Overheard at the Fort Stockton IHOP

Leisurely breakfasts in small towns are great places to pick up interesting trivia. For example...

• The recent wildfires south of Fort Stockton devastated thousands of acres of ranchland, but one of the more costly losses is that of miles of fence. One rancher estimates that it will cost him $10,000 per mile to re-fence his land, and another is estimating a loss of $40,000 just in fencing. The insurance companies (for those few who were insured) are settling fencing claims at $2.18/foot, installed.


• I can think of few jobs that would involve harder work than building fences across some of that Pecos County acreage.


• Certain wealthy Pecos County landowners continue to aggravate their neighbors with their use of hail cannons intended to disperse thunderstorms before they have a chance to damage crops and orchards. The problem is, of course, that while they may indeed be thwarting hailstorms (the actual effectiveness of such techniques continues to be hotly debated), they are also preventing badly needed rainfall that would accompany those storms. The reason that the cannon-shooters can afford to bypass that rainfall is that they own vast amounts of water rights and can irrigate to their heart's content. That's good for the crops and orchards; not so good for Fort Stockton's legendary springs.


• Along those lines, rumor has it that someone has developed an airplane-mounted hail cannon that can be fired at cloud level, thereby eliminating the noise on the ground that tips off the neighbors that the technique is being employed. Interesting concept. There was much active speculation about the type of person who would volunteer to fly a small plane near a thunderstorm in order to detonate explosive material.


• And speaking of airplanes, the Fort Stockton airport is literally buzzing with activity. Airplanes and helicopters of all sizes and types are using the field as a base for oilfield activity and firefighting efforts. The first is a good thing; the second not quite so good. National Forest Service firefighting crews are common around town, and finding them places to live is a real challenge. It appears that every space in every campground is occupied by a trailer, and they don't belong to tourists. There are reports of people living in motels for months on end while they wait for a house to come on the market to buy or lease. There again, evidence that a booming economy does have its downside.

The Incompetent Temporary Bachelor Chronicles: Vol. I

MLB is in another time zone on business, leaving me and the Dog Faced Girl to fend for ourselves, a task for which we each are woefully ill-equipped. In fairness to Abbye, the fact that she's aged, infirm, blind, and lacks opposable thumbs gives her some legitimate excuses that I, for the most part (hold your snide observations) lack.

Take the task of making coffee, for example. Now, one of the things my wife does to ensure that our home is a little bit of heaven on earth is prepare our fancy-schmancy coffeemaker the night before, so that when I arise at precisely 5:26 a.m. and stroll into the kitchen, while she's hammering out mileage on the treadmill I'm dispensing a cuppa joe so fresh it's like a slap in the face from Miley Cyrus.

She makes it look easy, but I'm finding there's more to it than meets the eye. Monday night, for example, I set everything up, carefully measuring three cups of water and four scoops of coffee that would yield my expected three cups of java. I failed to consider the effects of overnight evaporation and water loss during the brewing cycle, and had to resort to sucking on the bottom of a soggy #4 flat-bottomed filter to get my RDA of caffeine on Tuesday morning. If that paints a sad mental picture, I assure you that the reality is worse.

Last night, I was determined not to repeat that mistake, and I didn't. I achieved that goal by grasping at a higher standard of incompetence, as I failed to remember to put any water at all into the coffeemaker.

I can't wait to see what awaits me in the morning. I'm pretty sure that I'm approaching the end of the possible ways to mess up this task, but if things go badly again tomorrow, I'm putting Abbye in charge. She couldn't do any worse.

A Volleyball Story

Back in the day when I was a corporate drone and building websites was a hobby, I offered a free site in a silent auction during my employer's United Way campaign. I thought it might be of interest to someone with a home-based business, or perhaps even a family who wanted a personal site (this was in the late Nineties, well before such things became commonplace). I was a bit surprised to learn that the high bidder wanted me to create a site for her daughter's club volleyball team.

I thought that was pretty cool, and not only built them a website but continued to maintain it (at no charge) for the next couple of years, until most of the girls graduated from high school. When they decided there was no longer a need for the site, the team surprised me with a volleyball that bore the signatures of each of the players, along with their numbers and nicknames. I thought it was a sweet gesture and I kept the ball on display in my office until I no longer had an office, at which time it was packed in a box and carried home.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when the commemorative volleyball came forth from one of the multitude of boxes we unpacked during the move. The ball rested in the corner of my home office for a couple of weeks, until I finally came to the conclusion that I simply had no place for it.

However, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out, or even to donate it. Even though I never knew any of the girls whose names appeared on the ball, and though I was certain that none of them would today even remember signing it, I also believed that it was special to them at the time. But, what to do with it?

Then it struck me: why not try to find one of the players and see if she wanted the ball? I decided to start searching the internet until I found a likely candidate, make contact, and take it from there. I knew that the odds were slim that ten years after the fact, I could find one of the players who cared, but I felt it was worth the effort.

At random, I picked a name from the ball. OK, my selection wasn't entirely random; I've got enough sense to realize that my chances were better if I chose a less common name (vs., say, Mary Smith), so I chose at random one of the more unusual names (which I won't share, for reasons of privacy).

As luck would have it, Google gave me a promising link in its first search result. The name was associated with a PhD candidate (computer science) at a major Texas university, and the link was to her personal grad student website. I clicked over, still not sure this was the person I was seeking, and found a blurb in her online bio that referred to her volleyball career as an undergraduate at another smaller university in Texas. That gave me enough confidence to email her.

I sent the email, then wondered if (1) I had the right girl, and (2) if I was going to weird out some poor grad student. But I was delighted to receive a reply just a couple of hours later.

How great is that? Needless to say, I was more than eager to ship the ball to her, and I hope the names on it bring back lots of happy memories.

Funny how things work out sometimes, isn't it?

If you're thinking about getting a loan...

...you might want to wait a couple of weeks. This afternoon, we locked in a mortgage rate, which practically guarantees a big drop in interest over the next few days.

Still, I remember moving to Midland in '82 and getting a rate of almost 17%. That makes our current sub-6% deal a little bit of heaven!

Closing? Ten days and counting. This would probably be a good time for me to put up a tip jar.

Invaded AND Sick

There's only one thing worse than having strangers tromp through your house, and that's being sick while they're doing it.

Yesterday was not a good day; fortunately, we had only one showing to contend with, and I managed to keep up a somewhat normal facade. That's a good thing, because while I'm not an expert in this area, I suspect that it's a bit of a turnoff to buyers if the owner throws up on them during the tour.

Remind me sometime to share the story about the meeting I had with a vendor who flew in from Dallas and was unfortunate enough to be in the way when a young child in the adjacent seat lost its figurative cookies.

Invaders

We hoped it wouldn't come to this, but we've had to list our house with a realtor. We had actually reached agreement with a buyer a few weeks ago, but they changed their minds about moving to Midland and we're too consumed with getting the new house finished to do any marketing of the old one. And, despite assurances from others that selling your house yourself is a piece of cake, we never did get entirely comfortable with the idea. I guess I've dealt with too many lawyers and lawsuits through the years.

Anyway, we've now opened our sanctuary up to the world, a situation made more challenging by the fact that I have a home office. I'm sure my presence makes prospective buyers a little uneasy, and I know their presence bugs me. And, of course, we have to mend our slovenly ways and make sure everything is as neat and tidy as possible, which is a real stretch given the inevitable clutter and disarray that comes with packing in preparation to move. Also, if you're seeking an investment opportunity, I suggest Proctor & Gamble, makers of the essential Febreze line of air fresheners, because we're doing a lot of spraying nowadays.

I suppose our best outlook is that this is just practice, and that the real marketing will occur after we move out and the realtors can have open access to the house. Fortunately, we don't have to sell in order to buy, so there's no time pressure – other than that associated with the growing realization that Midland's formerly white hot real estate market is beginning to cool ever-so-slightly.

In the meantime, if I seem more reserved in my postings, it's probably because there's a stranger peering over my shoulder.

Midland, Texas: Tropical Paradise

The following email hit my inbox a few days ago:

I was more than happy to grant permission to use the image, which is a collage of three photos of hibiscus I took in our backyard last summer. I'm flattered that someone would consider my amateurish photo for publication, and impressed that they actually asked for permission to use it.

I can't help wondering, however, why the best photo for a book about the Caribbean ecosystem would come from a land-locked deserty locale like Midland, Texas.

Too Much Stuff

You can tell when you have too much stuff by packing 60 moving boxes, carrying them to a storage unit, and returning home to find that the only perceptible difference is that your closet doors can now be shut.

Sixty down; hundreds (?!) to go...

More accuracy than is strictly called for

An alternate stencil for this box could read "Steal Me First!"

I'm not going to tell you what the box contains or where it's stored. So there.

But, feel free to take a guess.

