The Doggerel King

The Littlest Hero

2008-09-05T23:19:00.003-04:00

I found my wife crying at the end of July. Turns out that Mysti, one of our fellow writers over at AbsoluteWrite, had given birth prematurely -- three months prematurely -- to Simon Gabriel. He was about the size of a TV remote; his diapers, when folded up to fit him, were about the size of a AA battery. I might have gotten a little upset myself -- how could a thing that small, with the odds so great against him, hope to survive.

And yet he does. And grows. And is beginning to thrive. The works of modern medicine are nothing short of miraculous, and this chap came along in time to take advantage of them. When I was born, fifty short years ago, my chances would have been essentially nil. Twenty years ago, when my oldest boy was born, the available stock of hope would have been negligible. And even now, even given the technology and medical know-how we're accustomed to, Simon Gabriel has to be a fighter to survive. He is a fighter. And he will survive.

But here's the current problem: Simon is in Denver's NICU, receiving the best care possible. But his family lives in Wyoming.

Mysti and Rob need about $6000 to be able to temporarily move to Denver to be with their son. To help raise the cash, an series of auctions are being held on eBay, of items donated by friends and family.

Amy and I have offered our advance contributor's copies of The Ultimate Dog Lover (mine) and The Ultimate Cat Lover (Amy's) as a set called "The Pet Lover's Package." The books are not due in stores until November, so this is a real steal.

For more information, or to bid, go to:
http://simonsauctions.wordpress.com/

Six Quirky Ideas (Part One)

2008-07-14T20:39:00.007-04:00

So here I am, trying to deal with getting tagged with the task of exposing myself in full view of God and everybody by telling you, my loyal readers (both of you) about six of my fondest quirks.

As an aside, I'll just mention that the title of this piece, "Six Quirky Ideas", is a tribute to the book Six Great Ideas, by the modern philosopher Mortimer Adler. The six ideas he discusses are the cornerstones of civilization, to wit: Truth, Beauty, Justice, Freedom, and two more I can't remember right now, but that may be because I last read the book about twenty years ago. Thus we see an example of

Quirk the First
My head is full of generally useless information. And it's liable to pop out at random moments. Seems I just kinda think that everybody knows this stuff, and I'm just reminding them. makes for some awkward moments.

Quirk the Second
My family and I have enough allergies and sinus issues to keep several over-the-counter drug companies in business. This is not the quirk.

This diagram represents a card of Sudafed (or some similarly blister packed decongestant). Note that there are four detatchable quarter cards, each of which holds six individually blistered pills.

Being a full-sized man, when I have a stuffy nose, I punch out two pills. When my loving wife has a stuffy nose, she - being a delicate princess - punches out a single pill.
Pay attention, now. Here's the quirk:

When my lady punches out her pill, she punches at some random location.

I hate that. Because I need blister pack symmetry. I need it. Observe the effects on individual quarters:

Best Worst

I confessed this once to my lady wife. After much glee at my discomfiture, she has begun punching out pills in straight rows right across the whole card.

I love her.

Quirk the Third
This is silly. I know this silly. I realize that there is absolutely no rational reason for this. In fact, I know the idea is totally, completely wrong.

But somewhere, deep in my psyche somewhere, I hold the firm belief that if you keep moving, less sunlight gets on you; therefore you're less likely to get sunburned if you're walking.

It doesn't matter that this idea has been disproved in my very own experience. It doesn't matter that a sixth grader would think i'm an blithering idiot. I think I'm a blithering idiot.

But somehow I'm convinced it's true.

Next time: Quirks the Fourth through Sixth!

It's a Crazy Idea, But It Just Might Work, Sorta

2008-05-17T19:13:00.007-04:00

The fact that I long ago decided to respectfully decline to take on political issues in my writing is herewith suspended. We are in an important election season, perhaps the most importantest ever, and it's time for each of us to take the time to put up or shut up. In a policy-wonkish way, of course.

