...and this goes out to Dale in Las Vegas...
The Complete Bushisms - By Jacob Weisberg - Slate Magazine
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Are Americans Losing Touch with DIY Skills? - MSN Lifestyle: Men
It seems I'm not alone when it comes to changing a tire these days. Check it out:
In Age of High-Tech, Are Americans Losing Touch with DIY Skills? - MSN Lifestyle: Men
In Age of High-Tech, Are Americans Losing Touch with DIY Skills? - MSN Lifestyle: Men
The Great American Yucca Famine?
On our little field trip back from Arizona this week, Wifey and I came across one of the oddest memorials to California's less-than-glorious history of suburban development.
Outside of 29 Palms in the high desert lies a long stretch of road leading to the now mostly abandoned town of Amboy. Scattered amidst the desert landscape are hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more small cubical shacks (I hesitate to call them homes) mostly abandoned to decades of sun, sand, and vandalism. Here and there, one might show signs of life - a power line still hooked up, a truck or car parked outside - but by and large these huts stare out on the desert expanse with windows vacant of glass, showing no signs that anyone had spent much time in them, ever. The region carries the slightly ironic name of "Wonder Valley".
The Wife was fascinated. "What are they, homesteads?"
I told her I seemed to recall something to that effect.
It reminded her, she said, of our visit to Ireland, where the country roadsides are scattered with the remnants of cottages abandoned during the great potato famine of the 19th century.
"It must have been a yucca famine!" We both had a good laugh.
Tonight, I decided to find out more about Wonder Valley and see if I could jog my memory of why all these forlorn little houses are scattered everywhere... so Googling I went.
It seems I did have it right; they were homesteads. Back in 1938 Congress passed the "Small Tract Act" citing a demand from First World War vets seeking cheap land to retire to. Apparently, all you had to do was sign up, put up a permanent structure, and eventually Uncle Sam handed you a deed to five acres of sagebrush. You didn't even need power or water. Just a little shack.
After WWII, there was a rush of interest in was to be one of the last, if not the last, opportunities for the average American to get free land from their federal government. Speculators in the 1950's found out that a quick buck could be earned, and the Feds were swamped with applications. Demand, thanks to the bureaucratic log jam, exceeded supply. Local government, meanwhile, was eager to get these little parcels on the tax roles - there was money to be made for them, too.
It all came crashing down about 1960 when the Feds and the state and local government simplified the homestead requirements by eliminating the structure requirement, and offering the land itself at market value. The speculation ended overnight. The act that created all this was itself repealed in the mid-1970's. What land that wasn't bought up is now firmly back in the hands of the government.
Many of the little houses never saw an occupant. Others seemed to have been used, then boarded up and forgotten. Yet some people, as tough as the desert they lived in, seemed to stick it out and thrive despite the heat and remoteness. And, even more surprisingly, others have come to join them.
Today, Wonder Valley is a burgeoning artist's colony and even has its own music festival. The characters who live there, from what I've gathered on the Internet, remind me of some desert version of the TV show "Northern Exposure," odd, likable, and somehow wired differently from the rest of us slogging back and forth mindlessly on the freeway each day. Good for them.
I'm just a little disappointed there wasn't a yucca famine, after all.
Outside of 29 Palms in the high desert lies a long stretch of road leading to the now mostly abandoned town of Amboy. Scattered amidst the desert landscape are hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more small cubical shacks (I hesitate to call them homes) mostly abandoned to decades of sun, sand, and vandalism. Here and there, one might show signs of life - a power line still hooked up, a truck or car parked outside - but by and large these huts stare out on the desert expanse with windows vacant of glass, showing no signs that anyone had spent much time in them, ever. The region carries the slightly ironic name of "Wonder Valley".
The Wife was fascinated. "What are they, homesteads?"
I told her I seemed to recall something to that effect.
It reminded her, she said, of our visit to Ireland, where the country roadsides are scattered with the remnants of cottages abandoned during the great potato famine of the 19th century.
"It must have been a yucca famine!" We both had a good laugh.
Tonight, I decided to find out more about Wonder Valley and see if I could jog my memory of why all these forlorn little houses are scattered everywhere... so Googling I went.
