Mid Water

Living in Dallas has its positive attributes. One day, I'll write about them. It has its downsides, too. Like air conditioning systems that crater for no apparent reason, leaving the occupants to cope by using fans, dashing naked through outdoor sprinklers, and engaging in other such things to minimize the connections between one's body and the atmospheric heat.

Our air conditioner went out on Saturday. Fortunately, the temps of late have only been reaching into the mid-to-upper-eighties during the worst parts of the day. That, though, makes a hot inside-the-house environment. Liveable, though.

During the last two nights, we've turned most of the lights off, abandoned all but the most essential clothing, and wandered nearly-naked in the near-dark house in an attempt to tolerate the temperatures. It has worked well. Late in the evening, in particular, our open windows have let in the very chilly temperatures (OK, very chilly these days is 67 degrees F). It feels wonderful. But before the joy is the misery of high-humidity heat. Ugghh!

I visited many friendly blogsites today, mostly gathering nothing of consequence. A few exceptions, though:

My Day and the Diaries of Dogs and Cats

(This is a rather long post. If you don't have time to read it, at least scroll down to read the bit my niece sent to me today, near the end...it's fantastic!)

My wife and I both slept late today, though the term is relative when applied to the two of us. I arose very late, at about 7:45 am, while she got up just moments later. For me, 7:45 am is extraordinarily late, as I'm ususually up on weekends by 6 or so. And I went to bed at 10 pm, so I have almost ten full hours in bed. My wife, on the other hand, likes to sleep until 9 or 10 on weekends, but vowed to get up "early" today. But, on my schedule, my wife arose late. We both have been working too hard, I think, and we needed our sleep.

It's been eons since we got up early on a Saturday and went out to have breakfast. We did it today. It was a leisurely jaunt down the road to a homey little place whose middle-aged waitresses were not middle-aged when they began working there a good ten years ago. My wife and I both skipped toast, bagels, bisquits, and all the other breads they offered, opting instead for sliced tomatoes. So, despite having feasted on fried eggs and bacon (for me) and fried eggs and corned beef (for my wife), we left the place feeling virtuous.

After a quick trip to the post office, we hit the road, heading toward the 7 acre place my friend has north of town. We had no plans to visit, my wife simply wanted to see where the place was. So, we drove over and I showed her, from a distance, his place, and then we drove a bit further to the trailhead of the wetlands trail that abutts his place. We had not planned on hiking, so her sandals were not appropriate for the muddy trail, so we stopped and simply looked around the trailhead and watched literally thousands of butterflies, most of them tiny but wildly colorful little things, dart about the wildflowers all around the trailhead.

Off we went, wandering around the area, taking side roads into the countryside and occasionally finding a tiny, hidden lakeside neighborhood with lovely little homes right on the lake. Most of these were beautiful little places, perfectly sculpted into the scenery, but occasionally we came upon giant, new behemouths that were uttlerly out of place in these idyllic little lakeside communities. They looked like they belonged in the mini-mansion sprawl of Plano and Frisco. They are horrendously ugly, unsightly beasts that, while no doubt luxurious inside, look badly out of place and completely intrusive on the lakeside. I wish the people who decided to build those monstrosities would take a moment to soak in what their places look like. I am afraid they just don't get it...that gross overindulgence and blatant displays of consumerism run completely amok do not paint them to be the "successes" they think their raw displays of monetary wealth say about them.

I got off topic. We wandered in countryside, taking in little scenes of nature and admiring the quietude of country life until we got hungry (even after those breakfasts, we've trained ourselves to get hungry 'round midday). We stopped in a place (Prairie House, once a highly-regarded original place, now taken over by cutesy "old" materials, etc.) that is well-known for its chicken-fried steak (I know, to some who might read this, I am a sin against man and nature). We ate the chicken fried steak, which was fairly good though not in my top ten, and talked about the service being about 3 on a 10-point scale. Just after we finished our meals, I felt the little buzz on my belt that signaled that I was receiving a message on my blackberry (I know, I should not carry it around on weekends, but I really, truly, rarely get business messages I need to attend to...I just carry it as a cell phone). Here is the message my wonderful niece sent:

The Dog's Diary

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!



The Cat's Diary

Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now.....

