Blather. Rants. Repeat.

CAREs and Woes

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 19:11:26 GMT

I just got back from delivering Emily's last Care package. This one kinda escalated over the past week or so. A few days after we last saw her, she phoned home to request that we ship out a boom box or some other form of music playage, since her .mp3 player had shit the bed and she didn't have much transferred onto her new cell phone yet.

Eleanor, bless her, volunteered to clear off her own .mp3 player of the same ilk -we all three have the same one, in pink, yellow and blue

- and loaded a bunch of tunes onto it from her own computer, remembering pretty well which ones Em had ripped onto there to tranfer onto her own .mp3.

Gradually, and in what we refer to as the "if you give a moose a muffin" syndrome, the wish list expanded, to include everything from laundry products and knitting gear to more DVDs (she's got close to a dozen down there already), and once the cost of shipping gets anywhere close to the $10 in gas it costs to get down there, of course I'm gonna drive it down myself.

Ebony seemed fine when I was ready to leave (and she's fine now, greeting me on my return home with her usual reckless abandon), but I wanted to keep an eye on her, plus I thought she and Em would love to see each other, so I put a leash on her and loaded her in the front seat for the 50 mile trip. We got all of a block from the house before her crying made me turn around. She's been this way for years; early obedience training and regular trips to places other than the vet are all lost on her now, so I brought her back and delivered the goods a little over an hour ago.

But not before asking whether Emily had brought down the "dead" .mp3 player. She went and fetched it, and we said our goodbyes. I plugged it into the car charger and, boom! It turned right on and both played and displayed all the songs on it. I called her on the spot to ask her to put the "new" one in her charger, and it worked fine.

The moose's muffin is mysterious.

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That ride was longer, but far more pleasant, than the one I'd taken to my office and the bank shortly before leaving. On the corner of Main and Transit- one of the biggest-ass intersections in the whole region- were a bunch of Fundies Of Some Sort, all guys, in white shirts and ties, waving big signs saying "HONK FOR TRADITIONAL MARRIAGE."

Fine, guys. I respect your opinion and your right to express it, but c'mon. Don't rig the deck of public opinion with signs like that which offer a means of expression to only one alternative.

Not that it stopped me from expressing my own. As I rounded the corner back onto Main on a right on red, I slowed to a complete stop, rolled down my window, and yelled to the asshat, "Oh go have sex with Larry Craig in a restroom stall, you bigot!"

From the look I got, I couldn't tell if he was just shocked or seriously thinking it over.

Oh, crap on a cracker....

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 10:52:52 GMT

with a side order of shit on a shingle.

Ebony came up lame this morning.

There she is, in happier times. When the animal onslaught came an hour or so ago, it wasn't accompanied by the wet puppy kiss that comes from our youngest coming in.

She's in a corner of the bedroom, not getting up for nuthin. She's not whimpering, and mostly is resting, but you can tell by her face that something is off. Way off.

So I will be spending the morning with Harry, as planned. It'll just be Harry Newman, DVM, rather than Harry Potter, OOM.

We ADORE this dog, and the feeling is mutual. Emily, especially, will be devestated if it's anything.

Pray. Offer karma. Hell, give a cat a cheezbrgr if it'll get them on board.

Supplemental. It's now almost 8, and she seems fine. She got up on her own, went outside like she always does before feeding time, came in the kitchen looking for om nom noms, and I fully expect to see a rope toy in her yap within the next few minutes. We'll still take her in- she's due for her annual anyway- but oy gevalt.

It makes sense in a way. She's half shar pei, so it figures that an hour later she'd be hungry at last.

I wants me one of these:

captainsblog@gmail.com — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 19:42:50 GMT

When the time comes later this year, anyway:

One of the tellers at the bank this morning had it in front of her station. She just turned the Big L, and this was one of their pressies to her, along with the usual display of black balloons, hanging crepe and whatnot that, sheesh, I remember getting when I turned 30. Yes, I do remember turning 30. Get off my damn lawn.

Eleanor turns a much less numerically significant number on Monday, and there's a chance we'll be spending a good chunk of it on a romantic date at the DMV. The state so helpfully expires licenses on our birthdays now, and I don't think she's been in yet; meanwhile, I auctioned off a car this morning for a client and whoever bought it is gonna have to explain a ton of weird paperwork to the DMV on that, so I may take that for them, as well. The car's a 12-year-old Mercury Sable (a Taurus, essentially), with over 200k miles on it, but the body's in great shape and it at least starts, so if anybody's looking for some cheap transpo, I can probably take a late bid before Monday.

----

HPB ~~tonight~~ tomorrow early matinee. I finished re-reading the book last night, so I'm ready. For this one, anyway; I've completely forgotten the R.A.B. bit from 7 which JKR teased at the end.

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Just one or two, actually.

Is there some function that duplicates the LJ Friendspage in any way? Every time I hit "Friends" as I just do out of second nature, it gives me that screen about "the best way to find friends is for you to give us your email password." Uh huh. As if.

No, I've found my friends, mostly. What I'd like to do is read all of their posts in one consecutive listing without having to bounce around to 30-something walls.

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

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Also, doesn't it kind of defeat the purpose of "social networking" if you can hide yourself so well that even if you know somebody's full name, and know one or more people you're already friends with, you can be prevented from even asking them to friend you? V'ger does not understand.

… and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 14:46:32 GMT

It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

-- Rockford Peaches manager Jimmy Duggan, giving his own interpretation of the meaning of life.

----

Thank you for that lovely anthem, and now Reverend Ray is going to turn and preach to the choir for a bit. Because if you're reading this, you probably understand what I'm going to be talking about, far more than those who aren't reading it.

I've now been immersed in the strange and wondrous world of Facebook for two whole days. I'm finding it a far more alien land than I ever did LJ, AOL or even the Buffalo Freenet back in those early days of internetting almost 15 years ago. Everything is clipped, instantaneous and irreversible. If you want to refine a status or a comment, your only choice is to delete it and start over.

