Monday, December 03, 2007
Days Of Future Flatus
Interesting...seems Google can't do this much better than the old Blogspot people did. They claim I made a post on Dec. 30th of last year, when the last one I can find is from November 25th.
There's a new year coming! Feeling my age, I think if I make a resolution this year (some years I do, some I don't), it's going to be to get it together and start making the rest of my life count for something. Live, love, laugh, learn.
Maybe other things, for instance, FISHING.
Yes, indeed. I'm going to fish with a frequency and an intensity that no completely sane person would display. I'm going to learn how to catch every bloody thing in the saltwater rivers and the ocean around here. I'm going to photograph a lot of them, as well as take notes on what I did and when I did it to catch the types I want to catch again.
I've got to get past this nickname of Captain Catfish. Granted, I catch dozens of the damn things. But anybody that can't catch catfish in east central Florida is a sad fisherperson. Before I became too environmentally aware to indulge in such atrocities, I once flipped a lit cigarette butt into the Banana River, and a catfish ate it.
Trout Terror, Flounder Pounder, Snapper Slayer, all cool nicknames. But Captain Catfish? Egad. Even Sergeant Stingray would be an improvement over that. I catch a ton of those things, too, but nobody seems to notice.
I suppose it could be worse. The other fish I've completely mastered the techniques to catch is pigfish. I'll outcatch anybody who wants pigfish. However, the potential nicknames...no thanks.
No matter what, I shall endeavor to persevere. I'll haul my lazy butt out of bed before dawn, and have bait in the water before the sky begins to lighten. I'll fish when it's raining. I'll fish when it's so cold I can't wear my beloved flip-flops. I'll fish when all the known predictors say nothing will bite. I'll fish from shore. I'll fish from my boats. I'll fish from other peoples' boats, from docks, bridges, canal banks and piers. I'll use my poles that are so sensitive they twitch when a fish thinks about biting, I'll use big heavy rigs strong enough to haul sharks in, and everything in between. I'll use live bait, cut bait, thawing bait, artificial lures, homemade lures. I'll use lights, bait treatments, sonic attractors.
Sane people will wonder about this single-minded drive to outwit a creature with a brain smaller than the end of ones' pinkie finger.
Fishing folk will understand.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Star Spangled Boneage
Enzyte. That's the stuff that features those wonderful commercials with the hugely smiling "enhanced" Bob.
Boomer the bulldog is staying with me this week. He's not your stereotypical bulldog. For one thing, he rarely drools. Actually, he ONLY drools when he's being given snacks or food. Even though his new family loves him to death, and will be picking him up as soon as they get back from vacation, he's feeling more than a little insecure. This means that he's about 6 inches behind me most of the time, and "assists" me with whatever I'm doing. This is a bit disconcerting when I'm on the toilet, the rest of the time it's bearable. I drive him around when I don't have to leave him in the truck for extended periods of time. He's an excellent travel companion. He's also not a gassy dog. Anyone who has ever had a gassy dog will understand how wonderful a quality that is.
Thanksgiving 2006 is now history. I spent it with friends, and had an unbelieveable feast, followed by a nearly unbelievable "care" package. Of course, when I got home, the neighbors had a second care package ready for me. I'm hoping to finish the last of it tomorrow and resume my diet. Boomer's helping me with the ham portions of the care packages. I'm not terribly fond of ham, but he seems to like it ok.
AOL has, once again, found a way to stick it to its customers. One morning, I couldn't log on. Tried several times. Finally called the cable company that had a deal with AOL. The operative word here is "had". Seems it was cancelled, and I was left high and dry. Once again, I'm reminded daily about how bad dialup sucks. I'm trying to train everyone I know who calls me to call my cell phone, and trying to retrain myself to always have my cell phone turned on and with me so they can. This doesn't help with telemarketers, of course.
