How windy is it? Lemme tell you...

OK, you spotted this as a fake, didn't you? Our sandstorms are actually brown, not gray.

But, back in the days before they invented color, that's exactly what residents of Midland, Texas, encountered. To be more specific, this storm blew in on February 20th, 1894 at 6:00 p.m. Thanks to my pal Deborah – who is enjoying the wildflowers in the Texas Hill Country – for finding and sharing the original photo from the National Archives.

But, seriously folks, the sandstorm that blew through last Thursday deposited 11 wheelbarrow loads of dirt on my back driveway. If you've been wondering where I've been lately, that's a good place to start looking.

At last, the promise of peace and quiet in the movie theater. Well, for me, anyway.

Update: I finally found the story on the newspaper's website, and linked to it below.

I, for one, am all in favor of the local movie theater's decision to ban unaccompanied teens after 8:00 pm on the weekends Fridays*, as their presence was a distraction and disruption to my film-viewing routine.

The last time I went to a weekend movie, I could barely hear my cellphone ring because of all the noise cause by a bunch of pre-teens. And carrying on a decent phone conversation? Forget about it!

It's also a safety hazard. I clearly recall the time that my one-year-old** woke up during a particularly intense scene in Live Free or Die Hard and I couldn't hear him crying over the raucous antics of the high school kids. It's just not fair to us parents, and this move by the theater will be of huge value for those of us who rely on it for our babysitting venue.

*I wanted to link to the story in today's newspaper, but if it's on their newly-redesigned and easier-to-navigate website, I couldn't find it.

**This is called "fibbing to make a point." It's a time-honored American political tactic that seems to translate well to the blogosphere.

Measuring Ignorance

I was browsing my new favorite catalog and ran across a description of a "self-centering tape measure." Here's the description of the tool:

It's that easy! As opposed to, say, just dividing the measurement by two.

Are we really so arithmetically-challenged that we need special markings on a tape measure to do that calculation for us?

*sigh* I suppose so. I saw a recent survey that showed that 75% of Americans were uncomfortable with fractions, and the other half simply refused to consider them.

I hereby acknowledge the almost sub-conscious influence on this post by Soccer Dad's comment to this other post. In other words, it's practically his fault.

Selling a House: We Disclose; You Deride

Have you sold or marketed a home in Texas recently? It's been more than 25 years since we did, so we weren't too surprised to find that the "Residential Real Estate Listing Agreement" promulgated by the Texas Association of Realtors had grown. What we weren't prepared for were the five pages of "Seller's Disclosure Notice," wherein we were required to attest to the presence or absence of scores of equipment, fixtures, defects, additions, omissions, and so on.

Among the more interesting of such disclosures are:

• diseased trees (and the nature of said disease; we listed "chronic depression" for our sad desert willow)
• hazardous or toxic waste (no, other than that coming through our cable outlets)
• wetland properties (ha!)
• endangered species on property ("oh look...a baby squirrel!")
• lead-based paint ("nah...we've always twitched like this.")

And, as a sign of the times in which we live, there's this disclosure: "Previous use of premises for manufacture of methamphetamine." In other words, is your house now or has it ever been a meth lab? I was tempted to ask the realtor to define "manufacture."

An odd omission in this otherwise overly-comprehensive list was whether our house contained any disruptions in the space-time continuum that might provide ingress or egress to the very pits of Hell, with associated manifestations of various demons, imps and other dark denizens intent on subjugating humankind. I guess we dodged a bullet on that one.

Making Good Neighbors

The house construction is moving right along, with the near-completion of the back yard fence being the most recent milestone.

The design of that fence was a creative challenge. We wanted something that would be aesthetically pleasing while providing a sense of security. Of course, there are compromises in everything, and our budget dictated some of our choices. Overall, however, I think we achieved what we were shooting for, although the neighbors haven't yet weighed in.

I do think it will look better once we've added the broken glass along the top of the concrete block, don't you?

Brits concerned about taffeta shortage; take drastic steps

The British, in their usual no-nonsense manner, have ascertained that the finite supply of taffeta is increasingly strained – bursting at the seams, one might say – as the surface area of bridesmaids increases. Desperate times merit desperate measures.

Complete details here.

Deafening Silence

A British man who won $40 million in the lottery says he'd give it all back in exchange for his health.

Ida, on the other hand, had no comment.

The Ultimate Vanity Search

Lest you think the following is excessively weird, it's not my fault. I got the idea from none other than John Scalzi.

I'm sure I'm the only person reading this blog who's ever typed his own name into Google just to see what comes back. If you've done it, too (typed your name, that is, not mine), it's OK. Narcissism is a universal human trait, but you can also call it "research" if it makes you feel better.

Anyway, something that makes you feel even better than seeing a bunch of links referencing you is when Google itself assumes that someone wants to search for your name and goes out of its way to help. Exhibit A:

That's right: when I intentionally misspelled my name, Google asked if I was actually looking for, well, me*.

Now, even I would have a hard time getting enthused about this but for the fact that there are actually plenty of people with the name I typed in. The only logical inference from this is that it really is all about me.

G'ahead...give it a try using your own misspelled name. I already know of at least two of my blogging buds for whom this will yield ego-stroking results.

*Of course, I'm intentionally discounting the likelihood that there are many other more important people in the world who share my name, and Google is actually referring to one or all of them.

In honor of Monday (the Day Early edition)

Cousin Danny sent this link down the interweb wires from Kerrville, and while you've probably seen most of these video clips in one form or another, you might not have seen them combined and set to music, which adds a certain winsomeness to the sight of office drones who have had it up to here with uncooperative and/or annoying office equipment and/or co-workers.

If Monday gets you on the ropes tomorrow, just remember these folks and realize that things could always be worse: you could be a pro golfer trying to compete with Tiger Woods.

Solid Gold Vinyl

My pal Mark is thinking about digitizing his extensive collection of Slim Whitman albums, but he's leaning toward leaving them on vinyl and buying a new turntable to replace the old and busted Radio Shack model he's nursed along since 1968.

He tells me he's just about decided on this model, which borrows technology from both the Mars Rover and The Terminator.

I can't decide if this is a joke. A hundred large for a 'table? Of course, that works out to just $130 per pound, which probably makes it a better buy than most of the alternatives. Plus, according to the shopping cart calculation, shipping by USPS is only $7.00. And, they take PayPal.

I say, go for it, Mark. And let us know how ol' Slim sounds when spun on bullet-proof wood.

A Charlie Brown Poinsettia

The thing about poinsettias is that they tend to overstay their welcome. We swore that wouldn't happen this year.

But, sometimes it's hard to know the right time to pull the plug. We may be getting close on this one. What do you think?

Nah. It's got plenty of life left in it.

Disconcerting Search Phrase of the Day

Someone just visited the Gazette via the following search:

I have only one response – I didn't know it was loaded, OK? Honest! A little spackle, a little paint; it'll be as good as new!!

