Health workers would bail

I've always been lucky to be fairly resistant to colds and the sort of crud that laid me out for a few days, back during the Olympics. It's my hardy Teutonic genes, I tell people. The karmic trade-off for that seems to be that I'm deathly allergic to flu vaccinations.

Within 10 minutes of receiving the injection, I just break into a running sweat and fall over. So (at the risk of being obvious) I don't do flu shots.

That's why I was more than a little concerned and irritated when I read this:

Researchers called for more training, better equipment and counselling on Tuesday after nearly half of health workers questioned in a U.S. survey said they would not report for work during an influenza pandemic.

The poll of more than 308 workers from three health centers in Maryland revealed that more than 40 percent would be unlikely to report for work and 66 percent thought they would be putting themselves at risk if they did.

Link

Here we have a group of professionals who will certainly have dibs on the available supply of anti-flu shots, and they're not going to show up for work?

Let me just go on record with any of you health care "professionals" out there who plan to let me puke to death while you cower in your shower stalls: If I catch the bird flu and die because you decided to blow off your job when you were needed, I'll haunt down each and every one of you and follow you around, wailing Yoko Ono compositions 24/7.

Belie' dat.

Career guidance

I've been seeing this Lamborghini in the parking structure lately, and it's prompted me to ponder my career choices.

Maybe I should have been a drug lord. A lawyer. A corrupt stock broker or CEO. A high-priced call girl. Maybe a steroid-sucking professional athlete or a coddled Hollywood movie actor. A rap star making a killing off "songs" glorifying drugs, crime, and violence.

Nah. I'm too much a slave to my principles.

My nearly ten year old Honda's just fine.

Randomness

I happened to check in on what search terms are leading people to my blog, this month. Much of it's the usual "what is synaptic misfire" kind of thing, along with half a dozen variations on "if tomorrow never comes" combined with "randy jackson"; but a few were entertaining:

• sweet taters computer virus email
• carry on my wayward partition
• dream involving large mall Comforting to know it's not just me...
• beaverskin coat
• female members shaved
• roof rats+attics+glasgow Oh my!
• mtbi pat piles "MTBI"? Mild Traumatic Brain Injury? Myers-Briggs Temperament Indicator for mis-ordered acronym spellers? Mathematical and Theoretical Biology Institute? Please be specific and don't pat your piles.
• "drinking too much water"+"stomach noises"
• the ice cream man's route for
• abbreations

The last one's my favorite. I love the irony of someone searching for information on abbreviations and not finding what he was looking for because he'd inadvertently abbreviated the search term. Just left out the 'vi' altogether (as, I'm sure, a lot of you UNIX geeks wish you could do).

But... this raises the troubling question of how a search for "abbreations" led to my blog. My poor wife is probably going to have to distract me with Shiner Bock and pizza to prevent me going all OCD and tearing my blog apart to find where the heck I've misspelt "abbreviations".

Now playing: Marc Bolan & T-Rex, 20th Century Boy: The Ultimate Collection

Timely words (Coming To America)

"In the first place we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here does in good faith become an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with every one else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed or birthplace or origin. But this is predicated upon the man’s becoming in very fact an American and nothing but an American.

"If he tries to keep segregated with men of his own origin and separated from the rest of America, then he isn't doing his part as an American.

"We have room for but one flag, the American flag, and this excludes the red flag which symbolizes all wars against liberty and civilization just as much as it excludes any foreign flag of a nation to which we are hostile. We have room for but one language here and that is the English language, for we intend to see that the crucible turns our people out as Americans, and American nationality, and not as dwellers in a polyglot boarding house; and we have room for but one soul loyalty, and that is loyalty to the American people."

Theodore Roosevelt,
as quoted in The Chicago Daily Tribune, p. 4
7 January, 1919

Ooh... la la

Goldfrapp. Just saying it out loud makes me giggle. Like an onomatopoeia for the lactose intolerant villain from an Austin Powers movie. Goldfrapper. Frapp Bastard.

Okay, I'm done.

Since acquiring my new computer with its bountiful memory and 21^st century operating system, I've rediscovered my mojo. The synergy of a high speed internet connection, a free subscription to Rhapsody, and a near worthless Dallas radio market has rejuvenated me. I've been transported back to a time when disco sucked and I bought vinyl albums based on nothing more than intuition and interesting jacket art. Just to hear something different.

And that's how I stumbled on Alison Goldfrapp. Her infectious "Ooh La La", came stomping out of my speakers with no more thought than a T-Rex trampling an electric fence in Jurassic Park.

Seduced by the infectious, modern but somehow familiar sound, I searched for and found a video for the track. I watched it. And then I watched it again. Genius! There were pasty-faced boys with strap-on keyboards and fur boots. Converse high tops and glam rock posing. A slow motion sequence with a horse made of tiny mirrors. Giant bell bottoms and vertigo-inducing platform shoes.