Running a Pint Low

I stopped by yesterday's reception for SSgt. John Faulkenberry and was pleased to see that I was joining a good crowd of folks who were donating blood in his honor. After I gave my pint, I met him and his wife, and visited with his dad, grandad, and aunt, all of whom I've known for years. It was a nice gathering, in every respect, although I'm not sure how many in attendance realized that the rehab on John's leg is still not out of the critical phase just yet. If you've got room on your prayer list for one more, you might fit him in there.

It had been a while since I donated blood, almost two years. Prior to that, I had been a pretty regular donor – every eight weeks – but just got out of the habit after a spell when I thought I was too busy to make the time for it. This was a good reminder to take that privilege more seriously in the future. I've got eight weeks flagged in my PDA now.

I had also forgotten about the aftereffects, until I got on the treadmill this morning, intending to run four miles. I managed to get in half that distance while still feeling like I'd run a marathon (not that I've ever actually run a marathon, but I assume that it makes you feel like warmed over spit). I walked another mile and called it a day, workout-wise.

I'm not complaining, though; not really. Compared to what those who need the blood have gone through, feeling a little rundown for a day isn't even worth mentioning.

Adventures in Homebuilding - Pt. MCMXVII

I'm not an engineer nor an architect, and I didn't stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night, but I can't help thinking that this can't be good:

Standing water in one of the bedrooms is not a feature we designed into the floor plan. It could be worse, of course. If we must have a plumbing leak, now is the time to have it, before the flooring, painting, cabinetry, and all that other good stuff complicate things.

Devilish Details

When scientists finally perfect a truly immersive and accurate virtual reality, I propose that the first application be made mandatory for those considering a custom-built house. Forget about creating memories of scaling K2 without O₂; forget about visiting the rings of Saturn; forget about dancing with Mark Cuban. What I want is a way to envision whether the switch plates will match the faux woodgrain in the shoe cubby of the 3rd bedroom closet.

Have you ever built a house (or, to be accurate, paid someone else to build it for you)? If not, take a moment – g'head; I'll wait here; I need to contemplate shelf thickness anyway – and look at your surroundings. Look at the architectural and decorating details, minute and manifold, and consider what it's like to have to make a conscious decision about each and every one of them. Sure, you've probably remodeled a room or two, and perhaps an entire house, so you've had a taste of the nature of the decisions. But that only scratches the surface (unless you've chosen granite countertops, which we're told can be scratched only by a diamond or another piece of granite), because even remodeling gives you a place to start.

We've moved into the interior detail design of our house, a process which is also known as the "what have we gotten ourselves into?!" phase. This is the part of the process where the quality of our decisions will be evident to all onlookers for as long as we own the house. These are the things we'll have to live with, day in and day out, for the next twenty years (at which point we'll curse the day we ever thought we needed a house this big). Sure, everything can be changed, with enough time, money and patience, but one should really not operate with that mindset.

These are some of the reasons I think a virtual reality "trial run" would be a wonderful thing. OTOH, the home building industry would probably rail against it, because I suspect that having gone through the experience in virtual reality, no one would choose to do it in real reality.

OK, I admit that I'm over-dramatizing the situation, and under-representing the fun that some of the process provides. I would give you some examples of that fun and enjoyment, but I really need to think some more about those switch plates.

Ghosts in the Wires

I don't think this is a commentary on the types of calls I get and make, but when I either make or receive a call on my cell phone while it's plugged into the charger, my paper shredder starts up.

I can't even hazard a guess as to why this happens. It took me a while to figure out what was happening, as the shredder sits directly below the phone as the latter rests on my desktop. At first, I thought I had the phone set on vibrate/ring because of the strange whir that accompanied the calls.

There's probably a safety issue at work here. At the very least, I'll be even more careful not to sit around dangling my fingers in the shredder slot.

Hermetically Sealed Can

When construction began on our new house, we were warned that it wasn't a matter of "if things went wrong," but, rather, "when things went wrong," and the advice was to roll with the punches. We tried to take that advice to heart, and it served us well last Saturday morning.

We had been questioned by a friend about what he saw as a peculiarity in the layout of a specific room in the house, based on his walk-through the previous evening. Since he has no little experience in house construction, we decided we'd better check it out for ourselves, and so we drove to the location after breakfast.

Sure enough, the closet to one of the bedrooms had two doorways, one from the bedroom (which we expected) and one from the exterior hallway (which we didn't). Interestingly, that latter doorway had been shifted from its rightful place, which was the guest half-bath located across the hall from the closet.

That's right: the bathroom would have no entrance, unless something changed. This may be a standard feature somewhere in the world, but it's pretty much not what we had in mind.

We did have a laugh about it, as I joked that we'd just have to put a sign on the finished wall reading "Break in Case of Emergency."

Fortunately, the framers are still on the job and this should be an easy thing to rectify.

Now, if we can just figure out why the garage opens up into the kitchen...

Getting Wired

Some of you may have noticed a dearth of updates regarding La Casa Nuevo. If you must know, The Only Person Whose Opinion I Care About let me know that such updates were unseemly and so you'll not see them on these pages.

More or less.

I may still sneak in an occasional peripheral reference, without getting too specific, and this post is an example of that.

We're getting to the point where I need to start finalizing the wiring plans for the house. We've got the standard electrical outlets and switches, cable and phone jacks, and most lights penciled in, but there's still opportunity to add things.

So, here's a question for you, the answers to which might help me be more imaginative in this planning process. If you were rewiring or re-cabling your current home, are there additional places you'd put outlets, switches, lights, jacks, and other electrical or electronic wiring or cables?

For example, I'm thinking I'd like to have a series of switched outlets under the front eave of the house to make it more convenient to hang Christmas lights. A single switch on the front porch would make it easy to turn the lights on and off. (A timer would be even better. Do they make permanently mounted wall timers?)

I'd like to hear your ideas for creative wiring.

More evidence that I'm not, say, James Bond...

These aren't your usual groceries! And what are you doing here in the middle of the week?

You know your life is bordering on being too predictable when the checker at the busiest grocery store in town makes such observations about your shopping habits. And that's precisely what happened to me this morning.

Setting aside the fact that Tuesday is not technically the middle of the week, she was right on both counts. I'm usually shopping early on Monday, and my cart normally has much more in the way of dairy products. Because of our travel schedule last week, the routine was disrupted. But I would never have guessed that it would be obvious to anyone else.

Perhaps it's a natural phenomenon of being a long-time resident in a smaller city (although 100,000+ souls hardly qualifies as a village). Perhaps it's a testimony to the low employee turnover at this particularly supermarket, or to the observational skills of the checkers.

Or, maybe I'm just a really predictable, stuck-in-a-rut guy. But that couldn't be it, because just this morning I included in my basket – for the first time ever – a pre-cooked pork roast which will anchor tonight's dinner if I can figure out how to turn on the oven. Did I get any credit for that act of living-on-the-edge shopping? I think not.

Well, regardless, the lessons are clear: don't ever assume that you're anonymous or unobserved. And if you aspire to becoming a secret agent, try to shop at a different grocery store every now and then.

Early Morning Showers

So I'm standing at the kitchen sink (hence the post category; clever, huh?), cleaning up after this morning's breakfast, and my Spidey sense is tingling, warning me that something is wrong. I quickly go through a mental checklist to assess the situation, attempting to identify the source of my unease.

• Faucet on. check
• Full stream of water hitting me squarely in the chest. check

Oh, #$$%^^#!

Time slows down as I ponder the faucet head which is loose in my left hand, instead of being attached to the flexible hose that has now retreated into the bowels of the decapitated fixture. I feel the blast of the water and see it bouncing off my body into every nook and cranny (yes, our kitchen is old enough that we still have crannies). I take note of Abbye, formerly resting quietly at my feet but now heading for the unseen hills (while no doubt thinking, indoor rain? great. my life is now officially a living heck.).

Fortunately, my lightning-quick reflexes kick in as I reach out and shut off the water before anything other than me gets seriously soaked. Even more fortunate is the fact that the problem is simply that the faucet head somehow came unscrewed from the hose, rather than snapping off and requiring replacement of the entire assembly.

Abbye's still steering clear of the kitchen, however. At least until lunch.

Surfing the 'Lube

I hauled the laptop to AvisLube (Wadley and Loop 250) in order to get some real work done while waiting for the Durango to be serviced (3,000 mile checkup, inspection sticker, etc.). What I didn't anticipate was that after a couple of years of leaving comments on its feedback form, I find that the company has installed a wireless network – and I can't resist the urge to post something. I mean, it would be hypocritical of me, wouldn't it, to rant about having access only to a wired network for the usual twenty minutes it takes to change the oil and filter (oh, the humanity!), and then not to actually use the wireless version now that it's available.

[By the way, it doesn't instill confidence when the service tech comes out, tells you that the transmission fluid is past due for a change, and when you agree to letting them handle it, hands you a waiver form to sign agreeing that they're not liable for any problems caused by the performance of that service.]

