Box Scraper

Well, I finally ordered my six-foot box scraper from Northern Tool. I know there are a lot of companies I could have ordered it from, but I like Northern Tool, in part because I have an account there and don't have to type my address in every time!

Now here's the quasi-shameful sop to fashion: I really wanted a hinged-blade box scraper because I think they're more efficient in the long run, but I bought the fixed-blade box scraper because it was red and it matched my tractor! Criminy, next thing you know I'll be ordering red cowboy boots. (Realistically, I doubt I'll ever notice the difference in performance between a fixed-blade and hinged-blade box scraper, so why not get the red one?)

For what it's worth, let me plug for Northern Tool for just a moment. I'm not by any means a Northern Tool power shopper, but I've placed a few orders with them over the years and I've never had a complaint with them. I did have a complaint with some 12-volt utility lights I ordered, but the problem was with the manufacturer, not Northern Tool. At least I assume the problem was with the manufacturer. (Not to go too far afield here, but I found that the lights didn't work once I wired them up. Assuming I had a grounding problem, I hardwired the light directly across the terminals of a 12-volt battery just to make sure the lights worked. They didn't. I tested the lights with an ohmmeter and found a resistance that seemed to be in keeping with an intact filament - that is to say, it wasn't an open circuit - so I decided that maybe I was incorrect in assuming that the metal mount was the ground. So I hacksawed the back off one of the lights and verified that, indeed, the metal mount is the ground. But they still didn't work. So I got out my battery charger, which has a jump-starting mode, which works mainly by jacking up the output voltage by an awful lot (that's a technical term). I hooked the light up to the charger, flipped it to jump-start mode, and promptly smoked the filament. But at least it lit up, if only for a few hundred milliseconds. So I don't know what's up with the lights. And it doesn't matter.)

The point is that in six to ten days I'll have to figure out how to unload a 510-pound implement from the back of a delivery truck. My grampa used to have a handy gadget, a tripod made out of enormously long pieces of very heavy pipe with a chain hoist slung from the apex. It was homemade and of course nobody knew what its lifting capacity was, but I do know that it hefted some pretty heavy I-beams and dozer parts. I could use that tripod, I think. But lacking the tripod, I'm guessing that I'll make a platform out of bales of hay, chain the box scraper to the parked tractor, and have the truck driver drive out from under the scraper and let it land on the hay...

But I do wish I had that tripod.

After Memorial Day

I'm glad Memorial Day is over with.

For one thing, I get a little tired of all the war movies they dust off for Memorial Day. It's not that I don't honor the sacrifice of the men and women who were killed in the line of duty for our benefit - I just don't think much of most war movies, and somehow watching my favorite war movie, Das Boot, just doesn't seem like much of a way to celebrate Memorial Day (especially in view of the fact that my dad, a ordinary GI, crossed the Atlantic in a convoy that the guys in Das Boot would likely have loved to attack).

Most modern war movies are exceedingly graphic, full of blood and guts and suffering and personal crises and emotional breakdowns. Most older war movies are full of gooey, half-baked ideological smarm. For Memorial Day, the ideological smarm seems more appropriate, but there's a limit to how many times I can watch Bataan or Sands of Iwo Jima or even Battle Of The Bulge - I just can't seem to get enough of watching all those M24 Chaffees running around in the Ardennes portion of Southern California, but after a while the movie just wears me down.

The main reason I'm glad Memorial Day is over is that any time there is a holiday, I can't for the life of me figure out what day the garbage truck will come. It's now Friday and my garbage can is still stuffed, despite having been out on the street since Tuesday. It's as though Parks and Sons skipped the whole week!

And that's a pity, because I had Big Plans for an empty trash can this weekend. In the immortal words of Albus Dumbledore, "Alas. Earwax."

