Play One on TV

My wife wants to go see United 93. I do not. She’s okay with this, but I hate it that she’s not going because of me. If anyone out there want to take her, I’ll thank you and pay your way.

For those of you that have been living in a cave since 2001, United 93 is the new movie/docudrama based upon the events of United Flight 93. This plane, along with its passengers and crew, met its end in a Pennsylvania field during the horrific events of September 11, 2001.

Everything I’ve heard about the movie speaks to its accuracy and sensitivity. No “name” stars are on board for the production, as the filmmakers felt that famous stars would distract from the events themselves. Many of the characters, such as the air controllers, are played by the actual people that were involved in the events of that day. Although most of the on-board events are mainly conjecture, the character profiles were built with the consent and assistance of family members, so this may be the closest we’ll ever get to what actually happened.

So why do I not want to go? I could cop out and say, “It’s too soon” or “I don’t think it’s appropriate to entertain from tragedy” and I would be partly right. However, these simple pat answers fail when I really think about them. I’m always complaining that we, as a country, dwell too long and hard on our tragedies, so “it’s too soon” would make me a hypocrite. Likewise, I like watching movies about past disasters, like Titanic and Gettysburg, so I clearly don’t have a problem with dramatizing tragedy.

If I dig down really deep, I’ll admit that I’m afraid to go.

I’m one of those people that really, really gets into his movies. I get a cathartic thrill from stepping into the shoes of Indiana Jones or James Bond. In The Sixth Sense, I’m cowering in the dark with Haley Joel Osment as he attempts to communicate with one of the ghosts that have been haunting him. I’m laughing out loud along with Robin Williams as he re-learns to fly in Hook.

Because of this, I tend to “buy in” to movies wholesale. I willingly suspend disbelief and go along for the ride, head first.

I know that the Titanic met its end on the point of an iceberg, but while I watch the movie, I forget all of that. In that fateful scene where the pilot frantically backed the engines and turned the wheel, something in me was hoping that the ship would miss the iceberg. In fact, I was grabbing my seat and frantically pulling to the left (excuse me, the port) hoping I could somehow influence the ship’s course. When the ship hit the iceberg, part of me was not surprised. The rest of me was bitterly surprised and disappointed.

I knew that Pickett’s Charge failed at the Battle of Gettysberg, and yet I tensely awaiting the outcome of that same charge on the silver screen, hoping that those brave soldiers would beat the odds, survive the hellish hail of musket balls and cannon fire and emerge victorious (and I don’t even like the Confederacy!) When the charge failed, I felt the pain of defeat like it happened yesterday.

I’m afraid that something like that will happen in United 93. I’ll be hoping that the hijackers get caught at the gate. That the planes on their way to New York and Washington will miss their targets. That those passengers will make it through the cockpit door, and that they’ll land the plane in one piece.

But I know this ending all too well, and not from a history book. Like many of my countrymen, I lived September 11 as it happened. It’s over and done, we buried our dead, healed our living, and exacted our revenge on those that dared to make it happen. I don’t think I could stand to play “what if” with this particular event.

“It’s too soon” doesn’t really cover it. Maybe I should say, “It will always be too soon.”

What have I been up to lately? Sleeping, that’s what.

I got my CPAP mask on Friday. As you can tell by the lovely photo, it is a truly frightening apparatus (yes, they really called it an “apparatus.” Makes it sound like I’m wearing something that should be on the arm of the Space Shuttle.) It fits on me like a glove; that is, if gloves were made of hard plastic, had a half-dozen fitting adjustments, and smelled like a freshly-cleaned hospital bed.

The idea is that this mask, along with its accompanying (and might I say, very expensive) CPAP machine, will help me get a good night’s sleep. Of course, I have to get used to sleeping with “the apparatus” strapped to my face and around my head. It’s kind of like sleeping with an alien facehugger on you, only without all the nasty chest-bursting that tends to happen with Aliens in general.

In addition to the general discomfort brought on by this contraption, I have to get used to the sensation of air pressure. To be specific, I feel like my entire body is being inflated through my nose and mouth. If this is what dogs enjoy about sticking their head out the car window, then I say they’re nuts.

Before CPAP: I wake up five or six times per night due to snoring and general discomfort and wake up with a headache.

After CPAP: I wake up five or six times per night to disentangle myself from the hose, which seems to have a mind of its own. I don’t wake up with a headache, but my nose is dry enough to rival the Sahara desert.

However (and this is a big “however”) I do seem to be getting a better night’s sleep. The last two mornings have seen me waking up much more refreshed. I’m much less sleepy during the day. In fact, I managed to watch a movie (the new King Kong) without falling asleep once, and that’s a challenge even for those that don’t suffer from sleep apnea.

Time will tell if this CPAP therapy will do the trick. I remain hopefully optimistic, although if they ever make a CPAP mask that doesn’t make you look like an ER guest star, I’ll marry it.

Just suppose for a moment that you have lost all memory of where you are. It doesn’t matter how this happened — maybe you were hit on the head, or perhaps you overindulged on Oprah reruns.

How do you tell where you are?

Here’s my favorite method:

1. Wait for a tornado warning to hit and the storm sirens to sound.
2. Run outside your front door.
3. If everyone on your block has also run outside and is looking in the direction of the oncoming tornado, you’re in Oklahoma.