Holy mother of Marc Bolan and Norman Greenbaum! You have to see this!

Hoop & Tink Foo & Turtle Conversation

Foo: I just realized that I haven't marked the back yard since we moved in.
Turtle: Marked. You mean, peed?
Foo: Yep.
Turtle: You're kidding, right? You wouldn't really pee in the yard.
Foo: Why not? It was just about the first thing I did when I bought the other house.
Turtle: Why?
Foo: Because I can. It's, like, an imperative of home ownership.

[insert clever title here]

I had one. I did. Honest. Unfortunately, it must've fallen off the edge during my post-ride nap.

This morning was the annual Lancaster Country Ride put on by the Greater Dallas Bicyclists club. I had committed to serving as a ride marshal back in January, when I still thought there was some hope that physical therapy would solve my neck problems. Because I don't like to back out once I've committed to something and because I wanted to do the ride, I comprommised and rode the shortest route, which was 24 miles.

For some reason, the Lancaster rally always seems to be very windy. Maybe the fact that it's held in early April is reason enough, and certainly it was reason enough for Turtle and I to jointly decide that today wouldn't be the best time for her to push her longest handcycling attempt to 24 miles. That was tough, because she was excited about it and had already sent in her registration fee; but in hindsight, I think it was the right choice. There's always next year.

During the ride and after, I saw a few things that made me go "hmm":

• While helping to stage the riders to the proper areas for their chosen routes, I got "sirred" by an attractive woman. It's bad enough when it's some gum-cracking, cheer-leading creature at the Chick-fil-A® drive through, but this woman was old enough to be my prom date. But, as Turtle pointed out, at least she didn't "hon" me. Getting "sirred" makes me feel old and genderless but, from kids at least, displays a quality upbringing. The "hon" from anyone but an aunt, my mother, or my wife is just plain condescending.
  
• An absolutely adorable adolescent dog—do baby Labs come in white?—sitting calmly by the side of the road with his head cocked, just watching all the cyclists ride by. No barking. No chasing. Just half smiling and enjoying the day.
  
• During the ride home, the roadside sign that read, "Prison area: do not pick up hitchhikers." (Wonder why.)
• The truly ugly little hybrid car with a pair of whip antennas mounted on its rear bumper. The antennae were half again as long as the car and made me think of the feelers on some sort of weird insect.

Still breathing

Being the current status in the TurtleFoo household, as well as the title of one of our favorite romantic comedies.

Turtle's around, and well; but she's very busy with her job search and the various related organisations that she's involved in. In fact, I'm only now finding time to compose this entry because she's got a "thing" going 'til late tonight. So I'm batching it.

My own status is SSDD. Alternately busy and frustrated at work (I lose 20 points off my IQ every time Gigglepuss opens her mouth). Busy spells with the pro bono web thingummy. Lawn mowing/trimming/fertilising/weeding.

I've also been getting out occasionally to test my ability to tolerate riding my road bike, in the wake of all the mechanical fiddling and physical therapy. There hasn't been as much improvement as I'd hoped and, as a result, I've finally admitted to myself that I'm just the sort of broken down old fart you typically see riding around on a recumbent bike.

Except... well, I'm a geek, and who better to be tooling around on a flying la-z-boy (as a friend calls his recumbent)? A chase [sic] lounge. A roll-away bed.

So I've begun shopping around, asking questions, getting an idea of which of the many mutant variaties would suit my goals the best. It's looking like this would fit the bill—fast, short wheelbase, up high, no tiny wheels—but it will be a couple weeks 'til I'll have time on the weekend to do some test rides.

Meanwhile...

I haven't forgotten that Anne infected me with The Indie Virus. Now, my wife could tell you that I'm not the most social of creatures and that I don't make friends easily. I don't have a long list of blogs that I read faithfully, but I see a couple that need to be and haven't been infected.

First, there's Bret who needs The Indie Virus because he understands the Dilbert-esque world we both live in and addresses it with more restraint and humor than I could.

Then, there's Tink who needs The Indie Virus because, surprisingly, no one has infected her yet and because she's a student of human nature and more than a little twisted, to boot. Takes one to know one, and I count that as a positive.

Finally, but not leastly, Susie needs The Indie Virus because she's manic and doesn't have nearly enough to do with her time.

Now, what was I gonna say?

I know there was at least one entertaining thing I meant to blog about, this week, but I can't think of what it was. Guess I'll have to wait until that second No. 7-and-water has metabolised.

Now playing: The Vines, Highly Evolved

April Foo

With yesterday being the first of April, I thought I should probably post up some fictitious but almost-plausible bit of news and then, at the end of it, add the pun/disclaimer "April Foo!"