----

Here's a status I just wrote there:

[my name]is checking out just how far a status can go in terms of words, characters, whatever. I'm writing a blog post right now on the "Short Attention
Span Theater" model that this place seems to be based on- and about how much goes missing in content, and connections, when you're limited by format to a paragraph, at most, about what's going on in your life. Okay, two paragraphs. Maybe it is unlimited. No, it ends right he

419 characters, or so says Word when I paste it in. That's not much beyond what I had for breakfast, or what band I saw last night, or how frustrating it is to be stuck with two court appearances six hours apart with not-all much to do. I can do better. I do do better, and that's why I'm going to be one of the last ones standing when it comes to journaling as forms of expression, catharsis, and even, on a good day maybe?, art.

----

Q: How many ADD kids does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Let's ride bikes!

I can't say I'm surprised that this shortening is becoming the way we are. I was only slightly ahead of the changing of the guard on that count, which I think I can trace back to Sesame Street. That was the medium which did a lot of good in terms of teaching skills, but created a massive change in the way those skills were taught. The two-minute segment became the standard. Anything else caused boredom, inattention, distraction. Technology has embraced and spread this trend, from the MTV-ification of entertainment programming, to the hurry-up paces of modern sporting events, to the ten-minute Youtube being about the longest anyone will wait through (and likely can even upload even if somebody wanted to show more).

This week's Big Deal Movie Premiere illustrates another side of it. Here, we've had this film completed, in the can, ready to be shown for a year if not longer, and the studio not only holds us back from seeing it for literally months just to catch a bigger-buck opening weekend, it expects us to stay up until midnight to see it at the first possible second after making us wait so damn long. Nobody thinks there's anything wrong with this, as long as [insert the object of their fanning here] is in the movie and comes out all dreamy.

Me? I still prefer baseball, the lowest-tech sport there is. I wait to see movies when I want to, and/or when my family and I can. And I still prefer the extended rant to 419 characters of compression.

----

I've been Facebook-friended by many who do, and a few who did, post their more extended thoughts here. Among those who I've seen, clearly many (and at least one by outright admission) have made these "statuses" (or the corresponding Tweets on That Other Thing) a partial or full replacement for the journal entries I came to know and admire them by. My LJ Flist has a variety of people, places, occupations, avocations and ages, but every one them who I follow here, without exception, is a good and thoughtful writer. And that's saying something in an era where people increasingly can't string 419 characters together if their life depended on it.

I miss those words, where they're missing. I appreciate and treasure them all the more when they are shared- whether in the form of your own entries, or through your comments on yours, or mine, or somebody's.

Statuses and walls are much harder to follow, even for what is there. There's far more automatic clutter that breaks the flow of work-as-a-whole. On my second day, I figured out how to add a few items to my profile, one of them being the fact that I'm married, and my Wall instantly updated with the following:

♥ Ray is now married. · Comment · Like

As if it just happened now, not close to 22 years ago.

Ah, and then there are those "like" things. The me-too-ification of the internet, which didn't show up here first but is certainly being hastened into ubiquity by an app this big and important. It doesn't challenge the brain cells if you can just click a button to state your agreement with, or appreciation for, something that's posted. If not used enough, those cells rot, and will eventually die, if you don't use them. Even a "that was funny!" reply uses a little bit of effort, but it seems we don't have time for that, anymore.

----

So it is with that, I end this 2,500th post with appreciation for everyone I've met, and connected with, and still find dear and talented even if you're keeping your thoughts to 419 characters at a time. I promise that 2,501 will be the first of many more, and with the kind of attention, thoughtfulness and irreverence that has marked most of those preceding it.

Not that I won't use Facebook, or even get into it for what it is. In fact, here: have a LOLCAT I just put up on an old friend's wall:

I'm also rather fond of her uncle Justin

captainsblog@gmail.com — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 20:10:17 GMT

Usually, I find Wait Wait's "Not My Job" segment to be the weakest link in the show. Most of the celebrity guests are obviously phoning it in (many of them literally are), they're plainly there to plug their latest something-or-other rather than getting into the repartee of the segment, and actual gameplay is rarely all that funny and even more rarely successful (most of the guests lose, the only ones on the show to do so regularly).

Not this week's episode, though. They brought on Neko Case, whose music I knew only a little about but whose comedic skills I'd completely missed out on. They gave her three questions about her sort-of namesake, the Necco wafer, and not only did she do well on them, she had me falling off my chair several times riffing on it with Peter and the panel! Go to the show page and roll down to the "Not My Job" link.

There's also a bit later in the program about a failed attempt by London's Metropolitan Police to increase surveillance by putting helmetcams in the bobbies' silly hats. Apparently the devices have an unfortunate tendency to burst into flame, and the resulting conflagrations have an even more unfortunate tendency to make the bobbies resemble characters in a Benny Hill sketch.

The segment ended with, what else? A rousing rendition of Yakkety Sax, which was already in my head before they got to it, but now I feel better, for I have gone and put it in yours, as well.

Admitting defeat.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 13:35:08 GMT

It seems like an easy enough thing to do.

Plug your computer into the television set. Run cable from set to DVR external input jack. Put Hulu on computer. Tell DVR to record what it's displaying. Hit playback after a few minutes to test connections.

See Met pre-game on disk instead.

Reset DVR to receive input from external input jack. AGAIN tell DVR to record what the tv is displaying. Hit playback after a few seconds to test connections.

See black screen of death on disk instead.

Sorry. I tried:(

Anyone else know how to DO what I'm trying to do?

Men on Film. Or tape, as the case may be.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 13:20:49 GMT

It was a dark and stormy day. By late afternoon, Eleanor was still not home, work and workout were behind me, but the ground was still too wet to mow. No Mets until the evening, no unseen Dexters or Jackies to be had. Thus it was I gave in to the call of the past and popped in disk one of the Four-series Genesis of the Daleks.

Oh my stars and TARDIS.

The cheesy effects. The brain-at-door implementation of Hodgkin's Law of Parallel Planetary Development (it's in the concordance, Mel, look it up) which explains the iron crosses on the Kaled bad guys. The fascination, even then, with redonkulous anagrams. The Time Lord (I thought the Doctor was the last one?) who rather resembles Marty Feldman playing Eyegor. Most of all, though, the fascinating flipping between outdoor film and on-set videotape which I know was a staple of the 1970s Beeb. Python had it, too, and they rather made fun of it- such as in this one, right after the first appearance of the Spanish Inquisition, about 6:20 in.