It’s official. After a sleep study, the opinions of no less that three physicians, a bevy of lab tests, and the financial support of my insurance company, I have been identified as a sufferer of sleep apnea.

My wife could have told them that based on my snoring alone.

A “respiratory therapist” is going to call me tomorrow to set up my consultation for the CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) equipment, also known as “Joe finds another use for his home equity line of credit.” Supposedly, I’ll get to pick out the equipment and stiff-arm the inevitable sales pitch for optional equipment (humidifiers, rack-and-pinion steering, Star Trek blinkie lights). Hopefully, this respiratory therapist won’t ask my lungs to lie on the couch and talk about my mother.

Oh, I also get to pick out a mask. I’m hoping for something like this.

It’s been a while since my last major medical procedure, so I have forgotten just how slowly the wheels of modern medicine can turn when an insurance company is in the driver’s seat. I’m just glad this wasn’t for something more serious. For example, if I had been suffering from Alien Chest-Buster syndrome, I’m certain that the Earth would have been overrun long before I received approval for my second opinion.

I should have my CPAP sometime before the next millenium, whereupon I will glady post a picture of me wearing it. You have been warned.

UPDATE: I suppose it could have been worse. I might have had a heart attack. I just hate friends that are always trying to one-up you.

A television pay-per-view experience will bring you the ghost of John Lennon.

If you’re waiting for the punchline, it’s no joke. But it will cost you $9.95 to find out what he said. That’s the joke, and it’ll be on you if you’re gullible enough to buy into it.

Besides, my brother Mike has already scooped the story. Read it for yourself and save your money for that Wrestlemania title championship coming at the end of the month.

Wife, child, and I were headed home from a long, long weekend helping my parents and my sister’s family move to new homes. “Tired” is not the word. “Pooped” would be better, although my son would make jokes out of it, so it isn’t the word, either.

Here’s how tired we were — we stopped for dinner at a Little Caesar’s “not really pizza but what do you want for five bucks” pizza joint. Anytime I’m too tired to pop a can of tuna in favor of barely-edible cardboard pizza, know that I am really worn out.

While waiting for the pizza-that-would-never-be-pizza, the radio started playing Take the Long Way Home by Supertramp. I immediately shouldered aside my fatigue, cranked up the radio, and began dancing in the driver’s seat. My son was speechless as he saw his father belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

“Long Way Home” was one of my favorite tunes from my growin-up days in 1979, when I was 17 and going on 30. Although the song never rose above number 10 on the Billboard charts, it resonated quite well among my circle of friends. We all fancied ourselves to be somewhat mature and worldly (despite the fact that we played Dungeons and Dragons in our off-hours), and we all had a weird sense of connection with this mature and worldly tune of angst and longing for better times.

I don’t go out of my way to listen to Supertramp these days, but I gladly welcome the interruption whenever they come across on the radio. I tap my foot, hum and/or sing the tune (depending on the surroundings) and reminisce about the memories and feelings that the song drags out of my past.

As I was waving my head and snapping my fingers through the saxophone bridge, I noticed my son was starting to get into it, too. He likes heavily-orchestrated rock, and this particular Supertramp song had all of those overproduced elements and a harmonica solo, too. I noticed he was cocking his head thoughtfully at the lyrics. It made me stop and do the same — you never know what questions he’ll ask next, so I had learned to be prepared.

I stopped dancing (and it wasn’t just because the pizza had just arrived).

Have you ever had a favorite movie or book that you read as a child, picked up again as an adult, and suffered the mental clash of realizing you never really understood that movie or book until now? Let me tell you, it happens with music, too. As I rolled the words of the song past my tongue, it was if I was really tasting them for the first time.

Does it feel that you life’s become a catastrophe?
Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy.
When you look through the years and see what you could
have been oh, what might have been,
if you’d had more time.

So, when the day comes to settle down,
Who’s to blame if you’re not around?
You took the long way home…

Okay, I knew these words. I’d sung them hundreds of times. Yet part of me was rebelling against my memory. These aren’t the same lyrics, my subconscious was screaming at me. But the lyrics were the same. Then why, oh why, had I never really understood them before now? I thought this was a song about the life of a performing artist; about the sacrifices of family and friends; about the angst of choosing your path and suffering the consequences. I was right, but only partly.

This is a song about growing old. My teenage understanding of the song wasn’t all that flawed. It was just missing another 22 years of perspective.

If you still can’t fathom what I’m talking about, check out the lyrics for yourself. Even better, sing them, or dust off the CD and play them. If the finger-snapping doesn’t give way to a thoughtful frown, then you’re either not old enough or you’ve lived a charmed life.

Okay, now I’m tired and depressed. I’d cheer myself up with some Huey Lewis and the News, but I’m afraid what I’ll glean from Bad is Bad.

Clothing ettiquette, 2006:

My son presents his church clothes for ironing. My wife says, “Slacks? You don’t want to wear jeans? Remember, we’re going to church, not school!”

If our mothers were dead, they’d be rolling over in their graves.