But then I remembered that I've always found April Fool's "jokes" to be highly annoying.

I guess it's appropriate, then, that April Foo's Day should be a day late and have no ill effect on the gullible, whatsoever.

Later...

It's a beautiful day and I wanted to get out on the Trek to pedal around and see how my spine is doing. Not having spent much time on two wheels so far this year, I had sort of forgotten that I need to plan my routes so that the wind is at my back for the portion that's uphill. But the good that came of battling my way home with Lexus/BMW/Infiniti/Mercedes-driving yuppies mostly patiently waiting for me to wave them by is that I now know just how much conditioning I've lost over the winter and while dealing with my neck.

What a beautiful day for a ride, though. Sunny and warm, and on the way out I picked up some karma points when I spotted this turtle parked in the right wheel track, in the road. I'm no turtleologist, so rather than risk losing a finger I chose the better park of valor and nudged him with my foot 'til he was safely off to the side. It was probably a good thing, since the next vehicle down that side of the road was a big, black monster truck full of testosterone. As they roared by, I was suddenly glad that I'd stopped for the turtle, else these clowns would have been on my wheel.

Karma. I saved the turtle; the turtle may have saved me.

Here, you can see part of the reason I ride. Turtle—and by this, I mean Sweetie, not the one I scooted to the side of the road—and I are lucky to have built our home in one of the spots in the metromess where one can still hop on a bike and be in the country within 10 minutes. How long that can last is anyone's guess.

The 10^th Circle

I'm quite fortunate in that Turtle does 99.9% of the household grocery shopping.

Occasionally, things work out so that I'm available to go along with her to push the cart and carry our purchases into the house. At such times, I'm reminded why, when I was single, I ate out a lot and only ventured into the supermarket about once a month. When I finally couldn't figure out anything edible to create from a can of salmon, a heel of whole wheat bread, a slice of processed cheese product, and some semi-liquid lettuce, I broke down and went to the store.


Seriously. If supermarkets had existed when Dante Alighieri trod the earth, would there have been a 10^th ring to his hell? Would it have looked awfully like a Wal-mart grocery store?

There's just something malevolent-seeming in the blank stares of the shoppers. Something eerie and wrong about the lighting. Sponge Bob hanging execution-style from the rafters, his death rictus a parody of a grin.

And over in the refrigerater section, something wicked this way tongues comes. What was their former owners' sin? Gossip? Bad karaoke?

Sweetie, you're a saint.

In my dreams

I typically don't dream——at least, I don't remember my dreams——but lately I have, and my long-suffering wife has had to endure several rambling recountings. Poor thing, she hasn't even got her eyes to unsquint, hasn't even had the benefit of half a cup of coffee yet, and I'm nattering on about some oddball dreamscript that piqued my interest.

So Sweetie... you have my permission to slip away and read some other blog.

Caution: subconscious at work

When I've been doing a lot of programming, I have a tendency to dream in code. C++ code, PHP code... whatever.

These are not restful nights for me, because I'm troubled by dreams where my brain is trying to work out some sort of nonsensical program logic. When this happens, I don't sleep soundly and there's enough of my conscious mind at work so that it realizes the stuff the subconscious has come up with isn't valid and tries to figure out how to fix it. But it can't because it's not enough in control to completely dismiss it as nonsense and move on to something more interesting. (Maybe something involving Eva Longoria because, frankly, if Turtle's going to keep dreaming about Vin Diesel I think I'm entitled.)

Anyway, this process often continues for some time, in an endless loop. I wake up feeling tired and disoriented. I mentioned this to a fellow programmer recently and was strangely relieved to learn that he has the same problem.

Dream house

Lately, my dreams have contained an unusual amount of detail about specific places and buildings.

A few weeks ago, it was a three-story frame house of the architectural style that was being built in the northern United States in the '40s. It's generally in good repair, but a bit worn at the heels. Its brown siding has a grimy look, as if located near a railway and patinaed by soot from passing locomotives. Inside, the rooms are mostly empty aside from the odd bit of overturned furniture abandoned by some previous resident.

One exception is a small bedroom on the third floor, which is fully furnished with a twin bed, a dresser, and a wooden chair——all of which appear to be clean and new, in contrast with the clean but worn wooden floor. It's very warm upstairs, and the walls and ceiling are lined by a sort of mosquito netting. The netting is translucent but has a reflective coating on the outward-facing surface, apparently to help keep the room cool. The netting billows slightly from a slight breeze admitted by the single window, which is open.

As I look out the window, I have a commanding view of the surrounding landscape. The house is situated on the outskirts of an urban area, near a tree-lined stream. The trees are bare, and I can see paper litter here and there along the banks, as well as an abandoned stove that someone dumped there. The drive leading up to the house and back into a wooded area is just a pair of worn dirt tracks.