OK...I've gotten this out of my system. It's off to work I go.

Signs of the Impending Apocalypse: #1,546

What's worse, I actually own it.

I thought about making this a caption contest, but you guys are too ruthless.

Credit Card Theft: Letting it go

I appreciate the feedback and insights many of you shared in regard to our recent encounter with a credit card thief. Many of you felt that we should attempt to bring legal action against the perpetrators of that crime, and I can't argue with any of the reasons you put forth.

However, we've elected to defer to the credit card company with regard to any legal action. It has the resources, knows the process, and is also the party that was most harmed by the crime.

From my perspective, besides the feeling that it's the credit card issuer's responsibility to pursue this matter, I tended to place a good deal of weight on the argument expressed by Gwynne that the police have better things to do. I wish that credit card theft was the most serious and pressing issue our law enforcement agencies had to deal with, but we all know that's not the case. Here again, if my information is accurate, the credit card company should be able to go directly to the local authorities (where the fraudulent orders were placed) and bypass the jurisdictional complications that would arise from a filing in Midland.

This is not a case of turning the other cheek, by the way. I hope the credit card company pursues this case, and I'll cooperate in every way possible. My decision is simply one based on my judgment of how scarce and valuable resources should be allocated.

Thanks again for your suggestions and support.

Memorial Day 2007

Hope your Memorial Day (if you're in the good old US of A) is a good one – and that you're doing something more interesting than reading this.

It's a gorgeous day in west Texas, and I'm sitting on the patio after a gun cleaning session following a morning with friends at the range (is there any irony in cleaning firearms while the Beatles' Love is playing on the patio speakers?). The temperature is in the low 80s and there's just enough breeze to make the shaded porch an attractive nuisance for wannabe nap-takers.

We hung our flag early this morning, one of the few on our street. (What a difference five years makes.) Anyway, although we won't be attending any special events today, the reason for this holiday hasn't escaped us, and we gratefully acknowledge that we're able to enjoy such a carefree lifestyle because many other men and women made the ultimate sacrifice to make it so. If that thought doesn't put a serious lump in your throat then I respectfully submit that you should do some serious soul-searching.

May God continue to bless America.

Fancy Free Friday

Today is the rarest of days: my wife's "regularly scheduled every other Friday day off" in which (1) she will actually be able to take the day off, and (b) we have no outgoing travel or incoming visitor obligations.

So, our agenda today contains...nothing. Nothing "official," at least. But since it's been ten weeks since we've been to a movie together (Wild Hogs), and since it's already been raining this morning, this seems like a perfect day to take in either Spiderman 3 or Shrek the Third. It might also be a good day to browse the local bookstore looking at floor plans while consuming mass quantities of frothed caffeine and wholesome frosted pastries. (Tip: Barnes & Noble has been featuring some wicked cupcakes lately.)

Hope your weekend is equally subject to your own whims and amusements.

Relying on the Kindness of Baristas

We pulled into the parking lot of the southside Starbucks just in time to see the door of the church panel van slide open and regurgitate a seemingly endless stream of teenagers. We got out of our truck as the first of the mob reached the store's entrance, and I suppose our faces gave away our feelings, for the group's leader -- not far out of his teen years himself -- called out to them, "hey, guys...let them go first!"

Unfortunately, we were still waiting for our friends to arrive so we reluctantly thanked them and waved them on. We chatted with one of the SB employees who was eating a quick dinner at an outside table, and we discussed the thunderstorms that rolled over Midland earlier in the day.

Our friends arrived and we apprised them of the situation. "We're behind about 16 kids who just went in." The barista corrected me. "Actually, I counted 15." They're trained to be observant and detail-oriented, you know, not unlike FBI agents.

We went inside and grabbed the cushy easy chairs in the back of the room, intending to wait until the line cleared out. After only a couple of minutes, the barista we'd been chatting with came over and asked, "you want your usual?" We did a double-take, saw she was serious, and replied in the affirmative, gratefully. "How about a pastry?" Well, yeah. You can't end fajita night without dessert, can you?

I jumped up, followed her to the counter (where the long line was still, well, long) and picked out something suitably decadent, and laid my Starbucks card on top of the display case. In less than five minutes, she came around carrying our drinks and pastry, as well as my card and receipt. I followed her back and dropped a couple of bucks in the tip jar. The church kids were still in line, placing their orders.

You might say we're in a rut, showing up at the same time on the same night every week and ordering the same thing. But when it leads to service like that, I frankly can't see any downside.

Plus, the kids ended up going out on the patio where they enjoyed their drinks and had a quick Bible study. They were gone before we left.

Nice kids. Great barista. Wonderful evening. Hope yours was as good.

Changes (Part II)

Let's see. We've got a high maintenance dog, parental health issues, one career that demands continual 10-11 hour days and another that's just barely scraping by, plus four years of college tuition glaring from the horizon like the Eye of Mordor. I wonder what we could do to ratchet up the stress level? Hmmm...

I know! What if we build a big honkin' new house and try to sell the old one, tapping into the funds that might otherwise ensure that we have a long and secure retirement*? Yeah, that's the ticket!

Stay tuned -- this could get really interesting, as in the "you idiot -- why would you ever open that closet door during a stormy night when all of your friends have already been brutally murdered by the ax-wielding lunatic with the hockey mask?" kind of interesting.

*Well, sure, it sounds logical when you put it like that. But I don't think it will really be that insignificant.

Nostalgic Play

I'm not sure why -- perhaps because it rained all day and I couldn't get outside -- but yesterday my mind turned to some of the activities that constituted playtime when I was a kid. They all took place outdoors; "play" just didn't happen inside the house, not because it was forbidden, but because all the fun stuff was outside.

Here's my Big Five Old Time Playtime list (in no particular order). Maybe some of you old far...uh, more mature folks can relate to some of this:

• Homemade stilts -- Take a couple lengths of 2x4s and nail a short block to each at the height you think you can manage. Use them to stride regally across vacant lots, impervious to red ant beds, goatheads, and other [mostly imaginary] enemies. Also a good way to learn about physics, and weight-to-nail-effectiveness ratios.


• Kick the Can -- Ingredients for this one are equally simple: as many neighborhood kids as you can round up, a warm summer evening, and one (1) can, preferably a big stewed tomato can. They were all made out of tin back then, you know. Our backyard wasn't fully fenced, as I recall, and we could set up the can in the middle of it then range throughout the neighborhood for a couple of blocks in all directions. The darker it got, the more fun it was.


• Climbing the school swing set -- We lived across the alley from the elementary school, and it had a big honking' set of swings, the kind that would bring down OSHA fines and lawsuits if they were used today. The frame was heavy pipe -- drill pipe, perhaps? -- and fifteen feet tall. The swings were heavy lengths of 2x12s suspended by stout chains. I climbed those chains and pipes until my hands were black from the silver paint they were coated with. To this day, I can still climb trees and fences with a skill that might surprise you.


• Underground bunker -- This may be a guy thing, although I suspect a few tomboys probably enjoyed digging tunnels and hiding in them. We had vacant lots all around us, and our masterpiece was a pit about three feet square and the same amount deep, covered with plywood and camouflaged with dirt and debris on top so that we could make strange noises in an attempt to frighten and/or confuse the garbage collectors driving down the alley. I don't think it ever worked. I also don't know what the owner of the vacant lot thought about our excavation project.


• Flattened can bike skidding -- OK, this was a classic. I miss doing this to this day. You find a flattened can in the middle of the street. You get it in your sights, build up a head of steam on your bike, and just as the rear wheel starts to roll over the can, you hit your coaster brake. If you've timed the operation perfectly, you can skid half a block while generating an awful sound of scraping metal, leaving a trail of sparks. I'm sure it wasn't as dramatic as we imagined, but in our minds, it was a thing of beauty.

Got any childhood recreational activities you care to share?

Scary Weather in the Metroplex

As I type this The Weather Channel is reporting on "significant building damage" in the Fort Worth area from a tornado that's heading toward Irving and Dallas. This is bad stuff. It wasn't all that many years ago that a tornado did terrible damage to downtown Fort Worth.

Let's hope Cowtown Pattie and her posse are OK, as well as many others we know and care about in that area.

Overheard at Church

Working a TV camera during one of this morning's worship services, I heard a question over the headset that I don't recall ever hearing in that setting, as the switcher and director contemplated a potential shot from the remotely controlled camera mounted over the choir loft:

Fashion tip for ladies: When dressing for church, consider all the various angles at which you might be viewed.

Of course, since the directorial crew consisted of all males, the answer to the question was "no, there's no such thing."

OK, just kidding. Well, the answer was "no," but the question was asked out of an abundance of caution given the setting. The young lady in question was appropriately attired -- from every angle.