The other day, I was responding to a poll from a market research company. This firm occasionally pays me real money for my time, so I try to be helpful and tolerant when they make their infrequent calls. On this particular call, I caused a bit of surprise in the household when I responded to the “political tendencies” question with the word “Libertarian.”

My wife found this incredibly funny. For most of my life, I dismissed Libertarians as a well-meaning but ineffective segment of the political spectrum. I considered myself a “moderate,” one of those enlightened individuals who picked and chose his candidates by will and will alone. Kind of like a Chinese buffet, only with the left and right sides clearly labeled in English. My wife, on the other hand, considered me a liberal, plain and simple. I suspect this may have something to do with my stance on the Iraqi War and my willingness to laugh out loud, with little provocation, at our current President.

Only recently have I begun to suspect that my indirection, as it were, actually contained a real direction. I used to see the political spectrum as a rational number line, with negative and positive numbers and me at number zero. Now I’m beginning to see some range of motion in the middle.

Both the left and the right are concerned about civil liberties, although they differ mightily on which liberties are most important. For example: a woman’s right to choose vs. a baby’s right to live. A criminal’s right to fair trial vs. the rights of the victims and their families. The rights of the moviegoing public vs. the rights of Pauley Shore to make a sustainable living. Each of these stances require us to care about one side or the other. I’m a little different. Sometimes I care about both sides. And some other times, I’m tempted to chuck the warring parties into a volcano.

Every once in a while, I hop over to The Political Compass and take their little ten-minute quiz designed to graph my political beliefs. Almost without fail, I end up with a chart that looks like this, which shows some distinctive Libertarian ideals and just a smidge of conservatism. Once in a while, I end up with a chart like this, which means that my conservatism is more of a mood than a lifestyle.

Among my conservative family and friends, there is this distressing tendency to dismiss my moderate beliefs as being “just another brand of liberal.” Even more distressing is that my liberal friends believe the same thing!! They think I’m a liberal that hasn’t come out of the closet.

This bugs the hell out of me. It’s almost as if the wearing of political extremes on your sleeve has become mandatory business wear, and people like me are unhip and square. Those who dare identify themselves as “moderate” are painted as indecisive fence-sitters who are either terribly confused or simply lying to themselves.

I have opinions, damn it, and they’re not all “I don’t know.” Let me give you a few.
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You know what’s great about being a guy? Every once in a while, I like to indulge in a meal that is completely bereft of any significant nutritional value.

Last night’s offering? Five of the nastiest, gristliest, most tongue-wrenching hot links ever made, soaked in a generous amount of Vietnamese chili sauce, and topped with A-1 Steak Sauce for flavor. I think some buns may have been involved — I don’t quite remember.

Kid’s, don’t try this at home. I’m a professional.

This is why I like being a guy. Guys get to do the most disgusting and senseless things on the planet, and then they get to tell people about it!

The Good: Child goes to the library and checks out nine books all on his own.

The Bad: Every single one of them is a Calvin and Hobbes collection.

The Ugly: He begins to read them to you. Every. Single. One.

“Okay, Dad, now here’s a really good one, and I mean it this time. So, okay, like Calvin and his tiger are up against this wall, and he’s doing “Spaceman Spiff” and all, and this monster… Dad, are you listening? Anyway, this monster, he says, “What?” and Calvin, like, says “Whoa” and then in the next panel…”

Almost makes me wish he’d start talking about Pokemon again.

Welcome back, Joe Goodwin, to the world of competitive shooting. Don’t quit your day job.

It’s been roughly 15 years since my last competitive shooting match, mainly because I didn’t actually own a handgun during many of those 15 years. I’ve been to the range about five times in the last two months, but I can get only so many thrills out of shooting one B-5 target after another. So why not enter a competition and get my butt thoroughly kicked?

It just so happened that Mr. Completely had just the ticket - the E-Postal Handgun/Airgun match. Alarmist types, please note: the term “postal” refers to the process of mailing in one’s targets, not the process of targeting mailers. Thank you for not reporting me to the media.

This month’s target was called “Killiards” and depicted an attractive rack of billiard balls. The target was set on a standard-size sheet of paper posted at 10 yards. That doesn’t seem like a lot of distance until you see it through the gunsights. Yee-argh, my aching eyeballs!

I shot the contest in two caliber classifications — .22 and 9mm. Double the shooting, double the fun, double the humiliation!

My scores aren’t anything to write home about (which means they’re perfectly suited to write here about). There was a time in my life when a target like this would have been child’s play. Now, with my lack of practice and 15 additional years of eyesight degradation, it’s not so much “child’s play” as “child at play”. I suspect I could have improved my score simply by closing my eyes and spraying the entire magazine rapidfire in the general direction of the target.

I had two chances at each target, one in a freehand stance and the other resting the gun on a bench. I did remarkably better on the second set. I suppose this means I can still aim; I just can’t hold. More specifically, I need to work on my trigger technique and follow-through. On the 9mm, I was flinching so badly that most of my hits went several inches below my point of aim.

All humility (and humiliation) aside, this was a heck of a lot of fun to shoot. Friendly competition is always fun, even if your competitors aren’t in the same room. Even more, I enjoyed testing myself with more than just a black bullseye at the end of the wire. I think I’ll be doing more of these.

