18 August 2005
Back to School!
I've just discovered a new blog and am totally smitten. Check out The Phantom Professor. Educational and fascinating, but of course this is the opinion of a nerd who buys books such as The Facts on File Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins and Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation just for fun...
16 August 2005
Is this how it is?
I don't post on here on a daily basis, and haven't been doing this for very long, so I was amazed the other day when I checked out my comments. There were five comments on my last blog! I was so pleased. Someone's actually reading this crap!
Until I realized that two of them were spam. Two different irrelevant comments containing apparent commercial weblinks (damned if I was going to check them out) by an anonymous poster or posters. Is this common? Do I have to forbid anonymous posts?
I know that allowing anonymous comments creates the risk of asswipes randomly criticizing whatever I write. The other day I was reading someone else's blog and was amazed at the anonymous flaming that was taking place there. You know, one of those inDuhviduals who is OK with your opinion as long as it agrees with his, and who is too yellow a coward to back up his invective with a name. (I use the male pronouns as a convenience only.)
So we'll see. One more spam comment and Anonymous bites it.
Until I realized that two of them were spam. Two different irrelevant comments containing apparent commercial weblinks (damned if I was going to check them out) by an anonymous poster or posters. Is this common? Do I have to forbid anonymous posts?
I know that allowing anonymous comments creates the risk of asswipes randomly criticizing whatever I write. The other day I was reading someone else's blog and was amazed at the anonymous flaming that was taking place there. You know, one of those inDuhviduals who is OK with your opinion as long as it agrees with his, and who is too yellow a coward to back up his invective with a name. (I use the male pronouns as a convenience only.)
So we'll see. One more spam comment and Anonymous bites it.
13 August 2005
Doctor FeelNothing
Being an overweight, forty-seven year old desk jockey recently resulted in the inevitable -- a knee injury. Don't ask me what happened, it just started hurting like holy hell one day. Sure, there'd been twinges here and there for a year, and ever since moving into a two-story duplex I've been fascinated with the range of creaking and crunching sounds that my knees could produce climbing the stairs. But one fine spring morning I took my break, went for my usual six-block walk, and could barely crawl back up the stairs to work. There was no sudden snap, crackle or pop. It happened, as they say, not with a bang but with a whimper.
After enduring worsening pain, went to my doctor, x-rays showed nothing, so she referred me to an orthopedic surgeon. Of course the word "surgeon" sends up a huge warning flag; no surprise what comes next. He suspects a tear in the meniscal cartilage, recommends surgery and sends me in for an MRI. (Of course, when he gets the results he says they are "inconclusive" yet still wants to operate since it won't get better on its own. I say, slow down big boy, let's try some physical therapy, since it is getting much better on its own.)
That's not what really gripes me, though. This guy has no apparent personality. Very trim, forty-ish, average looking guy. Walks in, introduces himself, shakes my hand, then starts asking questions. There is absolutely no human connection. I might as well be typing responses to written questions. As I recall he did have me hop up on the table and he did briefly press different spots around my knee, but it didn't last more than 30 seconds (whereas the mere physical therapist examined every square millimeter of knee tissue for what seemed like 20 minutes). Then he prepares to leave, says his assistant will be in with some recommended exercises, shakes my hand again, leaves. Next visit, same thing. The handshake, the ten minute visit, another handshake, goodbye.
Of course I already have friends. I don't require this person to satisfy my need for human contact; indeed, my craving is for less human contact. What I need is to feel that I'm not just an old Buick with a bad wheelbearing. I'm a human and I really prefer to be around other semi-humans, not Dr. Android. And what do you think they're billing the insurance company? $200 per visit. At 10 minutes per visit, that computes to $1200 an hour. Or $100 per handshake.
Nice work if you can get it.
After enduring worsening pain, went to my doctor, x-rays showed nothing, so she referred me to an orthopedic surgeon. Of course the word "surgeon" sends up a huge warning flag; no surprise what comes next. He suspects a tear in the meniscal cartilage, recommends surgery and sends me in for an MRI. (Of course, when he gets the results he says they are "inconclusive" yet still wants to operate since it won't get better on its own. I say, slow down big boy, let's try some physical therapy, since it is getting much better on its own.)