My Inner Child

Kathy posted her Inner Child results, and I just couldn't help doing it, too. Despite the silliness, it's not far from the facts.

Your Inner Child Is Sad

You're a very sensitive soul. You haven't grown that thick skin that most adults have. Easily hurt, you tend to retreat to your comfort zone. You don't let many people in - unless you've trusted them for a long time.

How Is Your Inner Child?

Modern-Day Voodoo and Such

I spent the majority of this morning undergoing a nuclear stress test. This is a test devised to determine how much abuse someone who's had a double bypass can tolerate.

First, two burly guys took me to a room filled with medical paraphenalia. One of them stabbed a needle into the inside part of my elbow, finding just the right place to affix a tube into which they would later inject all manner of nuclear materials that can be detected by a large, ugly machine. During this process, the skin-head with a neck as thick as a mighty redwood tree talks to the tall, middle-aged black guy who has been laughing at me since I came in the door. Skin-head is a motorcycle racer who apparently operates a part-time auto-parts shop and garage from his front lawn. He tells big nice black guy that the next time he needs a brake job to call him, because Pep Boys always overcharges. Skin-head's neck is probably 40 inches around, tastefully decorated with tatoos of motorcyles and naked women.

Before moving on to the testing phase, I am asked to review and sign a sheet that asks, among other things, whether I plan to fly anywhere the next 31 days. I respond, yes, I am planning to fly; mega-neck then fills out a little card directed at TSA personnel, saying if I set off metal detectors in airports, it's OK, because I have heavy metal running through my veins. I've never seen such a thing, but I decide I will take the card with my on my upcoming trips to Albuquerque and Moscow.

The next step was to have me lie down, face up, on a hard table. A massive piece of equipment above the table has magical properties that allow it to view the innermost pieces of my body...this machine slowly encircles my mid-section, recording the inner-workings of my damaged chest. That's a 20-minute exercise, during which every muscle in my lower back and my upper arms seizes and shudders, thanks to the position in which I am forced to lay motionless.

After the first phase of torture, I am escorted into a room with a huge treadmill. One of the burly bastards rejoices as he attaches all sorts of wires to my chest and then has me mount the treadmill and begin the process of trying to overwork my heart until it explodes and ceases operation. Every few moments, he tells me to prepare to walk faster and "up the hill" and then laughs and says "you're going to be glad when THIS is over, aren't you?" Fifteen minutes later, I am sprinting at what I would guess to be 40-60 miles per hour, my throat and lungs screaming to take in every available breath. I feel like I am being dragged behind a speeding car, forced to either keep my legs moving at superhuman speeds or else yield to the speed and be dragged helplessly behind the vehicle.

Finally, the torture stops and I am asked to sit patiently in a waiting area. While relaxing with some photo magazines, the doctor's staff interupts me to take my blood pressure and ask questions that I've long since answered many times. My blood pressure if fine, they say, so I may wait again for the burly bastards to take more pictures. Sure enough, they called me back in for a repeat of the first torture. Muscles tense, pain grows...but I handle it through to the end.

After all the pain, I'm told I should come back in two weeks to be given the results of the tests. I agree to this, after paying the $50 co-pay for this visit, and head to the office, where I encounter more work than I bargained for. Once again, I think about becoming a shepherd or a cheese-straightener to get me out of this drudgery, but that goes away. More work, more surprises, and now, here I am.

Boer Goats and Birds

I visited a farm today. That is a stretch. I visited a former employee on his 7-acre "spread," where he and his wife raise Boer goats and a few sheep in their spare time. He has invited me to see his place for years. Just in case you don't know Boer goats, here's a photo, , courtesy of Reeh Boer Goat Ranch.

It's a bit of a drive and the timing has never been right. But I vowed, last time I talked to him, that I'd take an afternoon off one day that coincides with his work-at-home days and come up for a visit. So, I played hooky and took a drive. He showed me around, introduced me to the crew, and regaled me with stories about having lost two or three newborn goats recently to predators...coyotes and/or bobcats. Now, he herds them all into a barn at night. The place is equipped with motion-sensors, aimed outside the barn perimeter; the sensors are connected to lights and a siren. Apparently, he is determined to keep those predators away.