It seems I did have it right; they were homesteads. Back in 1938 Congress passed the "Small Tract Act" citing a demand from First World War vets seeking cheap land to retire to. Apparently, all you had to do was sign up, put up a permanent structure, and eventually Uncle Sam handed you a deed to five acres of sagebrush. You didn't even need power or water. Just a little shack.
After WWII, there was a rush of interest in was to be one of the last, if not the last, opportunities for the average American to get free land from their federal government. Speculators in the 1950's found out that a quick buck could be earned, and the Feds were swamped with applications. Demand, thanks to the bureaucratic log jam, exceeded supply. Local government, meanwhile, was eager to get these little parcels on the tax roles - there was money to be made for them, too.
It all came crashing down about 1960 when the Feds and the state and local government simplified the homestead requirements by eliminating the structure requirement, and offering the land itself at market value. The speculation ended overnight. The act that created all this was itself repealed in the mid-1970's. What land that wasn't bought up is now firmly back in the hands of the government.
Many of the little houses never saw an occupant. Others seemed to have been used, then boarded up and forgotten. Yet some people, as tough as the desert they lived in, seemed to stick it out and thrive despite the heat and remoteness. And, even more surprisingly, others have come to join them.
Today, Wonder Valley is a burgeoning artist's colony and even has its own music festival. The characters who live there, from what I've gathered on the Internet, remind me of some desert version of the TV show "Northern Exposure," odd, likable, and somehow wired differently from the rest of us slogging back and forth mindlessly on the freeway each day. Good for them.
I'm just a little disappointed there wasn't a yucca famine, after all.
Top eBay Item Of The Week
Yes, admit it, you've always wanted one, haven't you? Or maybe, you've been searching that perfect birthday gift for that special someone...
Klingon_Letter_Opener_Ltd_Edition_Silver_Tone_Pewter - eBay (item 180214081475 end time Feb-17-08 16:42:57 PST)
Klingon_Letter_Opener_Ltd_Edition_Silver_Tone_Pewter - eBay (item 180214081475 end time Feb-17-08 16:42:57 PST)
Monday, February 11, 2008
Department Of Corrections
In my diatribe about how Redlands has fallen to the franchises, titled "How Our Town Became Their Town" I stated that you can't buy a men's suit Downtown. This is incorrect. There is a tailor on the second floor of one of the buildings who will make you a fine suit. So there.
The Valve Stem That Broke The Camel's Back
I've been falling behind, technology wise, for some time now.
The first sign that I was slipping was my total lack of desire to obtain a cell phone, dating all the way back to when they were the size of bricks. Maybe it was because I never liked telephones of any sort to begin with.
People at work always thought I was angry, because I would toss the receiver into the cradle of my desk phone, rather than gently placing it down. It was really because I found most telephone conversations of no value and of great interruption in whatever I happened to be doing at the time the damn thing rang. I hated the sound of ringing telephones so much, I dug into the guts of my telephone and taped up the bell's clapper so it would only rattle, rather than ring.
So, when cell phones came into daily life for most Americans, I fought it. If I wanted to be out of the office, I wanted to be out of the office, not carrying it with me in some faux leather case with convenient cigarette lighter power adapter.
Eventually I had to give in. To a point. I learned the basics, but I have managed to avoid the dubious joys of texting messages, custom ring tones, and the eighty-seven other features every cell phone now comes with. We sent guys to the moon, for God sake, with less technology.
And then there are the cars. You know I love cars. Yet when they started putting computers in them, I studiously made every effort not to learn how they work, what they do, and why. My automotive mind runs with shafts and gears, not electrons, thank you. I justified it by knowing that if there were a nuclear attack, the electro-magnetic pulse would fry all those gizmos buried inside modern automobiles, and I'd have the only car that could get me the hell out of dodge.
Assuming I wasn't fried by the weapon's heat, radioactivity, or killed by collapsing rubble, of course.
That was years ago. Now my nuclear-attack-proof truck is up on blocks in the garage, and I'm driving a couple of cars that make me feel like a moron.
My wife's Honda has a radio I've yet to master in three years of trying. I eventually resort to pushing all of the buttons in random order, hoping to switch from FM to one of it's six (or is it seven?) CD's.
Last weekend, we had a flat tire. I can change a flat. I thought. I succeeded only after reading the owner's manual. Now, I've built race cars; was crew chief on a Chevy V8 powered Porsche Bonneville Land Speed Record car, but I still felt intimidated enough that I had to resort to the manual so as to figure out where to place the damn jack.