And yet? and still? He's the Doctor. Practically in a pith helmet, and that scarf! (Was that perhaps the inspiration for Arthur's towel?) Somehow, the lack of as many toys, and as much CGI, makes his character all the stronger. Plus, I finally got to meet Sarah Jane. Get that Phil Collins song out of my head.

So, yeah. I'll be watching the rest of them, and probably not waiting for dark or storm before I do so.

----

The visual effects from it did remind me of one other, much less-loved, series of that era, which I know I've written on here before- called The Starlost. It was developed by Harlan Ellison, who was so pissed by the final product that he slapped an Alan Smithee pseudonym on it and I never even knew, watching them on channel 4 as a teen, that Cordwainer Bird was the same guy who wrote "City on the Edge of Forever." I did know that the star, Keir Dullea, had been Dave in 2001, and that this role was pretty much the proof that HAL had sent his acting career out the airlock, too.

What I didn't know, until this morning, is that Starlost is now available on Netflix.

Naturally, I've ordered the first disk. Hey, my DVD played Incubus and didn't explode, right?

----

ETA.Em called this morning. She's getting the full spectrum of college life- a kid already expelled for bringing the chronic; the town water supply getting full of tiny livestock due to all the excess rain; a 2 a.m. fire alarm that turned into an arrest of one of the counselors' ex-boyfriends who'd been stalking the place; and in between, they do some actual work-

You can scroll through the rest of them here; she's not the only one with pink hair.

First the diddlybits, then the Timbits, and now,....

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 15:23:35 GMT

Just some random bits of randomness.

Starting out with happiest of birthdays to lindapendant. Starting your day with a new iPod attachment is cool. Playing Etta James is cooler.

You're pretty cool, too, even for the Great White North.

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I rarely use AOL anymore, but I went just now to find a favorite that doesn't even exist anymore. Instead, I saw a link I'd not thought of in ages, which had been a fairly low-key picture site of one of my dearest (and sadly, longest out-of-touch) Asheville friends.

Hmmm, I wondered. What's Lisa up to these days?

Quite a bit, actually.

Lisa's graduated from UNCA with a multimedia arts degree. The site is now a sampling of her animation work. You know, the stuff the kid wants to do.

Go check it out. It's pretty amazing.

----

I'm almost done with Obama's book, but I'm thinking it would be a good idea to put it down and start re-reading HBP before next week. Thanks again, Warner Brothers (Stan and Reg), for pushing this release back so far from my last reading of ANY of the books. I remember who does what, and mostly to whom, but I have fading recollections of whether they happened in this one, the next one, or the next next one.

Off to the Temple of Doom to see if Emily left it behind before going off to college....

This week's sign of the impending apocalypse:

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 13:54:50 GMT

Timmy Ho's is coming to Manhattan.

Will New Yorkers prefer Timbits over Munchkins? That taste test will begin this weekend when about a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts stores in the city will be transformed into the first local outlets of Tim Hortons, the king of doughnut sellers in Canada.

The Riese Organization, the company that first visited the urban food court upon Manhattan, is ending its affiliation with Dunkin’ Donuts and hoping it can make more money with a chain named after a dead hockey player. Mr. Horton, a six-time all-star in the National Hockey League, opened a doughnut-and-coffee shop in Ontario 45 years ago. He died in a car crash 10 years later, but the chain grew on.

It now has more than 3,400 locations, including more than 500 in the United States, and its signature bite-size treats — Timbits — come in 35 varieties, including lemon-filled and sour cream glazed.

----

Now the only question is when stodgy old outlets like The Times will change the spelling of "doughnuts" to the correct, popular and infinitely letter-saving form used in the two principal names of the chains in its home base. Only Kracker Kreme insists on that old spelling, and face it, who wants a donut if it's got an "ugh" in the middle?

Diddlybits before another Week From Hell begins:

captainsblog@gmail.com — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:31:56 GMT

Am I the only one who's getting Nurse Jackie episodes a week before their scheduled airdate? TWoP is through its "weecap" of S1E5, which supposedly aired Monday. But I've seen episode 6, complete with an old friend from Pushing Daisies along for the trip.

If this is unauthorized cabling, shhhhh. Be vewwy vewwy qwiet.

----

Our church owns the house next door to the sanctuary. Clergy get the choice of living there gratis, or picking their own residence and getting a housing allowance. For most of the past decade, we've had older (way older)(ancient)(i.e., still older than I am) ministers who chose Column B, and the trustees rented the place out. Our new team includes a youngun, however, so we had to spruce up the old dump over the past few months.

Weekly updates told us about the progress, but only the church newsletter contained this odd Timbit about the previous tenants:

What Came Out Of The Laundry Chute?

The parsonage has a laundry chute that goes from the upstairs bath-room to the basement. When we started working on the house, we found that the chute was clogged. It took several people to clear the blockage. Here’s what came out:
-1 yard shovel (long handle)
-8-10 items of clothing including towels and underwear
-“Swiffer” floor sweeper
-2 hockey sticks (one signed)
-Fire extinguisher
- 2-15-lb. dumbbells

One of the dumbbells hit Mike Roberts in the arm, leaving him with a nasty black and blue bruise!

Bad timing, that. Mike and his wife have an armload of little kids, and Amy chose the end of the school year to have some overdue surgery done on her knee and she's been hobbling around in a soft cast for most of the past month.

----

I'm off for a round of errands and whatnots before le deluge begins tomorrow. Another of my all-day lectures to a room full of lawyers downtown, possibly seeing Emily at the Albright-Knox tomorrow night, a rainsoaked lawn needing mowing over the weekend, and then (at last count) five different appearances in four different courts in three different cities next week. One of them may be adjourned indefinitely, since one of the parties to it just had quintuple bypass surgery last week.

At least he didn't get hit with a dumbbell. Or have Jackie mixing the drinks.

More proof that EVERYTHING winds up on Youtube

captainsblog@gmail.com — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 13:02:47 GMT

Cleaning up the kitchen just now, an old riff got in my head. Teh interwebs reference its creator's appearance on Carson and Demento, but I remember it from my years of late-night listening to Larry Glick from WBZ in Boston after my Chelmsford and Brockton roommates got me hooked on it:

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One of the nicest things ever to come out of a major LJ server crash was running across a fellow traveler named (at least here) jeanne_dark (say it out loud, and put out those matches;). Not knowing how long a particular Denial of Service of Doom was gonna last, I'd set up housekeeping on Vox, went looking for LJ friends, found her instead and have ever since enjoyed her views and reviews and even occasional silly youtubes quite muchly, thanks.

