Fascinating, and pathetic

This article is so silly. I mean, I know Tom Delay is under major fire right now, so anything he does even slightly hypocritical is going to be magnified, but please. This is ridiculous.

However, interesting tidbits in the article that I did not know...

Last September, the Treasury Department Office of Foreign Assets Control
tightened its prohibitions against U.S. citizens importing or consuming Cuban
cigars. Even Americans licensed to bring back up to $100 worth of Cuban goods
are no longer allowed to include tobacco products in what they carry. The
regulation also noted that Americans are barred not only from purchasing Cuban
goods in foreign countries, but also from consuming them in those countries.

The unmitigated stupidity of our government just blows me away. Let's see...
1 - How in the world are they going to enforce this?
2 - Exactly how do they think this will affect Castro in any way, shape, or form. I mean, the embargo hasn't worked for the last 50 years, so what makes them think it will start working now if they only change the rules for a teeny tiny minute percentage of the American population that smokes Cuban cigars and chooses to smoke them overseas when they have the opportunity?

Insanity - Doing the same thing the same way and expecting different results.

MIA

So, it’s the end of April. Seriously, the end. The first quarter is long past, and we’re headlong into the second. Damn. Just damn. What happens?

Sorry that I’ve been missing for a while. This has just been a couple of those weeks. I thought I’d be able to use this week to catch up from the trip, but I was so so wrong. Wednesday and Thursday were training days here. I wasn’t only on the trainee side, but also the trainer side. I had the joy of three presentations. Two, really, just one of them presented twice.

Got to present the state of my territory (the WORLD – bwahahaha), which was nice, since I finished out January through April at 104% of my quota. And I fully intend to finish the year over quota, as well. It feels good to be able to say that. Finishing that way also feels good because Dave and I got to attend a company-paid evening out with 18 other company folks at Killer Creek. Yum.

On the other hand, being both trainee and trainer this week entailed a lot of long days. Tuesday was 12+ hours, capped off with Dave calling me and telling me that I really must come home - 8pm is no time to be at work. (I don't know how the other Dave does it) I’ve been good in the past at being efficient enough to complete my job without working extra. The last couple weeks have been exceptions. So, you see why no posts lately.

The other problem with that is I haven’t had time to even look up and see what’s going on around us, and bring up any interesting conversation for the blog. I apologize.

This weekend should be fantastic, though. Twilight Criterium in Athens. Funkle Ester Friday, Modern Skirts Saturday. Lots of merriment during and in between. Awesome. I haven’t seen a full Skirts show in ages. This will be a great time.

So, what to write about?

This seems to be an eternal blog issue for a few of us. Well, at least we’re not alone.

OK, so the trip to London was fantastic. The itinerary was:
Leave Sunday night at 6:15, arrive in London 7:20am their time
Go through customs, get baggage.
Ride 9:23am train to Harrow.
Arrive at hotel, put on suit.
Walk to office, 11:45am arrival.
Lunch (pizza) with Manager of Telesales group
After lunch, sit with Support team and Telesales folks individually to get an idea of their daily tasks.
Leave office around 5:30pm.
Go to dinner (Noodle Bar) and then to Irish pub named The Shawl for Guinness and entertainment.
The band consisted of drums, accordian, flute, two guitars and vocal (Elvis Costello’s half brother). True Irish music, no question about it.

Interesting tidbit that between sets, the bar was filled with the lovely music of…

…
…

Garth Brooks. Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, I’m not kidding. Quite an experience.

When they kicked us out of the bar at around 11pm (it was Monday, after all), I went back to my hotel to unpack and get some sleep.

Tuesday was my only full day in England:
Had meetings all day with the CEO, CFO, Commercial Director, and a salesperson. Also sat in on a client training session. Went to lunch at a Portugese rotisserie chicken place. Delicious. ¼ chicken, corn on the cob, and cole slaw.

After work, my very lovely host asked her husband to drive us into London for shopping. He was gracious enough to do this at the height of rush hour. He’s also quite the history buff and had information for every corner. It was great.

We went to Harrod’s. That place is incredible. I always thought of it as just a department store, but I was so very wrong. It’s about 6 floors across two city blocks, sitting on a corner (according to the website, there are 330 departments!). The part that amazed me the most was the food section. Almost an entire floor by itself there was just tons of incredible expensive gourmet foods of all kinds – cheeses (the counter was about 50 feet long), olives (no less than 10 varieties), chocolates, candies, seafood, produce. It was just amazing. I bought some cigars, and we were on our way. Then we went to a more department store like place called Selfridges. I bought a few items here, but the best was the Moet bar on the mezzanine overlooking the whole store.

I didn’t buy much because the exchange rate doesn’t help us out one bit right now.

We then ate dinner at a tapas restaurant and headed home via the Tube.

In bed by 12:30am after packing, checked out at 7am Wednesday, hopped on a train at 8:15, and on the flight home at 12pm. Watched three movies (Blade Trinity, Lemony Snickett, and Meet the Fockers) on the flight and was home before I knew it.

