* for a mere $64.99 a month because it's only available as part of their super duper Premium Live TV package:P
I said "fuck that" faster than even Samuel L. Jackson could. (Somebody counted: the original includes him dropping over 60 F- and MF-bombs.) The library had it on DVD for free. It's good; the violence gets a bit much at moments but the play among the three of them, especially RR and SLJ who get the most me-time together, more than makes up for it. Plus, Samuel L. Jackson SINGS.
I also promised warriorsavant an extended post about moving-up exercises among the younguns, since his little ones had some relatively minor extracurriculars for their end of school the other day. He wanted me to title it "In my day,...." followed by references to chasing them off my lawn. (I was going to reply "As you wish," but am working other things into the post, so you'll have to settle for the Princess Bride icon;)
It's become a Thing since, yes, In My Day, to do big deal end-of-year commemorations at all levels. A coworker's twins just graduated from kindergarten, which turned out to be an all-day commitment for Mom, Dad and the grams on Thursday. The school event ate her entire morning; I wasn't there, but I'm betting there was a stage walk, diplomas and (suitably allergy-free) cake for everyone. Then Mom had to leave the office early before the end of the day for the home based party to recognize this life changing event.
Back in '65? We just walked home at the end of that morning like we always did.
Pack rat that I am, I still have my K report card. The only acknowledgement of achievement was the same one on every one until they computerized the things in the 70s:
I don't know how I survived first grade with a lunch hour that early; I must've missed a whole season of Jeopardy!
The rest of the card was interesting, too. The cover:
Then, inside, a foldout of stick figures showing kindergarteny things, from "Can dress self" to "Understands higher concepts of Keynesian economics." (Okay, that was Emily's K report 30-odd years later.) But then, I don't remember this first semester comment left for me that my mother dutifully signed (redacted as I would have signed the later ones had they still had lines to sign on):
Wow. Two different Welcome Back Kotter callbacks in the same post. (We haven't gotten to the second one yet;) Also, good thing I got over that attention-span shit. These days, they probably would have had me on Adderall for the inevitable ADD diagnosis. Later years' cards focused almost entirely on academics, and those I had no trouble with. So much so, toward the end of third grade, I, and a handful of other bright eight-year olds from our school, were invited to join something called the EAP- Elementary Acceleration Program. It would have moved me to a different elementary school, probably by bus (Prospect Elementary was a block away), and I would have completed fourth through sixth grade curriculum in just two years. I was incredibly honored, as much as an eight-year-old could be; Mom, though, was adamant that I not do it. As a November baby when the cutoff for school entry was December 1st, I was already one of the youngest kids in my grade, and she was scared to death of the "galoots" at the junior high bullying me when I got there a year younger. (Spoiler alert: they did anyway.) I would eventually become friends with at least a couple of the EAP kids who accelerated into the East Meadow Class of '77, and they seemed to do fine. It's one of those what-ifs on the reverse bucket list, of how different life would be if I'd left there a year earlier. For certain, I would not be the person I am in the place and with the family I now have, and that's something I wouldn't give up for any chance at a TARDIS.
This morning brought two more observations: one I could read, and one, ##$%)#*, that I couldn't.
Eleanor's laptop has an oddly designed power supply: it's a Lenovo ThinkPad, which I also have in a later version (currently being Frankenputered by a boy genius), but the input to her laptop is not a round female plug like every other one we've ever owned but something that looks more like a USB. It's not, and you need one specially designed to fit that power port. Not long after she got it, one of this house's various animals, a category that might include me, clumsily separated the USBish thing from the port and bent it a bit. It still sorta worked but we replaced it at the time. Then, in another blinding flash of probably cat a few months ago, the most recent one got bent- and by this morning, she couldn't even turn the laptop on from lack of charge. I ultimately found a replacement, but Lord it wasn't easy. And thus, my open letter to the manufacturers:
One of the two essential parts of the device most likely to fail, at least in our experience, is the power supply. (The other is the keyboard, but that's another rant.) Both are prone to this because of their heavy use and exposure to outside forces #meow
Therefore, the power supply often needs to be replaced- just as often, long after you've abandoned the model for the next new shiny.
And what are the essential items for identifying a compatible replacement? Yes, Horshack? "Oooh! Oooh! That would be the wattage and the part number!"
Very good! Now, do ya think you could put those two FUCKING ESSENTIAL PIECES OF DATA in a font that isn't so small that Superman's putting his Clark Kent glasses back on?!?
This picture's blowed up at least 60 percent. Even at that level I have trouble reading it, and holding the camera to focus and shoot takes several tries.
Maybe put those as big as those twenty logos that are big enough to read but are utterly meaningless?
This time, I copied down the specs from the Amazon order and am keeping them in the drawer with the Mostly Dead power supply for her laptop, for the next time we go through this. But there are others bent on failing, I am sure. So get with it, guys!
What I could see was on walkies today.
It’s something of a tradition around here, and I’m sure elsewhere, for people to inscribe the names of their pets, living or dead, in freshly poured sidewalk concrete. We often smile and remember Bella and Peanut and Cinnamon, who are still on the ground long after they went in the ground.
When we first moved here, our neighbors in one side tried to put the name of their Dalmatian puppy in the concrete outside their house, and our anal neighbor from the other side ran right over and smoothed it out. Yeah, Charlie was an asshole.
I have no idea what these people were thinking, but I hope they didn’t name a cat after it.
Years from now, that sidewalk may be regarded as part of the Bog of Eternal Stench;)