This wasn't one of them, but she did post the link to it. It's a what-if speculation of what Star Trek would have looked like if done in the form of an early 20th century silent film.

Any resemblance to Enterprise is entirely coincidental:

The amazing thing is, even in black and white you can just TELL who's wearing the red shirt.

----

Right. Off to work and to make sure somebody did the right thing /obscure.

Do the Right Thing. Maybe Even the Right Way.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 22:11:32 GMT

Morning: blah blah draft crap blah blah watch end of Dexter S3 while drafting said crap blah blah send emails blah blah drive to court one blah call from court two blah blah wind up with multiple hearings set for second week of August (see Periodic Week from Hell: A Summary, 49 Captainsblog L. Rev. 2009).

Afternoon: Three unsuccessful pit stops to find Samsung-USB cord for kid's new mobile; find no new mail (and therefore none of increasingly past-due invoice payments) at office; drown sorrows by means of ordering a "Delaware" bagel sammich at Snyder location of Manhattan Bagel, the only one that still remembers the old Bagel Brothers menu; stop home briefly and share stories with beloved; find USB at ATT (M-O-U-S-E); mail same to spawn; cardio self at BAC next to Boulevard; complicate life.

I should back up to that last part, huh.

As I headed south from the gym, I saw something distinctively male and valuable lying in the road. No, not THAT, you pervs. A wallet. Full and fat, from the look of it.

I should note that the dual-carriageway in question, known locally as "Alberta Drive," is rather notorious for being insane. Eleanor almost died in a head-on crash near this very spot a decade ago as she drove a new, small car through the Alberta-Hemel intersection simultaneous with a teenage idiot turning an older, bigger car in front of her oncoming path. There is no parking on the road, and a temporary stop would be suicidal. So I pulled a youie, headed to a safe parking spot in one of the apartment lots just past the apparent prize, walked into the road to grab it,....

and was accosted by a station wagon full of nuns.

Okay. It was more like a Ford Taurus, and only a pair of seeming Sisters occupied it. They'd seen the wallet, too, and wanted to check out both it and me.

Is there I.D. in it?, they asked. Um, sure- my eyes moved first to the collection of cards within it and I found a name, and then, next to it in the window-display section, a business card- of a store about a block down the road and then one block over from Alberta's southern terminus.

Is there money?, was the next question. At first I only saw singles, but flipping further, was a bit more- but not much more than I withdraw from an ATM at any given moment these days- no more than a hundred, tops. I assured them I'd reunite it with its rightful owner. But then came the guilt:

You be sure to do the right thing!, said the driver, only able to shake half a left index finger at me because it was holding a cigarette.

My non-existent Irish got up and I said, Whatever. Do YOU want to take it to him?, and handed it through the open window.

Sister Mary Guilt-trip agreed to do the deed; I made sure they knew where the store was, and I headed back to my apartment-parked car. Because of that delay and two red lights, I couldn't tail them to ensure they followed through. But I did call the store when I got home, and the chickie who answered the phone there, April, informed me that she'd seen no such good Samaritans in the intervening moments. She knew the wallet owner's name, but he manages their OTHER store, on the other side of town. I checked that number, as well; Dan was off today, and nobody there had heard from or about him in the past few moments, either.

So did I fuck up this random act of kindness? Had I passed on by, anyone could've grabbed the not-quite-hundred and begun shopping on the credit cards which I presume are in there. By giving into a Church Lady voice and passing the responsibility to them, I may have enabled the same thing I was trying to prevent. Worst, I won't know until tomorrow (not having the sense to remember much more than dude's first name and his business name) whether it all worked out.

It ain't easy being good.

----

Edited and unlocked for happy-ending reasons: He got it back. They took it to his house, not the store. All's well that ends well:)

♫ Bright college days, O carefree days that fly...♫

captainsblog@gmail.com — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 02:04:36 GMT

Back from Fredonia. Our much-anticipated reunion with the spawn, intended to (1) fix her seemingly broken mobile, (2) deliver a relatively small load of provisions (dormitory laundry rooms no longer requiring quarters but not providing those 50-cent packets of detergent, either), and (3) hug and kiss and reminisce.

On our ride home, Mom and I spent ample time invoking the not-so-Holy Trinity:

"Jesus, Marion, Josef!"

We love the kid, don't get me wrong, but true love has its moments of testing. This was one of those times.

----

The Fredonia Correctional Facility has pretty strict ruulz for even parent visits during the program. Advance forms needed to be faxed. The child had to be signed in and out like a diplomatic courier's briefcase. Finally, it was made clear we could not interrupt the proceedings by arriving any earlier than the end of her last class, which was supposed to be 5. She called closer to 4:30 to say she was on her way; fortunately, we'd left in time to accommodate this.

From the original journey, I knew there was an AT&T store right off the exit from the 90, so our first stop would be there, to see if her phone could be fixed and, if not, what replacements were available. From all we knew, a replacement Motorola Razr like the one she had would've been fine. Trouble is, Motorola's now on the outs with this provider, and so it was clear we'd be shopppp-ping!

We arrived just past 5, and just in time for a massive bit of business going on- most of it involving families of five, dragging their kids behind them, all with past-due cellular bills, wads of cash, and existing phones (not necessarily theirs) in tow, and I seriously wondered whether this store was on the main bus line from the Chautauqua County Central Meth Lab. Eleanor was in the car, with not much to do but wait. Em and I were inside, not doing much better, and after a few minutes I suggested I wait alone, pick a suitable mobile for her, and then walk over to the inviting-looking Applebee's next door where she and Mom would get set up to start eating. Fine.

Now much closer to 5:30, and me being the one bored to tears by myself, the line proceeded to not. Move. AT ALL. Little Jethro, all 18 months old of him, was threatening to book for the parking lot for the fourteenth time. (He probably left his cigarettes in the pick-up.) Next door, appetizers were getting cold and, more to the point, wine was being drunk without me even getting to watch, much less partake, so I made an Executive Decision: to return and finish the phone replacement ordeal after dinner. It was at that Murphyslaw-like moment that I managed to fix the phone all by myself.