Update: I thought that was weird until I saw this one that just came through: fire ant obituary. Is there something I should know that you're not telling me?

All's right with the world, again

I snapped this photo *before* completing my shopping trip. If you were at H-E-B this morning after 9:04 a.m., you saw a different scene. Better luck next time.

van Gogh's Doppelgänger?

Is this uncanny, or what?

But, you ask, does he still have two ears?

I'm not telling. You can ask him yourself, though.

None is the loneliest number

I've decided that the Gazette's theme for 2008 will be a daily cellphone photo of dubious quality taken inside a grocery store to illustrate and even define the great issues of life. I'm pretty sure I have the material to stretch this through, oh, say, today.

Halloween came early today, as I was confronted by this horrific scene at the local market:

These sadly empty shelves are where the Blue Bell ice cream is supposed to be. If you squinch your eyes in just the right fashion, you'll make out two lonely half gallon cartons of Breyer's, which are probably left over from 2006.

I think you'll agree that this is a problem of apocalyptic magnitude. Someone needs to do something.

But what would you pair with a nice tapioca?

We spent the holiday weekend at Kyle's country estate (well, what would you call a house that has its own professional recording studio?) outside of Austin, from which we ventured forth to engage in activities as varied as a half day browse through the Ikea store, a quick visit to the Apple store (more about that later), and a couple of visits to the neighborhood H-E-B grocery store.

While cruising the aisles at the market, this label caught my eye, and I had to share it with you via camera pic:

Now, I'm far from being an oenophile – most of the humor in Sideways escaped me completely – so I'm completely at a loss to concoct a scenario under which one might be charged with writing a description of a recommended wine/food pairing and the comestible that comes to mind would be rice pudding.

OTOH, depending on how you feel about rice pudding (I happen to like it, by the way, and I know at least one other highly intelligent and respected blogger who shares that affection), one definition of hell might be the provision of an infinite supply of the gooey confection along with the charge to find the wine that best accompanies it – with the diabolical twist being the requirement that the wine cost less than $8.

28 Days Later

Smokin'!

The house construction is proceeding apace and we noticed yesterday that they finished the chimney and have tested the fireplace. I'm not sure what the homeowner's association is going to think, but we won't hold our breath awaiting a housewarming gift from Al Gore.

Ways Women Are Not Like Men – #4,872

You have one new message and three old messages. All messages...played back.

Hi, LB*, this Mabel*. I noticed your haircut at church a couple of weeks ago and it's soooo cute** that I have to know where you got it. Please call me back at this number: 550-3253***.

That message was on our answering machine when we got home from church this afternoon. Now, can you see a guy leaving another guy that message?

Dude, I saw your mullet at the bowling alley last week, man, and it rawked. I have to know who your barber is, man!

OK, I guess when you put it like that, it doesn't sound so unreasonable after all.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
**Granted, it is a really cute haircut, but, still...
***I've always wanted to use the fake Hollywood phone number prefix, and embed a hidden message in the digits.

The Life Cycle of Students

Warning: What follows is possibly the biggest setup in history for the lamest joke. Proceed at your own risk.

The guy pictured at right (hi, Dale!) stopped by our table at Romie's last night (fajitas are the Wednesday night special, doncha know?) and asked me about an English teacher I had in junior high (following up on a comment he left on this post).

On the drive home, after stopping for dessert at S$s, my wife asked me who he was, because she moved to Fort Stockton fairly late in her high school tenure and while she thought he looked familiar, couldn't quite place him. I said something to the effect that I would pull out a high school yearbook when we got home and she could see if she recognized him in his larval phase.

She, being of the razor sharp and quick wit, replied, "are you sure he wouldn't have been in his pupal stage?" Get it? "Pupal"? "Pupil"?

Ah, you just had to be there. And being a biology major might help.

That's why they make the big bucks

The headline in this morning's newspaper presents clear evidence why we leave the meteorological prognosticating to those with years of scientific education and training:

(This should also be of some reassurance to Al Gore.)

It's just a flesh wound

This entry introduces the Content Free Celebrity Head©, an exclusive new feature* of the Gazette designed to help its valued readers distinguish between those posts which are truly Content Free© and those which are simply lame, inane, or otherwise lacking in proficiency. Here at the Gazette, we never stop working to make your blog consumption more satisfying. [Feel free to submit your nominations for celebrities who merit an appearance as a Content Free Celebrity Head©.]

*The concept is, of course, shamefully stolen from James Lileks's Perry Mason Head of Disapproval (or something like that), a link to which I was unable to find (owing to the fact that I didn't look for it, but, still...)

"Non!"

Marcel Marceau has died.

To commemorate his passing, at noon today there will be a minute of non-stop talking.

Bonus points for the identification of the cultural reference for the post title.

TLAPD Jumps The Shark*

As everyone is well aware, today is Talk Like A Pirate Day, and the fact that everyone is well aware is, well, distressing.

Just a few minutes ago, the occasion was the focus of a discussion by the motley crew on Fox & Friends. That's a sure signal that the observance has lost its endearing campiness.

We need a new underground holiday that only the kool kidz know about. Something like "Dance Like Britney Day" or "Rant Like OJ Day" or "Jabber Incoherently Like Sally Day."

Arr.

*Does anybody say "Jump the Shark" anymore?

What's in YOUR fridge?

Yesterday's morning sermon was about the importance of passing along a strong spiritual legacy to your children. I was operating a TV camera and thus couldn't focus completely on the message, so I had to wait until lunch to ask my wife to confirm that I really heard what I thought I heard, and that was the preacher saying that one aspect of teaching good spiritual lessons to our families (and others we come in contact with) involved the things we had on the walls of our houses, in our DVD cabinets, on our music- and bookshelves, and in our refrigerators.

That last thing got me to thinking. What, exactly, could the content of my fridge say about my spirituality? Here are a few things that came to mind, along with some value judgments about each:

• Bad - Ground meat, salami, and bacon, because their presence implies that you don't treat your body like a temple


• Good - Lots of fruit and vegetables (unless, of course, they were grown and harvested by exploited workers)


• Bad - Jars of caviar and tins of pate, since they could indicate a lack of sensitivity to the poor. After all, there are children in China...


• Good - Swiss cheese, because it's holey.


• Bad - A bottle of white wine (if you're Southern Baptist); a bottle of white wine paired with a ribeye (if you're Episcopalian)


• Bad - Brussels sprouts, because they're just wrong


• Toss-up - The head of the neighbor's cat, who's eaten his last marigold from your flowerbed

OK, I'll be the first to admit that the theological basis for the preceding judgments is a bit shaky. But, based on Act 10:9-16, the whole concept seems shaky to me.

Yep, this looks about right...

...other than Midland going AWOL.

Cardcow Vintage Images

Link via Strange Maps, a must-bookmark site for geography freaks.