I'm a helpless list-maker, though I notice that this behavior mostly manifests itself at work and may represent nothing more than an easy way to kill twenty minutes. Every Thursday or Friday I jot down a quick list of things I want to accomplish over the weekend, and it all starts out so well. The list will look like this after a few minutes:

* Pull weeds in front yard
* Blow out garage with leaf blower
* Fix flat tire on tractor

But after another ten minutes, the list starts to look pretty daunting:

* Pull weeds in front yard
* Blow garage out with leaf blower
* Fix flat tire on tractor
* Revise homemade dozer blade for tractor
* Plant 23 bushes
* Repaint back yard fence
* Buy 19 tons of ABC and 90 bags of cement and a cement mixer
* Fix the old push lawnmower
* Find a place that sells size 14 EE boots
* Change oil in car, truck and both tractors
* Figure out why tractor headlights don't work
* Weld something

Give me another ten or fifteen minutes and the list turns into the Theater of the Absurd:

* Pull weeds in front yard
* Blow garage out with leaf blower
* Fix flat tire on tractor
* Revise homemade dozer blade for tractor
* Plant 23 bushes
* Repaint back yard fence
* Buy 19 tons of ABC and 90 bags of cement and a cement mixer
* Fix the old push lawnmower
* Find a place that sells size 14 EE boots
* Change oil in car, truck and both tractors
* Figure out why tractor headlights don't work
* Weld something
* Paint bedroom
* Take out carpet and install ceramic tile
* Dig a water retention basin and completely revise flood control scheme
* Rebuild draft control mechanism in the big tractor so it actually works
* Build a raised deck on the back patio
* Build a hay cover
* Build a tractor shed
* Plant 83 trees
* Solve world hunger
* Bring peace to the Middle East
* Cure the heartbreak of psoriasis
* Fix the imbalance of trade

But, seeing as my trash can didn't get dumped during the week, I guess I won't be getting to any of that.

Alas. Earwax.

Top Ten

Here's my list of the ten people I most want to simply go away and leave me in peace. They've all had their fifteen minutes of fame, none of them contribute anything to my life, and I'd like for them to lapse into comfortable (for me) obscurity.

1. Paris Hilton. Famous for being famous? I didn't think it was possible until she did it.

2. Britney Spears. I didn't like her music; I like her antics even less.

3. Nicole Richie. And your talent is what, exactly?

4. Howard Stern. Let me know when the punchline is coming; sometimes I forget to laugh.

5. Tom Cruise. Go jump on your own damn sofa and leave my TV alone.

6. Glenn Beck. Who is this guy anyway?

7. Adriana Costa. One more dose of celebrity-worship disguised as "entertainment news" and I'm truly going to vomit.

8. Lindsey Lohan. All the more proof I need that the "generation gap" is a really good idea.

9. Michael Jackson. 'Nuff said.

10. Angelina Jolie. Yeah, yeah, talent and beauty and all that, but come on, I can't eat a bowl of corn flakes without seeing her adopting another child.

And Another Thing!

While I'm ranting, let me rant about this:

I'm growing increasingly fatigued with the tendency of news websites like CNN to post videos of everything. I normally check the news when I'm eating lunch at work, and I (and my employer) would be just as happy to not have a bunch of stupid videos playing on my work computer. But it's getting hard to find actual text-based written news; everything is a video clip.

Is reading really that hard? AAARGH, see my previous rant, my desktop was just invaded by another one of those vile AOL popups! It's making me crazy!

But my point is that I prefer to read my news rather than listen to it, and I personally blame the YouTube generation for my increasingly inability to do so.

Car Audio Versus The Time Tunnel

Last Sunday my wife and I went to Fry's Electronics (we won't go to Best Buy any more) to look at stuff. We had no real agenda, but ended up in an aisle looking at MP3 players. Then someone decided that there was no time like the present to turn the audio system in the laughable "soundproof hut" up to 11. And of course they were playing rap of some sort, and they'd screwed with the equalizer so it was nothing but bass.

It was like being in the Time Tunnel! My innards were vibrating, everything on the shelves around us was buzzing and vibrating, and my brain simply shut down. Nope, too much deep bass, I'm shutting down, you're on your own. I fully expected portals to other dimensions to open around me and for the Master Chief from Halo II to suddenly appear.

There are several things I have to say about this. The first is this: what kind of moron goes into a store and turns the car audio system up to 11 and leaves it there for a couple of minutes? The second is this: what kind of mobile audio department manager would let it go on for two minutes? The third is this: how come, every time someone turns the demo car stereos up to 11, it's always rap? I bet if I popped a Vader CD in the system and turned it up to 11, they'd tear-gas me out of the soundproof hut in a matter of seconds. Or a George Strait CD. Somehow it's okay, even expected, for everyone in the store to have to suffer through the rap, but God forbid anyone should play any other kind of music.