Moments later, a plate of I Can Haz Chzbrgr Slider Appetizers pending, I handed the freshly fixed fon to Em, and her crest promptly fell. This was not the outcome she'd planned.

NOW is when she explained how she really wanted a phone with better texting ability. How she missed her friends back home and how that was her best way to keep in touch with them and yadda yadda yadda. How the return of her own phone was an insult. How sorry she was for saying most of those things seconds after she said them.

Ultimately, feathers were smoothed. I sent them campusward in search of ice cream while I took a second crack (bad choice of words for the earlier crowd) at the task at hand. Much better. Me and Todd got it done, with a suitable Samsung with a slideout QWERTY keyboard, for a reasonable price in a reasonable time. We delivered the goods to her after they returned from the ice cream parlor, said our fond farewells, and got back on the 90 homeward bound.

We weren't much past halfway to the Lackawanna tolls when my own phone vibed. There was a text. Hmmmm, who could THAT be from?

Hey, where are you guys? I want to show you my new phone.

Apparently, she texted her entire list with this happy news. Which, ironically enough, includes the 'rents (or at least did). The new phone's been busy when I've tried reaching it since.

She deserves it. I'm glad we took care of it. But sheesh. Save the drama for the NYSSSA program down at Adelphi next time, huh?

Oh the eyes, how they hurt! Oh the brain, how it bleeds!

captainsblog@gmail.com — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 13:43:33 GMT

Eleven minutes of Incubus was enough to make me wonder how NBC EVER let them cast Shatner- and dude hasn't even shown up in the story yet.

Apparently, there are some who liken it to a classic minimalist Bergman film. For me, at least, it was more evocative of this:

All in all, Incubus gives new meaning to the old Kirk tag line, "We come in peace, shoot to kill."

----

We're off to see the artist tonight. A trip to the AT&T Store is in the plans. We're also bringing laundry detergent, an interesting selection of DVDs she requested, and the blanket under the bed. Which is as scary as Incubus, but far as I know, Shatner's not under there.

Stupid then, stupider now.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 20:33:16 GMT

I've come across a serious fun blog site recently called The Consumerist. Among other recent postings, they analyzed some of the bigger ripoffs at your local pet store, the latest fun and Blu-Ray games from those throttling finks at Netflix (but hey, they did just send me Shatner's big-screen debut in the Esperanto epic Incubus), but this collection of incredibly stupid old ads takes a whole bunch of cake:

And when life needs to end, you use it, too.

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Distaval is a registered trademark for the generic drug thalidomide, best consumed to the theme music from "Flipper."

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Better strangulation through science☺®

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"Guaranteed for five years, made of durable lead paint." Note, of course, that the second address in the bottom right corner of the ad is in Buffalo.

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There are also Chevy Corvairs, Ford Pintos and the essential doctor-recommended cigarettes. None for Windows Vista yet, but those will be along soon enough.

None of this past stupidity keeps up with the present, however.

Twice in three hours to and from a client appointment, on two different radio stations, I got to hear some moronic dittohead substitute host for Limbaugh accusing our president of being in bed with the Communists in Latin America. Obama prefers dictators to democracy, it would seem, and what better example of that could be offered than the Administration's stated opposition to the late June coup in Honduras which overthrew a democratically elected president? I wouldn't requote this if I didn't hear it twice, it was so hard to believe somebody said it the first time:

The people of Honduras didn't want this! That's why the military moved in!

Oh yeah. Banana-republic military coups are famous for their devotions to democracy and their respect for the will of the people. Back in the 70s, we had Howard Cosell reporting live from the scene of the junta-led assassinations. Nowadays, Fox would probably milk one for an entire 26-week reality show.

Great minds think alike. Likewise, sick ones.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:27:22 GMT

I was going to post the tales of our family's woes from earlier today: me misplacing my glasses, Eleanor misreading her schedule, Emily mislaying and then not being able to use her mobile.

Eleanor not only beat me to it, she used the identical header I was going to. It's a catchphrase we often use when one, both or all of us are swimming in The Stupid particularly more than usual: "Mister & Mrs. Spastic go to the supermarket," or whatever.

After all of this occurred, but before either of us sat down to blog, I was in the kitchen doing the washing-up, and Eleanor came over to put some things in the dishwasher. In the course of that, one of us rapped the edge of a knife on the top of the dishwasher, causing it to spin in a circle. Instantly, we thought of and said aloud the same thing: that it looked like the old teenage party game of Spin the Bottle.

Of course, I had to turn it into a longer and sicker riff: that "Spin the Knife" is the teenage Goth version of the game, knives sold separately at a Hot Topic near you.

This is my fourth post of the day on three different sites. I think I'll do something productive with my life now.

A day late....

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 13:43:22 GMT

...but definitely not a Muppet short. Oh, wait. It IS a Muppet short:

(tri-corner hat-tip to digitalemur for finding it)

Random randomage to get Palin's cleavage off the top of my page.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 19:20:57 GMT

I haven't posted this in a few years, and with the news about local cops stepping up traffic enforcement for the holiday, it seemed like a good time:

      Buffalo Rules of Driving
      ------------------------

      At a four way stop sign, wave to offer the right-of-way to other
      cars. If you are waved at, wave back so they can take the
      right-of-way instead. When they go, you go at the same time.

      Left hand turns at traffic signals are to be made as soon as your
      signal turns from yellow to red. Up to three cars may turn on a
      "Buffalo left."

      In Amherst, the most expensive vehicle always has the
      right-of-way. In Buffalo, the vehicle with the most rust and/or body
      damage has the right-of-way. In the Southtowns, the biggest truck has
      the right-of-way.

      Electronic traffic warning system signs are not there to provide
      useful information. They are only there to make Buffalo look
      high-tech and to distract you from seeing the Amherst police cars
      parked in the median of the Youngmann Expressway.

      Italian-American drivers must always be in front of you, no matter how
      fast you are going, or how slow they are going. Watching two
      Italian-American drivers compete for the point position along Hertel
      Avenue adds to the excitement of driving in Buffalo.

      Real Buffalonians have both a "summer car" and a "winter car."

      All drivers and passengers are required to bow your head and make
      the Sign of the Cross whenever you drive by a Catholic church. The
      Virgin Mary will make sure that you don't get into an accident while
      you take your eyes off the road. If you're not Catholic, well, when in
      Rome ...