The Honda has more warning lights than your average 747. If the tire pressure is off in one wheel, you'll get to see on the dash a little pictogram of a tire's cross-section with an exclamation point in the middle. I even know why the car cares so much about my left-rear tire being two pounds low; it's because it means the wheel is rotating ever-so-much slower than the others, making trouble for your anti-lock-braking system. Changing the flat for the spare tire "donut" caused the pictogram to light up.
Sounds like I know what I'm talking about, huh? Well, I thought I was down with that, as the kids say, up until this morning.
I get a new warning light. No exclamation points or pictograms this time, just meaningless letters. Back to the handbook... and behold: This idiot light is telling me the other idiot light has a problem.
I've got idiot lights for idiot lights. Oh. My. God.
So, I'm in the tire shop, reading the several dozen magazines they've got laid out while the mechanics (loose application of the word, there) putz around in the repair bays. I pick up an automotive trade magazine and, in an instant, I know we're not in Kansas, anymore.
It seems that the little idiot-light-for-idiot-light sensor is liable to come on if your favorite minimum-wage tire buster fails to apply the correct amount of torque, with the appropriately scaled torque wrench, to your tire's valve stems.
Valve stems need to be torqued nowadays?
And it gets better. Guess what? Putting air in your tires these days is just sooooo wrong now. The proper tire shop now uses nitrogen. Nitrogen? WTF? Said tire shop will also have special sniffers to tell if some idiot owner should dare put good old American air in the tire, too, contaminating their precious gas. And a recycling system to boot. And special valve stem caps with a pretty green "N" engraved on them. I didn't read further. I couldn't. My eyes had glazed over.
Cue Jim Morrison and The Doors as soundtrack to Apocalypse Now:
"This is the end (blam blam blam)
Beautiful friend
This is the end My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end ..."
Forty five years of learning about cars, and I've met my match, pushed over the edge by nitrogen gas and torqued valve stems.
I see visions of Martin Sheen, and F-4 Phantom jets dropping napalm on my collection of 1500 vintage car magazines.
So: I am not only not "with it," I am a dinosaur. I have now joined the ranks of the clueless, know-nothing 'droid masses, in a subject I thought I knew well.
I guess I'll be calling the Auto Club from now on. Probably from a pay phone.
The first sign that I was slipping was my total lack of desire to obtain a cell phone, dating all the way back to when they were the size of bricks. Maybe it was because I never liked telephones of any sort to begin with.
People at work always thought I was angry, because I would toss the receiver into the cradle of my desk phone, rather than gently placing it down. It was really because I found most telephone conversations of no value and of great interruption in whatever I happened to be doing at the time the damn thing rang. I hated the sound of ringing telephones so much, I dug into the guts of my telephone and taped up the bell's clapper so it would only rattle, rather than ring.
So, when cell phones came into daily life for most Americans, I fought it. If I wanted to be out of the office, I wanted to be out of the office, not carrying it with me in some faux leather case with convenient cigarette lighter power adapter.
Eventually I had to give in. To a point. I learned the basics, but I have managed to avoid the dubious joys of texting messages, custom ring tones, and the eighty-seven other features every cell phone now comes with. We sent guys to the moon, for God sake, with less technology.
And then there are the cars. You know I love cars. Yet when they started putting computers in them, I studiously made every effort not to learn how they work, what they do, and why. My automotive mind runs with shafts and gears, not electrons, thank you. I justified it by knowing that if there were a nuclear attack, the electro-magnetic pulse would fry all those gizmos buried inside modern automobiles, and I'd have the only car that could get me the hell out of dodge.
Assuming I wasn't fried by the weapon's heat, radioactivity, or killed by collapsing rubble, of course.
That was years ago. Now my nuclear-attack-proof truck is up on blocks in the garage, and I'm driving a couple of cars that make me feel like a moron.
My wife's Honda has a radio I've yet to master in three years of trying. I eventually resort to pushing all of the buttons in random order, hoping to switch from FM to one of it's six (or is it seven?) CD's.
Last weekend, we had a flat tire. I can change a flat. I thought. I succeeded only after reading the owner's manual. Now, I've built race cars; was crew chief on a Chevy V8 powered Porsche Bonneville Land Speed Record car, but I still felt intimidated enough that I had to resort to the manual so as to figure out where to place the damn jack.