While I was there, he showed me some of his handiwork, some exceptionally well-done e-learning programs that he has developed for our mutual former employer (he's back with them, working on contract 3 days a week). As interesting as the technology of e-learning is to me, I have to say I prefer the goats...or maybe it's just the 7 acres, the solitude of the country, and the fact that I saw and heard more birds while I was there visiting than I have seen and heard in the past six weeks.

My Insane Post

I was wandering through some of my old posts and discovered one that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I have lost my mind. I think I was trying to write the most bizarre 'stuff' I could think to write, but I have no idea just why. Tell me if you think this stuff has signs of insanity:


My insane post

Вы говорите на русском языке?

I sent a fax today to the hotel where I'll stay during my short trip to Moscow next month. My fax was a transmittal for a form I had received from the event organizers. The form was a request for an airport transfer to the hotel. I decided to use www.freetranslation.com to translate my cover note, just in case the recipients were not fluent in English. I sent the following message:

In Russian: Пожалуйста подтвердите ко мне (предпочтительно на английском языке, пожалуйста), что Вы получили мой приложенный запрос и что представитель вашей гостиницы встретит меня в аэропорту, когда я прибываю в Москву.

In English: Please confirm to me (preferably in English, please) that you have received my attached request and that a representative of your hotel will meet me at the airport when I arrive in Moscow.

Shortly thereafter, I received a reply via fax, in perfect English, advising me that I can expect to be picked up at the airport, by a driver who will be holding a sign with my name. I should have known that the hotel would employ people who are fluent in English (and very likely in several other languages). I'm so provincial in my outlook...very American.

Earth Day

Today is Earth Day. Yes, there are many other Earth Days, but today is the 'real' Earth Day. It's amazing to see a U.S. government website proclaiming support for Earth Day. What a crock of shit. So, which is the 'real' website for Earth Day? You decide. I'm getting skeptical in my old age. Organizational support for Earth Day is not nearly as important as individual support.

Joy and Madness

Yesterday, my wife and I took advantage of my client event at the Fort Worth Hilton by using the Hilton as a starting point to visit the Fort Worth Main Street Arts Festival. I had a free valet parking pass, so we zipped on over to Fort
Worth about mid-day, parked at the Hilton, and used it as our base as we wandered around the festival.

We encountered lots of interesting artwork, even more not-so-interesting-artwork, and entertainment of all stripes (e.g., a juggling Elvis impersonator on a unicycle, The Light Crust Doughboys (a folk/country band of real geezers) on one of several stages, and lots of little kids who had their faces painted...that was really entertaining). We never buy much at these arts festivals, mostly because we don't invest significant dollars in art (and the only stuff we're really interested in seems to be valued at many hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars).

We try to get a trinket when we can, though, and yesterday was no exception. My wife bought a piece of garden art, a dragonfly fashioned out of old pieces of flatware, welded onto a nib of re-bar, the results of which were welded to a thin metal rod that's driven into the ground to hold the dragonfly upright. As you can imagine by now, our garden is not one in which you'll find large pieces of stone sculpture. It's not that we wouldn't enjoy having a large-scale sculpture garden, mind you, it's that I chose a line of work that struggles to cover a mortgage, much less permit us to be "consuming" connoisseurs of fine art.


A Dark Turn
While most of the world recoiled at the horrors of the carnage at Virginia Tech last Monday, I watched the news unfold with little opportunity to recoil or even react. I was too intently focused on a major client event to express much. But I felt it. In 1966, when Charles Whitman went to the top of the University of Texas tower and committed his mass murder, one of my sisters was a student at U.T. She was on the U.T. campus that day. She was inside the undergraduate library building, just steps to the west of the tower building. For several hours, the rest of my family and I, most of whom were living in Corpus Christi at the time, had no information about whether she was safe. I was only thirteen at the time, but I remember feeling horribly frightened and so utterly helpless, just waiting to learn whether my sister was OK.

I cannot even fathom how it would have affected me had the outcome, for my family, been different. Once we learned my sister was safe, I began mourning for the victims and their families. I mourn now for those who lost their loved ones or their lives as a result of the tragic madness unleashed by one utterly insane person on the Virginia Tech campus. And I'm still insistent that I will not allow myself the luxury of politicizing that man's madness to suit my own political agenda, though that would be an easy thing to do.