That's not what really gripes me, though. This guy has no apparent personality. Very trim, forty-ish, average looking guy. Walks in, introduces himself, shakes my hand, then starts asking questions. There is absolutely no human connection. I might as well be typing responses to written questions. As I recall he did have me hop up on the table and he did briefly press different spots around my knee, but it didn't last more than 30 seconds (whereas the mere physical therapist examined every square millimeter of knee tissue for what seemed like 20 minutes). Then he prepares to leave, says his assistant will be in with some recommended exercises, shakes my hand again, leaves. Next visit, same thing. The handshake, the ten minute visit, another handshake, goodbye.
Of course I already have friends. I don't require this person to satisfy my need for human contact; indeed, my craving is for less human contact. What I need is to feel that I'm not just an old Buick with a bad wheelbearing. I'm a human and I really prefer to be around other semi-humans, not Dr. Android. And what do you think they're billing the insurance company? $200 per visit. At 10 minutes per visit, that computes to $1200 an hour. Or $100 per handshake.
Nice work if you can get it.
02 August 2005
Doctor, My Eyes...!
This morning the newest tenant in our building came in to introduce herself and her company. She brought us a couple of coffee mugs, pens, business cards, the usual. Seems like a very pleasant person.
Except for her apparel.
I could deal with the platinum hair and 80's makeup. The headband/scarf thing, not so much, but still wouldn't have felt moved to pontificate on the subject. It was the spandex.
Spandex is a wonderful invention. Swimsuits, hosiery, active wear, all are made better by the invention of spandex, lycra and all the other stretchy fabrics. But spandex has its place, and outside of a swimming pool its place is not on the ass of anyone over 30, much less over 40 or 50 and DEFINITELY not on any ass that's put on a few pounds.
This woman was not grossly overweight. Hell, who would I be to judge even if she was, since according to the charts I shall be buried in a piano case in a few short months. No, she just had the old middle-age spread going, albeit distributed unevenly, resulting in a butt proportionally reminiscent of the Widettes on the old SNL episodes. If dressed in clothes that fit correctly (read: loosely) I probably wouldn't even be able to tell you what she was wearing -- I probably would just remember that she was really friendly, outgoing and personable.
As it is, the image is burned into my retinas and I feel moved to pluck out my eyeballs. But before I do, remember and repeat after me:
SPANDEX IS A PRIVILEGE, NOT A RIGHT.
Same goes for plaid.
Except for her apparel.
I could deal with the platinum hair and 80's makeup. The headband/scarf thing, not so much, but still wouldn't have felt moved to pontificate on the subject. It was the spandex.
Spandex is a wonderful invention. Swimsuits, hosiery, active wear, all are made better by the invention of spandex, lycra and all the other stretchy fabrics. But spandex has its place, and outside of a swimming pool its place is not on the ass of anyone over 30, much less over 40 or 50 and DEFINITELY not on any ass that's put on a few pounds.
This woman was not grossly overweight. Hell, who would I be to judge even if she was, since according to the charts I shall be buried in a piano case in a few short months. No, she just had the old middle-age spread going, albeit distributed unevenly, resulting in a butt proportionally reminiscent of the Widettes on the old SNL episodes. If dressed in clothes that fit correctly (read: loosely) I probably wouldn't even be able to tell you what she was wearing -- I probably would just remember that she was really friendly, outgoing and personable.
As it is, the image is burned into my retinas and I feel moved to pluck out my eyeballs. But before I do, remember and repeat after me:
SPANDEX IS A PRIVILEGE, NOT A RIGHT.
Same goes for plaid.
19 July 2005
It's getting hot in herre
If one more so-called meteorologist on our third rate local newcast comments on the "beautiful, clear weather ahead" I'm going to start kicking asses and taking names... Anything over 90 -- scratch that, over 85 -- is hot, do you hear me? HOT.
Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with non-anorexic figures who can't wear an eentsy little spandex thing and shorts with a clear conscience. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with upstairs bedrooms that don't cool down until midnight. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us who have to WORK for a living (in a place with inadequate AC, no less) rather than lounge by the freakin' river and swill PBR all day.
Hot is hot, sweaty, scratchy hell. Got it? This is Oregon. If you like this crap then move down to Southern Freakin' California and shut up.
Thanks, I feel better now...
Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with non-anorexic figures who can't wear an eentsy little spandex thing and shorts with a clear conscience. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with upstairs bedrooms that don't cool down until midnight. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us who have to WORK for a living (in a place with inadequate AC, no less) rather than lounge by the freakin' river and swill PBR all day.