All in all, a great three days.

Wow

Boy, I am in one really shitty mood tonight. Don't really know why. Guess it's just jet lag. I should be over it tomorrow.

Stacy turns 30 tomorrow. It will be a good day.

I'm so over people who are bitter. Seriously. But then again, I'm really bitter right now. So, here my own bitterness of this evening ends.

Tomorrow will be a good day. I'll make it a good day, one way or another.

Goodnight.

Downer, but so good

Why is it that depressing songs are so wonderful to listen to?

"Train Wreck"
Glen Phillips

Every stupid kid thinks that they’re the first in pain
The first to rip themselves apart
The first to try
To live without a heart

I miss you girl
I hope you’re fine
Good luck love
Or good bye

So much to say ...

OK, in the last week there has been so much that I’ve wanted to blog about, but I just
a) haven’t had time, and
b) haven’t felt up to it

Damned 3000+ pollen count!

And work has been extremely busy. I’m trying to work through my entire to-do list by the end of this week. Certainly this is no easy task, but as I’ll be in London Monday and Tuesday of next week, and in the air on Wednesday, I really need to make sure my desk is cleared. So, thus explains the lack of posts recently.

There really is a lot going on, though. I promise. There will just have to be a summary for now:
Party planning
Kayak shopping and investigating opportunities for lessons
Fantastic catfish dinner last Saturday night
Amazing walk through abandoned textile mill
Trip to London coming up
Allergies
Great entertainment

Wanna get pissed?

OK, I don't really mean let's go get drunk, but doing that would probably make me feel better after reading this about government waste in fiscal 2005.

My favorites:
$1.7 million for the International Fertilizer Development Center;
$70,000 for the Paper Industry International Hall of Fame in Appleton, Wis. ($1,430,000 for various Halls of Fame, actually)·
$350,000 for the Inner Harmony Foundation and Wellness Center in Scranton, Penn.;

So, wanna get pissed?

Government “Services” vs. Private Business

If you can't provide a better service, at a cheaper rate because of your own shortcomings as a "company" then by all means, use your standing as a government entity to declare the other guy's actions illegal. Certainly, that's doing what's best for all of us that the government "works" for. Bastards.

This story frustrates me to no end. (Registration is now required to read stories on the AJC). It seems that a private company is providing bus service along Buford Highway, and their drivers are clashing with MARTA drivers.

This week, things got seriously out of hand, with competing bus drivers
shouting back and forth on the street, curses and coins flying and passengers
calling the police...

MARTA officials are also concerned. On Monday, the MARTA board and staff
discussed potential legal remedies, including asking state officials, who
regulate privately owned transportation companies, to step in.

Excuse me! I understand that the issue of violence between drivers is a problem, and both drivers should be reprimanded for their actions. However, the fact that MARTA is now investigating whether it's illegal for a private company to pick up passengers along MARTA routes demonstrates the arrogance and cluelessness of this government authority. I'm sure they're also frustrated by the revenue they're clearly missing out on.

Ochoa believes Royal succeeds because it is more flexible than MARTA."We
are a little more rapid. We take fewer passengers. We don't have to stop as
much, and we give change," unlike MARTA, he said.Last year Royal transported
60,000 passengers a month on 16 minibuses, Ochoa said.

In spite of subsidies from Georgia taxpayers that MARTA gets and Royal Bus Lines does not, owner Carlos Ochoa is able to provide transportation services cheaper and with higher quality service. He's also making money, and MARTA is losing it - hemoraghing it, actually.

The gray minibus that customers have nicknamed "el ratoncito," or "the little mouse," stops near his apartment complex across from the Lindbergh Plaza MARTA station."If I take MARTA, I won't make it in time," Moral said. He leaves every morning at 5:20 a.m. and arrives at work at 6. The MARTA bus doesn't leave until 5:40 a.m., he said.

Aided Gonzalez, 28, boarded a Royal bus Tuesday to take her daughters to
the dentist. She likes the service because the $1.50 fare is 25 cents cheaper
than MARTA and the bus is smaller. Another big plus is that the bus driver
speaks Spanish and can help her with directions.MARTA officials contend some of
Royal's practices are unfair, if not illegal.

Royal will also make change for their fares; something MARTA doesn't do.

MARTA has made accusations that Royal accepts MARTA tokens. That is the only practice they mention as illegal. Royal denies the claim, and no one has shown proof of the transactions.

Ochoa says he wants to "work with MARTA to provide the best service" to
everybody.He's not scared of competition, he added."Everyone knows us as the
little gray mouse," he said. "Now we're painting the buses yellow and we're
going to be the lions of Buford Highway."

Sounds great! But I don't think he needs to work with MARTA.

Shut down MARTA busses, and let private enterprise take over.

The Pope

As usual, Lileks has the perfect thing to say.

Two images stick in my mind from the weekend:

The vast crowd at St. Peter’s, absolutely silent as the bells toll.