The Ramada Inn at Shiloh: Allan Gurganus

I heard today, for the second time in probably as many years, a reading on Selected Shorts that memerized me. This time, I was able to note was I was listening to: it was The Ramada Inn at Shiloh, by Allan Gurganus, read by Ted Marcoux. I confess to ignorance of both writer and reader, but now have to say that both are extraordinary. I encourage you to follow the link from here to get to the essay by Gurganus. Originally published in Granta, the piece is no longer available from Granta, but Gurganus makes it available for reading from his website at the link above.

Twist in My Sobriety

I'm back. Here's Tanita Tikaram, from 1988.

Mourn

I'll be unlikely to post much in the next few days, as I'm away at a client meeting that will claim most waking hours. It's good, in a sense, to be so busy. It doesn't give me much time to focus on the horrible events of the day. I'm afraid the rage so many feel against the horrors will just contribute to the the growth of the rage around us. Bad all around. I think we should all let some time pass before we use the events in Virginia to justify our political positions. As much as I want to use the killings to validate my point of view, I won't. It's time to just mourn and clip the wings of rage.

Russian River Pub, Forestville

I watched a program on one of the food networks tonight...something about dives, diners, and something else...that I found interesting. My wife popped into the room as I was watching it, gleefully telling me that the host was a co-owner of Johnny Garlic's (or something like it), a restaurant we'd visited during one of our trips to the SF Bay area. My wife and I love to visit diners, dives, and the like, so I was intrigued by the program.

The last sequence was about the Russian River Pub in Forestville, CA, a place we fell in love with a few years ago when we'd pop up to Santa Rosa to visit my wife's sister, brother, and mother. The last time we were there, the owner (at the time) told us they were ready to sell. By that time, I had grown deeply dissatisfied with my line of work and my work life, in general, and was excited to learn that the place was for sale. With no experience running a pub, though, it seemed silly even to consider it. We talked about it, but our other obligations were too taxing.

Someone else bought the place, though, and it seems the couple who did are delighted. The food, the atmosphere, and the location all conspire to make me want to go back, to see what it is that I missed doing. No, not to see what I missed, so much, as to give me direction the next time something presents itself as a wondeful opportunity to take a new direction...i.e., 'don't pass this by.'

I'm anxious to share this with my favorite wife...but she's been asleep for awhile now. When I saw that it was the Russian River Pub coming up on the program, I ran to the bedroom to alert her, but she had long since entered slumberland. She'll be surprised on Monday.

Where is Grumpy Old Man?

I'm getting worried. Grumpy Old Man's blog (http://www.grumpyom.com) has been suspended. Anyone know how to get in touch with Darryl?

Your Provincialism is Showing

It's been a long while since I posted a record of my global media wanderings, so I thought I'd share this Sunday morning's 'finds' in international media. When I read the international articles and the ones more focused on what's important locally, I realize how provincial I have become, and how I really, truly, should broaden my persepctive:

From The Moscow Times, I learned that foreign adoptions are grinding to a halt. The licenses of the last 2 of 89 adoption agencie that operated in Russia a year ago have recently expired.

From The Santiago Times, I learned that street protests in Chile by disaffected youths are turning violent...and that the fundamental root cause seems to be very vague. Michelle Bachalet, Chilean president I so deeply supported in her bid for office, is facing this, her third major crisis, with an uncertain future.

The Philippines Inquirer reported that the First Gentleman, husband of Philippino President Macapagal-Arroyo uttered his first words after surgery on Sunday morning. The First Gentleman had triple bypass surgery.

According to Al Jazeera, the upcoming constitutional referendum in Ecuador could further solidify the president's left-leaning agenda and distance the country from the U.S.

The Toronto Star reports on the death, at 82, of June Callwood who, from the accounts, was an extraordinary social advocate. I'm disappointed not to have known about her until after her death.

China Daily says water pollution in the Yangtze River in China is worsening, with 30 percent of major tributaries seriously polluted. This is bad news for many reasons, not the least of which the Yangtze contributes about 35% of the country's fresh water resources.

Speaking of China, Corriere della Serra says there was major street violence in Milan, Italy's Chinatown. It all seemed to erupt from a simple case of police officers interrupting a delivery of shoes in an area where no parking means, by god, no parking!