There's a basement, which is accessed from outside via a pair of old-style storm doors. I don't recall details about the basement, except that the stairs lead down to a network of tunnels. I know this because I have a sense that I've been to this house previously in other dreams and probably will return in the future.

I've been malled

Last night, I dreamed I was attending a wedding reception that was held at an irrationally large restaurant in a very large mall. This isn't remarkable* in itself, but the mall is one that I've visited numerous times in dreams.

The specific store I'm patronizing varies. I've had dreams where I was shopping for sporting goods, clothes, and a diamond ring. Once, I was buying ice cream. Almost always, I'm there at closing time and have to rush from one end of the mall to the other to get to the entrance near where I parked. Sometimes I make it; sometimes I have to leave by a different door and walk around the outside, in the dark, nearly-deserted parking lot.

But that's not the end of it. I also know from past experience that a supermarket, a roller skating rink, and a smallish dive of a nightclub are neighbors of the mall. I know this because I've visited these, as well. None of these is a place I can identify from my waking life.

* Aside from the ABC commentators sitting at a small folding table in front of a large institutional refrigerator in the kitchen. They're judging a dog show, the only contestant of which appears to be a small, poofy-looking dog shivering in the arms of an elderly man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and an eye patch. One of the judges, who looks like Barbara Bush (Dubya's mom), offers me a half-eaten custard-filled doughnut as I rush past. Despite my love of custard-filled doughnuts, I don't accept it.

Now playing: Robyn Hitchcock, Queen Elvis

Children of the atom

While sifting through the various news clips and music videos on comcast.net, I stumbled upon a trailer for X-men 3: The Last Stand, scheduled to come out this summer. One of the mutants who briefly appears in the clip has what looks like porcupine quills sticking out all over her head and face. I thought about how Rogue is always sulking about not being able to make skin on skin contact with anyone, for fear of stealing his life force. Maybe she should just suck it up and be grateful that she could even get close enough for it to be a concern. Porcupine girl can't even snuggle! It'd be like hugging an iron maiden (now there's a name for a character).

Back in the days when I was a huge fan of the X-men comic—back when there was only one X-men title, instead of all the watered-down spin-offs—it wasn't Wolverine who was my favorite character. My favorite was Nightcrawler.

Nightcrawler was smaller and weaker than many of the other characters, but he was smart, and he was quick, and he could teleport. More than that, he was a man of faith. In fact, in some alternate timelines he became a Catholic priest, which struck me as an intentional irony given his devilish appearance.

But if I were a mutant, I doubt I'd get cool powers like teleportation and the ability to climb walls. I'd probably be more like porcupine girl. Or I'd get the ability to turn invisible, but only when no one was looking at me.

And that's fine because, realistically, I don't want the responsibility for flying around the world in a hopped-up jet fighting monsters and evil mutants.

My mutational goals are more modest and run more toward sprouting a third arm from the back of my neck. I figure that would be the best place for it, because I'd still be able to wear normal shirts (just with a larger neck size). It would come in really handy for all those times when I'm trying to glue something, because I'd have the extra hand to apply the glue. When changing a flat tire in the dark, I'd have a spare hand to hold the flashlight. Or on a windy day, I could be carrying a box of stuff while the third arm kept my hat from blowing away.

Yeah, teleportation would be cool, but I think that third arm would be a lot more practical.


Now playing: Nikka Costa, Everybody Got Their Something

Buying time

That's right, I'm stalling until I have something giggle-worthy to post. It's not like I don't have anything to say, but I've been chastised in the past for sounding too serious or too bummed and, quite frankly, I'm just not in a real humorous frame of mind lately.*

I'm pretty certain that no one's interested in reading along as I vent my spleen about the current rioting over proposed immigration legislation, for instance. So to buy myself some time, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring and take part in Tink's meme:

I've never seen...

1. Madagascar (the place, not the movie)
   
2. My spleen
3. Martha Stewart en deshabille (praise the Lord)
4. Magenta wimples

I will never...

1. Assimilate into mannered society
2. Abandon my responsibilities
3. Act my age
4. Attempt to jump the Grand Canyon on a unicycle

I love the feel of...

1. Skin
2. Sleeping in
3. Sheets fresh from the wash
4. Singing really loudly in my car during my afternoon commute
   

I don't understand...

1. Cantonese
2. Cubicle life
3. Cartesian dualism
4. Current protests over immigration laws

I wish I could be...