Don't even THINK of driving under the pavement

Spotted in College Station last month:

I'm pretty sure it's not an evangelistic tool, but I could be mistaken.

Cruel & Unusual Punishment

We suspected all along that the copyright enforcement division of the Justice Department was a group of bullying meanies (how else to explain the power of the RIAA and MPAA), but who knew they were capable of inflicting this kind of evil?

The guy who's being forced to switch to Windows is accepting donations via his blog to pay for a Vista license. Good luck with that, d00d.

Hat tip: Daring Fireball

Gone Brushhoggin'

Update: I received some very kind feedback about this project via comments and email, and while I appreciate the sentiments, I need to redirect the focus to the guy who really did yeoman's work in planning and executing it. Wally (and his lovely wife) directs our Sunday School department (the Simon Department at First Baptist Church), and he arranged for the rental of the tractor. He also did most of the actual brushhogging, drawing on his experiences on a pipeline roustabout crew in another life. (Apparently, once you cleared right of way for a pipeline in southern Louisiana, mowing a few acres of West Texas dryland is a walk in the park!) The cost of the tractor rental was donated by department members. My role in all of this was limited to the things that require no skill or judgment – operate a hoe and weedeater, and generally trying to stay out of the way of the tractor.

My pal Wally and I are going out to Bob's place this morning to do some brushhogging. I have no idea what that means, but it should be fun. Wally said he got the biggest brushhogger he could find; apparently, he wasn't kidding:

Photos and videos forthcoming (but, hopefully, not on the 10 o'clock news).

Dogs and Cats

Rachel forwarded this via email, and while I'm pretty sure it's been around a while, I still get a kick out of it.

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 my 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...

Now, if dogs and cats were bloggers, dogs would be MySpace users (or Flitter, but I think that's too challenging from a technical perspective) and cats would be using software that they coded from scratch (ha!) but their posts would be encoded using mil-spec encryption.

Dueling Lucks

Say, are you as curious as me about this? Since today is Friday the 13th, but it falls in 7/07, does the good luck cancel out the bad? And, if so, is the presence of no luck at all a thing to be desired?

"Dear Optimus Prime..."

For Beth.

Link via Daring Fireball

Back to the Recent Future

Immediately after placing an order for the Nephew's MacBook (which, by the way, he's thrilled with, especially the built-in camera that lets him do video chat, not that he knows anyone else with a similar capability, but, still...), I popped over to Fed Ex's website and, using the shipping tracking number provided by Apple, signed up for the delivery company's new service that sends you emails to let you know when the package hits various checkpoints. I sat back with fingers clasped behind my head and feet on my desk (figuratively, of course; that can get you fired, as the poor doofus in the Nextel commercial learned) and waited for the electronic status checks to roll in, confident that my days of having to go through the ordeal of clicking on a link to check the tracking number had mercifully come to an end.

The package was in transit for about five days, from Shanghai to Midland. During the six intervening stops, nary an email arrived.

However, fifteen minutes after signing for the delivery, Fed Ex notified me by email that, um, the package had been delivered. Perhaps they weren't sure that I fully understood exactly what I'd taken possession of. Perhaps they knew of my advancing age, and wanted to make sure I remembered what I'd done fifteen minutes earlier.

Perhaps they need to work a bit more on their system.

Take your friends where you find them

Via Wallace over at Streams comes this visual reminder that we can learn a lot from animals:

Ten Worst Jobs in Science

Popular Science has published its annual list of the Ten Worst Jobs In Science. It's not surprising that many of the jobs on the list involve interaction with the detritus, debris, garbage and other disgusting deposits of nature, including Whale-Feces Researcher (#10), Olympic Drug Tester (#8), Coursework Carcass Preparer (#5), Garbologist (#4), and HazMat Diver (#1). Oh, and Microsoft Security Analyst (#6).

I think the fact that the PopSci editors consider swimming in sewage only slightly more odious than working with Windows is, well, hilarious. Others may take a somewhat different view. ;-)

Ledes I wish I'd thought of sooner

While being walked by the dog this morning, and pondering further the issues that led to this post, the following sprang fully-formed into my otherwise blank brain:

The French have nothing on our city council when it comes to capitulation.

Fortunately, I didn't think of that line sooner, as it would have reflected poorly upon our good allies, the French.

Fender Bender Render

Last week, I wrote about the experience of witnessing a car crash in the parking lot of a local coffee shop, and not having the presence of mind (aka, "journalistic instincts") to take any photos. Someone left a comment lamenting the lack of visuals, and I promised to provide a separate but equal answer.

I secured the services of a professional crime scene sketch artist named Julio, who is living in our country under the auspices of a secret government program. I can't tell you how I came to know Julio; you're better off not knowing – plausible deniability and all that. Anyway, I spent some time describing the horrific scenes from that fateful evening when our friend – let's call him "Jeff" – had his very existence shaken to the core in front of the south-side Starbucks.

What I'm about to show you is an artistic re-creation of the events leading up to the event in question, as well as the event itself, and its frightful aftermath. After experiencing this re-creation, I suspect that you'll feel as though you were an active participant. I can provide you with the name of a competent trauma counselor if you so desire (and your insurance will accommodate the visits).

In the first scene, it should be obvious that the setting was custom made for a disaster. It's also obvious that "Jeff" parked his car in the worst possible place, and while I'm sorry to have to shine the light on his culpability, it's just my journalistic instincts finally kicking in. Note, too, how blithely unaware we all are of the horror that's about to unfold before us. Such was our blissful innocence about the cruelty of the world we inhabit that we were focused more on the unusual smelling cigarette smoke coming from the table next to us than on the murderous tableau mere feet away.

In Scene 2, we find that the assailant has launched her rocket disguised as a beater Cougar (not to be confused with a "cougar beater," which is illegal in all 47 contiguous states and Arkansas) toward the unsuspecting Pontiac, the latter having no more acumen about its fate than a three ball sitting on the felt before the cue ball explodes into it.

A fraction of an instant later – as quickly as a gnat's wing beats, oh, say two or three times...four, tops – the damage is done. Note the extreme surprise of "Jeff" and his companions. However, the four people sitting at the next table stayed calm and cool, carefully shepherding their unusual cigarette. Note also how the concussion of the impact seems to have transported the witnesses, along with their tables and chairs, off the patio and into the interior of the store itself. (Frankly, I don't remember this happening, so I suspect it's the result of some artistic license on Julio's part.)

Scene 4 has the potential to be somewhat incriminating, as it shows "Jeff" and his companions exulting over the inert body of the unfortunate driver who caused the wreck, after they bludgeoned her with the Pontiac's rear bumper. Here again, I don't really remember this; all I remember was how strong that dang cigarette smelled. In any event, Julio was pretty insistent that since all of his past sketches had involved chalk outlines, he wanted to make sure one got included here, too.

It's worth noting that the teleportation effect first documented in Scene 3 is still in effect.