The violent clashes reported for the last day or so from Moscow have spread to St. Petersburg, according to the Times of London. This, of course, is not making my May trip to Moscow seem any more appealing. I received my visa via FedEx on Friday, so it appears the trip is on. The protests are against Vladimir Putin and his increasingly hard-line approach to quashing any dissent or opposing viewpoints.

Chicago was selected as the U.S. candidate to host the 2016 Olympic Summer Games as reported by newspapers far and wide, including the Chicago Tribune. Time will tell if Chicago can successfully outbid the likes of Rome, Rio, Tokyo, Prague and Madrid when the final decision is announced on October 2, 2009.

And, finally, not news but a New York Times opinion piece on the battle for what shall constitute vodka...who can call it what. For me, my capacity to differentiate between 'good' and 'bad' vodka is probably limited to how bad I feel the next day.

Working Windily

It's 46 degrees outside, grey and blustery. Last night's fierce winds broke large branches from many trees in our area. I got up early to do some errands and had to weave my way along the streets where huge limbs blocked lanes of traffic. It's odd, though, the rain from last night seemed to have made the leaves and the grass and everything else growing outside seem deeper in color, more vibrant and much richer.

I have lots to do today, most of which involves preparing for a client event next week: rent a cargo van, load dozens of boxes of books, proceedings, tote bags, registration materials, etc., drive it all over to Fort Worth, deposit it in a hotel meeting room for storage until Tuesday....and deal with other regular weekend chores.

The temperature is envigorating! I'm ready for a day of physical labor and fighting the wind.

OK, still only two entrants for naming my car. Come on, give the beast a name! I may have to recycle John Steinbeck's selection of Rosinante if you don't help. But Bev and KathyR, at least, have offered up their suggestions.

27th Anniversary

Today is our 27th anniversary. We stayed in tonight, thanks in part to horrendous weather roaring through our area. Lots of tornadoes, severe straight-line wind damage, flooding, and similar stuff. Fortunately, none of those misfortunes befell us...at least, not yet. I feel for the poor folks who have to deal with the aftermath tonight, though. If I were a first-responder, tonight would be an opportunity to take care of broken lives.

My wife and I decided, consciously, not to celebrate tonight. There's too much going on at the office, too much dragging us into uncomfortable humdrum stuff to try to celebrate a momentous occasion. We're going to Albuquerque and Santa Fe shortly after the first of May, though, and will use that occasion to celebrate. My god, 27 years of marriage, on top of a few years "living in sin," is something of an accomplishment.

I'm probably too tired, too worn out from the demands of upcoming client meetings, to allow it to affect me the way it should. I should be dancing on the heads of needles at such an accomplishment. But I'm just thinking about it, wondering what we could have done had we pursued different directions, wondering how our lives might have been more fulfilling if we had not succumbed to the mantra of management. I don't want to feel melancholy on my 27th anniversary, but it seems I don't have as much control over my mood as I'd like.

My wife and I played a game of Sequence until the pizza delivery guy arrived (yes, we're quite adventursome, arent't we?). When he got here, we grabbed our individual pieces of pizza and made our ways to our own private nests to watch television or blog or think...whatever fits.

Aaaachh. That's not the way I envisioned it. Maybe 30 years will be a bit more splashy and memorable.

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr

Goodbye, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

I admire you for your writing, your steadfast insistence on truth, and your willingness to poke fun at yourself. You'll be missed.

Listening to Joshua Bell

Yesterday, a regular visitor, Bev of Burning Silo left a comment and a link to a Washington Post article that I found absolutely fascinating. The article is a long one, but well worth the read in my opinion. It's about how Washington, DC reacted to world-reknowned violinist Joshua Bell when he played at the L'Enfant Plaza Station, his violin case open before him, inviting donations.

The article and the bits of video that accompany it are thought-provoking. Do we allow ourselves to be informed by our surroundings, especially when those surroundings are unexpectedly rich? Do we rush about our lives, oblivious to the richness around us?

I'm curious...those of you who read the article, do you think you would have stopped to listen to Joshua Bell (whether or not you knew who he was) that day in Washington, DC?