      In Cheektowaga, look out for little old Polish ladies that can barely
      see above the steering wheels of their Plymouth Reliants and Dodge
      Aries. They absolutely must get to the daily mass or the bingo hall,
      and the only thing slower than their driving speed is their reflex
      time.

      If you're a volunteer fireman, it's perfectly acceptable to flash your
      light bar to go through red lights. After all, the keg of Genesee
      Cream Ale down at the hall won't be there forever.

      "Snow emergencies" mean that you can only drive 10 MPH above the speed
      limit on the Kensington Expressway.

      Never pass on the left when you can pass on the right. It's a good
      way to scare people entering the highway.

      Do not proceed through an intersection, even if you have the green
      light, until all cars on the cross street have slid on the ice through
      intersection. During periods of heavy snow, wait at least 10 or 15
      seconds after your signal turns green before proceeding.

      Speed limits are arbitrary figures, given only as suggestions and
      apparently not enforceable in the Buffalo area during rush hour, with
      the exception of the Village of Kenmore, where the penalty for
      speeding is death.

      Your car must be equipped with at least two of the following: a bumper
      sticker reading "Pray the Rosary," or "97 Rock;" anything related to
      the Bills, rosary beads hanging from the mirror, an Infant of Jesus
      doll in the back window; a crown air freshener; an after-market vinyl
      roof; subwoofer that can be felt in Rochester; or rust.

      South Buffalo. St. Patrick's Day. Don't even think of driving there
      then.

      It's a Buffalo traditional to honk your horn at cars that don't move
      the instant the light changes. If you're an Italian-American, don't
      honk, but rather hang your head out the window of your Monte Carlo and
      threaten the slowpoke by screaming "Yo!" at the top of your lungs.

      Construction signs tell you about road closures immediately after you
      pass the last exit before the traffic begins to back up.

      Buy a map, and memorize the relationship between expressway names and
      their route numbers. Traffic reporters always use names, not route
      numbers. Highway signs show route numbers, not names.

      Real Buffalonians don't need a four wheel drive vehicle to drive in
      the snow.

      A right lane construction closure is just a game to see how many
      people can cut in line by passing you on the right as you sit in the
      left lane waiting for the jerks to squeeze their way back in before
      hitting the orange construction barrels.

      Save gasoline by accelerating to 10 MPH above the speed limit, then
      decelerating to 10 MPH below.

      Never take a green light at face value. Always look right and left
      before proceeding.

      Heavy snow, ice, fog, and rain are no reasons to change any of the
      previously listed rules. These weather conditions are just God's way
      of ensuring a natural selection process for body shops, junk yards
      and new vehicle sales.

      Remember, Buffalo isn't called the "Twenty Minute City" for nothing.
      Take advantage of that expressway system that was "built for a city of
      two million people," and test the hypothesis whenever possible.

      Always slow down and rubberneck when you see an accident or even
      someone just changing a tire.

      Just because you're in the left lane and have no room to speed up or
      move over doesn't mean that an Italian driver flashing his high beams
      behind you doesn't think he can go faster in your spot.

      The official litter zone is an area bounded by Main Street, Amherst
      Street, Bailey Avenue and Broadway. Use this zone to empty your
      ashtray, get rid of that Mighty taco bag, or discard old tires that
      have been collecting in your garage.

      Learn to swerve abruptly. Buffalo is the home of high-speed slalom
      driving thanks to NYSDOT, which puts potholes in key locations to test
      drivers' reflexes and keep them on their toes.

      The faster you drive through a red light, the less of a chance you
      have of getting hit.

      Anticipate your turn miles before the turn itself. Turn your
      directionals on at least a mile before you actually turn, just to be
      extra cautious. If you're a little old Polish lady from Cheektowaga,
      leave your directionals on for at least ten minutes after you turn,
      just to let other drivers know where you came from.

      When driving in Canada, all rules are off. Pass on the right, the
      left, the shoulder, the median, wherever. Treat metric speed limit
      signs as if they're in English units -- everyone else does. If you
      can't make it to Toronto in an hour and 15 minutes, either get your
      car or your head examined.

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We both had a nice chat with Em on the phone this afternoon. She's taking two art classes at NYSSSA- sculpture, which she hasn't done that much of and is loving, and a painting class. This week's assignment was to work in a white-on-black kind of medium, and here are the samples she sent of that work:

Eleanor posted a bunch of her other stories here. I can't believe the first of the four weeks is already past. It's gone so fast, and yet she's learned, and we think matured, so much in just that time.

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Happy fourths. Or, if you're over the line into Sunday and/or drinking heavily, happy fifths;)

Ding Dong the Bitch is Dead

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 13:41:49 GMT

*

Something's up. If this was an orchestrated move to prepare her for a Senate run or It Which Must Not Be Named in 2012, it would not have come out on the Friday news graveyard of all Friday news graveyards, on the day before July 4th. Her chorus of Yes You Betcha Men would've all been on their talk shows talking it up and spinning it.

No. This was pre-emptive, not premeditated. The only question is, will the charges, or the cuckolding cutie, or whatever she's trying to bury, now come forward?

So far, anyway, this is the best list of alternative explanations I've seen:

1. She wants to start her own theme park: Sarahwood. The park will feature a rollercoaster with one giant free fall, and a helicopter ride that lets you shoot wolves from a safe distance. Bring the camera for when you reach the top of the Ferris wheel; you can see Russia.

2. She accepted a new, secret mission. And remember, Sarah declared that she was "wired in a way of being so committed to the mission, the mission that we're on, that you can't blink." So this new mission must not be the mission she accepted when she promised Alaska's voters to responsibly govern their state for four years. There must be a more important mission that now requires her attention. Perhaps Ahmadinejad wants a VP?

3. She needs a break. Remember that Sarah is a self-proclaimed "pit bull with lipstick," and pit bulls generally avoid confrontations and challenges.

4. She wants to spread Down syndrome. When, earlier today, Sarah expressed a desire for more "Trigs" in the world, I could not have agreed more, because Down syndrome is just too cute to be reserved for 1 in 800 births.

5. She's tired of being in the media. Sarah needs a break from the intense media spotlight that comes from governing one of the least populated states that sits several hundred miles from the continental US.