I hope this has been helpful to you in visualizing what happened that night. If you really want to get the full effect – and I'm not suggesting that you should do this, mind you – you can print this post, cut out the four scenes, and make a flip-movie out of them. I'm pretty sure that's the way Pixar does their stuff.

Could this explain Ann Coulter?

Comment left by George76 on a Macworld forum thread following yesterday's keynote speech by Steve Jobs at the Apple Worldwide Developers Conference.

Some have reported that Don Imus was the eBay purchaser, but he obviously didn't get his money's worth. <rimshot>

Thank you, ladies and germs. I'll be here all week.

The Story of My Life

Here's what appears on my YouTube home page:

Had I but known that all it takes to have friends is the uploading of videos to YouTube, I'd have focused my energies in that direction.

They don't say what to do if "You have no Life."

Photo Caption Contest

We haven't done one of these in a long time, and every time I see the following photo I think, "this would be a good candidate for a caption contest." So, feel free to suggest one in the comments and I'll use an artificial intelligence algorithm – the same one used by Retrievr to match photos to Flickr – to select the winner.

Prizes? Oh, yeah – inconceivable fame and glory, of course!

If nothing else, this picture is a good reminder that the photographer should always be aware of the setting background.

A Light-Hearted Romp through the State Animal Zoo

[You can blame Gwynne for this post, which came about following a comment she left on an earlier one. I kept waiting for her to spring first, but she has better judgment than me.]

The discovery that Texas has no state amphibian (and thus is prone to recurring bouts of mascot envy) led me to do some research on the vital subject of official state critters. Here's but a smidgen of what I've learned thus far:

• Louisiana has a state crustacean, the Crawfish (aka crawdad, aka mudbug). It also has a state dog, the Catahoula Leopard dog. We have a Catahoula living in our neighborhood. I'll have to start according it more respect.


• Connecticut's state insect is the European Praying Mantis, proving that we're right to be suspicious of its ties to the Old Country. They have a state shellfish – the oyster (how original) – but they're lacking in the crustacean department. It also claims the Sperm Whale as its state animal, which strikes me as a bit presumptuous, if not downright gaudy.


• Alabama's state animal is the Racking Horse. I'm pretty sure we don't have any of them in our neighborhood. In fact, I'm not convinced they even exist.


• New Mexico gets kudos for its selection of the Roadrunner as its state bird, but loses an equal number of points for designating the Spadefoot Toad as its official amphibian. One of the oddest choices is that of the Tarantula Hawk Wasp as the state insect (we called 'em "cow killers" when we were kids). Oh, and in a special designation, the residents of Santa Fe have selected the unicorn as their official animal.


• Oklahoma's state reptile is the Mountain Boomer, a truly magnificent lizard, but I wonder if more than about eight people in the whole state have ever seen one?


• Arizona gets the "in your face" award for choosing the Ridge-Nosed Rattlesnake as its state reptile. The selection is puzzling until you learn that this was the last species of rattler to be discovered in the USA, and it's deemed by herpetologists to be one of the most primitive rattlesnakes found in this country. Scientists have yet to find one capable of operating a television or buying car insurance.


• This one cracked me up. New Jersey's state animal is the Horse. No particular breed. Just "the Horse." That makes it easier to remember their State Drug and their State Game.


• Iowa apparently can't be bothered. They have no state anything other than a state bird (the Eastern Goldfinch; you'd think they'd at least pick the Midwestern Goldfinch, but I guess that would have been too much trouble.) The state is considering selecting the Crinoid as its official mascot, although it barely edged out Herbert Hoover.


• Tennessee has three state insects (the Honeybee, the Firefly and the Lady Bug) as well as a state butterfly (the Zebra Swallowtail). No wonder their new license plates will read "Tennessee: The Entomology State."


• The state animal of South Dakota is the Coyote. And they wonder why no one takes them seriously.


• This is kind of surprising. Ohio's state reptile is a snake, the Black Racer, to be exact.


• Rhode Island is another state with an ill-advised mascot. Their state bird is a chicken (the Rhode Island Red, which, while admittedly being a well-known breed is still, you know, a chicken).


• OK, I just discovered that Delaware has a chicken mascot, too (the Blue Hen Chicken).

Given all of these "interesting" facts, what's the one official creature you WISH your home state would adopt?

A Model Airplane

A Gazette reader* who, as far as I know, is completely normal in all other respects, drew my attention to this article about Boeing's new jet, the 787 Dreamliner, and its description of the manufacturing process, the "snapping together of enormous composite parts."

I'm sure there are other folks out there who have fond memories of building model airplanes in fume-filled bedrooms. My friend is obviously one of those, and he provided this actual picture of Boeing's process, based on his mental picture (I hope he doesn't take umbrage at my supplying a few mods of my own; think of it as applying a pixel-grinding Dremel tool, amigo):

Of course, snap-together models were for wimps, even if they were easier to assemble and, for me at least, provided vastly improved odds that the final product would bear at least minuscule resemblance to the obviously fake photo on the front of the box (c'mon – nobody could actually apply those cheap decals without leaving obvious fingerprints all over them). But if you had to resort to the snap-together approach, you could salvage some of your dignity by using airplane glue on the seams anyway.

Let's hope Boeing has stocked up on some hefty supplies of industrial strength glue for the Dreamliner.

*Said reader has earnestly requested anonymity, making me wonder if he's engaging in industrial espionage.

Just don't ask me to drive less

Today's the big gasoline boycott, also known as "Show Your Economic Ignorance Day," and I for one plan to actively participate. In fact, I'm taking things a step or two further, by:

• Shaking my fist at the sun;


• Flaunting the law of gravity by jumping real high; and,


• Directing a sternly arched eyebrow in the direction of Iran.

Later on, emboldened by the results of these aggressive tactics, I'll likely spit into the wind and curse the darkness.

So there.

Cracker Barrel - A Cut Above

I heard this morning that the Midland City Council has approved the application for a new Cracker Barrel restaurant to be located in the northwest part of town.

According to the report, this will be the chain's first location not on an interstate highway, and will be a prototype for future such restaurants.

One might be tempted to say the store is on the cutting edge.

[duck & cover]

Thoughts we think so you don't have to

• There has never been, to our knowledge, a credible superhero whose day job is economist.


• For your child's next science fair, we strongly suggest doing an experiment demonstrating the power of a permeable membrane to conduct water from one side of an apparently solid material to the other side. For guaranteed results, use the plastic bag your newspaper is delivered in.


• The world's simplest manufactured product is, in our opinion, the wooden toothpick. The runner-up is Paris Hilton.

The Snake [Story] That Wouldn't Die

Remember this story, the one about the 97 pound rattlesnake that's appeared -- and been killed -- in every county in Texas, plus one or two in New Mexico and Oklahoma?

Well, it's taking on new life, albeit with an amusing twist. The really funny stuff takes place in the comments. If you can't spare the time to read 'em all, at least read the official explanation.