Disciplinaphobia and Such

Every year, I vow that I will adjust my client load so that I can minimize the number of client events in the Spring. I never get to spend much time outdoors, even during weekends, in the Spring. I've still not adjusted the schedule. Next year, I will. Promise. Ask me in the Fall what I've done to adjust my Spring schedule. If I hem and haw about it or if my response is clearly a cover for "not enogh," please slap me up along side the head with a wet newspaper. I menioned, on a completely different topic as I was commenting on another blog, that I think I have disciplinaphobia, i.e., I don't seem to be able to discipline myself into doing the right things for myself. So, I'm afraid of it? No, I fear I'm just lazy.

OK, I couldn't help myself. I had to take a picture of my pink-eye and show it to the tiny section of the world that passes by this page (if you're reading this and don't know, I've recently had a bout with severe sinus infection and pink-eye...big-time annoyances):

Pink-Eye and Puffy Ears

The doctors who visit my blog were right...pink-eye and a severe nasal/ear infection (many other terms for the conditions, but those two nail it). I was able to get in to see the family practioner early...called at 8:00 am, was in the office by 9:30. He allowed as I was in need of antibiotics, eye drops, a shot in the butt, and various pills to keep the evil diseases at bay. I'm still having a hell of a time breathing and the little ch'ren I pass on the streets scream and grab their mothers' skirts when I pass by with my evil eye, but I can live with this for a time, knowing that I should be back at close to 100% (so doc claims) just in time to pack up for another client event move-in next Sunday. Oh boy.

My wife and I are celebrating the promise of good health to come by firing up the bbq and doing a bit of grilling. It's nice when the weather's brisk, as it has been; it remains almost joyously cool.

Murderously Unhappy with My Nose and Other Parts

This is not good. I thought it was a simple, but annoying, cold. It's probably not much more, but its symptoms are getting creepy. The last two nights, my right eye has gone from deep pink to bright red. All manner of ugly goo has escaped from it and it has been itchy, achy, and hard to use as a means of sight. My eye lids are swollen so that the eye is almost shut...but the thin, angry red line that once was my eye is still barely visible.

My cold is getting truly annoying...filling my ears with something so I cannot hear at all from my right ear. My nose is stopped up...all the way to my toes. This stinks. I hate it and all it stands for, much like the Bush administration.

I know. You'd rather not read this. I'd rather not write it! Send me drugs, all manner of drugs, drugs that will clear my sinuses and brighten my eyes and let me breathe again like a normal person without hyper-deviated septum, coupled with massive infusion of concrete-infused mucuous.

Tomorrow, I have agreed to call my doctor's office, early and often if need be, to get an appointment. I must get something...antibiotics, morpheine, cocaine, aspirin on steroids...something...to get rid of this crap!

I had a good time reading some blogs today...but I wanted so desperately to be there that I lost track of who I bothered to comment to and who I planned to comment later. So, if your blog is amongst those lacking my comments, believe me, I meant to say something, but you'd probably rather I leave my stuffy-nosed crap to my own blog, thank you very much.

Cold and Strange

Truly odd weather for Dallas. It snowed, off and on, for much of the day today, though temperatures stayed in the 30s most of the day, not below freezing. Nothing stuck here, but west and south, snow turned the landscape white and the little ch'ren built snowmen and marveled at what nature wrought.

According to meteorolgists, this is only the second time on record that we've had snow this late; last time was something like 79 years ago, a bit before my time.

I worry that Bush will take this weather as a sign of overt aggression by Iran.

Munich

The plan for this evening was to use our season tickets to Watertower Theater in Addison...front row center seats to see Parade, set in 1913 Atlanta about a man accused of the murder of a 13-year-old girl. Plans fall apart. My nagging cold, cough, sore throat, and ,most recently, my pink, tearing, puffy and leaky right eye put those plans aside. Instead, we stopped off for a quick Vietnamese dinner on the way home and nested in front of the television to watch Munich. I found Munich thought-provoking, entertaining and well worth an evening. In hindsight, the premise of the film is just profoundly sad. The idea of solving political and social issues through violence and war is appalling to me. It's barbaric and tells an ugly tale of the human condition.

The weather in Dallas today was delightful. Temperatures never went beyond 60F and the skies were blue every time I looked outdoors. It's a shame we were couped up in an office all day...when we left the office (by 5:30 pm...a record!), I felt like I would rather take a walk by the creek near our office than drive home, but we had a decision to make...an early dinner and home to nurse my cold, or a quick bite and off to a play. The walk along the creek would have left my mood a bit more upbeat than Munich.