Hot is hot, sweaty, scratchy hell. Got it? This is Oregon. If you like this crap then move down to Southern Freakin' California and shut up.
Thanks, I feel better now...
18 July 2005
What the...?
Eric Rudolph angrily denounced abortion at the hearing and told the federal court that "deadly force is needed to stop it."
From The New York Times Website
July 18, 2005
Am I missing something here? It's not the first time I've heard this kind of oxyMoronish justification for the misdeeds of cowardly weasels, but every time I'm struck anew by the irony and complete lack of logic. Where does it come from? Upbringing? Mental illness?
No matter the reason, why is the son of a bitch allowed to live? Perhaps. though, that is the worst punishment. I would personally rather die than be locked up for the rest of my life. Here's to hoping this asshole feels the same way...
From The New York Times Website
July 18, 2005
Am I missing something here? It's not the first time I've heard this kind of oxyMoronish justification for the misdeeds of cowardly weasels, but every time I'm struck anew by the irony and complete lack of logic. Where does it come from? Upbringing? Mental illness?
No matter the reason, why is the son of a bitch allowed to live? Perhaps. though, that is the worst punishment. I would personally rather die than be locked up for the rest of my life. Here's to hoping this asshole feels the same way...
12 July 2005
Recipe for Whirled Peas
Today, boys and girls, we're going to talk about manners. What's that you say, you never heard that word before? You don't know what it means? What a surprise.
Whether you want to call it manners or not is up to you. The real subject matter is basic, common courtesy. It's that little inner voice that your parents should have started drilling into your head from birth that says...
How does my current behavior affect:
a) my coworkers
b) my friends
c) my neighbors
d) the person behind me in the checkout line/turn lane/ticket line
e) the driver ahead/behind/beside me
f) my child's development
g) all carbon based life forms within range of my actions
Wouldn't the world be a far better place if everyone had that little voice? And actually cared what it said at any given time? Consider these examples:
"Gee, I'm at work. I wonder if the annoying ringtone and volume of my cell phone bother anyone? Maybe I should turn it to vibrate, or -- here's a thought -- off completely?"
"Hmmm, I'm in the mood to listen to gansta rap at full volume. I wonder if my badass bass booster spreads this crap for blocks, annoying the hell out of everyone but me?"
"I know I'm going to be writing a check. Maybe while I'm standing here waiting I could get my thumb out of my ass and start filling in everything but the amount?"
"I've been hired to do some work on a private residence. Do you suppose they'll mind if I bring my little inbred hillbilly family along to hang out all day and stare in the windows?"
"Perhaps my religion is just one of many here on earth, and maybe, just maybe, my religion is wrong and all others aren't going straight to hell. So maybe they don't want me to knock on their door or blow up their buildings to get my point across."
What would the world be like right this very minute, if the parents of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden had put that little voice in their heads?
Whether you want to call it manners or not is up to you. The real subject matter is basic, common courtesy. It's that little inner voice that your parents should have started drilling into your head from birth that says...
How does my current behavior affect:
a) my coworkers
b) my friends
c) my neighbors
d) the person behind me in the checkout line/turn lane/ticket line
e) the driver ahead/behind/beside me
f) my child's development
g) all carbon based life forms within range of my actions
Wouldn't the world be a far better place if everyone had that little voice? And actually cared what it said at any given time? Consider these examples:
"Gee, I'm at work. I wonder if the annoying ringtone and volume of my cell phone bother anyone? Maybe I should turn it to vibrate, or -- here's a thought -- off completely?"
"Hmmm, I'm in the mood to listen to gansta rap at full volume. I wonder if my badass bass booster spreads this crap for blocks, annoying the hell out of everyone but me?"
"I know I'm going to be writing a check. Maybe while I'm standing here waiting I could get my thumb out of my ass and start filling in everything but the amount?"
"I've been hired to do some work on a private residence. Do you suppose they'll mind if I bring my little inbred hillbilly family along to hang out all day and stare in the windows?"
"Perhaps my religion is just one of many here on earth, and maybe, just maybe, my religion is wrong and all others aren't going straight to hell. So maybe they don't want me to knock on their door or blow up their buildings to get my point across."
What would the world be like right this very minute, if the parents of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden had put that little voice in their heads?
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