gone back to their respective offices around North America, and I will see few, if any, of them again. It has been a month or two of gradually increasing separation, of changing cities, of changing personnel. And then this project will be over for me in a few months, and it will be on to the next... where, and exactly when, I do not know. That's one of the things about my work - the only constant is change. It's what keeps it interesting, for me. I meet people who have worked in the same place with the same people for 30 or 35 years. I honestly don't know how they have not simply gone mad. Or perhaps they are mad, and they merely hide it well. Or perhaps enough of their brain cells have died from disuse that, like lobotomy patients, they merely smile passively and wait for their time to be up. It's really difficult to tell with them. But I do know that I do not want to be like them.

Even though my travels and my life can end suddenly, at any time, in a flaming fireball raining junk down from the sky, my work is still interesting enough to risk that death, and that's why I do it. Every time I leave home, my wife and I know that it could be the last time we see each other. Every time I come home, it's a small triumph, and a celebration.

Apropos of nothing. Back to the mission.

A boating accident Part 2

More info on our friend Pat -

Pat and her husband were driving their boat, coming home from fishing at nightfall. Her husband was at the wheel, and they had a couple of other people in their boat with them. Their running lights had stopped working, which happens a lot with boats, especially on saltwater. They were almost home to the boat ramp when another boat, also without running lights, came at them. The other boat, though smaller, had a big spotlight, and was looking for the "No Wake" signposts. He flashed his spotlight twice on Pat's boat, and Pat and her husband were sure that that the other boat had seen them.

Alas, he had not seen them, because as soon as he decided that he was clear of the "No Wake" zone, he gunned his boat into top speed. A few seconds later, his boat smashed into, up and over Pat's boat. He came across the left side and over Pat's boat, smashing the windshield backward right into Pat's face. Everyone from both boats was thrown into the water, and no one was wearing a life vest. Pat was unconscious, but at least she floated on her back, so she kept breathing instead of drowning.

After the police and rescue workers pulled everyone out of the water, they lifeflighted Pat to the nearest big city. Her face was so badly smashed that the doctors had to remove her left eye. She still drifts in and out of consciousness, she's entubated, pierced with a tracheotomy, sedated, and restrained because she keeps trying to rip out the tubes every time she wakes up. She knows something horrible has happened to her, and she knows she's lost an eye. She kept asking for paper to write with, and the staff kept "forgetting" to bring it to her, because when people are that badly injured, they also cannot write (though they think they can), and it's VERY demoralizing to the patient when she tries to write something and discovers that she cannot. (Temporary aphasia often accompanies severe injuries, where the patient is unable to speak or write coherently.) So the staff conveniently forgot to bring her a pen and paper, every time she asked, because they knew that she would forget that she asked, and they could put her off until she had regained some of her faculties. But now she's a little better, and she's able to write notes and ask questions and get answers.... but they still won't let her have a mirror.

On a positive note, one of Pat's passengers had just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and had just begun medication for it. After the accident, she required six stitches in her forehead, and the doctors decided to do a CAT scan of her skull just in case she had a concussion. Instead, they discovered that the bipolar symptoms had been misdiagnosed - she had a brain tumor. They think they can save her, though. But if it weren't for the boat accident, she might have died of her brain tumor.

And, in unrelated events, our best friends Buddy and Eula's daughter Tammy came through her hip surgery very well, and is fighting back strongly. She's recently undergone a heart-lung transplant and has been very weak and unable to recover, and that's why - her hips had deteriorated and broken while she was bedridden, and no one had noticed. Neither had she, because she'd been bedridden, on painkillers, and out of it quite a lot since her transplant surgery. The doctors had feared that with her weakened immune system, a hip transplant would introduce a staph infection (very common in hospitals, and the new strains are much more resistant to antibiotics and are much more likely to kill you - the lesson here is, don't go to the hospital unless you absolutely have to) and she would die. But for now, it seems, she is doing well. I will pray for her. And for Pat.

Garages and houses and beaches, oh my

Saturday we had a garage sale. LOTS of people came! We didn't want people showing up early, so we didn't advertise in the paper, but shortly before 8 AM, I went out and put signs up on the highway. We got a flood of people between 8 and 12, then it stopped cold, even though we were scheduled to be open until 2. I figure that's because the SERIOUS garage-salers (sailors?) are all out and sale-ing by 7 and done by noon. So we're going to have another garage sale in early November. This one was to sell off extra Halloween stuff (about 1/10th of our Halloween stuff). Next one, we will put out our extra Christmas stuff to sell (of which we have about 5 times what we have for Halloween, so if we put up 1/10th of our Christmas stuff for sale, that will still be 5 times the amount of stuff we tried to sell on Saturday). We sold about half our stuff that was out on the driveway. The rest (except for the big wicker thing) we took to the Cat Care Society and donated. We'll claim some ridiculously high value for it on our taxes, like Bill Clinton did for his used underwear ($2.00 each, on his 1986 tax return, according to the IRS).