Just another item to add to the list, along with gum-poppers, nose-pickers, and sermon-sleepers.

Word of the Week

Skep·ti·cism [skep-tuh-siz-uh m] - noun: The attitude one should have when hearing from a sales clerk at Sears that the garbage disposer you're about to purchase will be an exact replacement for the 10-year old model you're going to switch out, because you realize that "exact replacement" means that the piping will be offset "only" one-half inch and too short by an equal amount, meaning that you'll either have to buy a 12' length of PVC pipe in order to get a 12" piece, or else use enough plumber's putty to fill the gap.

Also, the attitude one should have when assuring oneself that the above-described solution is actually a good one.

Dodging Disaster

Did you ever suffer a mishap, and someone said to you, "well, it could have been worse," and you just wanted to smack them?

Well, I experienced that this morning, although the twist was that I laid that cliché on myself, and for once, I agreed with it.

It began innocently enough when I decided to polish my black ropers. I shine my shoes about as often as the Dixie Chicks play Midland, partly because it's a bore but also because my usual footwear consists of running shoes, flip-flops, and casual loafers. But, last Saturday evening I had polished a couple of pairs of dress shoes in anticipation of some upcoming events, and I noticed that the shoeshine brush sent little black specks of old polish all over the dressing table in our bedroom, which is where I normally take care of this task.

Remembering that minor mess, and not wanting to endure the rather chilly weather of the back porch (the alternate Polishing Location), I elected to go into the garage. I set up shop and eventually had the ropers shining again. Then, for unfathomable reasons, I decided that they needed more work. I decided to apply edge dressing to the soles and heels.

Have you ever worked with edge dressing? Nasty stuff. It's really just dye, but it has the annoying characteristic of drying too quickly when it lands where it shouldn't, and taking forever to dry when applied to shoes, so that you have to find a safe location to park the shoes to ensure they won't leave indelible marks on everything they touch.

Anyway, it had been a long time since I'd used the dye (you can see where this is going, can't you?), so I shook the bottle vigorously according to the instructions, and popped the cap -- and black dye exploded all over the garage. It splashed my shoes and jeans, it peppered the Durango which was parked close by, and it formed a permanent puddle in the middle of the concrete floor.

I was quick enough to grab a rag and clean the car; everything else could stand the stain. As you can imagine, I was not a happy camper. But that's when it occurred to me, what if I had not decided to break my usual routine and go into the garage? Yikes!

Of course, the lesson is clear: leave the shoeshines to the experts. And wear flip-flops as often as possible.

Happy Pi Day

No, I'm not late with this; I'm exactly on time. Check me if you're skeptical.

Naming of the Screw: Your Ideas Wanted!

Today was our friend Tommy's birthday, and a bunch of us gathered at a local Tex-Mex eatery to celebrate the occasion. As you may recall, Tommy is the guy whose skiing career met a tragic end at Lake Tahoe this time last year. Enough time has passed that we can laugh about it -- sort of -- and one of his gifts from his wife was a block of clear acrylic encasing four of the long and nasty-looking stainless steel screws that helped hold together the shattered bones of his leg up until a few months ago (he's still equipped with a half dozen or so more, plus a steel plate).

It's actually a pretty cool monument, but it's lacking something -- an inscription. She intentionally left the block unengraved, wanting to wait for just the right words. And so I figured, who better to come up with "just the right words" than -- you guessed it -- the intelligent, witty, literate, and occasionally irreverent readers of the Gazette!

So, here's your challenge: come up with some ideas to present to Tommy for inscriptions on his big block o'screws. I'm sure he'll appreciate your offerings, even if he elects to ignore them.

And, lest you're already going there, "Screwed in Lake Tahoe - 2006" has already been offered (and rejected).

Leave your ideas in the comments and I'll make sure he sees 'em. Thanks!

Update: Below is a photo of the screws, provided by Tommy's wife, for your inspiration. The bottom three are self-tapping and hollow. Very interesting, from an engineering perspective.

Crawling Back to the Blogosphere

I had every intention of posting something yesterday. Unfortunately, my internet service provider -- SoddenLink* -- had other ideas. I was able to "borrow" enough bandwidth from an unknown neighbor's unprotected wireless network to check email and complete some critical client-related tasks (fortunately, he or she uses a more reliable ISP), but couldn't muster the enthusiasm to use it for blogging. More about that later.

In any event, we're back from a relaxing vacation, and I figured I'd ease back into the 'sphere with a quiz of sorts. So, where in the world am I and my ant bud, shown below?

OK, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out in general where we are, so I'll have to ask for a pretty specific location, down to even an intersection or street name. Even then, this should be no hill for a stepper.

*However lame it may be, the misspelling is intentional. It's my only means of expressing dismay at how the company's service has sunk to the same level as its TV commercials.

The 3rd Shoe Drops

Did you know that if you google the quote-enclosed phrase "bad things come threes," you'll get 17,900 results (as of this morning; later today, it may be 17,901, which is at least divisible by three, so we've got that going for us)? And so it seems that I'm not the only soul who, while not being superstitious or clinging to ancient and silly ways of explaining why the universe behaves like it does, still perceives out of the corner of my eye certain patterns that are simultaneously comforting and disquieting.

In our case, #1 was Saturday's ice storm that wreaked havoc on our 25-year old oak tree. #2 was yesterday's snapping of the spring on our garage door. And #3 occurred this morning as MLB's 5:00 a.m. treadmill workout was derailed when the television in the game room abruptly gave up its phosphorescent ghost.

This is a disaster of epic proportions, as anyone who has endured an hour on a treadmill without the benefit of sensory distraction will attest. The TV isn't that old, but it was acquired via deep discount at Best Buy, the discount being so deep that it qualified as an impulse purchase, and we just don't do that sort of thing with electronics. It's got a nice 20" flat screen with front panel a/v inputs and it fit snugly into the built-in cabinet. Ironically, this death came only a couple of weeks after I installed a UPS to protect it and the other a/v equipment from Midland's notoriously jicky electric current. There's bound to be yet another law to explain that, something along the lines of "no good deed goes unpunished."

NEWSFLASH! I was just about to smash the TV with an eight pound sledge when I had a brainstorm and plugged it into a different electrical outlet; it works fine. I should be happy, I suppose, except for two things. I really like that sledge. And, #3 is still out there.

Yep, It's Monday

Remember this?

Have I ever told you that we have two garage doors?

At least the car's not trapped inside this time.

Overheard

Veterinary receptionist, to unknown caller: Well, the fee for euthanasia for a dog or cat is thirty five dollars, but I'm not sure what it is for a guinea pig. I'll have to talk to the doctor.

I've never considered this scenario. But, then, I've never knowingly owned a small rodent.

Not a good sign...

It's 70 degrees in our house and I'm shivering. That can't be good.

New Things in Our House: Part 2

Some things have to be experienced to be understood. For example, I never really bought into the idea that watching video on an iPod's tiny screen could be entertaining in the least, until I found myself engaged in the episode of The Office where they find out that there's a felon working alongside them, and said episode is playing out on the tiny screen of my own new iPod, and, suddenly, I understood. It made sense. The hype wasn't overdone.

OK, maybe just a little. But that's another story for another day. What hasn't been overdone is the hubbub around satellite radio, and now that I have my own new Roady XT installed in the office-slash-game room, I can safely testify that XM Radio is the greatest thing since sliced bread.

I also got a Belkin Home Kit that allows me to connect the XM receiver to my home stereo, and control it with a tiny remote.

I still can't do any serious work with music playing, but I find myself listening to the radio more and more during more mundane or tedious tasks. I'm also experiencing channel overload, with 150 available stations. I've picked out ten music stations for one of the three preset playlists, and another ten talk stations for the second playlist, but I find myself listening primarily to channel 32, which is labeled as "Christian Pop" but which is more eclectic and interesting than that.

That has generated one amusing moment. I've also got a car audio mount for the receiver, which is grab-and-go size. One recent evening I headed for the drive-through at Rosa's, and I put the XM radio in the Durango, anticipating a long line (and I was right about that, although it doesn't take a savant to predict that). I was almost up to the order speaker before I realized that I had forgotten to switch my FM radio to the right station for the XM signal and what I'd been listening to was actually the local Air 1 station. (I wondered why those people kept talking between the songs...figured it was some sort of holiday deal.)

XM's World Music line-up is a bit too heavy on electronica for my tastes; I'd like more Caribbean accents and fewer Euro-beats. And its country selections are pretty mainstream lame; I still prefer The Outlaw for Music to Clean Guns To, if you know what I mean. I haven't had the nerve to check in on the Uncensored Comedy channel, and I'm a little miffed that the Big 12 conference doesn't have its own sports channel (although after its performance in the bowl games this season, I'm not sure it even deserves its own conference. And before you Tech and UT fans get too cocky, please take a look at the records of the teams you came from behind to beat. But I digress.)