1. Friendlier
2. Fitter
3. Firmer in faith
4. Friskier

* It's not that funny things haven't happened. There have been at least half a dozen moments when Turtle—who has become a big fan of Tink's blog—has turned to me and said, "You ought to write that up as a Tink & Hoop conversation." And I might, except that I could be sued for plagiarising Tink's style and... well... I can't remember the conversations for the length of time it would take to walk to the other end of the house and boot up my computer.

We all float down here

In case anyone was worried, Turtle and I remained high (elevation-wise) and dry. Up in Allen, we got a little over four inches of rain over Saturday and Sunday, but we were spared most of the heavy rains that pummelled Dallas.

For me, it was kind of a bad news/good news/bad news situation. Bad news, because I didn't get to get in a bike ride this weekend. Good news, because being stuck inside all weekend meant that I could spend some time setting up that new computer that had been sitting in its box since last Monday. Bad news, because having set up the computer, I had to leave everything shut down and unplugged because of all the lightning we were having.

I did have a great Sunday afternoon nap, though. I fell asleep during some cheesy movie on the Sci Fi Channel—Lou Diamond Phillips putting paid to some kind of zombies that lived under the road—and awoke to furry dependent the younger sleeping on my stomach and Jason Voorhees killing off everyone on a space ship.

I'm not quite sure how Jason ended up on a space ship, but the question didn't cost me more than a moment's thought as I hauled my carcass off the sofa and took my unfurrowed brow for a shuffle to the kitchen for one of Turtle's fiendishly addictive oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Stupid on wheels

Susie started this one with her tales of vehicular incidents.

1. I quit the band after my junior year when the director decided to be an arse about the part-time job I held to earn money for college (maybe I'll blog that, one day when everyone's really bored).
   
   One Friday night, during my senior year, my folks were out of town. I wasn't supposed to take the Opel* out of town while they were away, but I wanted to go to the football game in a town about 30 miles away to hang out with my band geek buddies. So I went anyway and subsequently locked the keys in the car in the parking lot of Franklin High School.
   
   It was one of those moments when realization dawns just. As. The. Door. Clicks. Shut. NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
   
   45 minutes of creative work with a coat hanger, and I was saved—but it was a fairly panicked 45 minutes.


2. Later in my senior year, I took the Opel to a "disco" that a couple entrepreneurial college students put on at the flea market building every Saturday night. Usually, when I went to the dances, I spent most of my time milling around, scoping the crowd for females with appropriately low standards who might want to dance.
   
   Usually, I danced a couple dances with one or two girl buddies from school and want home without meeting anyone; but on this night, I met the Sheffield sisters, who went to Tompkinsville High School. We had a great time, dancing and flirting, until the dance was ending and one of the girls discovered that their ride had just left.
   
   Once again, I broke the rule about driving the Opel out of town. A knight in shining Opel, I drove the Sheffields down some of the twistiest two-lane roads I've ever seen to their trailer in BFE Monroe County. Then, with my mission accomplished, I headed back home.
   
   To this day, I'm not sure exactly what happened. I know I was in the middle of a sharp right curve. I know I wasn't drinking or speeding. I think I swerved to miss hitting an animal.
   
   The car fishtailed left. I steered into it, but too much. The car fishtailed right, kept going. The passenger side slammed into some fence posts on the driver's side of the road, flipping the car into the air and down a 15-foot embankment. WHAM! It landed on its roof and flopped over onto its wheels.
   
   The engine was ticking from the heat. The turn signal was ticking because I'd hit it. I tried to turn it off but it was bent at a right angle (because I'd hit it) and I had trouble finding it. The windshield had popped out, folded double, and was lying on the hood. I had a few moments of panic when I tried to get out and couldn't. I remembered to unhook the seatbelt and things went more smoothly.
   
   Out of the car, I climbed the embankment to the road and looked around. I was in the middle of nowhere. No sounds. No streetlights. I started walking, hoping to find a farm house where I could use the phone.
   
   When I realized I was walking down the double yellow line, it occurred to me that that this was probably a bad idea and I moved to the shoulder. Finally, I found a house, got the skeptical farmer to let me use his phone, and made the dreaded call to Dad.
   
   Who, to my stunned amazement, was more concerned about me than about the car. Just one of many lessons I learned from the experience, but probably the most important.


3. Before the Opel, Dad had this '62 Chevy II station wagon he bought off a guy from work for $50. The paint scheme was White Oxidization and Rust two-tone. At some point, the previous owner had removed the 3-speed on the column and replaced it with a 4-on-the-floor, which poked up through a chunk of screwed on tin. The guy was into building pro stock drag racing cars, and maybe that explained the glass pack muffler on a six-cylinder rustbucket. We called it The Tin Can.
   
   This is the car Dad drove to work every morning at 6am. He'd go out, the door would slam with a hollow clang, and he'd spent a minute fiddling with the manual choke until the Chevy started. Then he'd rev it for half a minute to keep it running. The old engine didn't have much compression, so he had to feather the throttle and clutch to get the car started up the driveway. But once he got going, the car roared like an old school bus.
   