The body of the Pope on the bier, with his shoes sticking out the end of his robe. It’s a very humble and human image. We always saw him wrapped in the costume of the office, a garment that transformed him – otherwise his was a face you would expect to have seen down at the Polish Community Hall, sitting at a table, having coffee with friends, talking. He was still that man when he put on the robe, but he was that man + Pope, that man plus two millennia of history and tradition. The shoes, however, you didn’t expect. The Pope has shoes? Of course; shoes of the fisherman, metaphorical shoes. But real ones? You never think of the Pope putting on his shoes, tying the laces, buffing out a blemish. You never think of the Pope having a favorite pair. Or kicking them off and sighing with relief: the shoe-part of the day is done; now it's the fire and an ottoman and a good book. Just looking at those shoes makes him seem humble and mortal – which he always was, of course. We lose sight of that quite easily; it’s just human nature to look at the crown, and not at the feet.

The Best of TV w/o Pity

For last week's 24.

Bitchelle looks at him speculatively, then renews the conversation: "I heard Kiefer called you today," she says. Soul Patch admits it. "And that you saved his life," Bitchelle presses. "Well, we both know I owed him one, right?" Bitchelle gives him a tight smile. They do not have sex. Yet.


"Who was in charge of this operation?" DoDder demands, so she can know off of whom she needs to go rip a strip. "I was," Bitchelle says levelly. DoDder looks at her like, "Oooooh, maybe not." She just says, "Get him back, Bitchelle," and walks away rather than throwing down. Sure, she's pissed and freaked out and terrified, but she's not suicidal.

Potato Face is having trouble doing something on her computer, so she calls Lispy Skip to ask for the password to the central server. He offers to sign her on. She declines, insisting on the password. He refuses. It quickly devolves into an argument over who outranks whom. We all have so much time for this shit right now. Girls, girls, please. You're both pretty. Well, except for both of you.

The two men leave the room together at 9:19:20 as Potato Face confirms to Bitchelle that ImhoTerror's voice print confirmed his identity. Which she learned by comparing a "voice memo" from MacGuffin Factories. Too bad the EMP wiped out everything at MF HQ, huh?

Do you suppose people ever complain about the danger that 24 will inspire copycat crimes? I think this is one scheme they'd like more actual terrorists to try, because I think in real life a lot more of them would get caught.

"I'm really sorry about your husband," Potato Face says. Now stop talking. DoDder thanks her, but we all know Potato Face isn't done: "I can't imagine how I'd be feeling right now if I were you…you and your husband are separated, you've fallen in love with Kiefer, I guess. Then they end up together and your husband ends up taking a bullet that saves Kiefer's life? What do you do with that?" I think a more relevant question is, how does Potato Face know all this? Has she been watching the previouslies? Does she know they LIE? ["And do a lot of people start watching shows halfway through the fifteenth episode of the season? I understand that making Chloe socially awkward gives them some latitude with exposition, but that was absurd even for this show." -- Sars] DoDder tries to close the discussion down, but Potato Face plows onward: "What about Kiefer? You just assume the terrorists aren't going to kill him?" DoDder snaps again that she doesn't want to talk about it, and stomps over to the OR window to watch the operation, because looking at her husband's innards is better than sparing another moment for Potato Face. Who's saying, "I was inappropriately blunt, wasn't I? I do that a lot." Yeah, but you don't normally feel bad about it and it's kind of freaking me out.

I'm not there to point out that if your chess opponent is prepared to sacrifice a knight for a pawn -- particularly a whiny, clueless pawn -- he's got something else going on.

Kiefer and TerrorTeen walk slowly towards each other, Kiefer with a distinct limp which I'm sure will be gone by next week.

The sniper aims. When Kiefer is yards from Curtis at the open gate, a shot rings out. Guess who goes down? Keep in mind everything you know about this show before you say anything. I'll give you a second. Are you ready? Here's who dies: the sniper. Can you even believe it?

A stealth fighter taxis out of a hangar. Which is weird, because Poor Man's Eric Stoltz spent the whole episode walking around in front of a conventional fighter plane. It's not like I know the difference between an F-14 and an F-16, but I'm not going to mistake either one of those for a stealth fighter, and this is most certainly the first time we've seen this particular aircraft. But it's too late to bitch about it now, because it's 10:00:00. Don't worry; we have all of next week.

Sinful

This guy sums it up better than I ever could.

But, for the short version:
Dark
Bloody
Torturous
Utterly fascinating and fun to watch

Full of one-liners, that you don't even realize are one-liners until later because they are actually said in some context. Which is surprising, and perfect.

Three parallel stories that all touch, but never intersect.

The Sin City Top 5:
1 - innocent person in the whole movie
2 - more times that I'll see this in the theater (at least)
3 - castrations
4 - references to the evil that men and women do, in spite of God's presence
5 - minutes it takes for at least that many people to be killed at the beginning of the movie

Also, plenty of boobs, and women in lingerie firing very large guns.