To that end, I will now confront the divisive, emotionally-charged issue of illegal immigration. Specifically, I’d like to address the issue of immigration from Mexico, our sister state to the South. It’s no secret that our southern border is porous, or that federal funds have been allocated to build a 700-mile fence to stem the “invasion” (as some have callously termed it), and that parts of it may have actually been built. Nor it is a secret that the millions of Mexicans within our borders have come here, not for any nefarious purpose, but simply to follow the American dream, to make a better life for themselves and their families. Or that this country is allegedly spending an ungodly sum trying to keep these fine people out. This is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue.

My proposal is simple. They want to be Americans. It’s time to give them what they want.

Let's just go ahead and annex Mexico.

Adding the thirty-one Mexican states with the current population of roughly 107 million souls would be of great benefit to both our countries. It would simplify a great number of issues that currently seem insurmountable.

From a security standpoint alone the benefits are immediate and obvious. Our southern border is now about 1900 miles long. Moving it south to Belize and Guatemala would shorten this border to about 750 miles. A shorter border is much more defensible, especially if we use the 700-mile fence we’re already planning, just in a different place.

Of course, we’d gain about 5800 miles of coastline, but a beefed-up Coast Guard could handle that without serious problem. The expansion of the Coast Guard would be paid for by the tax revenues generated by the booming tourist resorts found on those coasts.

Which brings us to our second point. Annexation would be a boon to the economies of both parties in unification. All the tourist dollars flowing out of the US into Mexico, as well as the money sent home by Mexicans living and working in the US would all stay where it belongs: in the good old US of A. The rising costs of patrolling our border could be virtually eliminated as the focus moved further south, resulting in less spending and a more efficient budget.

And that’s just the US side. The money now being spent by the Mexican government to help its people leave their native country would be unnecessary. Plus, the entire population of Mexico would fall under US labor laws, including the minimum wage, the forty-hour workweek, and health benefits requirements. And with the free flow of goods and investments, the people of present-day Mexico wouldn’t know what hit them. In a good way, of course.

The Mexican military and police forces would have to be retrained, and it would take some little time to weed out corruption to acceptable (say, U.S. Congressional) levels, but we would finally be able to combat the drug trade on our own turf, by our own rules, without having to rely on the willingness of a foreign country to help us.

We would have to adopt Spanish as an official language, of course, but Spanish is already de facto official already. And the Mexican people would have to accept English as well, so it would be fair to everybody.

Adding thirty-one states would only add to the prestige of Old Glory. Eighty-one stars would require a field of nine rows of nine stars, a good omen if there ever was one.

Combining our governments would also be simple. Mexico already has a government similar in form and function to our own, complete with a bi-cameral Congress, a constitutional judicial system, a strong executive, and a disputed election system. There would be a time of growing pains, but I suspect things would settle down pretty quickly. And I think I’d like to see our American presidents wearing a sash on official occasions.

So, in closing, I say it’s time to put our differences behind us and offer to all Mexicans the right to be American citizens, in a very real and legally binding way. It’s right for America. It’s right for Mexico. It’s just the right thing to do.

A Lesson Learned

2008-04-27T21:06:00.004-04:00

I am -- and let me be very clear about this -- an idiot.

Oh, sure, I scored in the 95th percentile on the ACT. And I can offer at least one intelligent contribution to a conversation on just about anything. I can explain the fundamentals of flight, the internal combustion engine, relativity, Grimm's Laws of Phonetic Shift, most household physics, electricity, biology, and astronomy. I can read and navigate by maps. And I can offer insights into the way computers think.

But I'm too stupid to make a simple note. I'll explain.

This morning, as my lady wife and I were lazing around in bed, trying to come to grips with the day, she said something. I said something back. Soon we were laughing uproariously. And I said, There's an essay for you.

And she said, No, I think it's yours.

And I said, Hmmm. Maybe I'll use it for my blog.

And she said, Excellent idea. Write it down so you don't forget it.

Bwoop! Bwoop! Bwoop!

I wrote the first paragraph in my head while showering.

I had the punchline ready before we got to the Chinese Lunch Buffet.

Now it's about 9:30PM and I've been trying for two hours to remember what the original idea was, much less any of the details.

Nothing. I got nothing. A big old blank void in my head, an empty space on the map labeled "Here be dragons."