I just wish we'd gotten a look at the photo. Perhaps there's still hope for a nude-shark-stabbing photo. (I left that sentence intentionally grammatically vague.)

Political Ills

April 11 (AP) - Washington, D.C. -- Actor, former Senator, and potential presidential candidate Fred Thompson revealed today that he's been diagnosed with lymphoma. That revelation, coupled with the announcement that the wife of candidate John Edwards was suffering from a recurrence of breast cancer, has the other candidates scrambling to get on the personal health crisis bandwagon.

In a hastily called news conference just before noon, Democratic hopeful Barack Obama disclosed that he's been suffering from dengue fever and malaria, although, as he put it, "it's the good kind and won't really affect my plans."

The other Democratic front runner, Hillary Rodham Clinton, staged her own press conference, expressing a desire that the American people understand very clearly that she, also, was a sick woman, having been diagnosed with chronic phlebitis. Then, adopting her now-famous faux Southern accent she revealed that she "is pretty sure she has a tapeworm the size of a garden hose." Senator Clinton also stated that she's been suffering from headaches for years, a fact quickly confirmed by her husband, former president Bill Clinton.

On the Republican side, Senator John McCain derided his opponents for what he termed "johnny-come-lately whiners," pointing out that he's had non-working body parts for longer than some of them have been alive.

The other leading Republican candidates, Rudy Guiliani and Mitt Romney, had no official comments but their campaign spokesmen confirmed that each was consulting with top physicians to identify what was wrong with them.

In a related announcement, the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia today released the findings of a study about the health effects of presidential campaigns. That study concluded that there was no correlation between the illnesses of candidates and their campaigns. However, the findings weren't so clearcut with regard to the voters.

Technorati tags: Fred Thompson | Campaigns make me queasy

Client: "Send me bigger bills that I can ignore"

You know, you really should raise your rates a bit. You are selling yourself way short for the services you are performing.

Quick quiz. The source of the preceding statement is:

As a punchline in the "Big Book of Freelance Website Design Jokes"

That hazy world of early morning REM sleep just before the alarm ruins a perfectly fine dream

An actual client email in response to receipt of a bill for website maintenance.

If you chose the third option, you're obviously delusional -- but you're also correct.

I responded to this amazing observation...

Thanks for your concern about my fees. However, you may be overestimating the time it takes to perform a lot of the maintenance work that I do. The updates you requested below, for example, took all of two minutes to complete. Even if I raised my rates 50% that would still work out to a whopping $2.

I've seen folks do thirty minutes worth of work and charge $100 just because the client couldn't do the work for himself, and while he may be willing to pay, I have a hard time believing that any webwork is worth $200 an hour.

But my client wasn't finished...

Hey, remember it's your expertise that matters, not just the amount of time you spend. Our doctors can do a cataract surgery in 4 minutes, but patients pay because they're the best! I still think you should raise your rates.

I've said all along that web design isn't brain surgery; maybe I'm using the wrong medical comparison. Plus, I thought we were paying for malpractice insurance, not expertise.

What's the point of sharing this? Only that I had to send a second notice a month later. I guess my first invoice was too small to take seriously.*

*In the client's defense, I learned that family business had intervened shortly after my invoice arrived, and it got lost in the shuffle. I understand completely. I simply found the whole situation amusing and ironic.

Sounds right to me

I see the newly enacted "Truth in Spam Labeling" legislation is beginning to pay dividends. I just got an email entitled "Worldwide Lootery Agent."

I tremble at the implications...

We have a free credit monitoring account with Equifax via PayPal wherein we get emailed alerts when our credit card balances suddenly increase either in dollar total or percentage in excess of a specified threshold amount. I just received such an alert.

Oh, by the way. Have I mentioned that MLB is returning today from a weekend with the girls in the Georgetown/Austin area (aka "Shopping Ground Zero")?

Take my prokaryote...please

So Abbye and I were at the vet's office this morning, making our periodic contribution into his retirement account, when one of the young techs arrived, complaining about the early hour (it was 9:00 a.m.). I told her it was practically the middle of the day -- an observation she didn't appreciate -- and she replied that her molecular biology class wasn't too thrilling this morning.

My reply was as brilliant as it was instantaneous. "What's wrong?" I asked, "Don't you find mitochondria to be energizing?"

That may well be the best comeback in the history of biological references. See, mitochondria are where oxidative phosphorylation takes place, providing energy at the cellular level. And so -- ah, well, never mind. You just had to be there.

I couldn't discern whether the tech's expression upon hearing my questions was one of awe or pity. I have my theories. But I'm glad my 2 1/2 years as a zoology major finally paid off.

Technorati tag: Oxidative Phosphorylation

It's survived by a stream and numerous tributaries

I glanced up from this morning's newspaper just in time to see the following headline accompany the local TV station's report on various Saint Patrick Day's observances across the country:

And, yes, I'm well aware of the sheer hypocrisy involved in the creation of this post, given my skill at generating typos.

Restoring Balance

So, Jimmy (aka Boxstep Boy) is giving up complaining and criticizing. I can only assume that that means he's finished with ballroom dance class, but that's just a guess.

Regardless of the reason, Jimmy's decision has had the effect of throwing the delicate balance of the blogosphere out of whack, meaning that -- once again -- it's up to me to take up the slack.

Henceforth, I shall be complaining and criticizing at double my previous pace in order to make up for the Jimster's failure to meet quota. In fact, I contemplated renaming the Gazette but Jen already has Whiny Complaints locked up (and she's not even really using it to the good purposes it merits; she's just dealing with a newborn, not the travesties, injustices, and idiots of the universe).

I'm pretty sure I can handle this burden alone, and, in fact, the thought of having to do so will likely ensure my success, but if you'd like to pitch in, feel free to leave your complaints and criticisms in the comments section. Maybe Jimmy will reconsider once he realizes the implications of his rash decision.

Boy, does daylight savings time reek, or what?

Jokes for Math Nerds

Soccer Dad just emailed me a link to this post at the Volokh Conspiracy, apparently confusing me with someone who can balance his checkbook.

If your eyes glaze over, like mine did, upon reading the post and the corresponding comments, you can at least visit this page and relate (link courtesy of one of the commenters).

As several people pointed out, it takes a real nerd to confuse "clever" with "funny." But, then, a real nerd doesn't care, so that's OK.

Testing Creativity

Did you ever have a class in school where the subject matter was as incomprehensible as an interview with Paula Abdul? I can vaguely remember sitting in organic chemistry and calculus classes in college, staring at exam papers where the questions might as well have been written in Sanskrit, and seeing visions of an already anemic GPA shrinking into the nanosphere. I remember seeking inspiration in the faded ceiling tiles, and had I not been so self-absorbed, I might have taken some comfort in the fact that I surely was not the only sophomore in history to have put himself in such a position through a single-minded pursuit of strictly non-academic endeavors.