"But it's popular," they whine. Oh, so because it's popular, common decency no longer applies?

Once we were in Best Buy looking for a portable stereo for some reason or another, and they were all tuned to some rap radio station (Power 92, I think, not that I frequent that particular frequency very often). So my wife and I methodically retuned every last one of them to the local ASU-operated radio station that plays classical music (KBAQ, for what it's worth). I hope it pissed someone off, I really do.

This Irritates Me

You know what irritates me? It irritates me that no matter what I try to do on my computer, every ninety seconds or so some stupid thing appears on my screen boasting that updates for this or that thing are ready and I should click in the bubble to get started.

And what's really frustrating is that it's almost all anti-virus software that does all this popping up!

Leave my desktop alone! Stop asking me stupid questions! Geez, this is almost worse than having to deal with viruses!

AOL is the worst. They've taken to popping up windows that apparently can't be unpopped; they just sit there hogging my screen like toadstools in the lawn. But AOL is guilty of more sins that just that; I find their habit of removing focus from what I'm doing utterly infuriating. I'll be typing something and all of a sudden AOL thinks I need to do something else, so they drag the focus away from the window I'm typing in and I have to click back on it - sometimes five or six times in a row. I tried to write AOL a nasty email about it, but they kept shifting focus away from the email editor and finally I had to go chew on nails before my head exploded.

But now I feel much better.

Russian ICBM

I read a news story today about the Russians announcing a new version of the Topol-M missile that can penetrate any defense system. I don't know about any defense system - nobody's ever tried to get an ICBM through to the Death Star, after all. But it is pretty easy to saturate and overload anti-ballistic missile systems, and an ICBM with MIRVs is a good way to get started.

But in another way, it's a development that doesn't mean anything. All it means, fundamentally, is that the Topol-M will be replacing the old (but quite large) SS-18 ICBM, which was already MIRV-capable, so it doesn't represent any new capability, just a replacement for an aging capability.

Had the new Topol-M variant been capable of depressed trajectories, or accurate FOBS, or had maneuverable RVs, I might sit up and take notice. But as it stands, it's just replacing an old MIRVed ICBM with a new MIRVed ICBM and doesn't seem to represent any radical new capability.

The only thing that seems close to being radically new is the ability to launch a MIRV-capable ICBM from a mobile launcher. It's an interesting gimmick, but I am of the mind that it is just a gimmick. It still seems to me that ballistic missile submarines armed with long-range SLBMs are still the ultimate deterrent and land-based systems exist mostly to buttress the egos of the honchos who run the Strategic Rocket Forces. (I read a lot about the necessity of maintaining the nuclear triad, but why? I think the nuclear triad is an idea that we need to revisit.)

But what do I know? I helped put a banana in a pina colada and produced a strange milkshake.

Homo Landfill

For those who know me only as a nerdy model builder-slash-electrical engineer type, I present this photograph of a Caterpillar D6C, which is almost identical to the machine I operated at the landfill when I was going to college. Add trash guards to the engine cowling, a large trash blade attachment to the top of the blade, and a two-shank ripper in place of the drawbar and it would be identical to the machine I operated.

I come by my love of heavy equipment honestly. My dad ran a dozer for most of his working life, and my grampa was a dozer operator from as far back as World War Two (though he never called himself a "dozer operator"; he preferred the term "catskinner"). Though my landfill job didn't pay terribly well and exposed me to extreme heat, noise, stink, dust and other hazards (like getting rotted mattresses bound up in the tracks) I still look back on this as the most satisfying job I ever had. I never, not even once, woke up and said "Oh crap, I have to go to work." Instead I literally bounded out of bed and said "Hot dog! I get to go run a dozer and crush stuff!"

Czech Potatoes

I don't speak Czech, and I admit that with some shame because I've always wanted to be fluent in some other language in addition to English, something Continental and vaguely high-falutin (as we say here in The Sticks). I'd be better off learning Spanish, which in Arizona isn't so much an exercise in stretching one's mind as almost a necessity (if only so I could order lunch in Filiberto's without having to use my hands. "A seven. I want a seven. Yes, seven.")