I can't even count the number of bodies. It's classic even-the-good-guys-are-bad-guys stuff. But, oh boy are the good guys wonderful! You can't help but root for all three of them - Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke, and Clive Owen - as they torture and murder their way through Sin City.

Sin

Nope, this isn’t a post about the Pope.

Going to see Sin City tonight. Can’t wait! Will review as soon as I can.

Worshipping at the altar of the Hammer and Sickle

I’m constantly amazed at the world’s ability to demonize (rightfully) Adolph Hitler, and still idolize Stalin, Mao, and Che. The global, and suburban, obsession with Communism baffles me. I mean, I guess I can see that people think it’s this ideal thing where no one is hurt and everyone is equal. Sounds fabulous. Except that no matter how much you want it to be so, not everyone is equal. Just like no one is perfect, as was Hitler’s ideal. These worlds do not exist. Both are antithetical to nature and human nature. They will never succeed. The implementation of either of these ideals results in nothing but murder of the weak by the powerful.

If it’s so incredibly wonderful, why do so many risk their lives to get out? Shouldn’t people be beating Cuba’s or China’s doors down to get into the splendor that is Communist society?

Here’s a tidbit, can you guess how many people have been murdered under Communism’s banner, in the ruling class’ efforts to enforce “equality”? Take a wild gander. 1 million, 2 million, 6 million (the number of Jews murdered under the Third Reich), 15 million, 21 million (all the people murdered under Fascism from 1933-1945)? Nope. All gross understatements. Not even remotely close.

100 million dead so far. And just remember that Castro, Kim Jong Il, the Chinese Government, and the Vietnamese are all still at it. So, please would someone tell me why it’s still fashionable to wear a damn Che t-shirt? It’s not a fashion statement; it’s a political statement that condones mass murder above anything else. Even worse, some people (probably most, actually) know exactly what has happened through Communism's rule.

Anyone remember the movie Max from a couple of years ago? Probably not. It was about Hitler's early years. Ah, but The Motorcycle Diaries? You bet. Oscar nominations and the like.

Thank goodness for The Killing Fields, but that was in 1984 when Communism was our biggest and most feared enemy. No longer. Now Communism is chic.

Bridget Johnson eloquently discusses this Hollywood love of Communism in a column in the Wall Street Journal this week.

Now that "Motorcycle" has ridden into the awards sunset--ironically,
considering the nature of communism, also picking up two Independent Spirit
Awards--the sequel to Che canonization is on the horizon. Filming is scheduled
to start later this year on "Che," a Steven Soderbergh ("Traffic") vehicle
starring Benicio del Toro as the famed Marxist. The plot line as listed on the
Internet Movie Database: "An epic about Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara, who fought for the people."

Annoying as the Che adulation is, a recent comment by a 14-year-old on
an online movie message board was truly disturbing: "I just saw The Motorcycle
Diaries, which further made me question: Why is communism bad? . . .
Young people are told how bad communism is, but we are not told why.
. . . The Motorcycle Diaries showed me how Ernesto Guevara wanted to
help people. . . . But this did not explain why he was such a 'bad'
person and apparently deserved to be murdered by the U.S."

How about a film on the Soviet Union, beginning with Lenin and the 1917
revolution, droning on to Stalin's purges with hundreds of thousands executed by
firing squad, and millions forced from their homes or carted off to labor camps?
We'd see Soviet bloc countries strangled under communist rule, Berlin divided
with concrete and snipers, Nicolae Ceausescu destroying historic Bucharest. We'd
see Soviet terror exported with the scorched-earth policy in Afghanistan.
Red China would make a stellar film that lacks a happy ending--for now.
Viewers would see Mao Tse-tung turn the colorful Chinese culture into a gray,
bleak "worker's paradise" steeped in hunger and executions. We'd see the Great
Leap Forward to devastating famine, murder and destruction in Tibet, women
forced to abort their children, and the blood of student demonstrators spilled
on Tiananmen Square. Complete the Asian film series with the "re-education" by
terror in North Vietnam, the Maoist insurgency in Nepal that has killed
thousands, and the hellish nightmare that is North Korea...

Guevara oversaw executions at La Cabana prison; some of those executed
were his former comrades who wouldn't relinquish their democratic beliefs. "To
send men to the firing squad, judicial proof is unnecessary," he said. He didn't
assuage his barbarity by being a brilliant statesman, either, helping drive the
economy to ruin as head of Cuba's central bank and minister of industries.
"Though claiming to despise money," writes Fontaine, "he lived in one of the
rich, private areas of Havana." Guevara told a British reporter after the Cuban
Missile Crisis that the nukes would have been fired if they were under Cuban
control--which would have wasted all of those future American suburban
revolutionary wannabes.

Thanks also to Slate.com for on of the few negative articles about The Motorcycle Diaries in a sea of adulation.

For more stories on the toll of misery and death that Communism has left in this world, check here, here, here, and here.

Russ, this one's for you

This is just too damn funny. I think everyone will love this, but Russ, in retail hell, will really love this.

http://www.dslreports.com/forum/remark,12922482~mode=flat~days=10

In case you can't download, here's the transcript...