If you're considering getting a satellite radio, either XM or Sirius, make sure you understand the antenna placement requirements, and whether you can achieve them without herculean effort. In my case, I was able to place the antenna in the requisite south-facing window only by rearranging my entire stereo system layout, a task not for the faint-of-heart (or short-on-patience). However, I have to admit that the results were worth the trouble.

New Things in Our House: Part I

We go through coffee makers like Rosie O'Donnell goes through Snickers bars. Our version of the Holy Grail will come with a #4 paper filter and have at least a 12-cup capacity. And we've yet to find one that's flawless...but we've come pretty close with our latest acquisition.

Meet the Cuisinart Coffee On Demand™ coffee maker, which has resided in our kitchen for about a week. This wonderfully industrial-looking appliance brews a passable cup of coffee. More important, it keeps the coffee almost painfully hot -- just the way we like it -- to the very last drop. (Say, that would make a good coffeeesque slogan, wouldn't it?)

See, that was main drawback to our previous maker, a stylish stainless steel carafe model, also from Cuisinart. The carafe did an admirable job of keeping the coffee hot for an hour or so, but our regular morning schedule is such that that just doesn't get the job done. Also, if we brewed less than a full carafe, the coffee cooled more quickly (not that we'd ever do that...just saying). With this new approach, we lose the convenience of having a pot we can carry all over the place, but we gain tastier coffee, and that's the bottom line.

There are a couple of additional drawbacks. You have to get the right visual perspective to see the level in your cup as you're filling it. Also, you can't fit a tall travel mug under the spigot. And, finally, the reservoir that holds the water has a pretty narrow opening, so you have to be careful when filling it.

To us, these are minor inconveniences compared to having an endless supply -- as long as "endless" is defined as 12 cups or less -- of hot coffee. It also fits under our cabinets. Plus, it's just darned cool to have a needle gauge showing how much coffee is left.

Collapsing into the New Year

I'll readily admit it: I'm a creature of habit, and these past two weeks have been a challenge from that perspective. My wife has been taking some well-deserved vacation, as have most of my clients, and the typical holiday social schedule seems to foster a certain lack of discipline. Thus, while it was enjoyable in its own way, I was looking forward a bit to getting back into a regular routine.

What I failed to remember was that 5:25 a.m. is a part of that routine.

Well, at least my New Year's resolution is still intact, the one where I promised to post something every day of 2007, so I've got that going for...um...well. Oops.

There's always 2008.

Kiddie Kops

A while back, several of my fellow bloggers were participating in a meme in which they posted geeky photos of themselves as youngsters. I didn't participate because, well, I've always been handsome and sophisticated and thus had no such pictures.

This was reinforced by the photo shown below, which was unearthed by my wife yesterday as she cleaned out a dresser drawer. It was taken when I was in the third grade, attending Comanche Elementary School in Fort Stockton. The motley crew in the photo comprised the school's Safety Patrol, the name given to the group of boys who were selected to serve as crossing guards on Rio Street, which ran in front of the school.

As you can tell, we were studs. We got wear those funky white helmet liners (most of which had obviously seen better days) and those awesome white Sam Browne belts (complete with Official Badges which we apparently did need), and four of each crew got to carry the Official Crossing Flags -- yellow cloths affixed to white wooden poles (PVC pipe having not yet made its way to west Texas).

Rio Street had the distinction of being the only street in town that had a median, about a block long, and the school crossing went through the middle of that concrete divider. On school days, a team of five Safety Patrollers would solemnly parade out to the front of the school, four carrying the flags and one -- which I recall was designated as Captain, the most coveted of all titles -- carried nothing except the full weight of the authority of the Fort Stockton Independent School District. Two flag carriers would station themselves on the east side of Rio, and the other two would set up on the west side, with the captain in the middle, on the median.

Whenever civilian pedestrians would approach the crosswalk, the captain would assess oncoming vehicular traffic (most kids walked or rode their bikes to school, so there wasn't much, ever) and determined the optimal point at which we could cause the most disruption to the drivers' routines, and called out "Lower the Gates!" (I never understood why they were called "gates." But, then, there were a lot of things about the third grade I didn't understand.) Once the civilians were herded across like the helpless sheep we knew them to be, the call rang out, to, um, unlower the gates. Actually, I can't remember that command. "Raise the gates"? "Lift the gates"?

This photo is somewhat interesting from a cultural perspective. Girls were not allowed on the Safety Patrol. Also, this is a representative sampling of the ethnic makeup of our school...but not of our town. In the year 2000, Fort Stockton's population was almost 65% Latino. I don't think the percentage was quite that high back in the 60s, but it was surely around the 50% mark, and yet the boys in this photo are all Anglo. That's primarily because most Hispanics went to a different elementary school, one that was figuratively and literally "on the other side of the tracks."

However, the photo is valuable to me because of the memories. Many of the boys in the picture were still in Fort Stockton and in my graduating class almost a decade later. I know the whereabouts of many of them today, even though I haven't kept up with any of them.

Plus, the photo serves as a reminder of how handsome and sophisticated I've always been, even if it cost me a chance to participate in a blogger's meme.

Christmas Report: Installment 2

OK, so where were we? Let's see...peace, joy, presents, blah, blah, blah...oh yeah, plumbing.

We have to backtrack to early Christmas afternoon, when some potato peels were fed to the garbage disposer in my father-in-law's kitchen sink. I'm not saying who did it, or what volume was sent down the drain; that's not important and won't be, until we bring it up again at a future family gathering.

Anyway, we all know that while garbage disposers are marketed as being able to, you know, dispose of garbage, their actual function is to keep the federal government's Full Employment Act for Plumbers in effect, and the insertion of anything more substantial than melted ice and not more than eight sesame seeds at one time is a really bad idea.

So, the end result was a clogged kitchen drain. No big deal; happens all the time, especially during holidays, when professional help is unavailable, and the liquor stores are closed, too. We went ahead and ate Christmas dinner (consisting of the traditional brisket, pinto beans, mashed potatoes [peels off, unfortunately], and crescent rolls, the latter suffering greatly at the hands of the Nephew, who eats them by the dozen) and then waited until the Dallas Cowboys were looking especially ugly during another nationally televised embarrassment to explore the possibility that the clog was just under the sink. Which, of course, it wasn't. It never is, but you still have to disconnect all the pipes and get doused with yucky water in order to confirm what you knew all along.

We sent a poor man's plumbing snake (a metal tape measure) down the pipe that ran through the kitchen wall, hoping the clog was nearby. Which, of course, it wasn't. So we quickly reached the end of the very short checklist of Things I Know How To Do When It Comes To Plumbing, except for the last item, which doesn't do you any good on Christmas Day in Fort Stockton, because it's "Call a plumber," and good luck with that. Heck, even Wal-Mart was closed so we couldn't buy and apply the requisite ten gallons of Useless Drano. We were somewhat optimistic that we'd make progress because we were able to send a pretty good load of water down the drain before it backed up again, so chances were that the clog was becoming more porous. Perhaps it would miraculously dissolve. It was, after all, Christmas. Did I mention that already?

So we did the next best thing which was to rejoin the Cowboy fiasco still in progress, biding our time until something more entertaining came on TV. We were just settling into a state of Christmas miasma...no, wait...that's not the right word. Myopia? Misanthropy? Something starting with an "m." Anyway, we were pleasantly zoning out when it happened. Without warning, great gouts of evil black water began spouting up from the double sink in the kitchen, as if we'd tapped the very springs of hell.

Much running around and yelling and waving of arms ensued, by parties varied and sundry, including the dogs, who, while limited by a lack of arms, more than compensated with what passed for yelling. It was a malevolent mystery (more "m" words, except those are right, I think): where could the water be coming from? The dishwasher wasn't running; even we were smart enough to know better than that.

Then I heard that familiar ka-chunk...ka-chunk. I ran into the garage, opened the laundry room door, and -- sure enough -- the clothes washer was busily pumping black water back into the kitchen sink, where it was attempting to re-create an Everglades Christmas. I slammed my palm against the knob to turn the washing machine off, and ran back inside to survey the damage. The kitchen carpet was completely saturated, all the way into the dining room. We rushed out to the workshop and grabbed the big honkin' Sears wet/dry shop vac and I started squeegeeing the water from the floor. Fortunately, the carpet is thin and not laid over a pad, so the vacuum was pretty effective in getting the excess water up; after all, those Craftsman shop vacs will suck the skin off an anvil. After the emergency vacuuming, we set out a box fan and let the dry west Texas air do its thing.

Nobody fessed up to starting the washing machine, and I can't argue with that, since there weren't any clothes in it. All we can figure is that all that water we thought we were putting down the drain and which was moving through the "porous clog" was, in fact, backing up into the washing machine, which at some point, for reasons and by abilities still unperceived, decided that it was time to drain, sending the water back whence it came. If anyone has a better explanation, we'll be happy to entertain it.

