Stacey controls the clicker as I write this. 8:34 p.m. -- Chris Rock just bit the big one. James Lipton, he of the Actors' Studio, is interviewing Will Smith. Jiggy.
Speaking of Will Smith, I took the bionic woman this afternoon to see Will in his latest flick, Hitch, which was definitely way better than Chris Rock's last movie, Head of State. I recommend the movie, even though the guy who got Amber Valletta in the end wore a fucking rug. On second thought, I recommend it for matinee viewing. Don't spend top dollar to see it.
She turned the Oscars back on and returned control of the television set to me ... with "I'm going to sleep." Cate Blanchett just won for Best Supporting Actress. She was pregnant last time I saw her. Cate looked much better pregnant. And if she appears way too skinny on TV, just think how emaciated she must be in real life.
I don't watch Bill Maher's show very often, but I did catch it last night on HBO57. Well, that's Heinz that has 57 varieties, but HBO is getting there. In fact, this is the second time I have ever seen the show. Does Bill Maher hear anything that anyone else says? He laughs at his own jokes and hears only what he wants to hear. Hell, I have been accused of that. I could host a "talk show."
Since some blog readers do not watch television (You missed Josh Groban), I have a kitchen tip. Say, you sliced the outer edge of your right thumb just near the nail about a week ago. You had to keep a band-aid on it for a few days because it continued to bleed. Finally, when it stopped bleeding and you removed the band-aid (not the same one from the first day) a couple days later, the flap of skin sort of came off all by itself when you picked at it; but it didn't start bleeding too bad and you put a band-aid on it for a day. Really, the kitchen tip is coming up.
Today, after taking your shower, but before seeing a movie, you decide to leave the cut on your thumb open because it looks pretty well healed. Then, when you get home from the matinee, you decide to make some breaded beef cutlets with the thin-sliced round steak you bought at Fernengel's Meats at the West Side Market; and you, of course, need to grate some Parmeggiano Reggiano for the bread crumb mixture.
Here is your kitchen tip:
When you use your microplane grater, remember that this converted carpentry tool, which is used to shave down a piece of wood, like oak, to make tight joints, has a "razor-sharp stainless steel blade;" and if you are a real doofus and you microplane your right thumb with it in the exact spot you sliced a piece off earlier in the week, you will bleed like a stuck pig.
By the way, I plan to see the movie, Robots, even though every item at the grocery store that might be deemed a kid food has those fucking Robots on the packaging, and even though I am sick of the fucking stuff already. BUT "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who was the soundtrack for the trailer.
I went to see the St. Edward hockey team beat arch-rival Catholic school Padua Franciscan High School by a score of 5 to 0. St. Ed moves on to the the state championship semifinal game next Saturday.
On the westward ride home, I checked my rear view mirror and just above the horizon was the moon. It was fucking huge. It was full or nearly full, I guess; and on the radio, "Werewolves of London."
Coincidence? I don't think so.
I stopped in to buy some milk at the store. I happened to go down the snack aisle, and a huge question was presented to me.
Evolution. I used to be one of those Alfred- Russell- Wallace- evolution- by- natural- selection theory kind of guys. When confronted with a question from one of "those" people who thinks that God is out there messing with the world, I pulled out from my wallet a crease-worn picture of the dark-colored speckled moth against a birch tree, made dark by the pollution in England, and explained how in the 1840's, 95% of the moths were white with gray speckles and blended in to the white birch trees and the rest were gray with white speckles and they were eaten by various birds, and how as the coal-burning darkened the birch tree bark with soot, the white speckled moths became easy targets for birds and the dark speckled moths began to blend in, survive, and flourish. In 1950, the dark-colored speckled moths comprised 95% of the moth population. Surprisingly, with the reduction in pollution, the white speckled moths are now making a comeback with about 30% of the moth population.
Yeah, yeah, yeah ... right. What kind of fucked up thinking is that?
There I was this evening in the snack aisle confronted by an array of Goldfish, the likes of which I had never imagined.