A few weeks ago I ordered some modeling stuff from a specialist company in the Czech Republic. The transaction was extremely satisfactory. He got his pile of koruna and I got my specialist space kits, and all pots were watered. The box was filled with crumpled newspapers, and I'm a sucker for reading newspapers that are used to fill boxes. I used to read a lot of Texas newspapers courtesy of Squadron Mail Order, but since they'd apparently switched to nondescript brown paper I find the coverage of doings in Texas wanting.

So I dug out the Czech newspaper and flipped through it. Here's where my inability to read Czech really becomes shameful, because there are stories I'd like to read. For example, "David Beckham je tvari firmy Gilette." I don't know what it means, but it sounds cool! Or "Evropsky sampionat vynese britskemy obchodu militardu liber". It comes with a photograph that appears to show Tony Blair and some unnamed gentleman scribbing graffitti on the sidewalk outside 10 Downing Street beneath the stern gaze of a British policeman. Wow! Our papers don't have anything like that! Or this small item from "Spojene staty", which I believe to be the United States: "Viceprezidentem Kerryho muze byt McCain". Say that again? The Vice-President is a ho who is considering biting McCain? That's fabulous!

The best part, though, is the ad from a grocery store. It looks just like an ad for an American grocery store, proving that some things really are universal. So what's for sale at the local Lidl grocery store?

Brambory! I think they're spuds, but there they are, brambory! And today 26 percent off! Or how about a nice anana, which seems to be a pineapple? Or a few bunches of lahudkova cibule, today 25 percent off, and a lovely accent to any salad? All this greenery got you down? How about a bottle of Vermouth (I kid you not) and a nap in a festive kempinkova zidle, better known as a lounge chair? (As an aside, I thought Kempinkova was married to Stalin at some point, but what do I know?) Here's a nice roomy stan, or tent, today only 888 koruna. Among its specifications are "pro 3 osoby", which may mean that one can only fit three assholes into it, but I'm just guessing. And finally, "panska dzinova kosile", 199 koruna each, and a bargain at twice the price I'm sure. What are they? Capri pants for men.

All this comes from the "Lidove Noviny" dated Sobota 29, kvetna 2004. If this means what I think it means, it means that the Czech company I ordered the stuff from has been stockpiling newspapers for going on three years.

It's fascinating. Now how much was that Rosetta Stone software again?

Model Kit Blog

I decided to post my kit reviews and other modeling hoohah on a seperate blog, viewable at:

http://kit-reviews.blogspot.com

Teethus No Geekaloid

It just struck me that I forgot to ask if I could keep my wisdom teeth after they were pulled.

Darn!

Probably not, though. They're probably considered "medical waste" these days and have to be incinerated or dissolved in acid or something...

How Did That Happen?

I was going through my collection of unbuilt kits the other day, looking for something fun to work on, and realized that somehow I had ended up with three 1/72nd scale Challenger I tank models. How did this happen? I don't even really like the Challenger all that much! I mean, it's a fine main battle tank and the British have no reason to be ashamed of it, but it's just not my favorite model. So how did I end up with three Challengers? I have no idea. I blame a twitchy mouse hand when I visit the Squadron on-line catalog, myself.

Ribbons of Shame

Here are some of my worst failings as a modeler, writ down so the world can cluck its tongue at me.

1. I rush when I'm close to finishing something. I lower my standards and accept unsatisfactory work because I'm almost done and I'm anticipating being done. I get a certain amount of satisfaction from finishing things, but that satisfaction is always tinged with a certain amount of shame because I know I didn't really finish, I just said I was finished. Some of you may know what I mean by that.

2. I etch at least one fingerprint into every model I build because I use too large a brush when I apply cement. I've gotten pretty good at sanding and polishing those fingerprints out, but it would be ever so much easier if I didn't do that in the first place.

3. Rather than definitively cleaning my airbrush, I will fight with and curse the thing all night because it's easier to snarl than to break the thing down and clean out the tiny flake of dried paint that's clogging the device. My Aztek works pretty well when it's clean, but when it isn't working well, I keep flogging it instead of stopping and cleaning it.