6. She wants to mourn Michael Jackson. Sarah's fond memories of learning the alphabet and her first few numbers from a famous Jackson 5 song left her very sad upon hearing the news of the King of Pop's untimely death. If only she heard the song before 2003.

7. She wants to become SNL's new Tina Fey. If Sarah can transition into comedy, maybe she could run for Minnesota senator one day.

8. She seeks solidarity with the 25 million unemployed Americans. What better way to show commitment to improving your country's economic woes by abandoning the post for which you were elected to write a book about yourself?

9. She got knocked up by A-Rod.

10. She's tired of people using her children as a political prop. In her speech, she complained of this very thing, and then went on to use this to justify her resignation, which is definitely not using her children as a prop.

^* Fake celebrity impersonator. Fake gun. Fake chesticles.

TMID4

captainsblog@gmail.com — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 00:47:50 GMT

Which stands, possibly, for Happy Too Much Independence Day.

A dear, bright, funny and above all (for me, at least) well-spoken Friend posted the following words last night. Most of them are from here, the words of a Houston-based blogger who I'd not heard of before this morning, but the final words, just as poignant and well-intentioned, are from Sara- newly-married, twice-conferred with degrees attesting to her dedication and brilliance, but still a part, and a way-too-often forgotten part, of our stratified Service Economy:

Got the original link [to this from somebody] and had to repost this article.

I try not to use this blog space to rant or be preachy. I’m not a fan of ranting or sermons (unless it’s Sunday - and even then it really depends on the sermon).

Think of this as a desperate plea.

Yesterday, while I was trying to enjoy my manicure, I watched in horror as the two women across from me talked on their phones the entire time they were getting their manicures. They employed head nods, eyebrow raises, and finger pointing to instruct the manicurists on things like nail length and polish choices.

I really couldn't believe it.

I’ve had my nails done by the same two women for 10 years. I know their names (their real Vietnamese names), their children’s names, and many of their stories. They know my name, my children’s names, and many of my stories. When I finally made a comment about the women on their cell phones, they both quickly averted their eyes. Finally, in a whisper, Susan said, “They don’t know. Most of them don’t think of us as real people.”

On the way home, I stopped at Barnes & Noble to pick up a magazine. The woman ahead of me in line bought two books, applied for a new “reader card,” and asked to get one book gift wrapped without getting off of her cell phone. She plowed through the entire exchange without making eye contact or directly speaking to the young woman working at the counter. She never acknowledged the presence of the human being across from her.

After leaving Barnes & Noble, I drove through the Chick-fil-A drive-thru to get a Diet Dr. Pepper. Right as I pulled up to the window, my cell phone rang. I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought it might be Charlie’s school calling. I answered it. It wasn’t Charlie’s school – it was someone calling to confirm my hair appointment. I got off the phone as quickly as I could.

In the short time it took me to say, “Yes, I’ll be at my appointment,” the woman in the window and I had finished our soda-for-money transaction. I apologized to her the second I got off of the phone. I said, “I’m so sorry. The phone rang right when I was pulling up and I thought it was my son’s school.”

I must have surprised her because she got huge tears in her eyes and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea how humiliating it is sometimes. They don’t even see us.”

I don’t know how it feels for her, but I do know how it feels to be an invisible member of the service industry. It can suck.

I worked my way through undergrad and some of graduate school by waiting tables. I worked in a really nice restaurant that was close to campus and a hot spot for wealthy college kids and their parents (parents who were visiting for the weekend and treating their kids and their kids’ friends to dinner). I was in my late 20’s and praying to finish my bachelor’s degree before I hit 30.

When the customers were kind and respectful, it was OK, but one “waiter as object” moment could tear me apart. Unfortunately, I now see those moments happening all of the time.

I see adults who don’t even look at their waiters when they speak to them. I see parents who let their young children talk down to store clerks. I see people rage and scream at receptionists then treat the bosses/doctors/bankers with the utmost respect.

And, I see the insidious nature of race, class, and privilege playing out in one of the most historically damaging ways possible – the server/served relationship.

Everyone wants to know why customer service has gone to hell in a handbasket.

I want to know why customer behavior has gone to hell in a handbasket.

When we treat people as objects, we dehumanize them. We do something really terrible to their souls and to our own.

Martin Buber, an Austrian-born philosopher, wrote about the differences between an "I-it" relationship and an "I-you" relationship. An "I-it" relationship is basically what we create when we are in transactions with people whom we treat like objects - people who are simply there to serve us or complete a task.

I-you relationships are characterized by human connection and empathy.

I’m not suggesting that we engage in a deep, meaningful relationship with the man who works at the cleaners or the woman who works at the drive-thru, but I am suggesting that we stop dehumanizing people and start looking them in the eye when we speak to them. If we don’t have the energy or time to do that, we should stay at home.

And, for the love of humankind, we need to get off of our damn phones and show some basic respect to the people who are standing in front of us.

Buber wrote, “When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them.”

I just don’t think treating each other with basic dignity is asking too much.

[end of original blogger's post; beginning of Sara's:]

[Sara's friend] didn't have anything to add, but I do. I work alone for the majority of my day. I don't know if this is the norm or not for most service people; I do know, in the current economic climate, a lot of companies are cutting back and chances are that more and more service people are working alone more often. This means that sometimes for multiple hours of my day and theirs, our only connection is with the people we serve. They are the only ones we speak to or interact with. This means that the impact of one slight by a guest (and yes, not saying, "How are you?" back when asked is a slight), one failure to connect, one instance where not even eye contact is possible, these get magnified exponentially. I used to go home from work and cry for ten minutes when I was at the deepest part of my depression. I don't generally feel that way now, but there are many nights, too many, when I want to come home and do the same thing now, not because I'm in the depths of a chemical imbalance but because out of perhaps a hundred people I've served that day, maybe ten treated me like a human being, and I have a pretty broad definition for that. All I want is for you to ask me back when I say how are you--I do actually care, I love having a real conversation start here but even to just be asked back is enough--and for you to not expect me to scrape your money off the counter when you pay me. Seriously, that's it. I'm all alone and I just want you to throw me this one little bone.

I have a few kind words to add, too. Here, and in real life as a result of this revelation.