It made for quite an exciting Christmas evening, which we capped off by watching the first few episodes from the first season of Northern Exposure. So, things could have been worse.

Well, they actually did get that way, but that's another story for another time.

Christmas Report, Installment 1

I won't bore you with a whole slew of Christmas photos, even though our families are quite photogenic, as I'm sure you've surmised. But here are a couple of pictures from our time in Fort Stockton.

Caution: Fashionistas at Work

First, the weather on Christmas eve was pleasant enough to permit a bit of gunplay. Lest you think that we're completely uncivilized and uncouth, please note the origin of the paper bag we used to collect the used brass and empty ammo boxes...

PetSmart, Eat Your Heart Out

Second, I assume that you've seen that cute PetSmart commercial featuring the dachshund who loved his real toy. That one was staged. We got the real thing.

That's my mother holding one of her granddogs, Peanut, who was so proud of his Christmas present that we didn't think he would ever let go of it.

Our Christmas was quite pleasant -- lots of good food, cool gifts, happy families -- a time of exceeding joy and peace. Um, well, except for that plumbing thing...

Christmas Eve Eve

Just a quick report from the old homestead in Fort Stockton, where our normal holiday schedule has been rearranged to accommodate a somewhat unusual placement of Christmas on the calendar.

The Siegmund clan normally gathers for a Tex-Mex meal on Christmas Eve, but since that falls on Sunday this year, we've elected to instead have a combined luncheon with both my family and that of MLB in attendance. That led to our moving the Tex-Mex up a day, and in my opinion, the sooner you can eat homemade Mexican food, the better.

The menu tonight consisted of ratones (yeah, that translation is accurate; they're cheese-stuffed jalapeños, battered and deep-fried, and the stems make them look, you know, rodent-like), the traditional homemade tamales (chicken and pork) and burritos, guacamole, chips and salsa, and chili. Dessert was my mother's peach cobbler made with some Fredericksburg peaches saved in the freezer for just such an occasion.

We then settled back for that next great Texas holiday tradition -- football -- as the Division 1, Class 5A state championship game between Southlake Carroll and Westlake high schools was broadcast on TV. Very exciting game, right up until Southlake did the expected and pulled ahead for good with about five minutes remaining in the game.

Think this isn't an intense experience for the players? At one point during the drive that turned the game, the Southlake quarterback paused briefly during the snap count to puke, finished the count, took the snap, and threw a completed pass that led to a touchdown. He then threw up again as he left the field.

Tomorrow's a big day, and I hope you're spending it with those you love. I don't know if I'll have anything posted here other than the Gazette's traditional Christmas tribute, but please accept our wishes for a joyful and blessed Christmas holiday.

Merry Christmas!

Here's what you get when you combine a cool song, some spare time, a fair amount of proficiency with Flash, and an encouraging dose of Christmas spirit.

Anybody know the identity of the group singing this song?

Tip o' the Santa cap to Toni, via MLB

Update: Fellow Midlander Kelly has confirmed for us that the group doing the singing on this animation is none other than The Drifters. You can verify this for yourself by watching and listening to the video on their website.

Ambi.Me

I went for a bike ride this morning -- an amazing thing in itself, considering it's the end of November and the temperature was in the upper 50s (our high tomorrow will be 20 degrees lower than that) -- and I got in the usual stream-of-consciousness zone that makes cycling the same route over and over again not only bearable but pleasurable.

One of the zoned-out thoughts that occurred to me is that the art of operating a 10-key "adding machine" by touch is probably a dying one. I can do it; I'll bet Gwynne can, as well. But I'm not sure that the presence of the numeric pad on most computer keyboards is sufficient to ensure that skill gets passed along to the next generation.

I then started considering how I used an adding machine; one thing led to another, and you're stuck with the following, which may be used by some to argue against Intelligent Design and by others as proof that God has a sense of humor:

• I tally the checkbook with the adding machine using my right hand...
• ...but I pencil the total into the check register using my left hand.



• I throw a baseball left-handed...
• ...but I bat right-handed.



• I hold and shoot a pistol with my left hand...
• ...but I sight through my right eye (another way of saying that that's my dominant eye).



• I use a mouse with my left hand (OK, I'm actually ambidextrous, mousily-speaking, but prefer the left side)...
• ...but I use the touchpad on my laptop with my right hand*.



• And for a seasonal flourish, when I wrap a gift, I use left-handed scissors......
• ...but I pull tape from the dispenser and apply it with my right hand.

I think this gets us back on track with our minimum daily requirement of Content Free® posts. I've also put this in the category of Memes, so feel free to regale us with your own limbic proclivities.

*My theory is that it has something to do with the electrical current generated by my body. The cursor skips crazily when I use my left hand, but it's much better behaved when controlled by the right. I've posted about this before. You do remember, don't you?

Remind me how this works again...

I just got a warning ticket from the Blogging Police...something about impersonating a blogger. So I guess I'd better get busy and post something, if for no other reason than Jimmy Patterson has a page to fill next Monday. (That's an inside joke -- such as it is -- for the locals.)

So, what's been going on lately? Oh, here's one I never saw coming: the pneumatic Pamela Anderson is splitsville with Kid Rock. If those two can't make it, I'm not sure there's hope for any of us.

On the other hand, there's Will Smith. Now, I've always been a fan of his acting (The Wild Wild West notwithstanding), and he strikes me as a pretty decent guy, to boot, but I'm ready to join a fan club after reading his interview in Reader's Digest (yeah...so what? Wanna make something of it?). Here's Will on marriage:

I guess I'll close with the obligatory Thanksgiving report, sort of. Here's a question: what do you get when you combine a digital camera with a motor drive, a tripod, a long lens, a 2gb SD card, and a bunch of handguns? Well, for one thing, this type of thing...

That last photo is MLB wreaking havoc with our new Springfield pistol. I love the way the photo includes the dirt kicking up behind the targets.

In closing, here's another obligatory photo, this one of turkeys:

These two gobblers were striding down the middle of Rio Street in Fort Stockton on Saturday morning, following Thanksgiving. We saw the whole flock (about 10 birds) during our morning run the day after Thanksgiving but didn't have a camera with us. Anyway, they were obviously breathing easy, having escaped the dining table for another year.

OK, does this get me back on track? Even if I had to resort to quoting Reader's Digest?

Stream of Unconsciousness: Paying the Bills

Today is Bill Paying Day, the time when I send checks, EFTs, or record automatic payments in return for essential services such as heating, lighting, water, and bad original programming via the Sci-Fi Channel.

I derive a certain amount of satisfaction out of the simple blessing of being able to pay our bills in full and on time, recognizing that this is not something everyone can do all the time. In fact, I will confess that I sometimes feel a bit like Job in his pre-it-all-hit-the-fan-at-once days, and I can't help wondering when the other shoe will drop. OTOH, I've been wondering that for a couple of decades, so perhaps I'm just paranoid. But you know what they say about being paranoid. And we know you know.

There are two accountants living in our household, and this makes for (1) really boring dinner conversation ("Did you read that article in the Journal today about SOX?" "Yeah, that was something, wasn't it?" "Pass the pepper, please.") and (2) a fiscally-responsible division of labor when it comes to family finances. Our checks-and-balances system is exactly that: I write most of the checks and MLB balances the checkbook. This serves to keep me terrified and humble.

The other thing my accounting-derived OCD drives me to do is keep exquisitely detailed records of our monthly transactions. OK, not all that detailed, but I can tell you the average cost per KWH of our electricity last month, compared to three years ago. Anyway, one of the potentially interesting phenomena I've noticed over the years is that the good folks to whom we send monthly payments are rarely content with their own names. Or, they've just up and left. To wit:

• CellularOne ==> Alltel

Cox Communication ==> Suddenlink
Energas ==> Atmos
Southwestern Bell ==> AT&T
TU Electric ==> TXU

Actually, some of those companies changed names more than once over the years.

I forget where I was going with this. Apparently, my blogging instinct keeps writing checks that my brain can't cash.

Grace in Action

Wikipedia's entry on grace includes the following definition: "Divine grace is a Christian term for gifts granted to humanity by God, that God is under no need or obligation to grant."

A practical example of grace that falls within this definition is opening your garage door at 7:30 a.m. to find that the $3,000 bicycle you inadvertently left parked in the driveway fourteen hours earlier is still there.

Accidental Vacation

Gee, where does the time go? Seems like it was only, well, Thursday that I was posting something, however lame. And now we're in a new week, with a whole new way of measuring time and...um...I forget where I was going with this.

Last week was strange. My wife was home all week, recovering from her [quite successful] eye surgery ("recovery" is somewhat misleading; "avoiding most social interaction due to inability to wear makeup" is more correct). Truth is, while she was able and ready to travel, we couldn't get last-minute plans in place, and we both had periodic and unavoidable work-related responsibilities to attend to, so we decided to just hang around the house for the week.