The Honda has more warning lights than your average 747. If the tire pressure is off in one wheel, you'll get to see on the dash a little pictogram of a tire's cross-section with an exclamation point in the middle. I even know why the car cares so much about my left-rear tire being two pounds low; it's because it means the wheel is rotating ever-so-much slower than the others, making trouble for your anti-lock-braking system. Changing the flat for the spare tire "donut" caused the pictogram to light up.
Sounds like I know what I'm talking about, huh? Well, I thought I was down with that, as the kids say, up until this morning.
I get a new warning light. No exclamation points or pictograms this time, just meaningless letters. Back to the handbook... and behold: This idiot light is telling me the other idiot light has a problem.
I've got idiot lights for idiot lights. Oh. My. God.
So, I'm in the tire shop, reading the several dozen magazines they've got laid out while the mechanics (loose application of the word, there) putz around in the repair bays. I pick up an automotive trade magazine and, in an instant, I know we're not in Kansas, anymore.
It seems that the little idiot-light-for-idiot-light sensor is liable to come on if your favorite minimum-wage tire buster fails to apply the correct amount of torque, with the appropriately scaled torque wrench, to your tire's valve stems.
Valve stems need to be torqued nowadays?
And it gets better. Guess what? Putting air in your tires these days is just sooooo wrong now. The proper tire shop now uses nitrogen. Nitrogen? WTF? Said tire shop will also have special sniffers to tell if some idiot owner should dare put good old American air in the tire, too, contaminating their precious gas. And a recycling system to boot. And special valve stem caps with a pretty green "N" engraved on them. I didn't read further. I couldn't. My eyes had glazed over.
Cue Jim Morrison and The Doors as soundtrack to Apocalypse Now:
"This is the end (blam blam blam)
Beautiful friend
This is the end My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end ..."
Forty five years of learning about cars, and I've met my match, pushed over the edge by nitrogen gas and torqued valve stems.
I see visions of Martin Sheen, and F-4 Phantom jets dropping napalm on my collection of 1500 vintage car magazines.
So: I am not only not "with it," I am a dinosaur. I have now joined the ranks of the clueless, know-nothing 'droid masses, in a subject I thought I knew well.
I guess I'll be calling the Auto Club from now on. Probably from a pay phone.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
An Open Letter To My Friends At Google
Dear Google:
...or can I just call you "Goo"? We've had a long friendship for years, it seems; I should be allowed to refer to you informally, right? I use your search engine a dozen times every day; I love Google Earth; I Google my maps, and now I'm into the blog scene using your "Blogger" site.
So, what gives, Goo? How come you don't love me?
It seems, you just don't care about me, Goo. I type my little heart out about all sorts of subjects, but, when I try and Google my very own blog name? It's nowhere to be found.
Oh, I suppose if I hunted through the 67,000 permutations of "Another Day In Redlands CA" I might find it. But, riddle me this, Batman: Why does my dear Redlands neighbor, dentist Terry D. Chacon, who paints plein air oils of his Afghan hound, always come up first on the list, even though his blog isn't named anything close to mine, and in fact only has the words "another day" appear by chance in one posting of his, back in December?
It doesn't look like the dear doctor is overwhelmed with traffic to his website either; I mean, there's no comments posted on the artistry displayed in said December blog. And, he's not giving away free root canals, or some such. But, damn.... every freaking time?
So, Google, my friend, what have I done?
Do I have to surrender my independence, and let you place ads on my beloved pages, soiling their crisp lines and incredible creativity? Pay for some sort of upgrade? What? What?
Did I piss you off somewhere, back in one of my posts? Do you hate Ralph Nader, or eBay, or car repair? Do you have money invested in Indian gaming? Did somebody on a bicycle once give you the finger? If they did, it wasn't me; honest.
I've also noticed Blogger won't even spell check my posts, anymore. Are you trying to tell me to get lost; to take my meager bandwidth and get outta GoogleWorld?
I promise to be good. I'll never write a single blog praising Yahoo or any other search engine; honest Injun. Oops, sorry.
...or can I just call you "Goo"? We've had a long friendship for years, it seems; I should be allowed to refer to you informally, right? I use your search engine a dozen times every day; I love Google Earth; I Google my maps, and now I'm into the blog scene using your "Blogger" site.