My targets are detailed below, for the morbidly curious:

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This article was inspired by something I wrote last month about The A-Team. You ever notice that a commando squad is always referred to as a crack team of commandoes? It’s never just team of commandoes - they have to be a crack team, or they’re nothing.

If I were to describe them as simply a team of commandoes, nobody would be impressed. People would be thinking to themselves, “Why didn’t he say crack team? Are these guys any good? Are they just average? Maybe they’re only a mediocre team of commandoes. I’ll bet they couldn’t hit the side of the barn if you painted a picture of Osama bin Laden on the long side. In a hostage standoff, would I be better off taking my chances with the gunman?”

Just try to say a set of pants instead of a pair of pants, or try referring to Michael Jordan without appending is a god. It doesn’t scan, does it? Language is such a funny thing - something starts out as a descriptive phrase and, over time, becomes a proper noun.

I’m beginning to see many of these “pop phrases” that no longer “pop”; that is to say, they no longer accurately represent what they purport to describe. Yet these phrases have become so associated with the object in question that you risk social isolation if you fail to use the phrase as expected.

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Silence for the dead, prayers for the living, and hope for the future.

Jan has tagged me for a meme. Get this: I’m supposed to reveal six (6) weird things about myself.

This is a level of introspection I rarely entertain. I go through life assuming that I’m the normal one and everyone else is off their nut. However, I’ll take a look in the mirror and attempt to see myself the way the world does.

…a few minutes later…

Yeearrgh! That wasn’t any fun. Okay, here’s what I came up with. You could save yourself some time by skipping this and calling in the men with the white coats.

1. I can’t stand for food to mix on my plate. Observant dining companions will notice that my meat, potatoes, and veggies are all separated by little half-inch channels. I’m especially militant about corn juice. If corn juice contaminates my mashed potatoes, dinner is over. If they ever make fine china with those little compartment trays like on the fancy Chinet paper plates, I am there, baby.

2. I can never leave a public library without at least 15 books under my arm. I’m very, very bad about returning them on time. It’s not uncommon for me to rack up $50-75 a year in library fines (although I prefer to call them my “contributions to the Village Library Building Fund”).

3. Nails on the chalkboard? Not a problem. Balloons rubbing together? A cinch to deal with. Grinding teeth? Don’t even notice them! But if you ever rub two pieces of styrofoam together in my presence, I will immediately hit the floor writhing and will give you my name, rank, serial number, and the location of the lost tomb of Ramses II.

4. I always wake up five minutes before the alarm clock goes off, even if I haven’t had a full eight hours of sleep. I have some sort of weird internal clock that always, always wakes me up on time. The downside is that I can’t ever bring myself to sleep in on the weekend. As far as I can tell, this talent has absolutely no practical or commercial application.

5. I sleep with my eyes at least one-quarter of the way open. Freaks everybody out, especially if they’ve watched a lot of bad b-movie special effects where the bad guys have eyes without pupils. If you’ve ever seen Big Trouble in Little China, you’ll get the idea.

6. My favorite breakfast: Cold pizza and warm Coca-Cola. Funny, there always seems to be enough to go around…

I’m now supposed to pass this to six other blogs. Here’s a few that might play along. Tag, yer it: Shannon, Winston, Lynn (if she can tear herself away from the new Dell), Amka, David, and Paul (so we can get a British perspective). You guys can thank me later.

I bought another gun yesterday. This now makes a total of four (yes, four) firearms purchases within a two month time frame. I’m waiting for my phone call from UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan to discuss the terms of my disarmament treaty.

However, this gun purchase was a little different from the others for two reasons:

1. Saturday, April 15 was “Buy a Gun Day” according to the good folks at Cowboy Blob’s and Mr Completely. I’m all for the celebration of traditional holidays, especially when uncontrolled spending is part of the tradition.
2. This wasn’t exactly a new purchase. I’ve owned this particular handgun before. Technically, I really didn’t buy it — I bought it back.

The picture at left is a Ruger Mark II pistol, .22 LR caliber, 5.5 inch bull barrel, stainless steel finish. I purchased it 16 years ago and modified it with a custom trigger job, an extended magazine release, Volthane ergonomic grips, and a Volquartsen compensator. It may look like something out of Star Wars, but I assure you that it is a very real firearm with very real accuracy.

My wife and I were avid shooters up until my son was born 13 years ago. We had to decide between bullets and burp rags, and the burps won out. In addition, we went through a period of unreasoning paranoia where everyone we knew said things like, “You have guns in a house with a child? What are you, nuts?” Regrettably, those voices joined with some financial difficulties, and we sold off our entire collection except for a Browning A-5 shotgun that was gifted to us by Stacey’s grandfather.

I sold my steel baby to a good friend of mine (as I remember, I gave him a very good deal) and got on with my life. It wasn’t until recently that I began to think that the sell-off was a mistake. Two specific events motivated this change of heart — watching the city of New Orleans completely crater under the onslaught of Mother Nature and government inefficiency, and being held up at gunpoint at a local convenience store.

We therefore decided it was time to once again take up that grand sport of target shooting. In short order, we acquired a Beretta NEOS .22 target pistol, a Taurus PT99 9mm, and a Marlin Model 60 .22 rifle.