All sorts of people were lined up. Good thing we parked our cars somewhere else.


Treasures! The kids loved the Halloween stuff. One shopper was a public school teacher, who said her politically-correct school district has banned all mention of Halloween. She's still scheduling lessons that coincide with Halloween themes, like studying the skeleton, or spiders, or stuff like that. We had to laugh.

We also went to the beach.

All the dead fish from the red tide are gone. Or maybe they're not... the tide today was very low, whereas all the dead fish I saw were at high tide last week. I didn't want to walk up the beach to see. But there were all sorts of fingerling fish rushing around in the surf, making it look like the water was boiling. Lots of egrets and herons showed up for breakfast. It was cool!

We saw a giant caterpillar in our yard. He was scarily huge. He was as long as my index finger. That's too damn big for a squirmy thing, in my opinion. Gives me the creeps. Yrrrrgh.


We went and looked at houses, even though we can't buy for awhile, for tax reasons.

We love the view on this 1979 model. Even though I hate golf. Hate. It's a waste of natural resources, and a waste of perfectly good space for a rifle range.


The kitchen needs the same white paint job we did to OUR house, because it has the exact same horrible greenish 1970s woodgrain cabinets we had. Plus it's shaped like a pentagon. I've never seen that before. First things first - rip down that horrible fluorescent ceiling in the kitchen, and put in halogens. And paint those beams in the family room ceiling white. And do something about that tile. I'm not sure what, though. It's serviceable enough, but the grout needs bleaching, I think.


This is at another house we looked at. Nicer lake, better price, but not as nice a neighborhood. It was a 1962 model, and looked it. The last time I saw bathroom tile like that was... hmmm... I don't think I've EVER seen bathroom tile like that. Yeeesh. And the ceiling duct fans with pull chains? Sigh.



The thing we had to laugh about, though, was that the German owner, a general contractor, had put in new kitchen and bathroom cabinets. In ultramodern German-Scandinavian style. The whole idea for cabinets, in my opinion, is that you DON'T see the dishes in them. That's why they have DOORS, which usually CLOSE.

He clearly doesn't have a clue of what Americans like in cabinetry. I'm not an expert, but I can guarantee you that THIS is not it. Especially in a 1962 concrete-block house that is not really updated EXCEPT for that. Well, that and the funky new tile. I was not crazy about the tile, either.

We thought it was interesting that he'd made the laundry room into a tiny third bedroom, and had actually built a separate room, accessible only from the outside, onto the back of the house for the laundry. That killed it right there, for us. (GONG - "Awww, too bad! Thanks for playing!")

Somewhere in all that, I also replaced a junction box on the outside of the house that was shorting out and giving our water softener fits. And I replaced our old coil-spring manual thermostat with a shiny new programmable electronic one. A new coil-spring manual thermostat costs $40, in spiffy white instead of 1960s hammered bronze. A new programmable electronic one costs anywhere from $20 to $100 depending on whether you want a 5-day/2-day program (so you use the same program M-F and then you can have a different program for Sat-Sun) or all 7 days individually programmable. We found a $100 7-day programmable with a $20 instant rebate. But, instead of spending $80 to save $20, we spent $20 on the cheapest one (a 5-day/2-day), and saved $80. It wasn't all that hard to replace, either, except the wires are all color-coded. That worried me for a minute, until I saw that the terminals on both the old thermostat and the new one had little letters on them (W for White, Y for Yellow, G for Green, etc.). I changed it out in 15 minutes and was quite pleasantly surprised when it worked.

And my sunflowers are leaping toward the sky. They're a month old and 3 feet tall already. 12 more feet to go!

A safe that was too safe

Months ago, the digital lock on my safe decided that things weren't just safe enough in our household, and decided that NO ONE should get into the safe, even with the proper passcode. I emailed the safe company, got the runaround, sat on it for a few months more, called them, and got much better service on the phone than I did in email.

The locksmith showed up, fiddled with the lock for awhile, and got it open. I asked him how he did it, and he said that in fact my passcode WAS working, but that the lock bolt that controls all the door bolts was binding, and that he had to put a LOT of pressure on the handle to get it to release. He removed the lock and the keypad, put another one on, and everything is dandy now.

He said it should NOT have done that. And he said that the heavy brass keypad and lock that came with the safe is made by another company that is trying to break into the mass consumer market for locks, and every lock of theirs that this locksmith has seen or heard about, has failed. Their high-end locks are great, he said, but these are crap. So he put in a Sargent and Greenleaf lock, of a proven design, and that will work like a charm, he said. The uglier the keypad, the more reliable the lock is, he said. If it's a really pretty, shiny, expensive-looking metal-bodied keypad, then chances are that the keypad and the lock are junk. Oddly enough.