The other problem with my online life is my computer. It's 7 years old. It's tired. It's drastically overloaded with stuff. The one good thing about it is, I'm using Windows Millenium Edition (ME). What's good about that? Practically everyone else is using XP. The hackers are just partying with XP users. ME users are so rare they don't even bother hacking people like me. Also, ME was such an awful, problem-plagued program when it was released that many people skipped it and either went with Windows 2000 or held onto Windows 98. I hung in there, grabbed all the fixes and patches as Microsoft released them, and wound up with a truly stable and excellent platform to work from. I have enjoyed sneering as others face "the blue screen of death" while I've been virused, hacked, attacked and been able to fight them off with relative ease, get my system back up and running quickly. It's kind of a shame to watch Microsoft get something right, then march boldy forward and screw it all up again. I suppose that's progress.
Well, it's getting late. The infomercials are starting. Better try to get some sleep.
Y'all hang in there!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Ereptile And Other Dysfunctions
Greetings campers!
This here's Debonair Suaveroot, your Manic Insomniac, blogging instead of sensibly hitting the sack.
Now, as far as I know, I was the first one to misname Erectile Dysfunction as Ereptile Dysfunction. I think it's a more pleasant way to describe the problem. Why bring this up? The commercials! I LOVE those commercials. The ways that they cracks me up seem to also effect nearly every other TV-watching male in the U.S. Incidentally, I didn't try to copyright Ereptile Dysfunction. Use it as you will. But if you EVER try to sue ME over the rights to it, I'll hunt you down and urinate on your lawn ornaments. I hate to be harsh, but I feel strongly about this.
"If you have a priapism, an erection lasting more than four hours, call your doctor." What does EVERY guy say?
"Hell, if I have one lasting more than four hours, I'm calling the Guinness Book Of World Records." Ok, we've all said it.
Somebody come up with a new one. I'm fresh out.
Of course, there are other problems. "If you experience a loss of vision..." "AIEEEEE! I'm fuckin' BLIND." Sorry, but someone had to say it, ok? I can't remember the name of the product that features Bob, the guy with the huge grin, but frankly, that's the one stiffy-making commercial worth watching. "Natural Male Enhancement." Yeah. That's the ticket.
What I'm wondering is, why all of a sudden is there a nationwide surge of limp dicks? Is this a new thing, or just suddenly they've finally found products that don't drop you from a coronary in the middle of playing hide the sausage? Hell, they've not even done that. They TELL you to make sure your doc says it's ok for you to have sex.
You think men won't risk that? Gimme a break. Would you rather take the deep plunge from walking or swimming, a good meal, or while you're waxing the wand? (Note to any extreme feminists who stumble across this blog: Yes, I know I am. Yes, I need sensitivity training. No, I'm not going to get it.)
Speaking of feminism, is that partly to blame for this epidemic of flat-lined schlongage? Maybe in part. Guys don't know how to act around women anymore. There are lots of people willing to tell them, for a large amount of money, but the information from "expert" to "expert" is varied and often useless or close to it. Women themselves never have and never will be able to pin down what they want, how in hell are guys supposed to figure it out? It's impossible.
Incidentally, I'm not completely against feminism. I think some of the aims of it are important and necessary to improve society. I think some of the aims are insane and destructive. I think the same thing about our politicians. I also think my opinion isn't going to effect anything.
I guess age, flab and the resulting surge of diabetes is probably more to blame. My Dad was diabetic. I attained obesity and borderline diabetes, and I'm still fighting off the flab. Guys, this is CRITICAL. It's hard to hump when you're fat. You're also really gnarly looking naked. Have you ever seen those blind African frogs? They're pale white. Check 'em out sometime, and remember, you may very well look worse. Non-white readers? You don't look any better. Dump the fat.
I've read that a lot of guys are burned out from bad marriages and don't really get into dating or trying to find another woman. MISTAKE. There are more out there. Good ones. Nice ones. Honorable ones. Some of them aren't all burned out because of buttwipe men, too. Go find one. They're as lonely as you are.
Will someone besides me PLEASE tell Vonage that the "music" on their commercials SUCKS? That "Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo" crap grates on me every time I hear it. It would probably save me money by getting their service, but not if it encourage them not to fire their ad agency and move on. What moron suggested that insane, torturous sound, and what fool approved it? Get some TASTE, people! Others are using old rock songs. I've heard the Stones' "Wild Horses", Lennon's "Imagine" and others. They're nice! They're music. Get a freakin' CLUE, would ya?