I was pretty much done at this point (and my discretionary spending money was kaput). Or at least, I thought I was done. My good friend knew about my resumed activity in the sport and offered to sell “my baby” back to me at the same price he had paid seven years ago. He had fired less than 100 rounds during that entire time, and the Mark II was “out of production”, so he was offering me an incredibly good deal. It didn’t take me long to say “yes.” In fact, it took longer just to get the cash out of the ATM.

Why such an emotional attachment to a handgun? Back when I was an avid shooter, my baby and I signed up for the Sooner State Games and managed, somehow, to win the gold medal in .22 bullseye pistol shooting. Nobody was more surprised than me. Unfortunately, this was just a fluke — the following year, I placed 14th in a field of 14, so I wasn’t about to quit my day job and become the next Rob Leatham. But it still makes me grin to remember it. I’m not sure if Bruce Jenner has any emotional attachment to the javelins he threw in the decathalon, but for me this pistol is worth far more than what I paid for it.

So here’s to good friends, amicable wives, and cheap ammunition at the local Wal-Mart. And at this point, I’m really, really, really finished buying lethal weapons for quite a while. Please be sure to repeat this to any ATF agents that come around to ask about me.

Happy Easter, everyone. At least, I hope you’re having a happier Easter than I am, being in the throes of one of my classic sinus headaches. No, we’re not talking about taking two aspirins and calling in the morning. This is a piercing, nail-biting, hurts-to-look-at-shiny-things headache. If you’ve never had one of these and want to know what it’s like, take a vise, tighten it around your head, and then throw yourself off the Empire State Building headfirst.

Thanks to an incredibly hot shower, a few extra hours of sleep, and the use of some pseudoephedrine hydrochloride (also known as “unrefined meth”) I am starting to feel somewhat better. Downgrade “Empire State Building” to “Trump Tower”.

However, I did wimp out on church this morning. It’s no big deal, really, as I don’t attend one of those churches that banish you to one of Hell’s circles for neglecting the risen saviour on His day. However, I do feel a little guilty about it. Figures — I finally find a church that doesn’t use guilt as one of its motivational tools, and I go on and supply my own instead. If you can’t tell, I’m not the best person in the world at accepting grace.

But I really do feel like a class-A wimpomatic. I’m a Christian. Saved by grace, empowered by the Holy Spirit, and beholden to nobody on earth, right? I’m suppposed to go and serve and be Christ on Earth and baptize and all that jazz, yet I can’t pull myself out of bed long enough to sit on a padded pew for an hour. Pathetic.

I’m sure that Jesus felt like total crap on the Third Day — after all, he’d been kinda sorta dead and all, not to mention recovering from a small detour through Hell (and ripping down some gates along the way, if I remember correctly). But did he wimp out? Did he give in to what must have been the mother of all hangovers? No, sir! Not only did he get up and Go Forth, but he rolled this humongous stone out of the way and capped two guards on the way out.

Next to that, I’m a bunny rabbit (although I fit the other popular Easter icon). Something tells me if the resurrection story had been up to me, it would have been the Fifth or Sixth day, possible Seventh if I couldn’t find any Alka-Seltzer. Thank God (quite literally) that He had better stamina. Or maybe he had access to better nasal steroids. Who knows?

If there’s a theological or psychological term for being intimidated by your savior, let me know. I’ll put it down on my next physical form for a conversation piece.

Happy Easter. Eat some chocolate bunnies. Just try to chew very softly, please.

My financial life is in perfect balance in harmony with nature — or at least with the IRS. For the first time in over 26 years of wage-earning and tax-paying, I have finally managed the impossible — I withheld from my paychecks almost exactly what was needed to satisfy my 2005 tax obligation.

Federal refund: $90.00
State tax due: $38.00

I will now accept your fawning praise. Wanna rub my calculator for luck?

This is an enormous improvement over past years where I have been off by as much as $2000 (in both directions, unfortunately). The W-4 dancing and related gyrations were finally worth it.

This almost certainly means that someoneat the federal or state level is planning to throw a legislative wrench into my perfect little world. Whoever said that the only certainties in life are death and taxes obviously never had to worry about the AMT (Alternative Minimum Tax).

Of course, I wouldn’t have to jump through all of these insane hoops if Congress would get on the stick and pass the Fair Tax Bill. But I’m not holding my breath — I’m more likely to see someone’s brains taken over by space aliens (and no, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes do not count).

Are you web surfing at work when you should be collating, or filing, or other such nonsense? Keep this boss page handy in your shortcuts and you’ll never be exposed.

From the web page of author Jasper Fforde. Link sorta kinda via Dustbury.

It’s time for a literary poll. Illiterates need not participate.

Proposed: The classic novel Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott is quite possibly the most boring book ever written, English language or otherwise. Discussion is now open.

This topic has been a bone of contention between Stacey and I for most of the 20 years of our marriage. My wife is what you would call a bibliophile. From the day she was old enough to read, she has never willingly gone a day without reading several pages of something, preferably one of the classics. In high school, she never had to worry about the required reading lists because she had already read everything on them. She knows which Star Trek episodes are ripoffs of which Shakespeare plays. She reads the Brontë sisters (all of them) for fun.