At some point, I would realize that I had to put something down on paper, in response to the ridiculous questions. *sigh* If only I'd been as creative as this.

Tip of the dunce's cap to Isaac Schrödinger

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Rumba Here

I see that Jimmy has drunk the Corté Kool-Aid and is now taking dance lessons to make points with his wife. The thing is, after only one lesson he seems to think he qualifies for sainthood. Let me tell you, Boxstep Boy, you'll know when you truly merit that recognition, but at this point your descent into the Nether Regions has scarcely entered the foyer.

Come talk to me when your dance-related expenditures have moved well into four significant digits (including a digital camcorder for taping lessons); when you can discuss the timing of "promenade, rondé, lock and flair" with the same facility that you employ in computing slugging percentage; when your time at the dance studio exceeds your time in Big Bend (including drive time to and from); when a good friend tells you that she dreamed about watching you two dance (and adds that, in her dream, she remembers thinking "well, they're not very good" [we assured her that was no dream]). We'll be ready to listen when you are able to admit that you actually bought a new pair of shoes just for dancing. You'll know you've arrived when the appearance of a newspaper ad for "social dresses" at Dillards strikes fear into your heart, and causes your wallet to shrink to a size that could be concealed in Emmitt Smith's DWTS partner's dance costumes.

Yeah, Jimmy, I applaud your romantic motivations -- even as I also understand the complicated calculus that you're trying to employ to compute a potential payoff -- but I hope you don't find that you might have been better off selling a couple of semi-important organs and buying your wife a nice gemstone. Because, frankly, at least that way you get to pick the organs.

Happy dancing, amigo!

Oil Derange

Today was the day I had resolved to take the Durango in for its 3,000 mile service. I have to decide these things in advance because, frankly, I don't like this particular chore.

It's not that the guys at AvisLube aren't friendly and competent -- they are, and the whole process is set up to be as painless as possible, with Fox News showing on a widescreen TV, free coffee and soft drinks, and even a "business center" with free access to a computer and internet (but no wi-fi; what's up with that?). They've even got a glass-in playroom for the kidwinks, complete with TV tuned to cartoons, I suppose to give moms a break, although I never see anyone else in there except men.

It's just...well, to be honest, I feel intimidated when I take my car in for any kind of service. There, I've said it.

Now, I did my own oil and filter changing for more years than most of the guys who work at AvisLube have been alive. In fact, it was only when word finally reach west Texas that dumping used motor oil into the alley behind your house was frowned upon by certain segments that I stopped, and that word got to our neck of the woods pretty late. Oh, there for a while I still changed it myself and then took the used oil to a local station where it was probably accumulated with the other do-it-yourselfers' offerings and then dumped into an alley somewhere besides behind my house, but that got to be a messy pain and I decided just to pay someone else to do it. All that's to say that I know my way around an oil pan and filter wrench...but, really, that's about it, and I get nervous around mechanics who have advanced beyond those basic skills -- which is pretty much everyone else.

I got to the lube joint around 8:30, was greeted by a polite young man, and I immediately did the First Stupid Thing of the morning. [Making it to 8:30 is grounds for claiming a moral victory, by the way.]

Him: Good morning! Time for an oil and filter change? (They look up your license plate in their computer as you pull in so they already know more about your car than you do before you open the door.)

Me: Yeah, and also, I'd like to go ahead and get an inspection sticker. I know I'm a little early but I don't want to have to come back in next month...

Him [leaning over to peer at my windshield]: Uh...are you sure about that...?

Me: Oh, yeah. I don't mind losing a month...

Him [pointing at the inspection sticker]: Well, you actually have seven months left on this one.

Me [reacting to the dawning realization of my FST]: Uh...well...I guess I was looking at the wrong sticker, wasn't I? Heh. Never mind.

Him [in the tone that one takes when speaking to small children or SUV owners whose faculties are suspect]: Go right on inside, sir, and have a cup of coffee and we'll take care of it. Still 35 pounds of air in the tires, right?

At that point he could have recommended filling my tires with weapons grade plutonium and I would have nodded in agreement. I went inside to wait for further self-inflicted indignities.

I don't know how they do it where you are, but here it's similar to sitting in a hospital waiting room, biding time until the doctor comes out to consult with you on the prognosis. In the case of AvisLube, this involves the technician bringing for your inspection at least two things: your car's air filter, and a plastic card smeared with several splotches of fluid. You're expected to study those items and provide him with instructions on how best to proceed.

Now, I wouldn't expect a surgeon to bring out a newly-extracted spleen and consult with me on its condition; I'm not sure why these guys think I'm qualified to assess the condition of the various fluids leaking out of my eight year old Dodge. And it's even worse if the schedule says that there are other things that have to be done, other more esoteric things, like refraculating the transaxillary impediment, or adjusting the capacitative diaphragm to original IEEE specifications. So, generally, what I do is pretend to carefully inspect the offerings -- for all I know, they have only one plastic card and it's pre-fluidized each morning with a variety of flavored honey and the same card is shown to every customer -- and slowly nod my head while intently searching the technician's facial expression for some clue as to what the correct answer should be, all the while praying that the whole crew isn't out in the work area, gathered around my car's open hood and pointing and giggling about the primo dork who's let a fine piece of machinery degenerate to such a sad state.

Fate was kind to me this morning, however, apparently feeling badly about springing such an embarrassing FST on me without a warm-up. The technician brought out the Plastic Card of Mysterious Fluids and the Durango's floppy air filter, and said the words I always long to hear: "all your fluids look fine and you're not due for any additional service." YES!

However, there was still the matter of the air filter. Judging the appearance of an air filter is tricky, as you really don't have a good baseline, or at least I can never remember it if I ever had one. Was it milky white when it was new, or was it more beigey? Darn my lazy ways...when would I ever learn to remove the filter each week, take a digital photo of it, and then study the progression of decay and dirtiness so I would be prepared for this inevitable test?

Or, I could just take the coward's way out. When was the filter last changed?, I asked. He looked at The File (they know everything, as we established above). About 30,000 miles ago, he replied.

Taking command of the situation and reasserting my alpha-ness, I issued the order that would have brought the other men to their feet in applause had they not been off watching cartoons in the game room: Change it!

So, now I'm all set for another 3,000 miles. And, pretty soon now, I'll go out into the garage and take a photo of my air filter.

Once I figure out how to open the hood.

Joke of the Day

Want to see something hilarious? Do a search on Google for well written blog.

Whatever credibility Google may have had in the past has just vanished in the wind, like so much dust from the endlessly flat west Texas prairie, lifted into the atmosphere by weather so alive and vibrant that you'd swear it was breathing, pulsing with vigor and the sheer essence of lifeness, and the fact that such dust is inevitably inhaled by asthmatic seventh graders, causing them to become concert pianists instead of fork lift operators is completely lost upon the prodigious unfeeling forces of nature.