I was familiar with the Original Goldfish, the Cheddar Goldfish, and the Pizza-flavored, but there were Calcium Cheddar and Reduced-Sodium Cheddar for the health-conscious, Pretzel, and Parmesan, Giant Cheddar, Flavor-Blasted Cheddar, which is claimed to be "Color-Changing," whatever that means, Pizza, BBQ Cheddar, which sounds pretty nasty, and Nacho. I saw Goldfish Crisps in Cheddar Jack, Cheesy Sour Cream and Onion, and Four Cheese flavors. And what the hell are Goldfish Colors? Then I saw Goldfish with green shit on them. Don't ask me what it is all about. That seems all alien-like to me, and I was afraid to pick up the foil bag. Foil. Who would have dreamed of this? And if you had, you would have been involuntarily committed to some institution ... any judge would have ordered it.
How could evolution through natural selection account for this? People can't like all of these Goldfish. For chrissake, it's as if the company that makes Peeps and all Peep monstrosities bought out the Goldfish Division of Pepperidge Farms and started on this slippery slide to lunacy.
Peeps ... Goldfish ... Barry Bonds ... what's next? I may turn my back on natural selection and take a closer look at ... creationism.
Come to think of it ... why, oh, why did the American League start using the designated hitter ... that's the root of all of this ... evil. It's the only possible explanation.
When you are going to appear in court and your lawyer tells you to wear something appropriate, like a shirt and tie, you've done well when you wear a shirt and tie and a nice pair of pants. Even the Nike running shoes are okay.
But the big long quilted parka you picked out with "State Property" embroidered on the back is not a good choice when you might be sentenced to prison. No need to give the judge any subliminal hints about where you want to reside for the next couple years.
I fully expect Homeland Security to stop by. This information comes from the world wide web. Anyone can get it. There's a lot of nuclear waste out there, which is material for a "dirty bomb," which is simply an ordinary explosive wrapped in radioactive material that explodes and spreads radioactive stuff all over the place.
Did you know:
According to the U.S. Department of Energy, Millstone Nuclear Reactor, in Waterford, Connecticut, currently has an estimated 1,518 tons of nuclear waste on-site and is generating nuclear waste at a rate of 103,400 pounds per year.
Dresden Nuclear Reactor in Grundy County, Illinois, which is somewhere out there near Chicago, currently has an estimated 2,078 tons of nuclear waste on site and is generating nuclear waste at a rate of 81,400 pounds per year.
The Peach Bottom Nuclear Reactor in York County, Pennsylvania, which is west of Philadelphia, currently has an estimated 1,400 tons of nuclear waste on site and is generating nuclear waste at a rate of 88,000 pounds per year.
Browns Ferry Nuclear Reactor, 10 miles from Decatur, Alabama, currently has an estimated 1,600 tons of nuclear waste on-site and is generating nuclear waste at a rate of 150,000 pounds per year.
Nine Mile Point Nuclear Reactor, Oswego, New York, currently has an estimated 1,545 metric tons of nuclear waste on site and is generating nuclear waste at a rate of 127,600 pounds per year. Nine Mile recently turned 35 years old and has the oldest reactor on the continent.
The spent nuclear fuel assemblies are stored in pools of water, just like the stuff from the faucet. Nothing special there. Here's something about Nine Mile, which is common to all 103 reactors in the U.S.:
Gaseous fission products such as Krypton-85 and Iodine-131 are produced by the fuel in the core during reactor operation. A small percentage of these fission gases is released to the reactor coolant from the small number of fuel assemblies that are expected to develop leaks during reactor operation. During refueling operations, some of these fission products enter the pool and are subsequently released into the air.
Don't you just love gaseous fission products? Fortunately, Iodine-131 has a half-life of only 8 days. Not so for Krypton-85, which has a half-life of almost 11 years. That will be circulating in the atmosphere for a long time. But it's an inert gas. It won't combine with other stuff; so, lung cancer is probably the only result from exposure. What an argument for intelligent design! Smell that fresh air!