Actually, that's not entirely true. I happen to have a very nice notepad. It's green and spiral-bound at the top, and it says "Memo" on the front. Amy got it for me and made me promise I'd jot down ideas as they came to me. And I've been pretty good about it. It has all sorts of notes in it, some of which are legible.

But right now I'm a-feared that a brilliantly funny idea has slipped past me, and I'll never recover it. And that's a pity, cause you would have laughed your butt off.

So she said, looking at my piteous moroseness, I want you to sit right down and write a paragraph on how you learned your lesson.

So I said, Better yet, I'll post it.

The moral of this story is: No matter how intelligent you think you are, and no matter how brilliant an idea is, never never never trust yourself to remember it.

Anybody who does that is an idiot.

And now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to write that down somewhere.

She Gave Me a Tagomite Sandwich

2008-04-12T22:02:00.005-04:00

Well, it happened. Amy over at Mind Over Mullis tagged me. At first, I was pleased. Aha! I thought. I finally got a comment! Somebody's actually reading my drivel! Then I actually read the comment. Ah, crud! I thought. More work for me to do!

So here's the deal: I reveal seven little-known factoids about myself, then tag five of my blogging friends. Now, I did little research revealed that all the bloggers I know have already been tagged. So, a request for all my loyal readers (I reckon there's about three of you out there): Leave me a comment with your blog address, and I'll tag you faster than I can say something really difficult....

So here, without further ado, we present

Seven Little-Known Facts about Kindly Old Dr. Bill: the Doggerel King

Fact the first: I polled the teenagers in the room, and discovered the following surprising item: I'm a pain in the butt. Who woulda thunk it?

Fact the second: For several years I had money thrown at me while performing musical parodies at SciFi conventions in the Carolinas, the Virginias, and Washington, SC. The most memorable moment came when a real flesh and blood woman dropped a handful of change down the front of my pants.

Fact the third: I once owned a cat named Maybelline. She was a grey tabby with big green eyes. She had a habit of showing up in unexpected places (the refrigerator, on lamp shades, in the shower). And she was made entirely of cardboard.

Fact the Fourth: I'm Pentecostal by upbringing, Baptist by membership, and Lutheran by disposition. Screwed up? Me? Hahahahaha!

Fact the fifth: My ancestry is German, Scots, and Irish. This means I love to drink, I'm too cheap to buy the stuff, and that fills me with huge amounts of angst.

Fact the sixth: My favorite stress reliever: baking quickbreads. I can't explain it. I just accept it.

Fact the seventh: Because of when my nineteenth fell (after Vietnam but before the re-institution of the Selective Service) I never had to register for the draft.

Fact the eighth: I don't follow instructions very well.

There. I have answered the tag. My work here is done.

You Know the Drill

2008-03-19T20:28:00.006-04:00

I had been at work this morning just long enough to eat my cinnamon bun and get halfway through my first cup of coffee, when the phone rang. It was our network architect with a very important message.

"This is a drill. We're having a major weather emergency in the Data Center."

I knew this was coming. It had been three months or so since our last drill, and as a valued member of the Desktop/Network Support Team, I was sure to be on the call tree. (This had been an oversight during our last pseudo-emergency. More on this in a moment.)

Now obviously the best way to conduct these drills is to pretend that it's real. So I tried to get into the spirit of things. I popped up so I could see over my cubicle wall at the weather. It was cloudy, and the forecast was for scattered showers throughout the day. I could work with this.

"Oh my God! What's the situation?"

There was a pause on the other end, then: "Remember, this is just a drill. We don't know if it's a tornado or a microburst, but a tree just crashed through the windows in the Data Center. The power's out so we can't get in to assess the situation, but we know that SAP's down, and it looks like some of the servers are offline."

"What about phones? Do we have phone service?"

Again that annoying pause at the other end of the phone line.

"I think the phones are OK. Ummm. Why don't you come to the command center?"

I refilled my cup and made my way to the conference room. Somebody had brought donuts, so I snagged one on the way in. A man's gotta keep his energy up somehow in the face of disaster.

Unfortunately, there's very little for a Desktop/Network Support Team member to do in a meeting like this. All the damage was in the Data Center. In the case of an actual emergency, I'd be involved in cleanup, but that's for later. I was assigned to the phones. I was responsible for contacting the other techs and getting the word out to the userbase.