It's not just mobile phones making us oblivious to the people around us who would otherwise interact, and find connections, and become Real People to us if we only let them. It's a host of technological "advances" which have come along in parallel to our cellular towers and turned us into far more oblivious zombies than we were even before the beginning of my own daughter's lifetime.

I'm as guilty as anyone of these sins, more of omission than commission. I've had a cellular earphone stuck in my ear, at least while driving, for most of the past decade, but I've gone beyond that form of isolation, as most of the people do who I'd otherwise meet, when I'm walking down the street. For most of my almost two years of fairly religious gymwork, my ears have been cut off by my own personal soundtrack of .mp3 choices, which cuts me off from the need, but also the opportunity, to ever have to say hello to, or make conversation with, or connect my world to their worlds- of the guy about my age in the yellow Adidas t-shirt, or the woman about my age with John Lennon glasses and the black workout pants, who I see virtually every time I'm in there but who I never have a chance, much less a need, to introduce myself to.

My debit cards speed me on my way through checkouts. My EZ-Pass keeps me from saying hello to, or exchanging money and smiles with, a very redundant bunch of Thruway toll-takers. And thanks to the joys of "smartphones" (a term encompassing Blackberrys and Palms and my own recent concession to the al-Lures of the i-Phone), there's rarely a need to talk to anyone even telephonically anymore.

It's all bigger.Stronger. Faster. We have the technology. But is it better? I don't think my friends in retail (or my wife in retail, for that even more matter) would think so.

Earlier today, I stopped in our nearby Tarjay store to buy a panoply of things I'd put off- gym shorts to replace the increasingly felonious ones I'd been sporting, some new wine goblets, and some overdue chew-and-pull toys for the dogs. I made a point of talking, generally and genuinely, with my cashier on the way out. I mentioned the recent experience of my Friend, the often-alone barista at an in-store Starbucks at an out-of-state Target store, and how important I knew it was to maintain contact with everyone I could connect with.

Her only reply was, "Wow, I wish we had a Starbucks in here." (There's one in the strip mall about 500 feet down the road.)

Hey. It's a start.

Happy Interdependence Day to you, whether you observe it or not.

Unclear on the concept:

captainsblog@gmail.com — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 17:17:21 GMT

At the top of the list of "24 hour breaking news" stories from the Associated Press in our local paper this morning was the following headline:

Poll: 64 percent say too much Jackson coverage

Since inquiring minds can't get nearly enough of this shit, I ask the inevitable followup questions:

View Poll: #1424247

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Dead day today. I think half the country is taking today as an unofficial day before the real unofficial day tomorrow before the real official, if not a workday, day on Saturday. I am using the relative peace and quiet to post my income and expense figures for the first six months. I am doing this in front of the telly with third-season Dexter episodes running; the current conversion rate is two months per episode.

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The current relative humidity is about 800 percent and we're getting a whirlpool cloud that dumps a metric ton of rain on us roughly every four hours. This is supposed to clear by tomorrow.

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Tomorrow noon is the deadline for pre-ordering the new Girlyman album. Comment if you need the info on that.

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Back to income and Dex-penses.

Weeknight Update.

captainsblog@gmail.com — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 00:00:39 GMT

Happy 1 July to the Canuckistanis among us. Enjoy your collegial political system and your single-payer health care and your break-even acquisition of one Sabres defenseman in exchange for our acquiring one of yours.

Eleanor started her Canada Day celebration a few ~~hours~~ minutes before I did. We danced through the dining room to the sounds of Carly Simon. Ebony jumped up and joined us for a few measures. We love this dog. We love each other. We love the absent kid and the non-absent aminals as well as the absent ones.

Then, just now, we watched not one but two Nurses Jackie. If it really premiered on June 8 as the subway ads said, we should only be up to #4, but we're now through #5. Like I'm complaining. There is not a single unredeeming character in this show, which really makes it eminently more watchable, and lovable.

I sorta have Friday off. Eleanor sorta has Saturday off. This should lead to significant sorta-chilling.

Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Very superstitious, writings on the blog....

captainsblog@gmail.com — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 23:33:04 GMT

I wrote out a bunch of checks today, which burned the 6/30/09 (or 30/6/09, if you drive on the left) date into my mind. I cannot believe we are already at the midpoint of this year.

For years, I can't quite remember why, I've followed an old superstition of beginning each month by intoning the words "rabbit rabbit rabbit" as the first English-speaking sounds out of my mouth.

That probably explains the speed of the year. Fast-moving hares. Bunny hops. Multiplying like rabbits. Wabbits wuv cawwots, hahahahahaha.

Em is more than halfway through her first week of her first month away, and from the sound of it is loving every minute of it.

We will end the first half of 2009 far more solvent, far more confident, maybe even far more Pepsodent (if the Crest and Colgate run out) than we began it.

And despite the losses to our pop-culture population in the past six ~~days~~ months, the inspiration of this piece, himself a former child star but one who didn't turn into a freak of nature, is still with us.

Isn't that lovely?

Life's Little Ironies

captainsblog@gmail.com — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 00:42:44 GMT

Late this afternoon, I was on hold with a collection agency that I'm calling into, to settle an account for a client/friend.

Their music on hold is the scherzo from Beethoven's Ninth, second movement.

You know, the one at the start of this- and every- KO segment:

I'm old enough to remember that whole riff from when it was the closing theme to the NBC Huntley-Brinkley Report.

Good night, Chet.

Good night, David.

And good night, from NBC News.

Worms from my ear

captainsblog@gmail.com — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 19:30:53 GMT

Two weeks ago, my sister gave me a copy of Barack Obama's book. I've been reading it on and off ever since.

Two nights ago, after I got home from Fredonia and Eleanor from work, we had dinner in the back yard. Refreshing beverages were consumed.

Later that night, it rained. A lot.

Last night, Eleanor brought me a copy of a book that could now only be described as Wet Dreams from My Father.

But wait.... it gets worse.

The words she chose to bring it to me with were, "You left the President out in the rain."

If your brain is not already earworm-infected just by hearing that sentence, as mine was, I implore you: Do not.... repeat NOT,... click this cut.

Wow. You're more of a glutton for punishment than I thought.

Needless to say, this has been stuck in my head ever since. Complete with the bass lines I still remember from playing it on bass clarinet in high school wind ensemble.

If only Snape had been there in 1967.