What about the other stuff in the pools of water? Well, there's Strontium-90 and Technetium-99 and Cesium-137 and Neptunium-237 and Plutonium-238 and Plutonium-239 and Plutonium-241 and Americium-241 and Curium-242, which are very hazardous to life, in addition to the Uranium-233, which emits only low levels of radiation and isn't too bad for you.
Then there's "CRUD." CRUD refers to minute, solid, corrosion products that travel into the reactor core, become highly radioactive, and then flow out of the reactor into other systems in the plant, like the waste water plumbing. Major components of CRUD are iron, cobalt, chrome, and manganese; and it is a concentrated source of radiation.
And you're worried about Iran, Mr. Bush? You've got a lot of worrisome nuclear stuff here.
how does that look on your computer? is the banner in the center? or way off to one side. first one to find me gets a tin of cashew brittle!
sorry the car's dirty. the last time we washed it, it broke. that's my story, and i'm sticking to it.
Sometimes you run into people you've seen before, but you can't remember who they are. That's happened to everyone. After stopping at the post office this morning, I dropped into the bank, a branch I rarely visit; but it was on the way to Starbucks. When I was finished, the teller said,"Thank you, William." I know that she was just trying to be ultra-friendly in the community banking kind of way, but my friends don't call me William. In any event, I left the bank, got into the white VW Beetle with the black "The Who" sticker and the peace symbol on the back bumper, and drove the several miles to Starbucks.
Stacey, obviously feeling better after having dinner out last night with my cousin and her husband at Heck's Cafe, had placed her order with me for a mocha. I thought that was a good recovery indication; so, I figured that when I got home with her mocha, I would fix her some breakfast in bed.
I walked into Starbucks, placed my order, and went to wait over by the little pick-up counter, when a guy came in wearing a spandex running outfit complete with a number pinned to his royal blue abdomen. He looked at me and said, "I didn't see you out there."
I don't recall ever having seen the guy before, but he apparently thought that he knew me and thought I should have been at the community 10K race that was advertised on his abdomen. He added, "Your leg must still be bothering you?"
So, I replied, smiling, holding up my right hand, showing him the Band-Aid on my thumb, "No, but my thumb's been bleeding the past three days."
"You're not Steve, are you. Sorry." He laughed.
Arriving home, Sheba greeted me at the back door. She had a white string hanging out of her mouth, looking to play a little tug of war with me. I put down the mocha and grabbed the string.
There are those times when the glimmer of recognition hits you, like when you realize that the curveball isn't going to break and you're going to get hit in the head if you don't bail pretty quickly or the car in front of you doesn't have any fucking brake lights. Most of the time, you avoid getting beaned or rear-ending the moron in front of you.
This was not one of those times; however, and I knew the thing didn't belong to Stacey. Not the right time or the kind I bought for her. Where are the latex gloves when you need them?
I couldn't fix breakfast.
If veteran journalist Helen Thomas were allowed to ask questions about the President's plan to reform social security, maybe she would ask questions like this during the President's next news conference. Of course, until he can hire another right-wing shill to pose "questions," Bush probably won't have any press conferences.
"What exactly is your plan for social security and the individual private personal accounts or whatever you call them today?"
"What do you mean by 'I don't have one?'"
"Would a 26-year-old widow with six young children be in line to receive survivors' benefits for her and the children; or would she just inherit the private account of her 25-year-old husband who died of a heart attack and have to rely on the kindness of strangers?"
"Say one of those six children is severely handicapped to the point that the child will not be able to work. Does that child at age 18 start getting disability benefits?"
"Could you start calling the program we have in place now by its proper name, which is 'Old Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance?' Why are you talking only about retirement?"
I saw something distressing over at that alleged news site, CNN.com. CNN reported yesterday that some dumbass astronomers are fucking with Pluto. That's right ... fucking with Pluto.
It was bad enough that the Holy Roman Catholic Church pulled the rug out from under St. Christopher. I happened to be in a car at the time I first heard about that one. What the hell was I supposed to do with a de-commissioned religious protective medal around my neck. It was even blessed by a priest. What about that? Was the blessing no good? What kind of deal was that?