I hate being phone boy. My mood was ruined.

The Disaster Manager confirmed the tree through the window, and added that another set of windows had blown out. "The floor is flooded already, and more rain and debris are lashing through the openings. All the servers on the south side of the Data Center are down and probably heavily damaged. The rest of the servers are still online, but that could change any second. Any suggestions?"

The Network Admin was tasked to bring down the remaining servers as gracefully as possible. Manager, Architect, and a small team would inspect the Data Center for safety and to make a preliminary assessment. I pulled my cell and called the lead tech at our other campus as the team filed out to cross the hall to the center.

Once they were gone somebody raised his own concern: "Reckon we should have had Facilities cut the power before they entered a flooded out room with live high-voltage outlets running across the floor?"

All in all, this drill went a lot smoother for me than the last one.

As I might have mentioned, I wasn't notified of the previous drill. So I didn't have a clue that when I barrelled into the Data Center, to my little work area in the corner, that I was entering an inferno.

The security guard stuck his head in the other door. He looked surprised to see me. "You're dead."

"I am? Why?"

Turns out the huge power supplies against the wall had burst into flame, and the entire roomful of very expensive computer equipment was burning with an intensity that was melting the aluminum trackways conveying cables across the room.

I had to hang out in the hallway for a while. I called my wife and informed her that I was dead. She wasn't nearly as upset as I thought she'd be. I sure didn't expect laughter.

At the drill post-mortem (which I thought was a poor choice of words, given my sorry demise) I was mildly ridiculed for leaving a black mark on the drill results.

"Now wait," I said. "Are we assuming that all the alarm systems worked during the emergency? Then you're also assuming that I ignored an evacuation order, didn't notice the flashing alarm lights, didn't hear the sirens, and forged ahead through intense heat and impenetrable smoke, just so I could get to the workbench long enough to finish setting up Tony's laptop.

"I think anybody that dedicated deserves a raise."

The Cruelest Invitation

2008-02-08T20:50:00.000-05:00

I got it in the mail this week, along with the junk and the unwelcome bills, and, of course, the distinct lack of any checks. The plain, innocuously white envelope belied its true nature, but the bright red logo on the return address stopped me cold in my tracks.

"What's wrong?" Lady Wife enquired, eyeing me with concern.

"It's the AARP," I whispered. She gasped. "It's got a card inside."

Yes, a card. With my actual name on it. This was not a generic mailing to Current Resident (Dear Current...). No, this was the real thing, complete with a letter noting that I hadn't registered yet with the organization.

I always figured I'd had my midlife crisis at 25, when my first marriage blew up. I whipped past my thirtieth birthday without a second glance. Forty was a cause for celebration. But next month is the beginning of my fifth decade on the planet, and I find it's looming up like a vast shadow to eat my soul. This surprises me.

Sure, I have more trouble climbing stairs than I used to. My knees lock up unexpectedly. What's left of my hair is starting to go gray, trying to catch up to my beard. It's been years since anybody thought I was younger than I really was.

But none of that really bothered me until I got The Card. They send it out just before your fiftieth birthday, which is, I reckon, about ten years too soon. For me, anyway. I'm not old enough.

So I brace myself and open the envelope, and yes, there's a card inside. I can activate it by sending $12.50 before my birthday. There's a nice letter explaining all the benefits this will afford me. It's signed by the CEO of AARP.

I hate the CEO of AARP.

The Lady Wife tried to comfort me. Secretly she was tickled pink that I'd be bothered by something like this, but still she tried.

"There's no law that says you have to join," she points out. "What if you didn't send it in?"

She has a good point. I don't have to admit to being old. I could join the Hair Club for Men, start playing hip hop on my radio, use modern lingo like groovy and gnarley, wear my khakis around my knees, and in general do everything that would embarrass my teenage sons in front of their little friends.

And yet....

"Naw, Baby," I say. "I just need to accept the inevitable."

"I hate it when you get all noble!" she pouts.

"Are you kidding?" I retort. "Have you seen the discounts you get with these things?"

Carbing up with a vengeance

2008-01-15T20:36:00.000-05:00

I sat to write about watching the season premiere of American Idol, when this email came in, and my stream of consciousness hit a log jam. It was from the alumni office of my alma mater, and I reproduce it here:

Calling all runners!