   The neighbors used to say that they set their clocks by that roar.
   
   When I still had my learner's permit, my folks were out of town, and I located one of the spare keys to The Tin Can and took it for a joy ride. The only manual transmission car I'd driven before was my buddy's Datsun B-210, and this ornery beast was a whole different animal. My short drive across town and back was a real experience, but I got home safely and parked the car.
   
   I think I must not have gotten the car back in exactly the right spot, because in a conversation years later, Dad said he knew I'd taken the car.


4. After I graduated from college, I couldn't find a job in my field. Out of desperate need for some way to make the student loan payments that had started up, I took a job managing an auto body repair shop at a local car dealership. There, I was demeaned by the owners, forced to get up early and work long hours, and was paid so little that I was forced to live at home with my parents.
   
   To salvage my sanity, I would drive about 35 miles to the town where I went to college and spend the occasional weekend with friends who were still in school. After attending a party one Saturday night, I was driving home and realized I'd had too much to drink. I pulled over, parked in the entrance to some farmer's field, and fell asleep.
   
   It would make a better story if I had awakened with the sun coming up and cows peering at me over a fence, but that's not what happened. I slept until about 3am and then drove home without incident.
   


5. I once got up early on a Saturday morning to do some errands. Somewhere between getting in the car and backing out of the garage, I must've gotten distracted by something. The next thing I knew, there was a crash as I backed into the still-closed garage door. The car was okay, but it cost me $500 to replace the garage door and tracks.

I'm sure there are more. I'll add them later, if I think of some.

* When I was in high school, Dad bought this keen butterscotch-colored Opel coupe that looked like the Manta body style (if anyone's keeping track) but wasn't. It had a black, cloth-colored top and a sporty black hood (it came that way). Tan interior, bucket seats... what a great car.

Cause for optimism

Over on The Bee's Knees, the topic of the Myers & Briggs Type Indicator® (MBTI) came up. While Googling for a description of my ISTJ traits, I stumbled across a web page that put an interesting and positive spin on the normally dour perception of my type.

Over at The Retire Early Home Page there's an analysis of which personality types are most likely to retire early. It's an interesting read.

As an ISTJ, I may not be the life of the party. I may be wound too tight. I may expect too much of others. But by golly, I'm liking my chances of getting out of this cubicle ahead of schedule just a little bit better than I did when I came in this morning!

Call me Pat

St. Patrick's Day came a little early at the TurtleFoo homestead, as commemorated by a ceremonial driving out of snakes.

This little guy—a Western Ribbon Snake, I'm guessing—was lurking along the foundation of the house at around dusk, last evening. I didn't even see him (Or her. I didn't check for bits.) until I'd hit him with the string trimmer, slinging him about two feet.

In the picture, he's intact and was still squirming when I took the picture. Turtle came out to take a look and said she thought he was an ex-reptile, though, so I slung him over the fence into the creek.

Now playing: The Dandy Warhols, Welcome To The Monkey House

Say "cheese"

I don't know what's wrong with people.

I thought I'd witnessed the pinnacle of bad taste the time I heard a guy come into the washroom, sit down in the neighboring stall, and while doing what people do while sitting where he was sitting proceed to call a woman (I assume) on his cell phone to make a dinner date. Being the ornery creature I am, I flushed the (loud, institutional model) American Standard a couple times, and still the guy nattered on, completely unfazed, as if he were sitting in the sun having a latté at some sidewalk café.

The worst, right? Au contraire.

This morning, I was in the men's and after—how can I put this delicately?—some telltale noises from the next stall, I swear I heard the same sound my new camera phone makes when I snap a picture.

I don't want to know. Really.

Meanwhile...

I think I may be in real danger of having my geek card pulled—and rightly so.

One day last year, my aging 700Mhz Win98 computer hiccuped. Blue screen, applications open, corruption... bits everywhere. I worked and worked to sort out the damage and finally got things limping along, but it was never quite right again.

Finally, after some soul searching, I broke down last week and ordered a new machine, which arrived on our doorstep before I got home from work.

"I guess you'll want to get right to work setting it up," Sweetie said, making the safe assumption.

"Nope," I said. "I'm not sure when I'll get to it."

I could hardly believe the words that had just come out of my mouth. There was a time when Sweetie would have been absolutely right. I would have torn into the box and had the thing running with all applications transferred by bedtime.

This time, it just seems like another item on my to-do list. Right after clearing away enough of the junk in my office to find a place to set up the computer.