Dispatcher: Sheriff's department, how can I help you?
Caller: Yeah, I'm over here at Burger King, right here in San Clemente--
Dispatcher: Mm-hmm.
Caller: --um, no, not San Clemente, I'm sorry. Um, I live in San Clemente. I'm in Laguna Niguel, I think that's where I'm at.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I'm at a drive-thru right now.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I ordered my food three times. They're mopping the floor inside, and I understand they're busy. They're not even busy, OK, I've been the only car here. I asked them four different times to make me a Western Barbecue Burger. OK, they keep giving me a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and cheese, onions. And I said, I am not leaving.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I want a Western Burger. Because I just got my kids from tae kwon do; they're hungry. I'm on my way home, and I live in San Clemente.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: OK, she gave me another hamburger. It's wrong. I said four times, I said, "I want it." She goes, "Can you go out and park in front?" I said, "No. I want my hamburger right." So then the lady came to the manager, or whoever she is--she came up and she said, um, "Did you want your money back?" And I said, "No. I want my hamburger. My kids are hungry, and I have to jump on the toll freeway [sic]." I said, "I am not leaving this spot," and I said I will call the police, because I want my Western Burger done right. Now is that so hard?
Dispatcher: OK, what exactly is it you want us to do for you?
Caller: Send an officer down here. I want them to make me the right--
Dispatcher: Ma'am, we're not going to go down there and enforce your Western Bacon Cheeseburger.
Caller: What am I supposed to do?
Dispatcher: This is between you and the manager. We're not going to go enforce how to make a hamburger. That's not a criminal issue. There's nothing criminal there.
Caller: So I just stand here--so I just sit here and block--
Dispatcher: You need to calmly and rationally speak to the manager and figure out what to do between you.
Caller: She did come up, and I said, "Can I please have my Western Burger?" She said, "I'm not dealing with it," and she walked away. Because they're mopping the floor and it's all full of suds, and they don't want to go through there, and--
Dispatcher: Ma'am, then I suggest you get your money back and go somewhere else. This is not a criminal issue. We can't go out there and make them make you a cheeseburger the way you want it.
Caller: Well, that is, that--you're supposed to be here to protect me.
Dispatcher: Well, what are we protecting you from, a wrong cheeseburger?
Caller: No. It's--
Dispatcher: Is this like, is this a harmful cheeseburger or something? I don't understand what you want us to do.
Caller: Well, just come down here! I'm not leaving!
Dispatcher: No, ma'am, I'm not sending the deputies down there over a cheeseburger! You need to go in there and act like an adult and either get your money back or go home.
Caller: I do not need to go. She is not acting like an adult herself. I'm sitting here in my car. I just want them to make my kid a Western Burger [unintelligible].
Dispatcher: Now this is what I suggest: I suggest you get your money back from the manager and you go on your way home.
Caller: OK.
Dispatcher: OK? Bye-bye.
Caller: No--
[click]

Hocky Love

I know there’s no hockey this season, but there really will be no more Hockey Love. Mitch Hedberg has died.

Lileks ... Again

I should just stop this blogging thing and redirect my site directly to Lileks. I’ll offer some snippets here, but honestly, follow the link to Friday's Bleat. It’s worth the time.

Home to Fargo for Easter...

[Dad]’s in a new house now. I thought I would miss the old house – it’s where I grew up – but I realized right away how glad I was he’d moved. Not just so he could have someplace new and sunny and bright – we’d been trying to get him to move since my Mom died. No, it was just the relief I felt that I didn’t have to go back there again, sleep in my old small room with my junior-high books on the shelves, my Marvel decal of Captain America still stuck to a doorknob, the empty smell of loss in every closet and every room, the dry weight of time holding everything in place. Open any drawer, and there was forty years of compacted history staring up at you. We had every Christmas in the living room. I played piano in the living room every day. When Gnat came last year we hid eggs in the living room. My mother died in the living room.

The new house is modern and bright, lining a cul-de-sac in the endless suburban sprawl of south Fargo. A city that did not exist has grown since I left; the city that was there when we lived on the north side, but it’s frozen, it’s done. It’s over. It cannot grow – the airport on one side, the river on the east, the waste-treatment plant on the north. By his new house stand two gargantuan churches, one built to resemble some peculiar cross between a barn and a European cathedral. Our old church is between North and South, a downtown church across from the old Kraft warehouse, north from the Sons of Norway hall. The congregants who were incredibly old when I was a little kid are still there – fewer in number, sometimes stooped, but often just as ruddy and vital as before. A full house, which was nice. You can’t imagine that the congregation is replacing itself at the needed rate. Once they had Sunday school for every grade, but not anymore, I think.

We sat in the balcony. I took Gnat up a secret passage to a tiny door in the back of the loft, and showed her the rope to the bell. The area looked as strange and forgotten as it did when I rang the bell; like so much of the church it seems to have been sprayed with some sort of time-thwarting fixative. I suppose when you use a place once a week, and only then for an hour or two, it holds up well. I suppose it’s good that we age faster than churches. At first it makes them seem behind the times; eventually they seem outside the times.