If you are running the 2008 Country Music Marathon & ½ Marathon in Nashville we hope you’ll join us for a time of great food (our treat) and fellowship before the big run on Saturday.
Anonymous University Alumni will gather Friday evening, April 25
for a “pasta pig-out,” 6:30 pm at Fancy Italian Restaurant in
Franklin, TN. Fancy Italian Restaurant is located in the Cool Springs
area, 1722 Pseudonym Blvd, Franklin, TN 37067.

We will also arrange a group photo in Centennial Park before the race begins on Saturday morning.

Please let us know if you will be running the CMM and joining us for dinner (email alumni@anonymousuniversity.edu or call 1-800-555-1212). Spouses are welcome.

See you soon!

Let's begin with the Country Music Marathon. Now I listen to my share of country. And as much as I respect, say, Alan Jackson and Martina McBride, I can't get rid of the picture of Conway Twitty in jogging shorts and bouffant hairdo running full out while singing "You want a man with a slow foot...." And there's a half marathon, too! For folks who only sorta like country, I guess.

I went to the website for Fancy Italian Restaurant. I have to say the menu looked pretty good, but what struck me is the three portion sizes: Buca Small (serves 2 or more), Buca Large (4 or more), and the new(!) Buca Mio (the exact right size for, ahem, one).

Now, seeing as how they're calling this shindig a "pasta pig-out", I'm guessing there won't be many of the Buca Mios sitting around that night. Except maybe as appetizers.

One thing that won't be served is wine. AnonU is owned by a religious body that frowns upon strong drink. Of course, this fellowship isn't at the school, but way across the state. And frankly, serving Italian food without wine is a sin in and of itself. So what are they to do?

The biggest problem, though, is the very idea behind what they're doing here: they're serving all the pasta you can eat to a bunch of people twelve hours before they run 26 miles! Seems to me they'd be wanting to keep their alumni healthy, not kill them off. Unless they're hoping for a nice bequest from a few of them. I reckon that's why they're having the photo shoot before the race. There won't be enough runners left after the race to make it worthwhile.

I have no plans to do this marathon thing. I do love me some lasagne, though. I wonder how they'd know whether I was actually going to race or not.

Hmm. Free Italian.... And my lady wife could come too....

Let me check my calendar.

Out of the Mouths of Babes - Part 1

2008-01-06T21:09:00.000-05:00

It was a quiet evening. I sat at my computer, pretending to work, while in fact I was learning the intracies of Freecell Solitaire. The wife busily checked her email. (I believe she was planning a family gathering with her sisters, but the details are now lost in the shadows of the past.) The younger son was taking his evening nap after a hard day goofing off. His older brother was playing his favorite video game of all time (that summer). The dogs were napping peacefully on their love seats. It was, overall, a nice, quiet, peaceful evening.

"I hate the undead!"

Ryan, the aforementioned elder son, blurted this out amidst a hail of machine gun fire from the family TV. Naturally, my interest was piqued.

"What?" I asked.

"What?" he replied. The machine gun fire had morphed into the explosions of rocket propelled grenades. "Dang it!"

"What did you just say?"

"I said, 'Dang it!'"

"No, before that."

"Oh. I dunno."

"I believe you said you hate the undead."

"Oh. Well, I do. I do hate the undead."

There was a pause while I waited for an expansion on this statement, but my wait was in vain.

"So," I tried again, "is there some reason you would say that?"

"You mean besides the fact that I hate them?"

"Well, why do you hate the undead?"

"They keep stealing my ammo."

Let's pause for just a second and consider these words:

I hate the undead. They keep stealing my ammo.

Apparently, the undead, who used to be a technologically backward, ubertraditionalist, mysteriously self-reliant type of being, have discovered guns. Or at least ranged weapons. This does not bode well for normal humans like you and me.

Also, they seem to have embarked on a life of crime. Besides murder and general mayhem, that is. What's next? Are they gonna start shoplifting at the Walmart? Knocking over liquor stores? Mugging little old ladies for their pocket change?