I am VERY happy to have my safe working again. Now I can play with my toys!

Peter annoying the disciples

And it came to pass that the disciples, who were tasked with spreading The Word, began altering The Word to make it easier to teach to those who came seeking Truth, who yearned to know The Word. This, saith The Lord, is a mortal sin. Thou shalt not corrupt The Word. And the high priests, who guarded The Word and ensured that The Word remained uncorrupted, were wroth, and were sorely afraid of the vengeance that The Lord might bring down upon them.

So the Peter and the high priests made the long and lonely trek into the mountains, whereupon they came upon an old man. "Can you help us, old man?" said Peter, "for we must guard The Word carefully, lest it be copied, and altered, and corrupted by those who do not know better." And the old man graciously showed the priests a secret hiding place where The Word could be safely stored. And Peter and the priests were greatly relieved, and returned to their village.

Immediately, one of the disciples asked, "where is The Word?"

"It is still present, my child," said Peter.

"Yes, father, but it is no longer in its temple where we have always found it."

"You are wise, my child, and your eyes do not deceive you," said Peter. "But rest assured that The Word remains all around you, and guides you, and we will always make sure that you have The Word at hand with which to preach to the masses."

And the disciple was wroth. But yea verily, The Word was not the disciples' with which to play. "Thou shalt remain true to the one holy catholic and apostolic Church of the Holy Enterprise Resource Planning System," saith The Lord. And Peter and the high priests, and all of the disciples, were obliged to obey, lest they suffer eternal damnation, or at the very least, painful crucifixion at the hands of the Project Steering Committee.

School shootings

Here's a helpful article on MSNBC. Although school shootings are quite rare, and school violence has decreased by nearly 50 percent in the last ten years, the media makes it seem worse because "if it bleeds, it leads" in what passes for journalism these days.

However, the thing to think about is: these killers are always bent on revenge of some sort. And they always, always always pick a defenseless target. When schools became "gun-free zones" under the Clinton regime, that's when a big sign went up to all criminals and killers saying "defenseless victims here! Come 'n' git 'em!" The latest shooting, in Amish country, proves my point. Where else could you find a more defenseless group of people? Only in a Democrat caucus. But seriously. Even if the Amish would defend themselves (and they won't, they're pacifists), and even if their killer had survived (not killed himself), the Amish would refuse to cooperate in a death-penalty prosecution of him, because they wouldn't support executing him. Which just completely boggles my mind. But, that's why the Amish don't rule the world, because their society and their religion sets themselves up to be victims.

Anyway. The Amish would disagree with me, and so would most teachers, because they're generally socialists who don't believe in the right of the individual to defend himself. But I argue that if just ONE teacher or administrator armed herself in each school, you would see a sharp drop in the number of murders in schools. Savage killers, vicious though they are, still don't relish the thought of catching a bullet between their eyes. They like to do their grisly work unmolested, without fear of one of their intended victims actually shooting back. Teachers usually play along with the killers, agreeing that by all means, they SHOULD remain defenseless, and so should their students. This just perpetuates and encourages an entire society of people who are raised to be victims. But the first time a teacher actually shoots back and kills a murderer, though that teacher will be a pariah among teachers and other liberals - that teacher will be a hero to all intelligent people, and that teacher will be a shining example to others, an example of what individualism and liberty and courage can accomplish. Though the odds are stacked against such an event ever occurring, I remain hopeful that one day a teacher will actually take the initiative to protect herself and her students. Until then, unfortunately, they simply remain sheep, awaiting slaughter at the hands of another killer.

Car show

We went to the 18th annual something-or-other car show on Sunday. There were cars there from at least 10 other states. I noticed they kept the Mustangs and Camaros well-segregated. When you get a bunch of car nuts together who are this serious about cars, it's best not to invite trouble by putting opposing camps together.


A late 1950s half-restored Jaguar, olive drab. Missing door handles and dashboard, but pretty.


A 1966 VW Microbus, lowered. I'm not sure why anyone would do this to an otherwise perfectly serviceable bus. But clearly they had money to spend and very smooth roads to drive it on.


A 1959 MG-A. My wife's dream car. But she'll be the first one to admit that although it's a fun, fast ride, it's a very bumpy one, and they're quite unreliable. She'd much rather have a 1968 Camaro with a 350-cubic-inch V8 engine. So would I. When we win the lottery, perhaps.


A 1943 Willys Jeep. I have always wanted a Willys Jeep. The problem is that it really needs a Browning M1919 .30-caliber machinegun on a pintle mount, or even better, a Browning M2 .50-caliber machinegun. Very useful on the highway to deal with dangerous and/or terminally-stupid drivers. Very few cars out there can outrun a bullet. The only drawback is that you need to take a gunner with you everywhere you go.