Now, they want to do away with a whole damn planet!
So, I checked it out over at the International Astronomical Union website. And the IAU said back in 1999, closing the book on the subject:
No proposal to change the status of Pluto as the ninth planet in the solar system has been made by any Division, Commission or Working Group of the IAU responsible for solar system science. Accordingly, no such initiative has been considered by the Officers or Executive Committee, who set the policy of the IAU itself.
Must have been a slow science news day that CNN had to dredge up something from the archives to stir people up into a dither. Sheesh, I might as well be getting "news" through FOX.
What is this thing with the baseball cap on backwards and pants down around the ass? I didn’t realize that 40-year-old men dressed this way. Or am I way behind the times or fashion trends. I guess, though, that if you’re going to be in court, why not try to make a really great impression on the acting judge by wearing pants falling down around your ass and wearing a hat backwards until the bailiff tells you to take your hat off in the courtroom. And when the judge asked about where you worked, do you think the judge was going to be like pleased with your answer that the Man has been holding you down. Maybe I’m just old and don’t know what is going on in the world; and this is relatively normal behavior now.
And maybe I should be taking some pointers away with me and learn that there is, indeed, a different, less stilted way to address the judge. I don’t know, however, that it will work in every case if you say, “Yo, yo, yo, judge! What about personal bond here, judge?”
And although I went to law school before the turn of the century, I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to interrupt the judge when it seems like he is ignoring you and he says he’s scheduling a pretrial conference for February 15th. I have seen some lawyers do it and get reprimanded by the judge for interrupting. I have seen some people who were not represented by a lawyer interrupt a judge, but usually the judge is polite in letting them know that they should not interrupt again.
When you think about it now from inside the jail cell you’ll be occupying for a while, do you still think you didn’t do anything wrong when you said, “Yo, yo, yo. I asked you about personal bond. Didn’t you hear me? I need to get out to go to school.”
I haven't written about the sporting world in a long time. My friend, DT, is going up to Montana with his father to fish in the Spring. It sounds like a cool thing to do, unless, of course, it entails camping out-of-doors.
In any event, that really isn't a sport, is it?
The National Hockey League season is in the dumper, unless they play a ten-game season to prepare for the play-offs ... that's what they should do every year, anyway. The players don't start playing real hockey until the play-offs. They mostly coast through the regular season at about three-quarter speed, then they jack it up to the highest level for the play-offs. Any hockey person will admit that. Why kid around?
At this point, however, why would the owners want a season when they get business interruption insurance money that is probably more than they would have made all year? And they don't have the press with which to deal if they don't make the play-offs. Plus, tax-wise, they will get to write off the depreciation of the players and not have to pay a dime to any government, Canadian or U.S. What a racket.
Speaking of paying, I need to pay my daughter-in-law to go on a vacation for a week. Then I can play an entire NHL season on the Nintendo with Matt. Now, that's a real sport.
it’s 1:52 p.m. i’ve been working since 10 a.m. i’m in my pajamas. i’m propped up in bed. my laptop on my lap (duh. where else would my laptop be?). bill on his side of the bed. in his underwear. also working. on his tablet pc. two dogs at my feet, passed out.
do i have to get my knee done to work like this? life is so unfair. ;)
About five years ago, Stacey bought me a little frog in a little aquarium. It was the kind of thing you buy for your little kid; and knowing that I enjoy little kid things to the extreme, she got me one from Target. It came with care instructions and food, everything necessary to help the little frog thrive.
It took me maybe two weeks to get in the habit of feeding the frog at proper intervals; but, unfortunately, the lesson was learned a little too late for the frog. It died. I ... uhhhh ... killed it. It wasn't intentional, like murder or anything. More like frogslaughter, I'd say.
I felt very bad about the way I handled the responsibility, as I flushed the little frog into oblivion. It was not easy to admit to myself that I couldn't, you know, take care of a little frog. I peg this as one of the unresolved psychological issues I have to this day.