4. I lose on average one part per model. I've gotten pretty good at making replacements out of pieces of wire, plastic or putty, but it would be easier if I didn't do that.

5. I have some kind of problem, perhaps genetic, that makes me incapable of keeping a white model really white. It seems that no matter how often I wash my hands, white models develop a kind of grubby appearance. I estimate that at least 20% of the time I spend on the average Saturn V model is wasted polishing grubbiness out of the white paint. It's like my fingers exude a dark substance that no amount of washing will eliminate, and it's very frustrating.

6. I have trouble folding photoetched parts, perhaps because I don't have the right tools, perhaps because my technique sucks, or perhaps because I never learned to fold paper footballs in Junior High.

7. Some streak of Yankee thrift compells me to pour thinned paint back into the jar from whence it came. This is an evil habit because within a week or two the lacquer thinner turns the paint into a small olive drab hockey puck. Every time I do it I know I shouldn't, but the idea of throwing away a teaspoon or two of thinned paint gives me the jitters.

8. I cut myself a lot. I keep using knife blades beyond their "discard-by" date and get used to how they work dull, and then when I put a new blade in the knife, it goes through the part and a sizeable portion of my thumb.

9. I use my benchtop as a palette. I routinely dispense little dots of super glue onto my workbench and use pieces of wire or bitten-off sprue to transfer the glue to the model, but this leaves little puddles of sticky disaster on my workbench. I once glued by iPod to my bench by accidentally putting it right atop such a dot of super glue.

10. I always tell myself I should move my stash of decals to a cool, dark place for safe storage, but no. I leave them in a clear plastic bin out in my garage, where they are exposed to terrible temperature cycling and peak temperatures approaching 120 degrees during the day. I know that's not good for them, and I know that's why I spend so much quality time smearing decal film on cracked decals, but do I ever do anything about it? Pfft.

Bated Breath

Well, I finally went ahead and did it. I ordered the full detail and decal set for the 1/96th scale Apollo-Saturn V from New Ware in the Czech Republic, and now I can't wait to get my hands on it. It looks like an extremely comprehensive set indeed - you can find it here if you're interested:

http://mek.kosmo.cz/newware/

I found the experience of buying from New Ware very straightforward, considering that it was an international sale and their website doesn't allow direct credit card ordering. I used Paypal, and the process was simplicity itself. I sent them an email listing the products I was interested in, and within a day they had replied with an exact amount in Czech koruna. Once in Paypal, you just enter the email address of the recipient and the currency type (koruna) and the rest happens through the magic of computers.

I'm very pleased with New Ware thus far, and will post a further review when I get my greedy hands on the detail set.

I R Back

I am back, and in more ways than one!

For about the last month (give or take a week) I've been dealing with tooth pain. It started out as a dull ache that came and went, and I was content to let it do its thing. Yes, I know that tooth pain, unlike wine, does not improve with age, but I don't like going to the dentist and am prepared to pay up in the form of intermittent discomfort if that's the price of avoiding the Masked One's malign clutches. But the last week was murder. You know your teeth hurt when you sweat profusely even when you're sitting still. It got so bad I couldn't sit or lie down, so I wandered around the house night after night, unable to sleep or eat, gobbling Tylenol like M&Ms and working my way down that dreaded decision tree that leads, in the end, to the dentist's office.

I was at work Friday morning and simply couldn't take it any more - I had reached the point where I was starting to stab my fingers with pieces of wire in a despairing attempt to divert attention from my teeth. The worst part was that they all hurt, every last one of them, and I had nightmare visions of the dentist telling me "Right, you need 28 root canals." But by Friday noon I was ready for 28 root canals. I left work and drove to an emergency dental place that I remembered from the old days, and presently was told that both of my upper wisdom teeth had to come out.

There's something about the phrase "We need to pull your wisdom teeth" that makes one's blood run cold. And as I was there by myself, gas and sedatives weren't options. So with a strong feeling of impending doom I initialed the form that said "I agree to waive general anesthesia." So the guy shot me up, two shots on each side, let me sit and stew for about ten minutes, and then came in with the Vise-Grips. I would characterize his style as decisive and forceful, but mercifully swift. The left one came out hard, and with a sound as of someone breaking an entire head of celery inside my head. It also came out in pieces; he went in at least three times. The right one came out easier; it sounded more like a wet branch being slowly bent to the breaking point instead of celery being snapped. I think it came out in two pieces, but I'm not sure; by then I wasn't in full command of my faculties.