This does not seem to me a welcome change. I liked it better in the old days when you could count on zombies shambling around making unintelligible noises and grasping at your skull. Now you have to worry about the Saturday Night Special the zombie might have tucked into his waistband.

Leave 'em Wanting

2007-12-03T20:46:00.000-05:00

(Note: This piece is full of dialect. Down here we -- most of us, anyway -- know it's not Standard English. We just like to talk this way sometimes.)

Down here in the South we're just eat up with couth. That's why The Department took us all out to The Upscale today for our Holiday Luncheon.

For those of you who might not have heard tell of it, Upscale is one of the high class joints in Greenville. You can tell because it's right next to the TJMaxx and just down Haywood Road from the Mall. Also it has little lights along the floor inside so you can see where you're supposed to walk.

Don't get me wrong. I got no complaints about the ambience, or even the decor. Upscale is a classy joint, and I've eaten in some of the classiest. And this ain't no franchise, either. There's only one Upscale.

Anyways, we straggled in about 11:30 and were immediately directed to the big banquet room. And it was big: big enough for about forty folks, even if we did have to play like we liked each other, we had to sit so close. Each place setting had a little saucer (what the high-toned might call a bread plate), two forks, a knife, and a cloth napkin, folded up real neat-like. (The napkin was black: another sign of class.) Oh, and a goblet with ice water. There was a single page menu, photocopied, and it didn't have prices, because The Department was paying.

I ordered the Seafood Thermidor, which is lobster, crab, and shrimp in a white-wine cream sauce, covered with melted cheese. The menu said it was en casserole, which means it was served in a little round dish right out of the oven. The server (what we would normally call a waiter, but we was in high-class society) told us we were also going to have a salad with house dressing, garlic mashed potatoes, and French-style green beans. Very nice.

And the salad was very nice. They were a little bit skimpy on the vinagrette, but they cut the tomato up into little squares. There was something with roots on it, but I didn't want to look uncouth, so I ate it anyway. I sipped on my water, waiting for the sweet iced tea, but it wasn’t showing up, so I figured it was coming with the entrée.

Finally, my en casserole came out. It was very nice, but there wasn’t much of it. It was about two inches across. I could have covered it with my green beans. Now I’m sure that some folks would eat a meal like that and say, “Good lord, I don’t think I can move for the rest of the afternoon!” I don’t know any of those people. Well, that might not be entirely true. I know a couple artsy types who wear black turtlenecks in July and weigh about nine pounds. But you know what I mean.

I ate it. All of it. It was delicious. It was one of the best things I have ever eaten. And then it was gone. Just like that. It’s taken you longer to read this story than it took me to eat that Thermidore.

I looked sadly at the little white bowl. I still had some roll left, so I tore some off and wiped up the leftover sauce and ate it. I looked up just in time to see the server successfully cover his horror. So I used the rest of my bread to finish it up. I reached for my tea, and it still wasn’t there. Maybe they’ll bring it with dessert.

The speeches started. They were nice. My stomach rumbled through them, waiting for dessert. There was no dessert. There was no tea. There was no coffee.

The last speech was made, and we all went back to the office.

I stopped on the way back and got a pack of peanuts and a Coke.

On the way back I realized how good these guys were at marketing. The food was outstanding, the service was impeccable, and the portions were small. It made me want to go back and finish my meal.

Because it really is true what they say: “Always leave ’em wanting more.”

A Time to Mourn

2007-11-19T21:32:00.000-05:00

I got the call yesterday morning about 9:30. It was Heidi, who used to be my manager before she transferred out to another department. Heidi rightly has a reputation as a tough customer who took no guff from anybody. I have seen her angry, and I've seen her upset, and once I saw her cry. But I had never before heard her voice shake.

"I didn't want to disturb you," she said, "but I thought you'd better hear this from one of us. Karla was killed in a motorcycle accident last night in Greenville...."

I worked with Karla for five years before she got out of the IS department for a lower-stress position. She was quiet and reserved, but she had a way of getting under my skin. I often thought she had an attitude problem. Sometimes I thought she was basically unhappy. She was without doubt intelligent: she had devised several processes we still use today. But she had trouble communicating with her co-workers, and even when she talked her voice was quiet, almost unintelligible if there was any extraneous noise at all.

