No pretense of any accuracy whatsoever

In the past three days, I have found myself trapped in one of the circles of hell not known by Dante: the supermarket check-out line. It is often a challenge to maintain one's sanity during this time of limbo while the individual currently cashing out insists loudly enough for everyone to hear that:
a) I've got the pennies in the bottom of the purse/pocket/tubesock used as changepurse, or
b) I swear that card was good yesterday, or
c) If you count the cookies, chips, nuts, and pop as one meal, then I do only have 12 items.

When silently chanting a shakra to the bovine-spirits to keep my various dairy products uncurdled and chilled, I glanced at the tabloid headlines. It seems that all the celebrities in the world have condensed into only three people: Jen, Brad, and Angelina. Their mugs were on the cover of every tabloid and magazine except for the tiny little books full of secret's never printed before or horoscope wisdom or names for your pet/child.

The stories coming out of Bradgeliniston this week centered on the sex of the child and the matrimonial plans:


























Maybe other news sources weren't duped by claims of successfully cloning humans. Is there a more rational explanation for the current checkout headline confusion?

Context Means Everything

If this is Saturday then that means I went went out for breakfast this morning. What is it about someone else cooking the eggs and bacon that makes this dynamic duo taste so much better than when I cook them myself? This food prep maxim holds no matter what the food item is prepped, even a bologna sandwich. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. A lot of people still eat bologna. And it always tastes better when someone else makes the sandwich.

Anyway, it seems to me that the enjoyment of meals eaten out is also influenced by whether or not you are considered a regular. The other morning at work, for example, I staggered down to the legal drug pusher, aka: the coffee stand, and with eyes still closed, managed to complete the entire transaction without ever speaking a word. My coffee was placed in front of me, prepared just the way I like it, and I had not even needed to be conscious. At some point, I had evolved from being "just another customer" to "a regular." When does this happen?

But I digress; let's get back to breakfast this morning. It was basic fare: eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, bread, and coffee, lots and lots of coffee. You know the routine: enter restaurant, find a table, order coffee, scan menu, drink coffee, order meal, drink coffee, eat meal, drink coffee, linger over coffee. I've gone through the routine hundreds (thousands?) of times and it was not until this very morning as the waitron was topping off my coffee cup yet again that I realized that being a good waitron is not very different from being a good stalker. The waitron this morning was always just out of earshot, hovering, circling back with the coffee pot before I realized my cup was nearing the bottom, timing each appearance perfectly. Outside of the eatery, these same behaviors could land the waitron in jail. In the eatery, however, it is a finely choreographed dance and breakfast is always better for it.

For excitement, just add water

I'm not sure what to file this under:
a) Lucky to have made it for this long before it happened
b) What were you thinking, you numbskull?
c) Say-la-vee (how do you spell that anyway?)

The event:
On the eve of new year's eve, I was finally off to bed after a long day of ... of ... well, that's not important right now. We need to focus on what comes next. I pulled back the covers on Big Swampy, that's the name of my waterbed (what, you don't name things in your house?), and was shocked to see water soaking into the sheets. This is never a good thing. What was really odd was that the water was coming from underneath the mattress. And the cats were acting very casual and cool. All of them. Hmmm...

After stripping the sheets and poking around, I found the tiniest of holes down along the side in the corner of the mattrress. Given the size of the hole and way the water was soaking into the sheets, it could have been made days earlier. The water was not spurting out like it did out of Mulder's bed in that X-Files episode with the time loop and the bank hold-up. If that were the case, I think the cats would have been less nonchalant and more chalant, don't you?

I've had the bed for about 10 years now and this is the first time the water has tried to escape the confines of the mattress. Having also owned cats for that long, do you see my confusion about trying to file this event? I'm not sure if I should be surprised that it happened or just surprised that it took so long to happen.

Well, none of the grrllzz has fessed up to being the culprit. And the whole paw posse got a free manicure ... uh ... pedicure ... er ... pawicure ... they got their nails clipped and still have rights to the bed.

The best recommendation given to me when I went running all over town to find a patch kit is to use tire patches for quad tires from the local 4-by-4 dealer. I believe the quote was: "Ain't nothing going to get through that patch." So why isn't the whole mattress made from that material?

What a way to start the new year

Scene: Dark; industrial section of urban metropolis; dark; deserted urban landscape; raining; did we mention that it is dark?