I found this all to be a fairly intense experience. I like to think I'm reasonably tough, but having my teeth being ripped out, and having to listen to it, left me sweating and trembling. I had to sit there for about ten minutes to regain my wits. It was a pity I'd left my iPod at work (I'm bad at leaving my iPod on my desk, a habit that I will one day rue). I think listening to "Dark Transmission" by Vader at maximum volume would have been a mercy, whatever one things of Polish death metal (and though I can't speak for Polish metal as a whole, I have to say that Vader is cracking good).

And then the story gets weird. You'd think that having wisdom teeth broken out of your skull would hurt like hell once the anesthetic wears off, but they didn't. My gums were a little tender and didn't like being prodded, but I didn't even need Tylenol, let alone the Vicodin prescription they gave me. I hung around work for a while, then went to my brother's house and played Heroscape till about ten, and really didn't have any pain at all. The next morning I woke up with no pain. As I write this it's about 36 hours since they were pulled out, and the only thing I feel is a vague discomfort in my gums that is about the same as the discomfort produced by eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch cereal.

Well, that's my week. A week of intense and unrelenting agony, followed by such a blessed release from pain I almost felt like signing up to run in a marathon. Almost. Let's not get carried away.

"Cars"

I have a deep and abiding nostalgia for what I call the "Eisenhower Epoch", defined roughly as the period of time between VJ-Day in 1945 to 1968, when the Tet Offensive finally put a wooden stake in the heart of Ike's ghost (if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor). If pressed, I will sometimes extend the Eisenhower Epoch till 1973 and the end of the Apollo Program, but only if pressed, and even then only if you use a riding crop.

That era seemed simpler, saner, happier and more sensible than anything that has come afterward, at least to me. Cars looked better, clothes looked better, people didn't seem as cynical and self-absorbed, and the world just seemed to make more sense.

Those who would harsh my buzz are quick to point the Dark Side of the Eisenhower Epoch. Segregation that was tantatmount in many cases to apartheid, discrimination, unsafe cars, unsafe products, poisons in the air and water, a Cold War that featured nuclear bombers in a state of permanent alert, fighting in sub-Saharan Africa and Indochina (as it was called back then), US and Soviet tankers squaring off at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, poverty, hunger...

The Eisenhower Epoch is guilty on every charge.

But here's my counter-argument: we still have discrimination and segregation, we still have arms races, we still have poverty and hunger, we still have unsafe products and unsafe cars, we still have wars, and we still have nuclear bombers. And we have other joys as well that we didn't have back then, like climate change, gross social inequality, religion-based terrorism, exotic chemicals and hormones in our food, drug-resistant bacteria, dishonest news organizations, politicians so corrupt they don't even try to appear to be on the up-and-up, expensive gasoline, cynical TV, an exhausted electorate, the tedious and tiresome "culture wars", violent video games and music, meth, crack, Ecstacy, Britney Spears...

And you still think that the Eisenhower Epoch was somehow worse than the present day?

Which brings me in my meandering way to the movie Cars. I am usually a bit wary of such animated movies because I know they're purposely designed to smear me with schmaltz and saccharine until I crack, and I always do crack. Just because they're positively gooey with saccharine doesn't mean I don't like them. It just means I'm wary of all the saccharine and I know my sentiments are going to be cruelly toyed with.

And Cars was no different. It's saccharine and it uses plot devices that transcend trite and hackeyed by a wide margin, and it toys with my sentiments most cruelly, but it does so extremely well. It is the best animated movie I think I've ever seen, and that includes Toy Story. It spanked the pants clean off Finding Nemo and The Lion King, both of which I thought were oversold by their hype.

Cars is, for lack of a better word, delightful. The tractor-tipping was genius, Luigi and Guido never failed to make me laugh, and I was impressed that they got such luminaries as Michael Schumacher, Mario Andretti and Richard Petty to make cameos (I could complain that they didn't get Don Garlits, John Force or even Shirley Muldowney to do cameos, but I guess I can't have everything). Just splendid. But what really pushed this movie over the top for me was its unabashed nostalgia for the Eisenhower Epoch, a time of chrome and neon signs and meandering highways that passed through towns instead of going around them.