We butted heads often and got on each other's nerves. And I was really ticked towards the end of her IS days, because she had retreated into herself to the point where she might as well not have been there, and it was a relief to the whole department when she jumped ship. The last time I saw her she was relaxed and happy. I knew this because she was taunting us with the fact that when she didn't have to fix computers anymore.

But on Saturday afternoon she was at a toys for Tots biker rally. It was her favorite charity. On her way home from the rally an SUV pulled out in front of her.

Last month she led a team in the local Race for the Cure. Every week she was at the Toastmasters. Weekends she biked around the Upstate.

Last night they finally found her family (a father and brother) in Tennessee, because she had her work ID on her at the time of the accident, and our HR folks had the information on file. As of quitting time today no word was available on arrangements.

Karla Hensley was 44. She wasn't married, and left no children....

Reading by Moonlight

2007-11-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

I started a new moonlighting gig tonight. After my regular day drudgery dealing with computer issues, I raced back down the state highway I use to avoid the interstate, honking my horn as I passed the house, and pulled into the parking lot of a major national bookseller to begin my orientation.

Yes. A bookseller.

A couple years ago I worked as a cart-pusher for a major nation department store. It was grueling, nasty work, and I hated it. But they were willing to work me thirty hours a week, and I lasted at that job four months before my wife convinced me that it wasn't worth our marriage to pick up a few extra bucks.

This is different. This is books. The fact that it's inside work, and I'm only taking twenty hours a week, and it's only for the holidays, is beside the point. It's books. This is the kind of job I should have had when I was twenty-five. Sure, there's heavy lifting, and I'll be on my feet for eight hours, but I'll be lifting books. And the customers I'll be dealing with are readers, not those yahoos who want me to stuff their new 42" TV in the back seat of an '82 Honda. With two carseats. So they can take their new toy back to the trailer park.

No, these customers are looking for things to read, and someday they may reading something with my name on it. Which could, of course, be considered cool in some circles.

So how does the wife feel about this job?

All I had to do was bring up the thirty percent discount on books. And fifty percent in the internationally-recognized brandname coffee shop. Where they have desserts and frothy pink drinks.

I think we'll be OK....

The Truth

2007-11-10T13:36:00.000-05:00

When I was very young, a lady who lived on our street was walking my grandmother and me home after an evening at their big old house. I believe her name was Harrelson, though I wouldn't swear to it. It was a clear winter night, and a small town, so the stars were bright and sharp.

Miss Harrelson asked me if I knew any constellations, and I said I didn't, so we stopped in the middle of Cooper Street and she pointed upwards. "That's the Big Dipper. You can see the cup and the handle." And I could see it.

She showed me the Little Dipper, too, and Cassiopeia, and explained that they were in the sky all year round. Then she pointed out three big stars lower in the sky, and the two at right angles to them.

"That's Orion the Hunter. He only comes out in the Winter. He's always chasing the Bull (see the stars in a V right there?), and he's got a sword in one hand and a shield in the other."

I didn't understand a lot of what she said, but I always noticed Orion in the Winter, and eventually I started looking for him in the Fall, and mourning when I lost him in the Spring. I reckoned he had other places to visit. It was like seasons. When Winter left it went south to make room for Summer....

I figured out the truth in my thirties. (It took me that long to actually think about it.) The truth is that Orion is in the sky all year long; but for half the year he's out in the daytime, when I can't see him. He has no other places to visit, no other people see. He's overhead at some point in every twenty four hours.

That's an important truth. Just because you can't see a thing (or a person), doesn't mean it's not there.

Autumnal Rhapsody

2007-11-02T19:47:00.000-04:00

We're in deepest Autumn here
In the Northern Hemisphere
The lawns are brown, the maples red
A brand-new quilt is on the bed

There's a chill upon the air
I begin to miss my hair
At least I have a nice warm hat
Though I've forgotten where it's at

I hear that things are warm and green
That right now Springtime reigns supreme
Or sooner will or maybe later
Somewhere south of the Equator.

Sorry...

2007-10-28T21:37:00.000-04:00

Once again I have to apologize for adversely affecting the weather. This weekend I bought a new rain hat. Therefore the drought will continue. and most probably worsen, causing untold personal and economic devastation.