So, what gives, Goo? How come you don't love me?
It seems, you just don't care about me, Goo. I type my little heart out about all sorts of subjects, but, when I try and Google my very own blog name? It's nowhere to be found.
Oh, I suppose if I hunted through the 67,000 permutations of "Another Day In Redlands CA" I might find it. But, riddle me this, Batman: Why does my dear Redlands neighbor, dentist Terry D. Chacon, who paints plein air oils of his Afghan hound, always come up first on the list, even though his blog isn't named anything close to mine, and in fact only has the words "another day" appear by chance in one posting of his, back in December?
It doesn't look like the dear doctor is overwhelmed with traffic to his website either; I mean, there's no comments posted on the artistry displayed in said December blog. And, he's not giving away free root canals, or some such. But, damn.... every freaking time?
So, Google, my friend, what have I done?
Do I have to surrender my independence, and let you place ads on my beloved pages, soiling their crisp lines and incredible creativity? Pay for some sort of upgrade? What? What?
Did I piss you off somewhere, back in one of my posts? Do you hate Ralph Nader, or eBay, or car repair? Do you have money invested in Indian gaming? Did somebody on a bicycle once give you the finger? If they did, it wasn't me; honest.
I've also noticed Blogger won't even spell check my posts, anymore. Are you trying to tell me to get lost; to take my meager bandwidth and get outta GoogleWorld?
I promise to be good. I'll never write a single blog praising Yahoo or any other search engine; honest Injun. Oops, sorry.
Monday, February 4, 2008
How 'Our Town' Became 'Their Town'
An old friend I hadn't heard from since high school called up to say he might be in town soon. He hasn't been here since he left in '71.
"Boy, I miss Redlands," he said enthusiastically. "I've got such great memories. Remember how we used to walk from my house through the orange groves to the river wash? We'd shoot our BB guns and eat fruit all the way there and back."
I sure did remember. But I had to tell him that not only was his old house gone, but that all the orange trees were as well. New tract houses had replaced them. There was no place for a kid to shoot a BB gun anymore; the neighbors would have the police airplane circling in five minutes. Terrorists, you know.
"Oh..." Well then, I was thinking while I'm there I could stop in at that great men's store downtown. I could use a new suit. They have such wonderful service."
"You mean Gairs?" I replied. "They closed long ago. You can't get a suit in downtown Redlands anymore."
My friend seemed disappointed. "Gee, that's too bad. I always loved Downtown. Did they ever fix up that beautiful old hotel, the La..."
"Posada," I finished. "Nope, they tore that down when they built the mall."
"There's a mall downtown now?" He asked incredulously.
"Well, it's sort of...vacant. It was never big enough to attract major stores, so people shopped elsewhere."
"So, maybe we could just go get some lunch," he pondered. " How about Burger Bar?"
"Gone."
"Muscle Mikes?"
"Gone."
"Pizza Chalet?"
"Gone."
"MJ's?"
"Gone."
"But certainly Griswold's is still there, right?"
"Gone."
"How about the coffee shop at Sages?"
The coffee shop, as well as Sages, is gone, too, I explained.
"Jeez, what's left?" He was sounding exasperated.
"Well, we've got a Red Robin now, a Dave's Barbeque, a Macaroni Grill, half a dozen Starbucks.."
"No thanks. I can go those places back home where I live... or any place else for that matter. Maybe we'll just skip lunch and drive around town. How's the high school doing these days?"
"Which one? We've got two and a third on the way," I said.
"Wow... just how big is Redlands now?"
I told him the town had close to 90 thousand people; roughly three times the number we had when we were in school together.
"With all that growth, the hardware stores and the nursery must really be going great guns."
Then I told him that Carlson's and H&E were gone, as was Dangermonds nursery, thanks to Home Depot and Lowe's.
He was starting to catch on. "I guess that means the office supply store, Serr's is gone. You've got an Office Depot now, no doubt? How about Redlands Camera? Surely they..."
"Gone."
I was going to try and explain what a "Donut Hole" was, but my old friend politely ended the conversation by saying it was great talking to me and he had to go.
Some memories are best left undisturbed, I suppose.