I grew up in northern Arizona just as Interstate 40 was wiping out Route 66 and the towns, gas stations and trading posts along it. I saw places like Two Guns go downhill, close, and ultimately decay into nothing, and Cars exploited my nostalgia for that epoch with brutal and delightful skill.

And "Tow Mater?" Someone deserves an Oscar just for that.

Brown #27

The pool hit 78 degrees today, and we celebrated this by going swimming. Seventy-eight is still just a tad cool, but vurra vurra refreshing. But anyway, we were swimming away (actually, I was throwing a rock and then diving to find it) when we became dimly aware that a storm seemed to be coming in.

I am nearsighted and swim without my glasses, so the best I could tell was that it was getting darkish to the east, on the far side of the house, and that the wind was coming up dust storm fashion. Having had prior run-ins with dust storms, we got out of the pool to batten down the hatches - cover the haystack with a tarp, bring the horses in, close the garage door, bring the lawn furniture in, weight the garbage can with a piece of sawed-off railroad track, that sort of thing.

By the time I had my sandals and shirt on, the dust was upon us, great opaque sheets of it pouring off the land to the east, the well drilling rig off to the east groaning and slapping in the wind. I remind you that I was soaking wet. I further remind you that I'm now standing in air that is quite dense with dust. Within a matter of moments I resembled James Mason in "The Desert Fox", and was far too dusty to go back into the pool after the blow was over. I had a fine coating of mud.

And now I have a headache, so whatever my point was, I no longer care.

Off My Pace

I haven't blogged in almost a week. This is no doubt a cause for celebration in some quarters, and for those who wish to give credit where credit is due, they should thank lawns and 1/48th scale airplanes for the lull.

Many years ago I was (or thought I was) into 1/48th scale airplane models, and bought pretty much every Monogram 1/48th scale kit there was. Then I realized they were too big to easily display, so they went onto the shelf. There they stayed for literally years, decals yellowing and fracturing, parts warping, boxes being slowly consumed by the desert air, box interiors being slowly colonized by spiders of varying sizes, dust, and things that might be insects and might be probes from an alien civilization.

About a week ago I made the conscious decision to build all of these airplanes before they decayed into complete uselessness, and because I was just going to hang them from the garage ceiling with fishing line, I didn't have to worry too much about interiors, and could build them with the gear up. So in the last few days I've started a Ju-87, a Raiden, an A-26, an A-20, a TBD Devastator, an F4U-4, a C-47 Dakota, an Su-7 Fitter, and a Westland Lysander. Some of them I've actually finished already (the Ju-87, the A-26, and the Raiden). So that's kept me pretty busy evenings, even though I'm not fussing with interiors.

I am also attempting to get a lawn to grow. I was going to landscape the back yard primarily with rocks and gravel, but I changed my mind. The dogs kick rocks and gravel into the swimming pool, walking on rocks and gravel with bare feet is no picnic, and grass would solve both problems. So I've been weeding and removing what rocks I put in and talking nice to my little clumps of Bermuda grass, trying to convince them to take over the whole back yard. Which they will, soon enough.

In a way my Bermuda-coaxing is a statement. Most of our neighbors had sod installed (they have "people" for that, I guess) which in most cases appears to have been an expensive failure. I intend to grow a full head of Bermuda, so to speak, without spending a cent on anything but water. And when they ask me where I got my sod, I'll say I grew it myself because I don't have "people" for that.

Ayup.

I'm Dumber Than My Email

My email system is smarter than I am. I rarely think to check my spam folder, and even when I do, I rarely get past the button my email system provides that reads "Delete Contents Of Spam Folder And Nuke Visigoths Who Sent It."

So I usually click that button and never actually read any of my spam, but tonight I leafed through some 289 emails looking for commonalities. It's the same kind of aberrant mentality that occasionally makes me keep a notebook and a pencil handy so I can keep track of what sorts of commercials appear on which TV channels.