That wreaked havoc on my orderly-if-boring schedule. We slept late (arising anywhere from 6:30 to 8:00 a.m., which is pushing the limit for our ability to stay in bed), which shoved back everything else from dog walks (Abbye was not amused) to workouts and meals. I also felt that it wasn't very sociable of me to go into the other room and blog while she was in the house, and when she was out doing some shopping, I was trying to stay caught up on my work.

It was a productive week in non-blog related ways, however. For one thing, I achieved my annual goal of 2,000 "workout miles," which is a combination of running and cycling. In a normal year, I usually hit this milestone in October (see how predictable my life is?), but the ratio of running to cycling miles varies. This year, the two grand is 21% running; last year it was 24%. *yawn*

I also made some progress on my Red Shred City Bike project. I installed a new chain, rear dérailleur, and swapped out the smaller Biopace chain rings for bigger round ones. I continue to blaze new trails of incompetency when it comes to dérailleur adjustment, so the bike's shifting is no bueno por nada. I also ran a couple of errands on the bike, and the superior feeling I got from doing such an environmentally laudable and physically healthy thing as that was only slightly offset by my near miss at t-boning a plumbing truck in the Home Depot parking lot. At least I know that the Shred's brakes are in good working order.

Saturday night, we attended the gala President's Ball, put on by the local Ballroom Dance Society. It's one of the few dances during the year where we get an actual sit-down meal at the Petroleum Club and dance to the music of a real orchestra (in this case, the Finch Orchestra from Abilene -- and it was excellent, playing everything from Glenn Miller to a tango that sounded more like Los Lonely Boys than True Lies). The downside of this affair is that every member who wasn't at the Tech-Texas game in Lubbock was at the dance, and the bigger bandstand and wider table spacing to accommodate the servers ate up the dance real estate. This was not a dance for the claustrophobic or the timid; only the strong survive such occasions. And we're to the point where we're going to get our foxtrot grapevines in, regardless of how many octogenarian couples get trampled in the process.

[OK. That's not true. In reality, those little old folks were kicking our rears at every turn. And sometimes, even between turns.]

Then, Sunday morning, we confronted the double challenge of the switch away from DST and a new schedule for our church services (along with the introduction of a new worship service, more about which may be forthcoming). We managed to muddle our way through those changes, and now we're back to a regular schedule around our house. Every thing's under control, stress levels are predictable and manageable and you'll be hearing from me on a more regular basis.

And that sound you hear in the distance is God laughing... ;-)

Brazing Huffy

I really like that title; wish I had a post to go with it.

OK, I do...sort of. It relates to my next project, which is to learn to braze so that I can perform a minor repair on a *gulp* $4,000 bicycle frame.

[It occurs to me that "minor," when used in this context, has the same meaning as when employed to describe surgery. That is, minor surgery is what is done to someone else.]

Here's the deal. An over-zealous bike mechanic over-torqued one of the hex screws that holds the eccentric cam of the front bottom bracket in place, and popped the brazed-on fitting loose. It's not a disastrous condition, but it has the unfortunate effect of allowing the timing chain (that's the one that connects the front set of pedals to the rear set [um, you do realize that I'm talking about a tandem here, right?]) to gradually loosen, the effects of which are, at best, the occasional disconcerting jerk as the chain attempts to jump off the ring and, at worst, the potentially hazardous condition of coming to a complete and unexpected halt when the chain actually succeeds in doing that very thing.

Anyway, in a fit of completely unwarranted confidence, no doubt engendered by the pleasing-but-minor success of the last project, I've decided that this is something I can fix myself. I have the torch; I have the gasses; and, Wikipedia willing, I'll have the online references that will show me how to use them.

Now, lest you think I'm barreling into this without proper preparation, let me assure you that that will, indeed, prove to be the case, if history is any indication. But it won't be for lack of trying. Here's my plan. I've recovered an old bicycle frame from our storage unit, and I'm going to hacksaw it into pieces and then attempt to reconnect the pieces in a fashion that will result in my developing mad brazing skilz. That's right; a trusty old steed with great sentimental value will be sacrificed on the altar of DIYism.

Prepare to be awed.

I would be less than forthright if I didn't admit that this thing has already gotten off to a less than auspicious start, as I began by googling "braising a bicycle frame." While the inability to spell a thing doesn't necessarily doom one attempts to master that thing, it does perhaps predict a disturbing tendency toward failure. Fortunately, I had that little Jiminy Cricket Googler to pose the timeless question "Did you mean: grilling a bicycle frame?" thereby alerting me to my faux pas. At some point in the future, when I have more time, I intend to return and explore more fully the options of grilling my bicycle frame, provided I haven't already actually done that.

I also need to create a better category for this kind of post, dealing with mechanical repairs and projects undertaken with dubious competence. Suggestions welcomed.

The TSA and Manly Footwear

Besides providing good people-watching opps, last Saturday's travel provided the rare chance to visit with some of the good folk who serve as baggage screeners.

Most of my prior encounters have been of the "let's get this over with as quickly as possible, shall we?" type. But when we returned to Love Field on Saturday afternoon to catch our flight back to Midland, we were greeted with an odd sight: a completely empty check-in maze. In fact, there were two screening stations in operation, one on each end of the security area, and the crews seemed to be competing for passenger attention.

My brother, his wife and I headed for the team who waved most enthusiastically and we went through the drill of removing shoes, jackets, cell phones, and other accoutrements in preparation for walking through the metal detector. We each cleared the detector without incident and waited for our shoes to clear the x-ray machine.

Mine came through first and I slipped them on, and waited while my sister-in-law's cleared and she put hers on. My brother's footwear seemed to be attracting a bit more attention from the x-ray operator, however. He looked up, saw us watching him, and remarked that my brother's boots were very nice.

He explained further. "We can tell a lot about how good your boots are by the number of nails in the soles. A lot of boots look like they're barely held together by just a few nails; they're probably made in China or something." We laughed. "Yours are really good boots...they have a lot of nails."

His boots were, in fact, quite striking, although not necessarily terribly expensive. The ladies on the screening detail admired the handiwork of the red leather uppers. "They're just Tony Lamas," he said modestly, as he pulled the almost knee-high cowboy boots on, "and they're not too easy to get on and off."

The x-ray screener went on, "I don't say anything to those folks with the cheap boots, but I couldn't help noticing the difference in yours."

We thanked them all and wished them a good day and proceeded down to the gate, where only then did I realize that I'd just been the subject of a classic dissing, given that my humble pair of $40 no-brand black ropers had gone through the screening while eliciting nary a comment.

It's bad enough that I have to make sure I'm wearing presentable socks when I fly. Now I have to worry about whether my boots are passing the quality standards of the TSA.

The Observant Traveling Blogger

My opportunities to travel by air are rare nowadays, but my trip to and from Dallas last Saturday was a reminder that there's nothing like an airport to provide blog fodder. I can't think of many places where the people-watching gets any better.

Flying from and to Midland is always interesting because of the certainty of encountering a few people you know, and the likelihood of meeting someone you don't. Saturday was no exception, as we visited with the following folks*:

• An oilman returning from his second home in New England


• The former head of Downtown Midland Inc. who is in the process of starting up her own educational resources business


• A mother and her adult daughter from Fort Stockton, heading for Dallas for a day of mall-crawling


• A Midlander who divides his time between family ranching interests in the Glass Mountains and a local prepaid legal services franchise. He was networking to beat the band, without much success. It was amazing to see how many people had somehow managed to forgot to bring any business cards with them.


• A physical therapist who tried to help me with some back pain some years ago

The configuration of Southwest's new 757s has extended the people watching possibilities beyond the terminal. The slightly staggered row alignment now makes it easier to observe the people across the aisle without their knowledge, unless they have the peripheral vision of a chameleon or Marty Feldman. (One must, of course, be able to deal with the likelihood that one is also the subject as well as the observer.)

I took an aisle seat and was rewarded during the return flight by the opportunity to watch a gentleman doing battle with his MP3 player. The fellow was obviously not in the primary "rip, mix, burn" demographic, appearing to be in his 70s, and he was not enjoying his digital music experience.

The cause of his vexation was a tiny Philips music player with a nice bright color screen. I watched him fiddling with the various buttons and scroll controls; every so often he would jerk the earbuds from his head, wrap the cord around the player, and hold it in his lap, apparently cogitating on his next move. He would wait a few minutes, then unwrap and replug and re-fidget. Occasionally, he would deal the player a hefty whack with the palm of his hand, as if to rouse it from a digital coma. (Personally, I admired this aspect of his troubleshooting technique.)