I therefore consider her to be something of a casual authority on English literature. This makes it even harder for me to believe that she would call Ivanhoe “romantic and exciting.” It’s like calling distilled water “refreshing.”

As for me? I wouldn’t recognize a literary reference if it came up and bit me on Od’s bodkin. While I consider myself a well-read fellow, most of my recreational reading is centered on authors who are still alive, if for no other reason so I can harass them in email if I don’t like the ending. I have read quite a few of the classics, and I thoroughly enjoyed exactly two of them: The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, and Grendel by John Gardner. (I’m sure a psychologist could have a field day with this information). The rest of my exposure to the classics has been at the point of a teacher’s grading pencil. To this day, the name “John Steinbeck” is enough to send me scurrying for the safety of the Mack Bolan section of the bookstore.

Please understand that I am not a total rube. I enjoy good Shakespeare, and I can even recite my fair share of Polonius proverbs. However, Shakespeare was meant to be performed, not read. One can only take so many repetitions of the word “exeunt” before turning to the comic book version. I have similar problems with classical “adventure” books. An adventure story should dip and soar like an eagle on the wind, yet so many of these “adventures” get bogged down in descriptions of names, places, and heraldry devices. Which brings us back to Ivanhoe.

I have attempted a complete read-through of Ivanhoe no less than seven times in my life. I have yet to make it past the halfway point, which proves that my survival instinct is well intact. I fear that an attempt to push for the third act would see me waking up in the intensive care ward.

I know there’s a great story buried in there somewhere. How do I know this? Why, like any good American, I saw the movie. Two versions, in fact — the classic 1952 film by Richard Thorpe, and the surprisingly good television miniseries from 1982, which starred Olivia Hussey and a bunch of other people not nearly as stunningly attractive as she was. The movies had it all — action, suspense, intrigue, romance, and John Rys-Davies on a horse (he was a lot lighter back then).

Obviously, the screenwriters must have taken some liberties with the text. I’ve looked (seven times) and if all that adventure stuff is really there, it’s so mired in narrative, background, and historical context that it would even slow the metabolism of Robin Williams. My wife hears me say these things and thinks I’m a complete Philistine. Hey, at least they were born too early to be assigned Ivanhoe in their Humanities classes.

However, never let it be said that I’m not willing to learn something new. I have decided, therefore, to attempt yet another reading of that fine, fine piece of literature known as Ivanhoe. I’ll even start it right here, in front of my loyal readers, so you can be witnesses to my resolve.

Okay, here goes. Ivanhoe, page one. “In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe Park, and atta boysa uphna nagle grep asr uzza gmr humma hum hmm mph mumsz mmm…”

ZZZZzzzzzz.

Found on the inside wrapper of my daily ration of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: Eat Sweets Responsibly.

Of course I eat my sweets responsibly! I would never eat sweets and drive. The chocolate might get all over my cell phone.

Our Boy Scout troop attended the annual district Camporee last month. Great fun was had by all, most especially by our Venture (older boy) patrol, the Temple Guards, who took home a sheaf of first and second place awards. Their friends in larger troops did not fare so well.

This is a bit of a reversal; normally, our smaller troop tends to come out on the bottom. I asked the boys if it felt good to pull out an upset win over their rivals. One of them said, “Yes, it felt pretty good to rub it in. It’s gonna feel even better on Monday at school, when I’ll do it again!”

While this isn’t exactly what Baden-Powell had in mind when he put the words “friendly” and “courteous” in the Scout Law, I can’t begrudge them a little bit of bragging rights. They worked hard for it. Besides, I can’t wait to get a little of that for myself at the next Scout roundtable (heh heh).

One interesting observation: at the evening campfire, one of the Scoutmasters was addressing the crowd and misplaced his notebook. He started muttering to himself, “Now, where did I put my handy, dandy…”

And about 100 teenagers yelled out “NOTEBOOK!”

If you were wondering if the younger generation has found their identity, worry no more. This is clearly the Blue’s Clues generation.

Taurus PT-99 9mm double-stack pistol with Hogue rubber grips. Cost: $358.00

17 rounds of Federal-brand 124 grain Hydra-Shok JHPs. Cost: $19.99

The look on your sweetheart’s face when you present her with her very-own semiautomatic pistol: Priceless

Okay, maybe a pistol isn’t every gal’s dream anniversary gift, but if that picture is any indication, I hit a home run this time.

Even though I plan to shoot it from time to time, let it be said for one and all that this is her pistol. Bad guys may infer whatever they wish from that statement, but let me add that she shot a five-inch group at 25 feet on her first magazine. You have been warned.

Happy Birthday to Dustbury! Drop by and congratulate Charles Hill on ten years of quality web presence (and ignore his humble protests, which are part and parcel of his charm.)

I’ve had the privilege of knowing Charles for much longer than the life of his website. Charles and I are veterans of that grand predecessor to the Internet community know as “Bulletin Board Systems”, or BBS for short.

Back in the halcyon days of the early 1980’s (when men were men, except for heavy metal rockers) most computer-based socialization took place in two venues: the hideously expensive Compuserve and its imitators (including Quantumlink, the predecessor to America Online), and on local BBS systems. A BBS system was simply a computer that was attached to an incoming phone line, acting as a dedicted message base and email processor. BBS’s were small one-computer affairs, usually run by hobbyists on a limited budget, and could only handle one caller at a time. However, they were free and thus were incredibly more popular in my household than any of the online services.