Radical...Think it Through

My nasty cold continues, but I'm winning the battle. The bastard will surrender soon, and I'll thrust a sharp sword deep into its wounded soul, putting him firmly and finally out of my misery!

I coughed and sweated my way through the day today, spending it entirely in the office where I am kept. Aside from some frightening fits of coughing, nothing too frightening for me or the staff.

I picked up bits and pieces today from visitors to my blog and others who, for reasons unclear to me now, succeeded in making me visit. A couple of dangerous, but very thought-provoking, comments are worth repeating here...or, at least, encouraging readers to risk visiting.

Here is a link that will cause a reaction of some kind from you. I hope you will read and reflect and not condemn it without giving it serious thought. I'm not a radical, but some days I think I should be. Some days I feel that I am the liberal who does nothing but swagger and run. This is even more uncomfortable. Be willing to be uncomfortable for awhile. It will make you think. And wonder. And, just maybe, act.

Here's the writer...or so the web says...a 75 year-old guy who calls himself Pocho, a guy who lives in Mexico and who once read my blog and encouraged me to follow my heart, which he believes is much further left than I sometimes suggest. I wonder, should I? Am I really that far left? The portraits I read of 'liberals' make me want to rush out to prove I'm not 'one of them,' those who preach out of one side of their mouths and live out of another. I do wonder. I wonder so, so much. Do I believe enough to act, or just enough to bark in bravado, and scurry to the cave when things get out of hand? How about you?

Live Life Like It Matters

I think all of us think it from time to time: What would happen tomorrow if I died tonight? It's unpleasant and eerie and uncomfortable, but it's not an unreasonable question and it deserves an answer.

I hope that my family and friends would come together to help my wife get through a very hard time. They would drop what they were doing and would help her keep the business alive, get it on track and on course, and keep serving our clients. My wife would stay on, relying on the business and controlling it.

That would be the minimum I would hope for. Beyond that, I'd hope that my wife would reach for something better, something she'd enjoy more. I'd want her to work less, enjoy life more. I'd want her to consider that the job, the business, the hours spent in service to clients, are not well-spent. Time spent on herself, that's time well-spent.

I'm not planning to die tonight, but if I do, I want the message to get back to my wife. Don't make my mistakes. Live life like it matters.

My nasty cold and my cold medicine are contributing to this maudlin post. But, maudlin though it may be, it's a post that I believe.

We spend too much time slaying the dragons of administrative hell. It's time for all of us to take a walk in the woods and let the birds and the quiet and the wind tell us why the woods matter.

Name my car

Evidence. I know, it's not proof that my car really has cracked the 150,000 mile barrier, but it's evidence. Good evidence. I may get my car washed soon and post a picture of it. Now that it's entered the realm of geezerhood, I should give it a name. I'll reward the reader who submits the best name (i.e., the name I choose) with an emotional mention in my blog and, with the winner's permission, a photo of the winner or the winner's car.

Car detail: 1997 Toyota Avalon
Color: Dark blue...shows dirt with the best of them

Getting Used to Slavery

I'm back, more or less. Long hours devoted to client satisfaction over a period of days tend to make me surly. Consider me surly. Today, the president-elect of this client suggested that she will be our "greatest nightmare" during her tenure (after she said she expected us [me and all my staff] to jump when she says hop). I tend to react badly to such promises, but I bit my tongue. We'll have lunch soon, she and I, and by the end of that breaking of bread she'll either understand that's not the way to deal with one's 'partners' or she'll be notified that I'm executing our termination option. I really can't afford it, but life's too short. I can sack groceries with the best of them if I need to pay my bills!

I'm thinking similar thoughts about various other groups. Is this insantity?
Quite possibly, but I've been wanting to 'correct' the environment for some time. This may be the chance to do it or it may be the opportunity to inadvertently go backrupt and rent a flat in the poorhouse.

Purely 'nuf said. I'm just tired. Mark it off to tiredness. I'm sure I'll feel much better in the morning and will be more amenable to reacting well to being treated as a slave. Of course. Yes, I will.