After that, I decided to go up to Target and get another frog. I would take care of this new frog. I would. I could. I bought two, a pair of frogs, one for me and one for Stacey. I guess I figured that I wouldn't be alone in killing a frog again if Stacey killed hers, too. I figured that these frogs weren't meant to live long ... planned obsolescence, so to speak. In fact, as I recall, the little instruction booklet warned parents that the life span of the little frogs was about six months.
Stacey took her frog, Freddy, to the office. She named the frog Freddy. Cute. Freddy thrived in the fluorescent-illuminated environment and grew and grew. He outgrew the little aquarium, and I helped move him to larger quarters. That was five years ago, as I said before. Five ... fucking ... years.
My frog, well, ... this was something for a little kid to do. How could I be expected to take care of it? I had responsibilities back then ... you know, ree ... spahn ... suh ... bill ... ih ... tees. Feeding a frog a few crumbles of yeast-like food every other day is something I forgot to do every now and then.
My frog, I hate to say this, didn't thrive. I ... uhhhh ... don't know what happened. Flu, maybe? It died. Three weeks after I got it. Three ... fucking ... weeks.
Why do I bring this up now, five years later?
Because Stacey's boss brought Freddy home. Freddy is on my desk. I'm supposed to take care of Freddy during Stacey's rehabilitation. I fed Freddy this morning. He's moving around. I, for one, am relieved, but I am terrified about ... ummm ... the inevitability of death. After all, he must be, what, almost 900 in frog years. And Methusalah, he was just over, ummm ... like 900 when he croaked; so, the way I see it, you know, Freddy is totally on borrowed time.
And I'm fucking terrified with the thought of the consequences in store for Freddy's custodian, if nature runs its course. I mean, I would not simply be just the bearer of bad news.
My chances, in light of my past experience, are not good.
I'll let Stacey tell you about our trip to Costco. Giddy with excitement about finally getting out of the house, she was like a child in a candy store. She got to ride on one of those three-wheeled power chair things. You know how some people driving their cars swerve to hit little critters crossing the road? Every time I turned around, she was bearing down on me. I heard her laughing as I dove out of the way the last time.
As we were leaving, a guy stood astride his dark-blue Ford 350 pickup in his white short-sleeved undershirt in the snowy, windy, 20-degree weather, shouting something unintelligible to a group of three women of indeterminate age. The bleachiest blonde of the three yelled back to him, "Why have you no coat on?"
The guy laughed, "What did you say?"
Obviously having second thoughts about what she said to him, she asked him, "Why don't you got no coat on?"
today was a red-letter day:
AND ...
eventually i'll be able to write about something other than my knee. not yet, though. i feel better and better every single day.
once again, thanks for your good wishes.
I couldn't help but notice that Keri is approaching 500 miles in the Relay For Life. This is the second 500-mile lap in the Relay For Life for her.
It's time to cough up some cash or coinage to cure cancer.
1,000 miles. 1,600 kilometres. And she does this along with all kinds of volunteer work at her daughter's school, knitting projects for others as a part of her charity work, minding the home front, and worrying about her husband's health.
We got news in the last month that two of Stacey's friends are battling breast cancer, one whose son received a bone marrow transplant as treatment for leukemia about a year ago. Cancer hits home or close to home for everybody out there.
Take five three minutes out of your day to donate to Keri's cause or, if charity turns you hostile and if she's not backlogged too much, order a scarf (mine rocks!).
I have a new-found respect for woodpeckers. I let one peck a hole in the light pole out by the pool a couple years ago. Quaint. A unique design element, as they'd say on the home improvement shows.
During the late summer and fall, the woodpeckers tried to establish some kind of colony on the back of the house. I'd hear the rat-a-tat-tat-ing of a woodpecker. I'd open an upstairs window. The stupid bird is grabbed onto the side of the house, beak ramming repeatedly into the cedar siding. I'd yell. It would fly away. This scenario played itself out nearly every day, two or three times a day. The woodpecker was always in the same place; so, it wasn't difficult to locate the little beast when I'd hear the woodpecker start banging away.