... and ... ACTION!!

Our heros are driving to the ferry terminal after a long day spent foraging for computer gagdets and digital media in the capitalist mecca known as The Mall. Neither is familiar with the area they are driving through. They have followed the signs from the freeway to their present location which is under huge concrete overpasses, support towers, warehouses and contains a hidden surprise. Neither is quite sure where the ferry terminal is and they are attentively searching for the next sign. There is no other traffic except for the car in front of them.

Suddenly there is a long LOUD horn coming from ... an indeterminable direction. It seems to be coming from all around them.

Lee: What the heck is that?
Tee: STOP!! It's a train!
L: Where?!?
T: Right there! Stop!
L: Where the f*&# are the tracks? Are we on them?

Appearing just ahead in the darkness is a huge, massive, moving shape, definable only because it is blocking out the lights on warehouses behind it as it moves across their field of vision. Yup, it's a train and it is passing within five (5, V, cinq, cinco, fünf) feet of the front of the car.

L: Are we on the tracks?
T: Holy cow! It's a train!
L: ARE WE ON THE TRACKS?!? curse curse filth filth CURSE! CURSE! CURSE!

The locomotive stops right in front of the car and reverses its direction. When it moves from in front of them, Tee suggests to Lee that it may now be safe to move ahead and get to the ferry terminal. Lee will have none of it and continues to curse.
.....

OK, maybe it's time to stop talking about this in the third person. It was terrifying. After further review, we think the train blew its horn at the car in front of us that had squirted over the tracks right in front of the engine. We never saw the train and we had no idea where the noise was coming from because it was echoing off of all the concrete.

On the heels of my previous blog about no stop signs in my town, this is a bit ironic, don't you think? There were no lights or signs or paint on the road indicating that tracks were anywhere near the road or that tracks would intersect with the road. We were paying attention to signs because we were looking for them! It's not like we missed any. The train had no lights on it at all and it's horn was useless even though it was very loud.

You can't tell me we were the first people to have run into (no pun intended) this situation. Heck, you can't even say that about the car that was right in front of us. This has had to have happened before. We were driving near the city's sports arenas, for pete's sake! Traffic happens here when thousands of cars leave the game.

I am parking my car and not venturing anywhere near the roads for a few days. Blogging is much safer.

Diner lament

I went out to dinner tonight with some friends. Just trying to fill the gastronomic void, you know? We weren't looking for anything special so much as just something solid and filling. When this is the quest, there is only one place to go: the local diner. The fare is predictable and you can still make the mortgage payment after leaving a respectable tip.

My all time favorite diner dinner is the three-piece fried chicken plate with corn and mashed potatoes. The corn is always a bright yellow color that is found nowhere else in nature (the jury is out on whether it is frozen or canned). The potatoes are rehydrated flakes far removed from their underground days. The gravy is the progeny of something the astronauts squeeze from tubes while in orbit. But the star of this dinner theater is the chicken. The three pieces always consist of a drumstick, a breast, and that mystery piece. Since it is dark meat like the drumstick, I think it's safe to assume this third piece has something to do with chicken locomotion. But here's the kicker: no matter the location of the diner or the time of day or the season when the meal is ordered: the chicken pieces are always the same size. While cows have been given drugs to increase milk production and Tom Turkey is doped up to increase his breast size, the diner-bound chickens of today are no different from their ancestors of my youth.

This is a true Franken-meal and I find the craving hard to deny when it hits. Unfortunately, for myself and other fans of this delicacy, it is going the way of the dodo bird (did dodos also possess that odd third piece?) The culprit is the chicken strip. This larger and more heavily-breaded relative of McD's chicken nuggets (speaking of odd pieces) is taking over and shoving the three-piece dinner off the menu. Not only do these strips lack the greasy goodness of the fried pieces, but the meat under the thick crunchy outer-shell (a defense against chicken strip predators in the wild, perhaps?) is all almost-white meat. Whereas I cannot determine what role the odd third piece plays in a chicken's anatomy, at least I am assured it came from a bird because it contains bones. Where on a bird do these strips of white-ish meat originate from? And why are there always three strips in a meal? That's asymmetrical anatomy. Get me Darwin on the phone.

The level of satisfaction that washes over me when I survey the bone and napkin debris from a three-piece fried chicken dinner is not matched when I look over an empty plate, devoid of ... of ... strips.