Hadn’t seen the padre in a while; we’d caught up in the vestibule. When I came up at the head of the communion line he gave me a wink.

Afterwards, the usual dinner at the Holiday Inn banquet room; ham in alarming amounts. On the way out we ran into my third-grade teacher. My third-grade teacher, friends. She looked about 50. She remembered me: I was such a reader! I thanked her for teaching me, and walked a way a little dazed: I'm 46 years old. And I just ran into my third-grade teacher. Back to Dad’s house to find eggs with Gnat’s cousin. I packed, neatened the room. We'd taken out some afghans the night before - one green, one blue, both knitted by my Grandmother decades ago. I'd curled up under them as a kid; they were later draped around a chair in the living room. Good as new. Can't shake 'em. Sometimes you actually get irritated at the obstinate persistence of inanimate objects; it would be simple if they'd just leave. Because here I am in my father's new house, staring at this letter my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you're touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm, with Grandma knitting in the front room, Grandpa looking for the car keys so he can drive out and check the progress of the crops, Folger's brewing in the kitchen, Eli loping off to the barn to change the oil in the tractor, worrried about a pain he's been having. But you'll get nothing out of them. Gnat has no idea of the blanket that kept her warm, just as Grandma had no idea there would ever be a Gnat. It can drive you nuts, the wishing. But what can you do? You remember, you pass it on, you let it go. In the end it's just a blanket. For all I know Grandma kept the 1893 container because it was practical, and her dad got it from a man at the GAR hall. The only object I think my Dad would ever miss was the piece of shrapnel he got in the war, and had made into a wedding ring.

Coffee and cake until it was time to load up the car and point it east. I’d say we headed home, but Fargo is home as well. From one home to the other, then; from the old home to the new. An apt thing to do on an Easter Sunday, no? Let's ask the pastor of my childhood church:

Lileks ... Again

I should just stop this blogging thing and redirect my site directly to Lileks. Friday's Bleat is another superb tale. I’ll offer some snippets here, but honestly, follow the link. It’s worth the time.

Home to Fargo for Easter. ...

[Dad]’s in a new house now. I thought I would miss the old house – it’s where I
grew up – but I realized right away how glad I was he’d moved. Not just so he
could have someplace new and sunny and bright – we’d been trying to get him to
move since my Mom died. No, it was just the relief I felt that I didn’t have to
go back there again, sleep in my old small room with my junior-high books on the
shelves, my Marvel decal of Captain America still stuck to a doorknob, the empty
smell of loss in every closet and every room, the dry weight of time holding
everything in place. Open any drawer, and there was forty years of compacted
history staring up at you. We had every Christmas in the living room. I played
piano in the living room every day. When Gnat came last year we hid eggs in the
living room. My mother died in the living room. The new house is modern and
bright, lining a cul-de-sac in the endless suburban sprawl of south Fargo. A
city that did not exist has grown since I left; the city that was there when we
lived on the north side, but it’s frozen, it’s done. It’s over. It cannot grow –
the airport on one side, the river on the east, the waste-treatment plant on the
north. By his new house stand two gargantuan churches, one built to resemble
some peculiar cross between a barn and a European cathedral. Our old church is
between North and South, a downtown church across from the old Kraft warehouse,
north from the Sons of Norway hall. The congregants who were incredibly old when
I was a little kid are still there – fewer in number, sometimes stooped, but
often just as ruddy and vital as before. A full house, which was nice. You can’t
imagine that the congregation is replacing itself at the needed rate. Once they
had Sunday school for every grade, but not anymore, I think. We sat in the
balcony. I took Gnat up a secret passage to a tiny door in the back of the loft,
and showed her the rope to the bell. The area looked as strange and forgotten as
it did when I rang the bell; like so much of the church it seems to have been
sprayed with some sort of time-thwarting fixative. I suppose when you use a
place once a week, and only then for an hour or two, it holds up well. I suppose
it’s good that we age faster than churches. At first it makes them seem behind
the times; eventually they seem outside the times.