I know I'm responsible because I have a history of doing just that.

My wife bought me a really nice trench coat some years back. Soon I learned that, no matter what the weather's doing in the morning, if I put it on before leaving for work, by the time I get to the office twenty minutes later, the clouds will be breaking and the sun will be peeking through them. The weathermen will be scratching their heads and muttering about unusual Jet Stream patterns that cropped up overnight.

Of course, it only affects precipitation. Cold is cold no matter what I wear.

And now that I'm getting older, and my once-luxurious head cranial forest has become more of a meadow, I find hats (which I've always loved) have become a necessity. The last few years I've worn a beautiful soft brown felt fedora. Unfortunately, it got wet that winter and ended up in my trunk, where it was growing at least one lost colony of some indescribable microbe; so it went the way of all millenary, and left me hatless.

So when the wife and I played hooky last Friday and headed up to Hendersonville, NC, she happened upon a really cool oilcloth fedora. It has a flannel interior to keep my poor noggin warm, but the oilcloth makes it waterproof, so it doubles as a highly effective rainhat.

Now here in the Upstate we've had almost a week of rainy weather: not enough to break the worst drought in decades, but enough to give us a little hope.

Now I've ruined it.

Friday morning was cool and damp, with forecasts for rain through the weekend. When we entered the store in Hendersonville, the clouds were lowering, and the air heavy with the promise of more showers.

We exited the store with my new hat and watched the clouds dissipate into the most beautiful blue October mountain sky you could ever hope for.

The forecast is for sunny skies and dry weather for the foreseeable future. The only use I can see for my new hat is to keep the dew off.

I apologize for any inconvenience my ill-considered fashion choice may cause.

A Dalmador Labmation of Carolina

2007-10-24T20:47:00.000-04:00

Two Halloweens ago my wife and I were sitting at a local diner talking about what to do about the dog next door. The neighbor had brought him home and didn't really want him. He was being fed whatever scraps were left in the TV dinners got tossed out the door. That morning I had wandered over to check on this dog, and found him with a tie wrap around his neck for a collar, and tied to an old bicycle by a seven-foot length of cable.

Clearly this could not go on, but we had a dog (a dachshund mix), three cats, and two teenagers, all crammed in a house way too small for the crowd we already had. Also this dog was a puppy, half Lab, half Dalmation, and if he actually grew into those feet....

The neighbor had already offered him to me, and I had turned him down. But the beast kept coming over to our house (when he could get loose, which seemed to be pretty much anytime he wanted) and calling me Poppa.

So after lunch I went over and asked if I could have the dog. The man didn't even blink.

Now Bo is a 96-pound behemoth, consisting of feet, a mouth, and an enormous heart. As I write this he's napping on his love seat, because he had two walks today, and it was raining, and Mom dried his face for him (he dearly loves getting his face dried).

Just a big old black dawg.

One stranger we met on a walk pointed out that because of his Lab heritage, he'll be a puppy for three or four years; and the Dalmation part means he'll be a puppy for about fifteen.

And that works for me.

It's All About Words

2007-10-20T22:37:00.000-04:00

I have to admit to a life-long fascination with words. As a kid I'd take down the biggest dictionary I could find and pick a page and read the words and definitions. They seeped into my mind until, sometimes, I could feel them floating around in my mind like the music that's always there. (Yes. I have a mental soundtrack. It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with what's going on, but it's there. Right now I'm mentally humming "Never My Love." Sometimes I annoy myself.)

Sending me to look up a word or spelling has always been an adventure. I once spent two hours looking up ten vocabulary words for a homework assignment. OK, next word is ablative. A's, an, ag, ae.... Ooo! Aeolian! Aeropause!

When I read I find myself pausing over a rich, perfect word, or phrase. Even reading silently I pronounce each word in my head, and I stumble over the awkward phrase like a verbal cat that's wandered in front of me. And I'll stare at the blunder and try to figure out what the writer was trying to do, and how I could fix it.

It's a curse, yes. But at the same time I get true joy out of the delightful, subtle twist of meaning a really good poet can put on a sentence.

So it's a blessing, too.