Now, in addition to the 10,000 other famous women I've got the hots for, ya know who I like? The Leptoprin woman. Not Leptopril, with the cute little brunette, LeptoPRIN. That poor woman has been insulted every way you can think of. Her hair, her presentation, everything. I don't care. I want an autographed picture of her. I wanta know her name. I'll send her fan mail. I won't stalk her, though. I'm way too lazy to do that. Plus it's undignifed.
Ok, that's it for commercials for now. What else needs my attention? Ah. Soldiers and "reporters".
Now, I've got YEARS of journalism training behind me. So I'm not just talking out my butt here. Here's the basics:
Who, What, When, Where and How. That's their job. Report those things. They're supposed to do it in a fair and balanced manner. Here's the problem: they don't. They don't even KNOW they're not doing it in some cases. People do NOT realize the power of their teachers back in school. You see your life as a long string of events leading up to what you are now. They see you as someone they have a limited time to have an effect on. Suppose you're basically a Conservative and, in modern times, God help you, a Christian in a public school. It's HARD to stand up for your beliefs when they're unpopular. It's easier to downplay and go along. Peer approval is important, and authority figures' approval often is, as well. Teachers can be some of the most evil manipulators you'll ever encounter. A raised eyebrow, a disapproving look, is often enough to affect a kid. This could be the subject of a very long blog in itself, but I'm going to try to stay focused on journalism here.
I'm not suggesting that we need more conservative journalists to offset the overwhelming majority of ultra-liberal ones currently in the media business. What I'm suggesting is that the parent companies need to encourage something that's not been done since the 60s. UNBIASED reporting. NOT liberally slanted, NOT conservatively slanted, but presenting both sides when possible, and NO side even more frequently. Report the FACTS. "Journalism" is a sad, unfunny joke.
Right now, there are Americans overseas fighting to protect us. The media is putting every kind of slant on this that they can, but don't be fooled. Those young people are there trying to keep this world a safe place for US. If you lose sight of that, you're a dupe and fool, and I'd like to rub my nasty asshole on your nose. They are AMERICANS. They are OUR PEOPLE. Whether you agree with this war or not, don't turn your back on them. There are organizations that send them care packages. You don't have to do a damn thing but write a check, or put a little money on your credit card. If you disagree with this war, tell your "representatives" in government, but do NOT turn your back on people risking their lives so you can preserve your way of life.
Be good. Be good citizens. Don't piss my butt off, ok?
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
In The Dark, Indeed
Insomniac.
Earlier, my eyes were so heavy, my thoughts and movements so slowed, I thought perhaps I could sleep through the night. I nestled in, comfortable, tired, drifted off easily, vanished into the world of dreams I have yet to be able to articulate with the written word. It's an amazing world, and I do hope to share it eventually. Colorful. Scary sometimes. Funny. Manic. I can do what my body and mind, at their best wakenings, cannot. This night, like many others though, I don't get to stay.
I'm thirsty. I gotta pee. I forgot to brush my teeth earlier. Then, the strangest urge comes over me. I want to dance. I mean, I don't dance. I have a thick body, short legs, and was never gifted with the coordination and creativity to be a dancer. I learned to square dance and waltz as a kid, tango a little as an adult. I could dance fairly well when I drank by using the grace and coordination of karate movements, sanitized and disguised by making them flow more like kung-fu and what I'd seen Polynesian dancers do on TV with their hands. It worked ok with a lot of Chivas Regal in me. I got compliments from strangers.
Since nearly a third of my hard drive is taken up with music, finding appropriate sounds is easy. I create a playlist on my Winamp. Nobody in the neighborhood is awake, the blinds are closed. The cat already thinks I'm nuts, and doesn't care as long as she's fed daily. I dance! Moving amid the detritus and pending pieces of my home reconstruction, the disorganized mess of my living room furniture, I turn, dip, whirl, step, near-kick, and oddly enough, don't bump anything, knock anything over. I think briefly that it's a shame I'm alone. I'd like to be dancing with somebody. In time, I say, and I'm back in the sound, sometimes eyes closed. Anyone watching would probably think of a two legged rhino on drugs, but no one sees, and I feel graceful enough.