Hadn’t seen the padre in a while; we’d caught up in the vestibule. When I
came up at the head of the communion line he gave me a wink. Afterwards, the
usual dinner at the Holiday Inn banquet room; ham in alarming amounts. On the
way out we ran into my third-grade teacher. My third-grade teacher, friends. She
looked about 50. She remembered me: I was such a reader! I thanked her for
teaching me, and walked a way a little dazed: I'm 46 years old. And I just ran
into my third-grade teacher. Back to Dad’s house to find eggs with Gnat’s
cousin. I packed, neatened the room. We'd taken out some afghans the night
before - one green, one blue, both knitted by my Grandmother decades ago. I'd
curled up under them as a kid; they were later draped around a chair in the
living room. Good as new. Can't shake 'em. Sometimes you actually get irritated
at the obstinate persistence of inanimate objects; it would be simple if they'd
just leave. Because here I am in my father's new house, staring at this letter
my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you're
touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm, with Grandma knitting in the
front room, Grandpa looking for the car keys so he can drive out and check the
progress of the crops, Folger's brewing in the kitchen, Eli loping off to the
barn to change the oil in the tractor, worrried about a pain he's been having.
But you'll get nothing out of them. Gnat has no idea of the blanket that kept
her warm, just as Grandma had no idea there would ever be a Gnat. It can drive
you nuts, the wishing. But what can you do? You remember, you pass it on, you
let it go. In the end it's just a blanket. For all I know Grandma kept the 1893
container because it was practical, and her dad got it from a man at the GAR
hall. The only object I think my Dad would ever miss was the piece of shrapnel
he got in the war, and had made into a wedding ring. Coffee and cake until it
was time to load up the car and point it east. I’d say we headed home, but Fargo
is home as well. From one home to the other, then; from the old home to the new.
An apt thing to do on an Easter Sunday, no? Let's ask the pastor of my childhood
church:

This about sums it up

My thoughts on the Shiavo case, exactly - and well said.

24

The highlights of TV w/o Pity's recap of last week's show.

Suddenly he remembers that there's a third person who might be interested in what's going on with Grayadder, and he pulls out his cell phone. I assume it's a new phone, since his old one must have been fried by the EMP that went off ten feet away from him. I realize that assumption is based upon the more unlikely assumption that someone at the show remembers that.

Basically, Keeler is keen to declare martial law. Not that I can see how the United States of the 24-verse could be more of a police state than it already is, but I'm always ready to be surprised.

DoDder's following Grayadder's gurney through the hallway to the CTU clinic. The docs try to shake her off, but she insists on making them stop rolling the dying man to surgery so she can say, "I'm here, okay? And I will be here when you get out of surgery." DaD is standing there with a "great, here the fuck we go again" expression. Or maybe he's going for "concerned." Hard to tell. Grayadder peers up at his wife, his expression unreadable through the oxygen mask on his face. So I'm free to assume he's thinking, "Screw you, lady, I've got Kiefer now." He's finally pried from his wife's clutches so his life can be saved, and DoDder and DaD are left alone in the hallway. She hugs her father. Over her shoulder, his expression says, "So bored with this."

Bitchelle looks at Soul Patch, who looks back at her like, "Yeah, remember how no matter who was in charge around here, we really all just worked for Kiefer? Good times."

He went from just been fucked to just plain fucked in less than ninety seconds.

Poor Man's Poor Man's Eric Stoltz takes the opportunity to try to rush her with the room service cart, but she beats him down and ends up on top of him, holding a table knife to his neck. Nice to see a member of the United States military getting spanked by a member of the International Sisterhood of Mercenary Hos.

Bitchelle hands the floor over to Kiefer to explain the cover story, which goes thusly: Kiefer was transporting TerrorMom when his vehicle was attacked by surviving members of TerrorDad's cell at the intersection of Sepulveda and National an hour ago. I'm surprised they're using an intersection that actually exists, but I'm not surprised that it's one that throws my CTU triangulation project completely out of whack again by being way the hell down by Culver City and yet still less than ten minutes away.

Potato Face is finally prevailed upon to come in, thanks to her undying loyalty to the man who got her fired and let her friend get pounded flat while she watched. Bitchelle thanks her. "You're welcome," Potato Face lies, and hangs up with a mighty bitchface.

TerrorTeen protests fearfully. He begs her not to do it as she gets more and more get-a-room-y with him. Kiefer, clearly getting uncomfortable like the rest of us, tells her it's time to go. She makes out with her son some more, then walks out of the room slowly, smiling at him creepily over her shoulder. She even gives him a defiant little head toss. She doesn't look away from his weepy puss until she passes Kiefer in the doorway, who stares at TerrorTeen for a moment before shutting the door. Wow, I don't get what she sees in him, he thinks. It's 8:26:13, and TerrorTeen now has to spend the entire commercial break wiping slobber off of himself.

They share a flirty look before Bitchelle thanks him and they part ways. I wouldn't want to be the CTU employee sitting at the desk they're next to when they inevitably decide to have hot make-up sex in the middle of the floor.

Lispy Skip is having some trouble with his technobabble, until Potato Face appears next to him with some fresh technobabble. It's not surprising that she knows how to fix it, considering she's apparently developed the ability to teleport. She's also changed her clothes and her hair in the past seven minutes, presumably in the car. She probably should have taken the time to pick out some decent lipstick other than the lavender mess she's wearing now, though. Lispy Skip doesn't seem to happy to see her, so Potato Face smoothes things over by saying Bitchelle called her in because Lispy Skip couldn't handle himself. Way to defuse the tension there.

The doc explains that the second bullet is lodged against one of Grayadder's vertebrae and they're worried about the risk of further spinal injury. Can we just pretend that we've already had the inevitable scene where DoDder weepily says to Kiefer of her quadriplegic husband, "He needs me"? No? Bleah.