During his ceaseless inspection of the controls, he turned the screen toward me and I captured a mental snapshot of a portion of the content. The album that was queued up was by Jennifer Lopez. As the flight continued, I noticed that the display never changed...he was apparently in possession of a music player with a perpetual J-Lo setting.

I tried to intuit what he was thinking. "Pretty funny, those *(^*(& grandkids -- giving me a music player with nothing but Jennifer Lopez on it. Just wait 'til Christmas; we'll see who's laughing then."

As the flight progressed, he grew increasingly agitated, and I noticed that the screen never changed. I couldn't decide if his ire was over the fact that the player contained nothing but J-Lo, or that it was frozen and he couldn't listen to even that content. He finally wrapped the earbuds around the player and stuck it, screen still shining, in his shirt pocket, and went to sleep.

I now believe that he had managed to press the lock button that keeps most MP3 players from being inadvertently turned on or off. I hope he solved the problem by some means other than depositing it in the nearest trash receptacle upon exiting the plane. Although, if it really was perpetually stuck on J-Lo, that was probably the only reasonable solution.

*I could name all of these people -- except for the therapist, whose name I've apparently blocked from memory -- but I won't, in respect of their privacy. But it causes me to wonder if there should be some kind of requirement for bloggers to wear special ID tags when traveling so that those around them will understand their peril.

La Vida Loca

Here's today's schedule for the jetsetting blogger:

• Take a private plane to another city, where we'll be met by a driver who will chauffeur us to a local country club for lunch, after which we'll fly back to Midland.

OK, that's one way of describing the day. Here's another:

• Accompany my pal in his Cessna 172 to Fort Stockton as he accumulates flying hours toward getting his instrument rating. Land at the airstrip in FS, where my father-in-law will meet us, and, possibly, drive us over to the snackbar at the public golf course (which is within walking distance of the airfield). Eat chicken strips and burgers with him and my parents, load his sick computer into the back seat of the Cessna, and fly back to Midland.

Either way, it's a pretty cool way to spend part of a Thursday.

Waiting for the other shoe...

If "interesting things" occur in threes, I'm one away and it's not yet noon.

Heading into the last leg of a bike ride this morning, my cell phone came unclipped from my waistband and skidded into an intersection. Two cars passed by, narrowly missing the chance to turn my new RAZR into high tech roadkill.

I made it home without further adventure, parked the bike in the garage and hit the control on the wall to shut the garage door. Suddenly, a shot rang out...and a pirate ship was spotted on the horizon! OK, I made up the last part, but if you've ever heard one of those big honkin' overhead door coiled springs break, you'll agree that the former is not an exaggeration. Fortunately, the spring simply snapped rather than disintegrating and sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

This, however, presented a new challenge. My car was now trapped and I have an appointment later this afternoon. You might think that manually lifting a measly 8' metal garage door would be easy work, spring-assisted or not, and if you do, I bow before your steroid-enabled muscularity. But for scrawny cycling types like me, it's no picnic.

Juggling the opener remote in one hand, I'd hit the button then heave the door up as far as I could before the opener would grind to a halt with a mechanical hernia. It didn't help matters when the upper right and lower left guide wheels popped out of their tracks, an aggravatingly symmetrical corollary to Murphy's Law. We (the opener and I) eventually managed to get the door up just far enough that I was able to back the car out of the garage, clearing the door by less than an inch.

I figure "interesting event" #3 will most likely manifest itself via either the equivalent of a massive myocardial infarction in my poor garage door opener, or else I'll awaken in the morning unable to move a single muscle thanks to my new workout routine.

The Project Report: Almost Finished

Against all odds and expectations borne of prior history, The Project has come together almost as if I knew what I was doing:

The angle from which this photo was taken was less than ideal, but perhaps you can visualize what's happening if I provide a few clues:

• The main storage area is the box with the expanded steel grating on each side and on the bottom.


• The shelf on the right side is just the right height and width to accommodate parking the lawn mower under it


• The rectangular u-shaped area on the left side is for storing lengths of lumber, shelving, a furniture dolly, etc.


• The top bar (near the ceiling) will eventually sprout metal hooks from which I'll hang various apparati such as the weed-eater, hedge trimmers, bow saw, etc.


• The left end of that top bar will accommodate the upright dolly. The one on the right end will have some other thing, as yet unknown, hanging from it.

The whole thing rolls about on casters. The top bar is also removable and breaks down for ease of storage, although I can't imagine why I'd ever need to do that (other than the fact that it's too tall to move out of the garage with the top bar in place).

I was particularly pleased (and surprised!) at how that top bar turned out, as it didn't look like this in the original plan. As with most of my projects, when it came time to actually put the plan into motion, some serious flaws became apparent. In this case, the need for better bracing and stability led me to the triangle seen on the left end, and believe me when I tell you that getting those angles anywhere close to right was an exercise in sheer luck.

The other amazing thing is that out of the 72' of tubing I began with, I ended up with only about 6', and that's in various bits and pieces, none of which is longer than about 18". Trust me when I tell you that's nothing short of a miracle.

All that's left is some detail work -- placing of various hooks and holders, perhaps some paint (but probably not...that's my least favorite thing to do). It's not a work of art, but it's a work that works, and I had fun doing it. I'm not sure how it could get much better than that.

Let's Talk Weather!

First of all...am I the only one who sees irony in the fact that Ernesto is whacking the east coast while John slams Baja California? Wouldn't it be more appropriate to switch them, or at least make it Ernest and Juan?

OK, I guess I am the only one.

Anyway, thanks to John/Juan's extended reach, Midland closed out the month with the highest rainfall total for August in recorded history, and we're now more than 2" above the year-to-date average, which is huge for this part of the country.

The weather guys are telling us that the Pacific storm is bringing moist air all the way through Mexico and up into west Texas and that's why we're getting the rains. That's the one import from our southern neighbors that you won't hear much complaining about (unless you live in the flooded parts of El Paso).

Unfortunately, the August rains came a little too late for most of the cotton crop, but it should set up the fall pastures for good grazing.

The downside of all this nice wet weather is that it's likely to cause us to cancel an aerial tour of parts of west Texas tomorrow. A special visitor is arriving this afternoon, and she's looking forward to that tour...I hate to disappoint her, but safety is paramount.

The visitor? Well, more about that, later.

I can't believe it's still Monday

I just took a break to take a load of laundry out of the dryer, having previously turned the knob to "touchup" and punched the start button. My Levis always need a little more fire to dry out completely.

Imagine my surprise to find that the load of laundry was still in the washer, nicely cleaned and still quite damp.

At least the dryer was warmed up as I [finally] completed the transfer between the machines.

Monday Debriefing

You may be forgiven if this appears suspiciously similar to a Random Thursday post, only without the stimulating and insightful content. I just figure that if you're like me (and I pray you're not), reality is best served in small bites on a Monday morning.

• Think you're not a creature of habit? Move your paper towel dispenser from where it's now mounted to another part of the kitchen.


• Headline of the Day, as seen on today's New York Post, with reference to the transport of ubër-creep John Mark Karr from Thailand to LA: "Snake on a Plane."


• Desert? What desert? -- Thunderstorms rolled through last night, dumping another half inch of rainfall in our back yard, and bringing our August total to 2.4", or about 1/3 of our total precip for the year. It's rare that west Texas is cooler and wetter than north and east Texas, but such is the strange climatic syndrome we're now experiencing.


• Perks of being a "blogger of influence" -- Fox Films's PR firm has sent a few (probably numbering in the millions) bloggers free review copies of The Sentinel, the movie released earlier this year starring Michael Douglas and Kiefer Sutherland. We're supposed to ignite a blogospheric buzz over the upcoming general release of the DVD. My first impression: it will not play in my computer's DVD drive. (I'm not really sure how to review a DVD, especially after having reviewed the big screen version of the movie.)


• Confirmation that it is, indeed, Monday morning -- In doing a quick search to locate the previous link to my movie review, here's what I entered in the search box: "blog."


• Driving tip of the Week -- Activate your turn signal before stepping on the brake. Doing it the other way around simply confounds and annoys the drivers following you.

There. That wasn't so painful, was it?

My busy life...

I don't know why I feel the need to share this, but here's what filled our Saturday, and why, at 10:00 p.m., I can barely keep my eyes open:

• Breakfast with friends
• Walk Abbye
• Tandem ride (22 miles)
• Wife's company picnic
• Shooter's Association range rules and safety orientation
• Dance class
• Dinner followed by dessert and coffee while stealing looks at magazines at B&N
• Walk Abbye
• Update websites for three clients who couldn't care less that it's Saturday
• Post this update so I can check "make lame post" off my list
• Issue a disclaimer: I don't really have a list
• Issue a clarification: OK, I have lots of lists, but they're all mental and pretty much non-functioning
• Bid you adieu and good night while pondering the implications of blogging in hyper-realtime

Total discretionary time spent at home today: 12 minutes.

Nighty-night.