During this time, there were several quality BBS’s available in Oklahoma City. Each was a labor of love (or at least obsessive-compulsiveness) as the computers of the era did not multitask — making your personal computer into a BBS was an expensive and time-consuming proposition. Each BBS attracted it’s own sort of clientele, kind of like bars but without the alcohol (not that you could tell). It wasn’t uncommon for each BBS to have 10-20 “regulars” that tended to set the tone for the discussions, be they political, humorous, cultural, technical, juvenile, or even downright silly.

Amidst this early noise and confusion, a few writers tended to stand out through the quality of their posts, and Charles was one of the most noticeable. He went by a variety of pseudonyms (which we called “handles”, a la the old CB radio lingo) but I knew him mostly as “Nick Danger — Third Eye”. At one point, I would have sworn he had a twin sister, but that assumption was quickly corrected the first time I met her… er, him in person.

Nick Danger’s voice was a beacon of wit and complete sentences in a wilderness of electronic noise. It didn’t matter what the topic — music appreciation, global warming, computer brand wars (my computer is better than your computer), or whether or not L. Ron Hubbard actually wrote Mission Earth — “Nick” never failed to deliver a heavy dose of smarts, charm, and knowledge with each and every post. The depth of his knowledge was astounding, and the volume of his output was intimidating. Although I sound like a fawning fanboy, I can honestly say that Nick Danger was one of the primary reasons I continued to frequent local BBS’s. Of course, I don’t have to worry about describing the impact of his writing, as his web page is more than description enough.

I wandered off the BBS scene in the early 1990’s, much to the relief of my wife, who wanted her telephone line back. By that time, the BBS community had discovered networking, and message bases that previously sported 30 users were now seeing posts from ten times that many. It was impossible to have a personal conversation with 300 people, so I sadly unplugged the modem and went on with my life.

It was with great joy that I found the Dustbury site in the latter 1990’s. Knowing that it was an Oklahoma website, I recognized Charles’ inimitable style and verbal animation long before I spotted his name at the bottom of the page. I have been a regular reader ever since, even after his conversion to this weird blogging thing.

So, it is with fondness and some nostalgia for “the good old days” that I wish Dustbury a happy 10th anniversary, and hopes for many more anniversaries to come. If men are measured by their influence in the lives of others, then there aren’t enough yardsticks in Home Depot to measure the length of Charles’ influence on his readers.

May his keyboard never caplock!

I have a popcorn button! I have a popcorn button!

I’ll back up. Our Sharp microwave oven has the distinction of being the only appliance to survive the 20 years of my marriage. That is, it was the sole survivor until last week, at which point the oven emitted its last rad and died a quiet death. This happened right in the middle of reheating my hot ‘n sour soup, much to my annoyance. Nothing is more annoying than cold hot ‘n sour soup.

However, annoyance soon turned to anticipation. One of the disadvantages of having a 20-year old appliance is that it has 20-year old engineering. The “cutting edge” of technology never looks so dull as when viewed from the distance of a decade or two. Oh, sure, the Sharp was an amazing piece of work in it’s day — it had six power levels, a digital readout, and even a turntable. But by today’s standards it was a dog waiting for a quick death.

The most annoying thing was its power to weight ratio. Even though it was approximately the size of a Sherman tank, the emitter gave forth a measley 600 watts. Even Easy-Bake ovens can do more than that (if you’re willing to disregard certain parts of the instruction manual). Popping a bag of popcorn took over four minutes, an eternity when measured in doggie years.

Need soon turned to greed. Yes, I needed to get a new microwave. But I wanted a popcorn button. My ancient Sharp was built in the days before push-button convenience came to the popcorn world. Back then, you had to stick the bag in, push the “start” button and hang out until the popping noises stopped, or the smoke started, whichever came first. (Uphill in the snow. In bare feet. Both ways.)

I had some experience with “popcorn buttons” at work, and I was totally for the concept (as if someone would be against it). I knew that someday, somehow, fate would see fit to bestow a popcorn button upon my household.

At last, that day is nigh. Sitting in my kitchen is a brand-new Sharp 1.6 cubic foot box o’ microwaving goodness. It has 1200 watts of power, which ought to be enough to vaporize anything on the planet inside of five minutes. It has programmable reheat, defrost, melt, cook, and “keep warm” modes. It has a gajillion power settings It even has a night-light.

But most importantly, it has (drum roll) a popcorn button!

The moment is at hand. Knowing that this event cannot be commemorated with just any old bag of popcorn, I bring forth the finest of the fine — Orville Redenbacher’s Kettle Korn. (A quick aside about this popcorn: I won’t say that it’s better than sex, but if they ever outlaw sex, this particular popcorn could become very, very, very popular.)

I open the door. I rip the cellophane off the bag. I unfold and flatten the bag, ever so delicately, being careful not to bruise the kernals within. I savor the moment, preparing myself for the joy of a single button press and 1 minute, 40 seconds of waiting (according to the owner’s manual).