Soul Patch asks Potato Face to switch to an infrared satellite view. Potato Face quickly complies. The infrared view of the TerrorTaurus shows one bright blob of heat inside the car, which tells them that he's alone. It also tells me that TerrorProf's car has no engine or exhaust system, and that none of the surrounding cars do either. In fact, they don't even have drivers.

In any case, Potato Face is able to magically magnify and enhance the image of the van enough to read the license plate, but not before putting out my eye with her grinning, pointy teeth.

"Prove it to me," ImhoTerror says, reversing the gun and holding it out to TerrorMom butt-first. "Kill him." Ah, so the gun is empty. He was threatening her with an empty gun, you see. Interesting. TerrorMom treats ImhoTerror to one of her creepy-ass smiles and slowly takes the empty gun. She strokes it erotically as she moves over next to Kiefer, who is dragged back up to a kneeling position. She holds the empty gun to his head while Kiefer waits, eyes closed, pretending he doesn't know the gun is empty. Then she whips the empty gun up to point it at ImhoTerror and dry-fires it. D'oh! She's been in this country five years and never bothered to catch In the Line of Fire on cable? Sloppy. "Just what I thought," ImhoTerror says smugly. Yeah, just what we all thought. Oh, he means TerrorMom falling for it. I didn't think that. Never mind. Kiefer and TerrorMom share a horrified look: TerrorMom because she fucked up, and Kiefer because he can't believe she fell for this. At least I assume that's what she's thinking, since he had to do the exact same thing to Special Agent Charlie Brown last season. People, listen: nobody who mistrusts you is going to give you a loaded gun for you to prove your loyalty with. It's just not going to happen.

ImhoTerror follows Kiefer and his little party off into a splitscreen, which also includes a worried-looking TerrorTeen, as well as a worried-looking DoDder who steps up to meet an approaching doctor, who in turn blows right by her without a word. Heh. Smart doctor. Keeler worries on Air Force One, his hair darker than ever; and Kiefer looks worried as he's loaded into an SUV. As do Bitchelle, Soul Patch, and Potato Face at CTU, because they figure that eventually there's going to be an uprising when people figure out the place is being run by people who don't work there anymore.

Next week on 24: Looks like Kiefer gets shot during a prisoner exchange for TerrorTeen. Unless the promo is misleading. You don't think that's the case, do you?

Easter ... Not what we were expecting

So, I was looking very forward to seeing the in-laws for Easter. No such luck. Didn’t see anyone except Dave, as it turns out. About 2:30 on Saturday afternoon, Dave got sick. He continued to get sick for the next 14 hours. Fearing virus, Stacy went to stay with her parents. I went out to get him some gatorade so he wouldn’t dehydrate.

Also fearing virus, even though I felt fine, I decided not to make an appearance at the Bryant family Easter Fest. I was worried that I may have been carrying something, and with several children under 4, I just didn’t want to risk it. Dave is fine now, he even at a little bit yesterday.
While I was sad that the weekend didn’t turn out as planned, between hovering sessions outside the bathroom door, asking Dave if he needed anything, I was able to completely veg.

You see, while out getting gatorade, I broke down and finally bought the DVD I’ve been wanting since the day it was released. DVDs really, which is why I hadn’t purchased them yet. $20 is one thing, but $40 for the entire first season of Miami Vice had to wait. Yes, that’s right. Miami Vice. That was a show that the family watched when I was a kid. LOVED that show.

I was a little nervous, I must admit, when I put the first DVD in to watch the pilot. I was afraid that it would be so unbelievably dated, I’d be sorry that I bought it.

I was not sorry. Yes, it’s dated. The clothes are horrendous. But the dialogue is still pretty snappy, and the stories are still great. So, while my dear husband was waiting out the stomach virus (or food poisoning?), I was having a Miami Vice marathon. I watched 12 of the 22 episodes. What a blast!

Interesting tidbit: you all know my love for 24. Well, turns out, Joel Surnow who is an executive producer and writer for 24 was also a writer and executive producer for Miami Vice in the first season, at least. Hmmm. I’m curious now to know what else he’s written and produced. Turns out to include: Wiseguy, The Equalizer, St. Elsewhere, Falcon Crest, The Commish, among others. So it seems my mom and I enjoy his writing. We both watched Wiseguy and The Equalizer. The Hagerman Family also watched St. Elsewhere, back in the day.

The best part is seeing the actors who played some of the non-regular characters: Jimmy Smitts as Sonny’s partner who gets killed in the pilot, Belinda Montgomery as Sonny’s ex-wife (Doogie Howser’s mom), Ed O’Neill, Suzy Amis (The Usual Suspects), Bruce Willis, Michael Madsen, John Pankow (Ira in Mad About You), Evan Handler (Charlotte’s husband in Sex and the City), Joan Chen, John Turturro, Ving Rhames.

So, yeah, that about sums up the weekend.

Also big thanks go to my mom who brought leftovers from her own Easter feast to us last night. Good stuff!