OK, that ought to put that to rest.

Lunatic Texans on Ice

Probably the only thing worse than driving on slick streets following an ice storm and surrounded by Texans who don't know what they're doing, is knowing that among them is Jimmy Patterson who is also operating a camcorder and narrating the action while behind the wheel.

Next up: Jimmy runs with scissors.

Eternal Vigilance

This is the what popped up on my screen this morning, courtesy of the "Random Abbye Photo" feature:

It's comforting to know that we're being protected by such a vigilant dog. It would be even more comforting if she could, you know, actually see anything.

Hier Education

Here's an excerpt from an email my sister-in-law received from the local community college reminding her that it was time to pay the tuition for The Nephew's spring semester course:

Oh, did I mention that the class is English?

In their defense, this is a common mistake, as the past pluperperfect participalian ruling often requires an awkward grammatical structure, such as "if you have tooken care of your balance."

Citizen Journalism: It's not just cute dog photos.

No, it covers a wide range of topics. And species.

Hat tip to Center for Citizen Media

7 Secrets of a Successful International Website, West Texas Style

An article in the current edition of Digital Web Magazine provides tips for designing websites that will cater to an international market. It's in the Details: Seven Secrets of a Successful International Website gives some specific guidelines to increase the likelihood that your website will be understood by and pleasing to visitors from other countries and cultures.

That's all well and good, but it's just as important to understand your local or regional market. In the public interest, I offer the following adaptation of the article's main points to ensure that websites get the job done in west Texas.

1. Shopping habits differ by culture. In some cultures, the shopping cart icon that indicates a "basket" of goods or services to be purchased online doesn't work, because they don't use those carts. Same thing in west Texas: always use a pickup truck icon, preferably a dually.


2. Analogies can alienate. Be sure to localize your descriptions of your products. Instead of comparing the size of Disney World to Rhode Island, the dinkiest of all the states, compare it to Brewster County, which is four times the size of RI.


3. Colors have cultural significance. According to the article, white signifies death in Asia, which must pose a marketing challenge for toilet paper manufacturers. But, anyway, same thing goes here in west Texas. Don't use burnt orange or you'll alienate all the Aggies...or at least those who know how to use a computer. Well, on second thought, go ahead and use burnt orange. The potential market ain't all that big.*


4. Symbols are not all universal. This one's pretty obvious. Every hand gesture you can think of will offend some college sports fan, so the best thing to do is just slap a Texas flag alongside your product and you'll be good to go.


5. Weights and measures should be appropriate. The article discusses the pros and cons of using metric measurements vs. good old American ones, which ain't even up for debate. But you should take it a step further, and incorporate widely understood terms like "a good day's ride," "just a tad more," "a right smart pace," and so on.


6. Text swell can ruin your website design. OK, this one's a little harder to get a handle on. But you know how when you watch those kung fu movies and the guy's mouth goes on forever and then the actual American translation is something like "Oh no!"? Well, that's sort of an example of text swell. Different languages takes up different amounts of space when you write 'em down. But don't worry about it; just stick to good old American and you'll be fine. Or Spanish, even though it takes up a tad bit more space on account of all those extra o's and a's tacked onto the end of real words. On the other hand, the Spanish word for "and" is "y" (but it's pronounced "e" -- go figure) and so you'll be able to take up some slack there.


7. Be sensitive. I have no idea what this one means. Ya'll can just ignore that one.

I hope this primer has proven useful to ya'll. Up next: Building websites for little yankee wusses.**

*I can say this, as I are one.

**Extra credit for those who can identify the source of this reference.

Need a whip? Get a 'lift.

OK, I'll be the first to admit that sometimes it's hard for me to believe that people will actually pay me to build and work on websites, and I can't think of a more pleasing situation than to be able to do that work at home, on a freelance basis. But, still...there's a dream...and perhaps it's about to come true, considering this email that just came to me, personally:

How cool would that be?*

Plus, I'm thinking that this new opportunity is a perfect fit with my new hobby. Da homies will be crunkin' when they see that my whip is a lift.

*OK, it's cool, but not for the reason you might think. "TBM" is "Texas Baptist Men" and they're looking for volunteer fork lift operators to work disaster areas.

The Photos "They" Don't Want You To See!

Caution: Graphic evidence of mean American soldiers in Iraq

Hat tip: Isaac Schrödinger

Just in Time: Some Serenity for the Christmas Season

While intently studying the Gazette's visitor logs -- there's a quiz coming up, you know, and I want to do well -- I noticed that we're number one in Google for a search of "Movie quote I swallowed a bug," so we've got that going for us. (We were also in the top 10 for "interesting dinner conversation," so Google's got a serious credibility problem. I'm not sure what kind of problem the searcher has.)

But that's not important. What's important is that through a series of random clicks, leading past some truly disturbing/vaguely hilarious/shockingly incomprehensible/achingly beautiful/totally irrelevant sites, I stumbled onto this: the Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K) version of The Best Sci-Fi Movie Ever Made, Serenity*.

The world would be a better place if it had more MST3K.

What would Annie Oakley shoot?

Would she go for a 40 cal. S&W with slide, trigger and accents in a nice anodized lavender, equipped with a teal-colored tac-light and fitted with a tiger-skin grip inlay?

OK, the real reason for this post is to introduce a Photoshop plug-in filter called AKVIS Decorator. I'll be posting a full review of this software within the next few days, assuming the Firearm Fashion Police don't haul me off.

Water on Mars? I can explain...

As we noted earlier, NASA scientists are now speculating that "liquid water" flowed across the surface of Mars as recently as a few years ago. They stopped short of guessing as to the source of that water but at least a few staffers have spoken off the record about evidence pointing to a rain shower that occurred the day after they last washed the Mars Rover.

Dealing with the Ball and Chain

Figured I'd better post this before the distaff side of the blogosphere gets hold of it:

By the way, I'm in, although I'd prefer to substitute chips and salsa for the pickles.

Tip of the Santa hat to Cara...

Local Blogger Convocation

I just got back from the big Midland blogger shindig luncheon, and it was quite the affair. In attendance was Jimmy Patterson, Jeff McDonald, and Wallace Craig. Darrell Ward attended as our token media hanger-on; I was going to link to his bio over at KWES-TV, but it seems to be missing. (What's up with that, Jeff?)

A lot of interesting things went on around the table, but I was sworn to secrecy and can't share most of them. I can, however, report that Jimmy ordered shrimp scampi and re-created the climactic scene from Dirty Dancing using the shrimp as the cast. Jeff told us obscure stuff about journalism, and Darrell spoke with a really deep voice. Wallace wore a pink shirt.

Predictably, each of the other bloggers brought their cameras so you'll soon see photos of the occasion appearing at their sites, except for Jeff, who had two cameras but couldn't work either of them. Darrell didn't get the memo, and thus will have to rely on his memory.