That said, I'm really looking forward to being able to run the latest/greatest versions of things like Dreamweaver and Adobe Acrobat. I really hadn't realized just how completely pre-XP operating systems had been abandoned until I discovered that even the supporting software for my new PDA wouldn't run on anything less than XP.

Okay... I'm starting to feel a bit more enthusiastic now. And once I've got all my crap treasures transferred from the old computer to the new one, I'm going to reformat the old one and install Linux on it. Now, that should get my geek status reinstated!

Now playing: The Antiphonal Music of Gabrieli

Smoke gets in your eyes

As I headed out for work this morning, I caught a whiff of smoke. My first thought was "leaves", followed by a flickering montage of images from my early childhood. Back then, it was perfectly acceptable to rake the year's crop of fallen leaves into piles and then burn them—although I can't imagine my memory has that right. Folks must've at least put them in the 50-gallon drums that everyone used for burning trash back then.

"The fires scorched more than 663,000 acres — more than 1,000 square miles or about two-thirds the size of Rhode Island..."

(CBS) GROOM, Texas

That's not what I was smelling, obviously. Not in the scraped-clean-of-trees, multi-laned concrete streeted suburb of Allen. I'm pretty sure I was smelling the misfortune of fellow Texans suffering through the wildfires burning in the panhandle. At the risk of sounding like I'm trying to be philosophical before my second cup of coffee, it reminded me of how we're all connected.

I gave my lawn its first mowing of the season on Friday evening, and I'm still sore from trimming and edging on Saturday. By Sunday, the very-green grass had grown with such enthusiasm that it's looking like it needs to be mown again—especially after the heavy rains that came during the night.

And yet, this morning I smell smoke. Hundreds of miles away, the ground and foliage are so dry and there's so much land burning that I can smell it here, in my cubicle, inside a sealed building.

Weekend Update

As bad as the weekend was for the folks suffering through wildfires, it was great for me. With my physical therapist's permission, I did a bit of riding on my road bike just to see if the combination of anti-inflammatory drugs, PT, and a higher stem have ameliorated my neck pain. Saturday morning, I went out with a leisurely-paced novice group for a little under 25 miles. The pain had kicked in by about 18 miles, but it wasn't unbearable and I seemed bounce back more quickly once I finished the ride. Not great, but an improvement.

Then yesterday, I participated in a group riding clinic subsidized by the PBA and conducted by the notorious "Bikin' Mike" Keel. For close to two hours, Mike shared with the group his philosophies and experience gained from 30+ years of cycling. It brought into sharp relief the disparity between the right way to ride in a group and the way the group dynamic actually plays out during most club rides.

Which is why it was all the more interesting when Mike shared with us that he'd be doing ride leader training for the Plano club in the near future. This is A Good Thing™, I think.

Anyway, once the lecture had concluded we all unloaded our bikes. Grinning in perverse anticipation of the five miles of 23 mph southerly headwinds (with 30 mph gusts) we'd face, we formed up a double line and prepared to ride to "The Crit Site" where we'd practice paceline techniques.

"The Crit Site", as it's known to area cyclists, is actually a commercial development that never quite got off the ground. With its smooth, wide concrete streets and unobscured field of view, it has become a popular site for bike racing criteriums. In our case, it was a perfect place to get used to drafting a foot or two off another rider's rear wheel without having to worry about watching for vehicular traffic (because there is none). Yesterday's winds provided an added instructional bonus, because we could really tell when we were in the "sweet spot" of the draft. And, because we were riding on a loop, we got to experience how different drafting positions work better depending on which direction the wind is coming from.

On the ride back to the cars, we were stopped at a traffic light and I took a look around. Neat lettering painted across the inside of two large shop windows read "CROISS   ANTS".

"You hear a lot about ants in Texas," I thought aloud, "but mostly just fire ants. What's a croiss ant?"

"I think they're French," the spry older gentleman next to me suggested.

"Hmm. Doesn't croiss mean cross in French?" I asked, disingenuously misspelling croix.

Mrs. Malaprop would have been so proud.

"Maybe they're some sort of army ants," I continued, warming to the subject. "Ants Templar. But you'd think the Ants Templar would be pretty aggressive. Why haven't I had to wage war on them in my yard?"

"It's obvious," I heard from behind me. "They're French."

(If you're still waiting for the punch line, I hope you have a comfortable chair.)

Now playing: Cowboy Junkies, Black Eyed Man

Get a rope

Over on Random Walk, Bret gets the nod for most timely link of the day.

No longer will I be forced to rage impotently against the pitiless and malevolent spirit of the 21^st Century workplace. Now I can rage against Robert Propst, inventor of the cubicle—for all the good it will do me, since said instrument of not-good karma up and died in 2000.