"Boy, I miss Redlands," he said enthusiastically. "I've got such great memories. Remember how we used to walk from my house through the orange groves to the river wash? We'd shoot our BB guns and eat fruit all the way there and back."
I sure did remember. But I had to tell him that not only was his old house gone, but that all the orange trees were as well. New tract houses had replaced them. There was no place for a kid to shoot a BB gun anymore; the neighbors would have the police airplane circling in five minutes. Terrorists, you know.
"Oh..." Well then, I was thinking while I'm there I could stop in at that great men's store downtown. I could use a new suit. They have such wonderful service."
"You mean Gairs?" I replied. "They closed long ago. You can't get a suit in downtown Redlands anymore."
My friend seemed disappointed. "Gee, that's too bad. I always loved Downtown. Did they ever fix up that beautiful old hotel, the La..."
"Posada," I finished. "Nope, they tore that down when they built the mall."
"There's a mall downtown now?" He asked incredulously.
"Well, it's sort of...vacant. It was never big enough to attract major stores, so people shopped elsewhere."
"So, maybe we could just go get some lunch," he pondered. " How about Burger Bar?"
"Gone."
"Muscle Mikes?"
"Gone."
"Pizza Chalet?"
"Gone."
"MJ's?"
"Gone."
"But certainly Griswold's is still there, right?"
"Gone."
"How about the coffee shop at Sages?"
The coffee shop, as well as Sages, is gone, too, I explained.
"Jeez, what's left?" He was sounding exasperated.
"Well, we've got a Red Robin now, a Dave's Barbeque, a Macaroni Grill, half a dozen Starbucks.."
"No thanks. I can go those places back home where I live... or any place else for that matter. Maybe we'll just skip lunch and drive around town. How's the high school doing these days?"
"Which one? We've got two and a third on the way," I said.
"Wow... just how big is Redlands now?"
I told him the town had close to 90 thousand people; roughly three times the number we had when we were in school together.
"With all that growth, the hardware stores and the nursery must really be going great guns."
Then I told him that Carlson's and H&E were gone, as was Dangermonds nursery, thanks to Home Depot and Lowe's.
He was starting to catch on. "I guess that means the office supply store, Serr's is gone. You've got an Office Depot now, no doubt? How about Redlands Camera? Surely they..."
"Gone."
I was going to try and explain what a "Donut Hole" was, but my old friend politely ended the conversation by saying it was great talking to me and he had to go.
Some memories are best left undisturbed, I suppose.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
I'll Show You Mine...If You'll Show Me Yours
...the answers, that is, to Bernard Pivot's list of questions, made famous by James Lipton on his television show "Inside The Actor's Studio." Ready? My answers will be at the bottom of the post.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
OK, here are my answers:
What is your favorite word?
"Diaphanous"
What is your least favorite word?
Starts with a "C," rhymes with "runt."
What turns you on?
A three way tie: Knowing the "Final Jeopardy" question; the laughter of loved ones; getting the punchline to a good topical joke.
What turns you off?
My frequent nightmares, mostly about working at newspapers.
What sound or noise do you love?
A group of musicians playing a tune I love; a cat's purr; remembering the voices of my dead parents.
What sound or noise do you hate?
Air raid sirens. (They totally freak me out. Remember, I'm a child of the "duck and cover" era.)
What is your favorite curse word?
Rhymes with "truck," as if you didn't know.
What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Tour guide ("Hi, I'm Rick Steves...")
And finally, if heaven exists what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?
"Hi, dumb ass. Kind of squeeked in here under the wire, there, didn't you? Want to go back and try for a better score?"
What is your favorite word?
What is your least favorite word?
What turns you on?
What turns you off?
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
What is your favorite curse word?
What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
And finally...
If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
OK, here are my answers:
What is your favorite word?
"Diaphanous"
What is your least favorite word?
Starts with a "C," rhymes with "runt."
What turns you on?
A three way tie: Knowing the "Final Jeopardy" question; the laughter of loved ones; getting the punchline to a good topical joke.
What turns you off?
My frequent nightmares, mostly about working at newspapers.
What sound or noise do you love?
A group of musicians playing a tune I love; a cat's purr; remembering the voices of my dead parents.
What sound or noise do you hate?
Air raid sirens. (They totally freak me out. Remember, I'm a child of the "duck and cover" era.)
What is your favorite curse word?
Rhymes with "truck," as if you didn't know.