We all suffer from our own version of nostalgia and I guess this is mine. See you at the diner.

Not quite Peyton Place, but curious nevertheless

This little patch of terra firma I call home is an interesting place. The topic for today is the roads and drivers. This is the only place I've ever lived that seems to have an aversion to stop signs. At any intersection, unless at least one of the two roads has a yellow stripe down its middle, the intersection is completely suggestion-free regarding right of way.

Think for a moment about how you would drive under these circumstances. Go ahead. I'll wait. … [insert Jeopardy Show music here] …

I lived here for two weeks before I realized that stop signs were just not there. Since I didn't see a stop sign on my right, I assumed the other street had one. It wasn't until I started changing my routes a little that I realized there were no signs. Not for anybody. Not from any direction. Upon realizing this, I broke out in a cold sweat. I am sure those fourteen days cost me plenty of carma … er, karma points.

When I mentioned the lack of signage to my car insurance agent, she responded, "Oh yeah. And the worst intersection in town is right down the block here. We get claims on accidents there all the time." Is this for real?

So how do the local townsfolk drive? Some: cautiously. Others: obliviously. It's not yet clear to me which group is in the majority. I am still unscathed but I have seen a number of cars that have been broadsided. I have dredged up those lessons I learned in driver education:

Rule #1: No one else knows how to drive as well as you do. Assume no prior knowledge or skill on the part of other drivers.
Rule #2: All other drivers are looking out for you, even though…
Rule #3: The default setting for your cloaking device is ON and no one else can see your vehicle.

I just wish people were more observant. I have been a nervous passenger in a car where the driver just zipped right along through intersections without looking or slowing and yet complained about the lack of stop signs. I have slowly approached intersections while other drivers blow right through without turning to look to see if another car was approaching (yes, that was me you didn't see). I have also participated in a scene similar to Looney Tunes cartoons with the British accented chipmunks: After you. No, after you. No, I insist. Well, if you insist. I do. Thannnnk you. On the whole, I would rather go through this saga than have to pull an SUV's grill out of my rear quarter panel which is resting peacefully behind a rhododendron in someone's yard.

This is a city of over 18,000 people. Granted, there may a few other souls who are recent transplants and are still learning the ropes but that leaves … uh … minus four … borrow from the hundreds place … uh … thousands of other drivers who should know better.

Hey you! In the minivan! Like the Baby On Board signs that came before, that ribbon-shaped magnet on your bumper is not a force field.

Jumping in with both feet

Greetings to anyone who has stumbled onto this blog and is curious enough to keep reading.

Before I finally decided to jump off the end of the dock and join the community of bloggers, I stayed in the background and just watched the phenomenon. I've been reading a number of blogs—some regularly, some not so regularly and some never again—and my reactions have run the full gamut from fascination at an idea and total agreement with a sentiment to disappointment at the shallowness of a thought and regret about time wasted and lost forever.

So why do people do this blogging thing anyway? I believe that (for now) I should try to answer that question for me alone and keep my theories about the motivations of others to myself.

First off, I am NOT writing a blog for any of the following reasons:
a) sharing a personal diary has been a life-long dream

b) a soapbox for my political rants is the only thing missing from my plan for world domination

c) I'm a famous celebrity and this is the only way I can say something as a member of hoi polloi.

To move on to why I am writing a blog:
a) I find myself reading the news or listening to news on the radio and wondering why the story ended where it did or why a certain question was not asked or why do I have this bad taste in my mouth. Other times, I watch the world around me and I am stunned or amazed by an event I was unfortunate or fortunate enough to witness. I think a blog is an excellent medium with which to participate in a conversation since I'm not about to start a conversation with a total stranger in a coffee shop. There is a comforting level of anonymity inherent in the blog world.

b) every daily journal I've ever started has gone blank about three days into the venture and I feel guilty about having wasted the paper I scribbled on. The tech gene is strong in me (compared to some) and perhaps the digital aspect of a blog will motivate me to keep it up and keep thinking about things I need to think about some more in order to reach an individual resolution.

c) I have no item to type here. I just wanted to maintain the symmetry and have three reasons why not and three reasons why these blog-bytes exist.

That's all for now. I doubt I've filled in a gap that needed filling but I'm feeling all giddy nevertheless.