What is the plural of spam? "Spams" is a verb meaning "to spam". "Spam emails" sounds redundant. We could give spam a nice cutesy Schwabische nickname like "spaemle" and refer to it collectively. But my point is that I had 289 spamen, as reported by my selfless email system. Of them, all but 17 had to do with penile enhancement in one way or another. Of the other 17, about five I could not classify without actually opening them, and I'm not *that* stupid.

So I had 272 inquiries from total strangers who were not just solicitous as to the state of my manhood, but positively giddy with excitement about the whole thing. And that's just thirty days of spam! Imagine if my email system didn't automatically dud-jett old spam. The number of people eager to know more about my genitalia could number in the thousands!

But let's confine ourselves to the 272 confirmed examples. For the sake of discussion, let's also assume I've been with ten women in my life, though the number varies up or down depending on one's exact definition of "been with". And let's start the timer of my life at age 17, not that that was when my timer actually started - it just makes the math easier. That's ten women in thirty years, or 0.33 women per year. At this rate, it would take me about 824.24 years to meet 272 women who were interested in my anatomy. Factor in traffic accidents, meteorites and other hitches in my getalong and it probably rounds up to a full millennium.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I appreciate the sudden surge in interest in my nether regions.

Some of the subject lines were pretty amusing. Most are unprintable. There are those who would probably say that this whole post is unprintable. But my favorite was the set of spamen that proposed to arrange for me to "have a visit from the big dick fairy." I can't help but think that this entity would look like a smaller version of Ron Jeremy with wings. He would flutter into my bedroom like the Lunesta moth and light on me, and I would wake up in the morning foul-mouthed, covered with body hair, and prone to wearing sleeveless t-shirts and disco medallions.

Then there is the product known as "MegaDik". Is it just me, or does that sound like an Indonesian dictator to you too? Sukarno, Suharto, Megawati, Megadik. Would it be wise to send the Secretary of State to meet with Megadik? Or should she stay in Washington and snigger from a safe distance? And does the use of the prefix "mega" simply beg for comeuppance?

And then there is "DickHelp 911", which is apparently a branch of EMS with special training in urology. The only time I can think I would ever call upon such a service is when I take a heavy impact in what might be tactfully described as the "upper thigh", though I have heard of people getting themselves wedged in swimming pool intakes, vacuum cleaners and toilet paper rolls. Would this version of EMS have a suitably downsized set of the Jaws of Life?

Then there was the oddly worded "How do women see you?" The short answer, one imagines, is with their eyes. The somewhat longer answer would be with their eyes, optic chiasms and striate visual cortexes. But I did once know a woman who claimed she could sense energy fields, sort of like Kirlian Photography without the apparatus. My energy field, for those who are curious, was described as yellow with blue speckles. Or was it blue with yellow speckles? I don't honestly remember. When pressed to explain if this was good or bad, she merely raised one eyebrow and and wordlessly hoisted her Coors Silver Bullet to her lips. So I am forced to admit the possibility that some women see me with ESP or their pineal glands or something.

But my favorite was the cryptic "Wow..Mens love this". Mens love lots of things. S&K socket sets, carbon-steel barbecue tongs, sleeping in on a Saturday morning, 24-hour marathons of MXC on Spike, triple Whoppers with cheese, the smell of napalm in the morning... So what is the sender really offering? The author of said spam was one "Antoinette Hutchinson", and all of a sudden all I could really think of was cake and guillotines, neither of which this particular mens loves all that much (though if faced with the choice, I'd prefer to eat cake than go to the guillotine).

Illumination, I fear, will never come. But I still thank them for their interest.

Great Advertisement

I recently saw an odd commercial on TV. I think I was watching bull riding, but I don't remember for certain. The commercial starts by listing a whole laundry list of reasons why people shouldn't take certain NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-imflammatory drugs), including bleeding ulcers, heart problems, sudden death and presumably even bad vibes.

It then went on to recommend an NSAID. I think it was Celebrex, but don't quote me on that, because I was laughing too hard when they got around to actually saying the name of the drug.

Why was I laughing? Because, and I am not making this up, one of the reasons the commercial cited for why we should take their drug is because "it hasn't been taken off the market." Is that the best thing this drug has going for it? Jeez. It's like advertising a car by saying "So far we haven't had to recall it because of some embarrassing design flaw."