After 3 songs, I'm through with dancing for now. I grab the arms of a chair, do a few pushups, do some calf raises, call up pieces of long-unpracticed kata, sometimes operating strictly on muscle memory, but things come back, and I'm breathing a bit hard and feeling good.
I had been nostalgic earlier, going over bits and pieces of my life, and some of those thoughts return for a while. I remember people complimenting on my strength as I delivered my younger brother's eulogy many years ago. They didn't see the times I broke down, sank into a shifting desert of despair and loss, sobbing so hard I pulled muscles in my back, unable to think or talk. That's done now. I miss him. That will never be done.
I remember a night when my young wife, sandwiched between the demands of her family and my needs, eyes wet with nearly shed tears, said, "You don't like my family, do you?", and her pain was like a weight on my chest.
"No," I told her, "I don't like them. But I do love them." The look in her eyes and the one returned held so much more than the words we said, and suddenly, in our car parked by a river on a blue Florida night, our arms were around each other, our faces nestled in that warm safe place against each other's neck and shoulder, and we held each other like letting go would collapse the ground under us.
I remembered the pained feeling the first time my parents called me to drive 13 miles to their house to change a lightbulb. I didn't mind it, of course, but that was the first strong sign of their mortality, the tiny beginning of them drifting toward an ending, and a loss of much that was good in the world.
I flashed through all the fine dogs I've had in my life, and how much they meant to me. Dogs have always been among my best friends, and my ability to keep secrets often rested on their shoulders, since I always told them what I was sworn to never speak to any human.
I decide to blog all this, which I'm doing, and I find some sweet, happy songs to elevate my mood. I'm playing them now. My eyes are getting tired again, and the energy burst from earlier seems to have abated. Maybe I can sleep again.
I hope you already are.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Sweatin' And A-scratchin'
Ah, the joys of home repair! It has become an obsession. I passed up a beautiful, hot sunny weekend of fishing, playing in the ocean, hanging with friends, shooting pool in a nice air conditioned building, all to work on that damn WALL.
Insulating wall interiors, measuring and cutting wallboard, repairing sections of exposed ceiling, swearing at the short-lived batteries in my electric screwdriver, swearing at myself when a cut is off and I have to figure out how to compensate, swearing at the cat when I run out of wood screws (The cat, happily, stares at me briefly, yawns and goes back to sleep. She's heard it all before), swearing at my sweat-soaked shirt and back support belt. I actually get tired of swearing. That's rough.
Interspersed with the Never-Ending Wall are the necessities of everyday life. Food, laundry (I keep dish towels around to wipe the sweat running off my arms. Pouring sweat directly from my body into plugged-in power tools seems like a very bad idea. I go through about 2 of those towels a day), making other parts of my house more presentable. I have to feed my online addiction at least a little every day. I have to remind myself NOT to spend too much time sitting, or I'll fall asleep and miss optimum time for parts of my ongoing house cleanup.
I have to keep in mind that it IS hurricane season here, even if our first big one got itself all fired up then crapped out two days later, sending us some rain and cooling wind as it died. That means I could be restricted to two or three days of covering things with tarps, tying things down with ropes, putting things in places where wind won't send them flying out of my yard for points unknown. Of course, that also means making sure I have plenty of bottled water on hand, lots of charcoal and lighter fluid for the grill, plenty of gasoline for the generator, a variety of batteries, plenty of food, just all KINDS of goodies. I discovered, back when I was taking care of my Dad, that you can get those 12-hour light sticks, and when the power is out, save wear and tear on the generator by leaving a trail of them from, say, the bedroom to the bathroom, the hall to wherever I was sleeping in case he needed me for something.
Well, I best get back to it. Wall won't finish itself.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Drivin' Em Flush
The west wall is done! Done enough for my purposes, at least. I was pondering how to align the east wall, since there's going to be a 3-foot gap for the door. I thought about using the laser sight on my BB pistol. I didn't feel like spending the money on a laser aligning device I may have limited use for in the future.