A 1986 Buick Grand National. Actually, this is my dream car. The fastest production car made in America in the 1980s. Cool angular lines, very distinctive shape. The engine computer kept it to 124 mph, but it was apparently capable of 160+ mph. The final version of the Grand National, the 1987 GNX, had 300 horsepower out of a 3.8 liter turbo intercooled V6, zero to 60 mph in 4.5 seconds, faster than a Corvette. The only thing faster at the time was a Porsche 911, and then you had the legendary German unreliability (2 days on the road, 3 days in the shop). Today, if I had $30,000 in the penny jar, I would buy a Subaru WRX. Almost as fast as the GNX, but holds the road a LOT better with all-wheel-drive.



A 1959 Cadillac. Check out the fins. All cars should have fins.


A 1961 Cadillac. For some reason, I like this one better than the '59. It's sleeker, straighter, more refined. A bit smaller, too. I like that the fins go almost straight back, instead of up. Less "in your face" than the '59.


A 1934 Ford coupe (I think). It has a beautiful flame paint job, looks 3-D. I hear that 1934 coupes are popular to make into hot rods because they're fairly plentiful and relatively inexpensive. Ehhh. I think I'll stick to the Jeep.

Botanical gardens

We went to a nearby botanical garden Saturday. This one specializes in epiphytes, which are plants that live off of the ground, usually on other plants. A typical epiphyte is an air plant. It is NOT a parasite, because it does not damage the plant it lives on - it only uses it for support.
They also have a wide variety of plants from other countries. It's funny, because on a sign with the list of things that are NOT allowed into the gardens, there's "No plants from elsewhere." ALL their plants are from elsewhere. How would they know if YOU brought a plant in?

Now, I'm not a gardener, no matter how patiently my wife tries to edumacate me. Being color-blind, I often have to go by shape, size, prickliness, poisonousness, or other characteristics.


Lots of orchids. My dad used to raise orchids. I think they're a pain - way too fragile. He lost his whole crop when he left them outside and it got too cold. That's why I prefer cacti. But orchids are pretty.


Long dangly grassy-root things, kinda rubbery and meaty.


Funny-looking leaves, brightly colored. Pinkish, I think. I like the herringbone pattern.


Big-leafed things. These leaves are 2 feet long. Some leaves are 4 feet long, they're like sails.


Hairy things.


Spiky things. These leaves have teeth!


Carnivorous pitcher plants. They eat bugs and anything else stupid enough to fall into their nectar-filled pot, which does double-duty as an enzyme-filled stomach.


Carnivorous koi. I once visited a carp farm in western Pennsylvania. I have never seen so many carp. The water was thick with them - there were more carp than water. Bakeries from miles around would bring their stale bread, and sell it to passersby for $1/loaf. You could wad up a piece of bread and fling it out over the schooling carp, and chances are, you would score a bullseye by dropping the ball of bread into one of their waiting mouths poking out of the water. It was almost like a carnival game. But creepy, with all those thousands of sucking, gasping mouths poking out of the water at you.


Jumping fish. My wife got this action shot without knowing it. The birds are all hanging out in the wrong place, though. And I think that fish is a bit big for most of those birds. Except maybe the pelicans. And the ospreys.


Cuban brown anole. This was in the butterfly garden, which, sure enough, had bunches of butterflies. The signs said that if you want to make your own butterfly garden, please remember that the garden is meant for the caterpillars to eat. Do not kill the caterpillars, it said, because those WILL be the butterflies you want.

Gay men on the beach

In addition to the piles of dead fish on the public beach on Friday night, there were also several gay men down by the dead tree that marks my turnaround point for my walk. You can tell they're gay because -

• they're all standing around like great blue herons, motionless, staring out to sea, spaced about 20 yards apart, not talking
• they're all in their late 40s to early 60s
• they all dress roughly the same way - T-shirts too tight, shorts too tight, earrings and/or nail polish, nipple rings, etc.
• they're all lean and stringy
• they say nothing, but I can feel their eyes on me

I know that this beach has a reputation for being a hangout for gay men, and I occasionally see the evidence... mashed-down vegetation among the trees on the dune, a pair of shorts left behind, the odd condom, even a bedsheet once. And I can understand that in our small community, they really have nowhere to go. And at least they make the effort to walk a mile down the beach to a relatively secluded area, instead of hanging out in the parking lot.

Keep in mind, even though I am devoutly heterosexual, some of my friends are gay. I've even had a few gay and lesbian roommates. They're very nice people, or they wouldn't be my friends. They're also exceptionally neat, whereas I am an unabashed slob. However. I go to the beach to enjoy the sun, the sand, the sea, and the dead fish. I would rather not be sidestepping the mating dance of middle-aged gay men. And to merely stop going to the beach is to cede to them my right to be there. Ergo, I will continue to go to the public beach.