And then I read the packaging on the bag: FOR BEST RESULTS, DO NOT USE THE POPCORN BUTTON.

Thank you, Orville Redenbacher, for stealing my joy.

(grumble)

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” - Inigo Montoya, from the book/movie “The Princess Bride”

Think you know what the word scumbag means? Well, guess again. According to the revered and hernia-inducing Oxford English Dictionary, the word scumbag has only recently assumed its current usage of “despicable person.” It was originally a slang term for “used condom.”

Ick.

I normally pride myself on the sophistication of my vocabulary, which I earned the hard way through two decades of losing arguments with my wife, the English major. I cringe at some of the misused words tossed about by the younger generation. For example: dork is commonly used to describe an idiot or foolish person. Nobody seems to remember it used to have quite a different meaning that had little to do with the brain. If you have to ask, you’re too young and I can’t tell you.

Guess I’ll have to lay off the dork users, because I’m certainly guilty of using “scumbag” in genteel company. In fact, I used it just the other day in this very blog. So much for my status as an elitist Englisher. Of course, I fully expect that my wife will read this and say, “Oh, I knew that!” And my score falls further behind…

With English being so complex, it’s no wonder that illegal immigrants don’t want to bother learning to speak it.

Via David.

Are you tired of calling tech support numbers in India? Has your job ever been outsourced overseas? Are you ticked off about it?

Apparently, so are the people that made this short film. Yes, it makes fun of some stereotypes, but like most good satire, it has just enough truth to make it freaking hilarious. Get thee hence and watch!

NASA’s Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter has just completed its first series of tests of a new high-resolution camera called a HiRise (High Resolution Imaging Science Experiment). And mission controllers everywhere breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t care what kind of warranty the camera has — postage and handling would be outrageous.

Alas, this will be one of the few images we’ll see for a while (be careful with that link - it’s over 4 mb in size). The spacecraft will be spending the next six months in aerobraking maneuvers. Once that’s done, I expect we’re going to see some fantastic photography.

Some may balk at our government using such hi-tech serveillance techniques on innocent Martian civilians. Serves them right for invading us, I say. It’s nice to know that we have such advanced technology in our arsenal. For my part, I was extremely uncomfortable with relying on Tom Cruise as our first line of defense.

10. “… as giddy as Liberace at a shoe sale.”

9. “… more guests than you can shake an Oprah at.”

8. “… thinner than Calista Flockhart on an Ethiopian tour.”

7. “… funnier than a Fox Channel full of Wayans.”

6. “… as arresting as Martha Stewart at a stock sale.”

5. “… faster than a pool full of Spitzes (alternative usage: field full of Flo-Jos)

4. “… as unlikely as a Baldwin Oscar nomination.”

3. “… CarrotTop-esque.”

2. “… more wacko than Jacko.”

1. “… stupid is as Scientology does.”

Okay, time out. I perfectly understand that criminals are not the brightest bulbs in the box. If these guys were smart enough to make a regular living or to entertain themselves in a legal manner, we wouldn’t need a police force.

Judging from recent headlines, Internet child predators are the standout dummies of the entire class. As Wizbang puts it in their Public Service Announcement for Perverts, chances are extremely high that the under-17 kid on the other end of that chat line is a police investigator.

I don’t have any sympathy for these scumbags, but you simply have to pity anyone suffering from that much sheer gullibility. These sick weasels have the common sense of Homer Simpson, but I suppose I should be grateful that these people are so easy to catch.

This is not a real internet chat transcript of a sting in progress, but it easily could be:

G-MAN B: So, do you have any hobbies?

TRIXIE87: I like to play with my Barbies. My Mom won’t let me have a Ken doll. She says I’m not old enough yet — he’s too sophisticated for me.

GMAN B: I don’t think that’s true at all. I think your a very sophisticated young lady. I’ll buy you a Ken doll, okay?

TRIXIE87: That would be great! You’re really sweet. And even though my mom told me hundreds of times not to accept gifts from strangers, I won’t tell her about this one.

GMAN B: Trixie, this may sound a little forward, but I feel oddly attracted to you in a sexual way. Does that bother you?

TRIXIE87: Not at all. Despite the fact that I am only a 12-year old girl in Hoboken, I’m not offended or shocked at all. In fact, I feel oddly attracted to you, too. You must drive here across state lines and meet me in person.

GMAN B: That sounds like a perfectly good idea to me. You seem very mature for your age, but I guess I’m just lucky to find such a grown-up young lady!

TRIXIE87: Yes, very lucky. Be sure to bring full identification, okay?

GMAN B: Okay. Why?

TRIXIE87: No reason. So, what were we talking about? It was about your favorite things to do with mashed potatoes, right?

GMAN B: Oh, that’s right. Anyway, my favorite thing to do with mashed potatoes is to….

END OF TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT

Astronomers have spotted an alcohol cloud in deep space that measures 288 billion miles across:

The vast bridge-shaped cloud of methyl alcohol has been spotted in a region of our galaxy, the Milky Way, that is called W3(OH), where stars are being formed by the gravitational collapse of concentrations of gas and dust, the discoverers said in a press release.

In other news, Senator Ted Kennedy (D-Mass.) called for a renewed effort in US manned space travel.