Then it hit me. BBs! So, I put on my safety glasses, ear plugs (you don't want a BB in your ear canal), lined the barrel up along the edge of the vertical 2 x 4 and POP. Perfect hole in the drywall. Move the gun up, flatten the edge of the barrel against the 2 x 4, POP. I know exactly where to put the board to begin the east wall.
Yes, I know it's a little bit nuts...but it worked.
When I finished drying after my shower the other day, I reached in my drawer to grab a pair of jockeys...and there was a MOUSE staring at me. We were both so shocked we kind of froze, then he hauled ass. Now, in the 25 years I've had this house, I had ONE rat in here. He was a quick rat, my dog couldn't catch him (this was before Basher. Basher would have nailed him), and I didn't have a cat. I finally blasted his ass with some .22 snake shot and chunked his body out in the swamp. When Xena the cat killed and ate a mouse in the living room, I knew it was time for drastic action. Ditto when one went zooming out of the kitchen and headed for Mouse Central, which appears to be the dresser in my room.
This time, I went down to Dollar General and blew a whole buck on 4 traps. I'd smear a little peanut butter on them. Trouble is, these here mousies seem to be very light of foot and tongue. They'd eat the peanut butter, leave the traps unsprung. I thought about temporarily blinding them with the laser sight on the BB gun and blasting them, but that's too time-consuming. I thought of various sadistic but effective ways I could create implements of rodent destruction, but I simply don't have the time, nor do I need eviscerated mice in my underwear drawer. I'm not good with explosives, either, though the concept brought a smile to my face. Tiny mushroom clouds coming out of the drawer, well-done mice removed with oversize tweezers and served to the cat.
Well, while picking up some food to tide me over for the next few days, I saw it. Heavenly choruses seemed to come from nowhere. It gleamed in a plastic kind of way. It's a mouse-box. A simple almost rectangular plastic tube with a hinged lid on one end. The lid is a tight fit. The instructions are simple. Put in cracker piece with a smear of peanut butter. Put in mouse-friendly area. Mouse pushes door open, goes for cracker, door shuts behind him and won't open again. Take mouse outside, turn trap over so door falls against top of trap, drop mouse out. Stomping his little mouse guts out is optional. The trap cost $1.74.
At home, I baited and set my trap, went about doing house things. I checked the trap after about half an hour. VOILA! (PLEASE NOTE HOW TO SPELL VOILA. It's not VIOLA!) There he was! Cracker gone, peanut butter gone, little mouse turds all over the inside of the trap. They're extreme shitters anyway, but I suspect discovering they've been trapped really makes 'em cut loose.
No, I didn't kill him. I took him outside, went to the edge of the swamp, and let him go. I did sort of pop the end of the trap with my hand and he flew a few feet, but he was already running when he hit the ground. I rinsed the trap, emptied it into the toilet, let it dry and rebaited it. I'll check it in a few minutes. I wish there had been more than one trap on the shelf.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Power Trip
I've been digging out all my tools recently for my home improvement. Lots and lots of electrical devices are involved in the carpentry process. Blades and bits snap, motors burn up, batteries die, screws get stripped...anyone who's ever built anything knows the problems. I think I need Al from the "Home Improvement" show. I have people who offer to help, some who have helped. Part of the problem is me, of course. I'm winging it. Part of the wall is going to have windows. I haven't even designed them yet. I'm using disposable and old materials I have at hand to make one side of the wall, since it's going to be temporary. How do I get somebody to help when the entire plan is in my brain? Nobody wants to do the things I need doing, such as shoveling dirt, raking leaves, hacking swamp grass and nuisane bushes and trees. I don't blame them. It's hot, sweaty, dirty work. As soon as I finish my inside projects, I have to do those. Perhaps alternate back and forth so I'm not so far behind outside.
Living in Florida, however, from time to time your plans get an abrupt change. You can prep all your stuff, get ready to tackle your task, and, seemingly out of nowhere, you'll hear the rumble of thunder, and quite suddenly it's raining like crazy. It could last 10 minutes. It could last 2 hours. You're never sure which it will be. There's also the nuisane phenomenon of a monster rain front coming straight at you, then pausing a few miles away and raining itself out.
So...back to my ugly wall. The worst part is nearly done.
Cheerio!