What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Tour guide ("Hi, I'm Rick Steves...")
And finally, if heaven exists what would you like to hear God say when you arrive?
"Hi, dumb ass. Kind of squeeked in here under the wire, there, didn't you? Want to go back and try for a better score?"
Eat Right, Live Healthy, And See What Happens?
Stolen from (of all things) an eBay auction for bike parts:
An old couple, he 85 years old and she 83, having been married almost 60 years, had died in a car crash. They had been in good health the last ten years mainly due to the wife's interest in health food and exercise. When they reached the gates of Heaven, St. Peter took them to their mansion, which was decked out with a beautiful kitchen, master bath suite, and Jacuzzi.
As they gasped at the splendor of their estate, the old man asked Peter how much all this was going to cost. "It's free," Peter replied, "because this is Heaven."
Then they went to the garage. In it were a Mercedes S600 sedan, a Ferrari Enzo, and a Lamborghini Countach Special, along with a Rolls Royce and Bentley, complete with chauffeurs. Next they went out back to survey the championship golf course that the home backed up to. They would have golfing privileges every day, and each week the course changed to a new one representing the great golf courses on earth. The old man asked, "What are the green fees?" Peter replied, "Remember, this is Heaven, so you play for free."
Next they went to the clubhouse and saw the lavish buffet lunch with the best cuisines of the world laid out on a table more than one hundred feet long.
"How much to eat?" asked the old man. "Don't you understand yet? This is Heaven. It is free!," Peter replied with some exasperation. "Well, where are the low fat and low cholesterol tables?" the old man asked timidly. Peter said "That's the best part -- you can eat as much as you like of whatever you like and you never get fat and you never get sick. This is Heaven."
With that the old man went into a fit of anger, throwing down his hat and stomping on it, and shrieking wildly. Peter and his wife both tried to calm him down, asking him what was wrong. The old man looked at his wife and said, "This is all your fault. If it weren't for your &^#$@ bran muffins, I could have been here ten years ago!"
An old couple, he 85 years old and she 83, having been married almost 60 years, had died in a car crash. They had been in good health the last ten years mainly due to the wife's interest in health food and exercise. When they reached the gates of Heaven, St. Peter took them to their mansion, which was decked out with a beautiful kitchen, master bath suite, and Jacuzzi.
As they gasped at the splendor of their estate, the old man asked Peter how much all this was going to cost. "It's free," Peter replied, "because this is Heaven."
Then they went to the garage. In it were a Mercedes S600 sedan, a Ferrari Enzo, and a Lamborghini Countach Special, along with a Rolls Royce and Bentley, complete with chauffeurs. Next they went out back to survey the championship golf course that the home backed up to. They would have golfing privileges every day, and each week the course changed to a new one representing the great golf courses on earth. The old man asked, "What are the green fees?" Peter replied, "Remember, this is Heaven, so you play for free."
Next they went to the clubhouse and saw the lavish buffet lunch with the best cuisines of the world laid out on a table more than one hundred feet long.
"How much to eat?" asked the old man. "Don't you understand yet? This is Heaven. It is free!," Peter replied with some exasperation. "Well, where are the low fat and low cholesterol tables?" the old man asked timidly. Peter said "That's the best part -- you can eat as much as you like of whatever you like and you never get fat and you never get sick. This is Heaven."
With that the old man went into a fit of anger, throwing down his hat and stomping on it, and shrieking wildly. Peter and his wife both tried to calm him down, asking him what was wrong. The old man looked at his wife and said, "This is all your fault. If it weren't for your &^#$@ bran muffins, I could have been here ten years ago!"
Friday, February 1, 2008
Potatoes to the People!
Here's a message we can all get behind...
Potatoes to the People! NORTH KOREAN Propaganda Poster - (eBay.ca item 250211016952 end time 09-Feb-08 22:45:00 EST)
Potatoes to the People! NORTH KOREAN Propaganda Poster - (eBay.ca item 250211016952 end time 09-Feb-08 22:45:00 EST)
Top eBay Item Of The Week
I always wanted one of these...
Own Your Own WATER TOWER!!! - eBay (item 220196537142 end time Feb-06-08 12:56:07 PST)
Own Your Own WATER TOWER!!! - eBay (item 220196537142 end time Feb-06-08 12:56:07 PST)
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