I won. There was no hole.
This morning, I was over on the west side of the house. I spied a hole in the house. Woodpecker nest. There they were this past summer, two woodpeckers rat-a-tat-tat-ing in synchrony. It was a plan. They had signals. They're in their nest, rolling on the floor laughing their asses off. Stupid bald guy.
ok. here i am. yeah, yeah, yeah, it's better, but it fucking HURTS. you don't have to tell me i'm a baby. i know it. wahhhhh.
on the plus side:
it hurts less.
i'm able to relieve the discomfort (without vicodin) a lot more by myself.
i'm feeling mostly human.
i can get up and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without a room full of cheerleaders.
i can shower with the help of only one cheerleader.
my boss brought me this laptop to use to do some work at home. [i don't know how much blogging i'll be doing on it; it will be some, but probably not a lot.
i got some cool prezzies from some bloggy buddies. lucy made me a lovely quilted throw that goes with me everywhere (picture linus without the thumb in his mouth) AND a very, very nice basket that bill thinks he's going to take when i'm back to normal. heh. jenorama and kazoofus sent some awesome books for me. i feel loved.
i have received more e-mails and well wishes than i could ever respond to [yeah, yeah, i know i ended that with a preposition. it bothers me more than it does you. oh well]. just know that they have been much appreciated. you blog people are awesome! i feel loved.
we ALL spend a lot of time hanging out here in my bedroom. there is almost ALWAYS three dogs and at least one male in bed with me. tuesday evening, sister pj came over and put on a pot of chicken soup while i slept. then, pj fed all of us (me, bill, mark, sarah, and pj). we all ate chicken soup here in the bedroom and then watched american idol. it was awesome. i feel loved.
i've had more chicken soup, cookies, lunches, and fruit baskets brought over. i feel loved.
i know i'll be better everyday. i'm impatient. i'm restless. i work hard at exercising. it hurts. blah, blah, blah. just be glad you're not bill.
next year we do the right knee.
Starbucks wasn't crowded this morning, and a woman I recognized, but from where I didn't know, walked in. She recognized me, calling me by name; and I shook hands with her. She said, "You have a Beetle, right?"
"Yes," I replied.
"My daughter turns 16 next month; she wants a Bug." I looked at her and smiled. She continued, "Do you know what they run?"
"I really don't know what they cost now. Maybe 20,000."
"Oh, that's not too bad. Don't your think it would be a good car for her?"
"Do you really want my opinion?" I asked. She told me that she did because of the way I took care of her nephew's case. She mentioned his name; she came into the office with her sister and nephew. I recalled she was a know-it-all with all kinds of ideas about how to be a lawyer for her wonderful felon of a nephew. And I remembered her slut daughter.
"No, I don't think it would be a good idea, to be honest with you," I said to her.
"Really? She just loves the Bug. They're so cute," she said. I smiled and wanted to get out of Starbucks. She was the same obnoxious know-it-all I met six months ago. And I still could not remember her name. "What do you think I should get her?" she asked, as I was headed for the door with my mocha in hand.
"Contraceptives," I replied, walking out the door. I should have looked back at her, but I didn't have the guts. I don't think she'll be hiring me in the future, though.
I had a pretrial conference this morning. I cut through one of the two courtrooms to the judges' chambers. Both judges, females, had the same last name. And the same first name. What the hell?
Then I froze my ass off on my way to a status conference in federal court because I didn’t realize how cold it was and didn't think about how long the walk was to the new building. And then I didn't make it through the metal detector. The U.S. Marshals manning the post couldn't find anything, and I didn't clue them in on the loose screws.
You see people jumping from trains in movies all the time, but how many times does it happen in real life. The story goes like this. As the train approached the station, he jumped. Why? Because his narcoleptic state lifted somewhat, and in that stuporous condition, he figured the train was pulling out and that he had missed his stop. So, he did what any reasonable loon would do. He jumped.
Here’s an idea. Be a stunt man in the movies. More chance of making money that way than filing a lawsuit