I've decided that photographing those mokes isn't all that much fun, so I've relied instead on my keen eye for detail and an innate artistic talent, honed with an advanced degree from the prestigious Art Institute Online, to provide a photo-realistic sketch of our group:

From right to left, that's Darrell, Jeff, Jimmy, yours truly and Wallace. The shadowy figure on the far left is the specter of the Jessica's Well crew; they were invited and we presume were in attendance at another table, disguised as elderly matrons wearing a lot of purple. I can't draw purple, however, so this will have to suffice.

I think it's pretty obvious why an invitation to these luncheons is highly coveted.

Staying abreast of the news

Caution: Juvenile humor ahead.

Did you hear about Jessica Simpson's breakdown at the big shindig to honor Dolly Parton in Washington, D.C. over the weekend? Apparently, she forgot the words to Parton's 9 To 5 and ran off the stage in tears.

But that's not what caught the Herald Sun's attention. The Australian newspaper was focused instead on Simpson's and Parton's visit to the White House, and, specifically, their respective décolletages.

They really need to beef up their copy editing department. I'm pretty sure that last sentence was meant to read The pairs were invited for the Kennedy Center Honors, of which Parton was an honoree.

OK, fine. But what about shoulder-fired RPGs?

Members of the Midland Shooters Association received an email notice yesterday notifying them that certain types of ammo were not to be used on the rifle range due to the potential for damage to the targets. Here's an excerpt:

The memo went on to say (emphasis mine): "So, remember, don't shoot the steel targets with steel core ammo. And, maybe we should add -- don't shoot the steel targets with tungsten alloys, iron, brass, bronze, beryllium copper, or depleted uranium!"

I suppose that if they want to ban the use of depleted uranium ammo, that's their prerogative, but don't blame us for increased crime involving the use of tanks as getaway vehicles.

This gives a whole new sense of urgency to the slogan, "Don't Mess With Texas."

Who's on First

From the Department of Confusing Nomenclature, News Release Division:

According to reliable sources, Ted Williams had no comment.

Simply Amusing

My Texas blogging friend Deborah (author of Glove Box Stories over at SanLeon.net, and a woman of infinite patience as seen in the way she tolerates my plot suggestions -- which generally arise when I feel that too much estrogen has been applied -- by refraining from calling me an idiot) emailed me a cartoon this morning that had the intended consequence of making me smile, and an unintended (I think) one of causing me to spend more time than I could spare browsing through additional work by the cartoonist.

The artist/cartoonist is Rob Esmay (not to be confused with, although possibly related to A-list blogger Dean Esmay), and even if you're not familiar with his name or his comic, A Case in Point, you'll recognize his style, which is one of simplicity and even nostalgia, combined with relevant subject matter presented with pleasing irony. A, um, case in point, from October 16, 2006:

So, tonight, while you're waiting for the results from the big Dancing With the Stars finale (where, sadly, Emmitt Smith's smooth moves will be trounced by the massive fan base of Mario Lopez, said base consisting of a gazillion young women who were born to text -- and if you don't know what that means, you're part of Emmitt's problem), I suggest you amble through Rob's portfolio for a refreshing alternative to For Better or Worse.

Technorati tag: Rob Esmay

Photo Caption Contest

Most people would look at this photo and think, "my, what a cute ring-tailed lemur, the most terrestrial of the lemurs and, outside of zoos, found only on the island of Madagascar."

Others, though -- most Gazette readers, included -- will readily anthropomorphize this character and record their witty remarks in the comment section.

Winners will be obvious.

Amazing Squirrels

One day last week, while MLB was home during the day, we decided to practice some of our dance steps in anticipation of last Saturday's President's Ball. We usually practice in our game room, which is the only area of the house with enough open space. During the day, we leave our door open so that we can have a view of the backyard through the glass storm door.

So, we were gliding (a euphemism for "stumbling") about, practicing some swing steps (which we are really not very good with), when we happened to glance out the back door, whereupon we both immediately burst into laughter at what we saw:

This squirrel was standing a couple of feet from the door, peering through the glass at us. He had apparently been walking by when he happened to look in and -- well, obviously, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. In fact, he stood like that for more than a minute (long enough for me to grab my camera and snap a couple of shots), trying to comprehend the sight. I have no idea what was going through his tiny little brain, but his body language speaks volumes.

It's humbling to know that our dancing is a source of amusement to varmints.

By the way, do you remember my mention of a photo processing program called Photomatix Pro? You can refresh your memory here, as desired. This program is used to combine photos taken with different exposures, yielding a High Dynamic Range (HDR) image that can be quite spectacular. But I've found another use for the program and that is to rescue a poor shot. In this case, as you can tell, the squirrel was standing in the shade, but right in front of a brightly sunlit section of the patio. Because there was a glass door between us, I couldn't use a fill flash, nor did I have time to set up a tripod for a shutter speed slow enough to brighten the squirrel. The image I did capture is shown at right.

I could have done some tedious processing in Photoshop to lighten the squirrel without blowing out the background, but instead I used the Levels command in Photoshop to create a new image with a lightened squirrel AND a totally blown-out background. I then used Photomatix to combine the original photo and the new one, with the result being the one you see at the top of the page.

You may not run into a lot of situations where you need something like this, but it really came in handy this time.

Is this an example of "testing the bottom"?

I guess I have a lot to learn about the stock market, but based on the following screen shot of a portfolio taken a few minutes ago on the Wall Street Journal's website, it appears that Cox Communications will actually pay you $1.00 for each share you're willing to take.

On the face of it, that sounds like a pretty good deal, but knowing my luck in the market, I'd probably end up having to pay someone $2.00/share to unload it.

Advice for Boys

It's been a while since I quoted the illustrious Mr. Lileks, and I'm not sure I've ever just stolen an image from him (although I came close with the Chastening Perry Head), but this was too good to pass up. From today's Bleat:

I would heartily second Mr. Lileks's suggestion, although there's at least one additional womanly look that should give even the most seasoned veteran of the male gender pause for thought. When confronted by a smiling chick wearing Birkenstocks and holding a loaded AK-47, one should always err on the side of gushing appeasement.

Light Me Up

I will eventually get around to posting a report about our family reunions (although it occurs to me that family reunion reports are probably about as interesting as posts about dreams [not that your dream posts are uninteresting -- far from it; they're like angelic cotton candy in every respect -- but I don't have the gift of dreamwriting, and mine come out all "...and then I looked down and - whoa! - no pants!" and, really, who wants to read about that?] so the challenge will be to find those tidbits that are poignant-yet-piquant without overlapping into saccar... sachari... saccerhi... sugary sentimentality) but I have to share this touching anecdote that illustrates why blogging can, literally, save a life.

There was an interesting little package in the mailbox upon our return and after we got unpacked and semi-reorganized I tore it open to find the thing that's pictured at right: a package of Bob's Milchschokoladen Stäbchen, the