It's not just me. Immediately after reading Bret's post, I shared the link to the article with some of my fellow cubicle dwellers. They had already rounded up torches and pitchforks by the time I got to the part of the article that mentions Propst is escaped to the great beyond, and it was a tricky business breaking that news without becoming the alternate target of this techie lynch mob.

When Pigs Fly

Bret's comments about unlikely musical pairings reminded me of a CD I heard about from an old Fidonet acquaintance. It's called When Pigs Fly and features such delightfully twisted gems as Lesley Gore singing AC/DC's "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap", Herman's Hermits doing "White Wedding", and The Connells covering "Insane In The Brain".

The concept is pretty far out there, but some of the covers actually aren't bad. Except... well, let's just say that hearing the Jackie Chan/Ani DiFranco cover of "Unforgettable" may give you an entirely new insight into the matter of William Hung's recording contract and, perhaps, make you bleed from the eyes.

Randomness

It cracks me up to read some of the comments around these parts. Contrary to popular myth, it's not just the guys who seem obsessed with talking about gas and nose nuggets.

A distinction worth noting: Farting on cue is entertainment. Farting on queue is biological warfare.

Borrowing a page from Fred's playbook, I was checking out the search terms that are bringing people to my blog:

• colon smells
• bohemia sunshower
• coke and asparagus flush
• drunk wife tool
  

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

Now playing: Live, V

And now, a word from my colon

As anyone who's read this blog for more than a few days will be painfully aware, some of my fellow cubicle dwellers can't seem to adapt their noise levels to the more communal environment in which we now live.

But today has been my turn. Since shortly before lunch time, my on-board plumbing has alternated between moaning like the tortured soul of Jacob Marley's ghost and singing like a pod of whales. Loudly. It's been spouting off like a drunken redneck after that 10^th round with José Cuervo.

I know they can hear it, because giggle puss over there was snorting herself silly a little while ago.

C'mon, say something about having to listen to my bodily functions, I thought. I just dare ya.

Ah, revenge is indeed sweet. Especially since this isn't happening during church, for once.

Sing... sing a song

I love to sing, and I suppose there's always been a part of me that dreamt of singing in front of a bunch of people and fantasized that I was good enough at it that they enjoyed the experience.

With or without two-for-one Jell-o shots.

That's probably why I've finally embraced American Idol as one of my guilty pleasures—along with Desperate Housewives, which I watch with Sweetie under the pretense of keeping her company.

I didn't want to like the show. For the first season I succeeded in dismissing it along with such tripe as The Bachelor and Beauty and the Geek; but over time, I caught myself stopping for longer and longer periods when I stumbled upon it while flipping channels. I finally had to admit to myself that I was interested in whether or not the goofy-looking guy with the great voice would triumph over the one with the dreamy eyes and the perfect hair. Among the women, would tone triumph over t— eh... a pleasing aspect?

After all, if I'd been born about 20 years later than I was, with a better set of pipes, and with a more prominent ego, that could be me up there.

Sweetie and I like to watch the performances and then compare notes. I'm usually the one who takes issue with the singers who can't seem to pick a key, so my evaluations are most often in line with Randy Jackson's. Sweetie is more apt to comment on a performer's charisma and appearance and be less critical of blown notes or song choice. She's a better judge of pop idol quality and tends to line up with Paula or Simon.

We spend a lot of time discussing who we like best and why, but one contestant we both agree on this season is Chris, the bald, soul-patched rocker. Last night, Ryan Seacrest announced before a commercial break that Chris would be singing a song by Fuel.

"Gotta be 'Hemorrhage'," I said.

"Do they have any other songs?" Sweetie asked.

"Yeah, but nothing I can remember. Anyway, 'Hemorrhage' is perfect for this guy."

We sat and watched the GEICO gecko while waiting for Chris's performance.

"You realize he's going to nail this, right? That's gonna suck."

Sweetie looked puzzled.

"Why?"

"Well, after he nails it I'm never going to be able to bring myself to sing it at karaoke again. I'll have to retire that from my repertoire."

Yes, that's right. I'm one of those people.

My 10 favorite karaoke songs

1. Dwight Yoakum, "Fast As You"
2. Fuel, "Hemorrhage"
3. Matchbox 20, "Long Day"
4. The Wallflowers, "Sleepwalker"
   
5. Garth Brooks, "If Tomorrow Never Comes"
   
6. Roxy Music, "Love Is The Drug"
7. Cherry Poppin' Daddies, "Zoot Suit Riot"
8. Stealers Wheel, "Stuck In The Middle With You"
   
9. Elton John, "Wake Up Wendy"
10. Vertical Horizon, "Everything You Want"

Chris nailed his performance, by the way. With "Hemorrhage" off the list, I guess I'll just have to take a run at Travis Tritt's "Here's A Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)".

Now playing: Yes, Relayer