Yes, you read that title right. Van Goghurt.
That's my best stab at how it's spelled. There I was the other day innocently driving to work and enduring what passes for drive time radio here when on comes an advertisement for Van Goghurt, followed by mention of Sugar Plum cookies. These are, apparently, products targetted at thoughtful parents who want their children to grow up with an appreciation of the arts. There's even mention of Tchaikovsky! Want to guess the ratio of sugar to plums in those cookies?
Doubtless an ad campaign thought up by someone who still believes that the way to a mans heart is through his stomach! And if that's true then lets feed the next generation on yoghurt artfully disguised as Van Goghurt - who knows, they might make the mental connection!
I can't help feeling that if you really really really wanted your kids to grow up with an appreciation of 'the arts' perhaps a better way might be to actually live it yourself and show by example. But that's just me.
I can see it now; one of the little bastards actually develops an interest in Van Gogh and discovers the depths of his parents ignorance of the subject; what a shock!
No, what we have here is a prime example of snobbery. 'I don't want to listen to Beethoven but you should' is what it boils down to. That's exactly what the advertisers are trying to tap into. 'Everyone knows' that 'Art is good' and if I feed my kids Van Goghurt I can subscribe to the notion without actually having to put in the effort to learn how to understand something that runs longer than three minutes.
Having said all that, have I made any effort to 'educate' Andrew or Morgan in classical music? Heck no! Enough that they know I enjoy it. They can see me spending hours, headphones on, listening, following scores, writing my own. If they want to know more they can ask.
One thing I've always stuck to; when either of them plays their own music I *never* criticise even if I find rap tedious. Their music is their music[^] whatever I might think of it.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Monday, August 04, 2008
A minor detail
Last night I watched Billion Dollar Brain[^]. Not a great movie but not a bad one either. I have to admit I'm a sucker for a Michael Caine movie, particularly his earlier work and, having noticed in 'the guide' that this movie was directed by Ken Russell that was it; decision made.
Ken Russell is well known for his musical films, starting in the 60's with biographies of composers of the Romantic and Post Romantic era, people such as Elgar, Bax and Delius. I haven't managed to catch most of those earlier works; they just don't seem to be shown any more and perhaps no longer exist. The BBC, for whom most of these earlier films were made, seemed to make a practice of destroying material in the early 70's.
Just as well, then, that Ken made his transition to 'real' film at the end of the 60's; thus his 'versions' of the life of Tchaikovsky, Mahler and Liszt; not forgetting Tommy! I'll be the first to admit that The Music Lovers[^] is probably far more fantasy than fact but I don't let that minor detail get in the way of enjoying a visual and musical feast. Such a pity it's not available on DVD and I haven't managed to see it in 20 years!
In Mahler[^] he really went all out; images of Nazis goosestepping on Gustavs coffin anyone? Brunhilde feeding Gustav pork after he slays the dragon and following it with a glass of milk! Bad taste from the decade of bad taste. I do have that one on DVD.
I may not recognise the music of some minor artist of the 1980s when it crops up but the moment they play three bars of a major composers symphony I know it! Thus to the scene in Billion Dollar Brain where Harry Palmer (Caine) is being cleaned up before being led into the concert. Masterful piece of misdirection there; the scene has all the indicators that he's about to be tortured. Come to think of it, many folk might consider being dragged into a Symphony Concert as torture!
Colonel Stok comes into view, a tear running down his cheek as the symphony crashes to a close. He imparts the information that Shostakovich wrote the symphony in Leningrad in 1941 during the siege. In other words, it's supposed to be the 7th Symphony.
Uh huh. The music we actually hear at this point is the end of the 11th Symphony, written in 1957.
Just a minor detail but one that surprised me given Ken Russell's pedigree.
Ken Russell is well known for his musical films, starting in the 60's with biographies of composers of the Romantic and Post Romantic era, people such as Elgar, Bax and Delius. I haven't managed to catch most of those earlier works; they just don't seem to be shown any more and perhaps no longer exist. The BBC, for whom most of these earlier films were made, seemed to make a practice of destroying material in the early 70's.
Just as well, then, that Ken made his transition to 'real' film at the end of the 60's; thus his 'versions' of the life of Tchaikovsky, Mahler and Liszt; not forgetting Tommy! I'll be the first to admit that The Music Lovers[^] is probably far more fantasy than fact but I don't let that minor detail get in the way of enjoying a visual and musical feast. Such a pity it's not available on DVD and I haven't managed to see it in 20 years!
In Mahler[^] he really went all out; images of Nazis goosestepping on Gustavs coffin anyone? Brunhilde feeding Gustav pork after he slays the dragon and following it with a glass of milk! Bad taste from the decade of bad taste. I do have that one on DVD.
I may not recognise the music of some minor artist of the 1980s when it crops up but the moment they play three bars of a major composers symphony I know it! Thus to the scene in Billion Dollar Brain where Harry Palmer (Caine) is being cleaned up before being led into the concert. Masterful piece of misdirection there; the scene has all the indicators that he's about to be tortured. Come to think of it, many folk might consider being dragged into a Symphony Concert as torture!
Colonel Stok comes into view, a tear running down his cheek as the symphony crashes to a close. He imparts the information that Shostakovich wrote the symphony in Leningrad in 1941 during the siege. In other words, it's supposed to be the 7th Symphony.
Uh huh. The music we actually hear at this point is the end of the 11th Symphony, written in 1957.
Just a minor detail but one that surprised me given Ken Russell's pedigree.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Remember the Alamo
Many years ago my grandmother told me that there was some family connection to The Alamo[^]. I would have been about 6 or 7 at the time and I suspect the only reason I have even the vaguest memory of her mentioning it was through having probably heard the word Alamo in the context of cowboy films.
Thirty years later my aunt retold the story. I can't remember if I asked her about it or if she volunteered the information and, given that she's been dead thirteen years, I can't go back and ask. She, as it happened, had almost nothing to add beyond there being 'some family connection'.
I have to admit I thought it unlikely unless you also consider the possibility that I'm related to the last Tsar of All the Russias! Sure, I thought, there may have been a Manderson at the battle. (howmanyofme.com[^], at the time of writing, estimate there are a thousand Mandersons in the US) but a common ancestor had to have been some centuries ago.
I fear we sometimes forget in the age of the internet how much more difficult and expensive it was to keep in contact with people on other continents. According to the AT&T history page at att.com[^] the first phone service between London and the US (they don't say where in the US but I'll lay money it was New York City) was established in 1927, capacity a single call at a time, at $75 for the first 3 minutes!
At prices like that I doubt many people were discussing family minutiae.
So this 'family connection' with the Alamo always puzzled me. I had heard of no US relatives. Of course, I'd heard of precious few English or Scottish relatives either so that didn't count for much but if you know much of Australian Colonial History and attitudes you'd realise that it was far more likely we'd know about (and have) British relatives than American ones.
A couple of weeks ago, whilst indulging in ego-surfing, I found what I suspect is the answer to the mystery.
There's a tiny town in Wyoming called Manderson. I know it's tiny because Wikipedia says it has a population of 104. I'd suspect it was small even without Wikipedia if it's in Wyoming, the US state with the smallest population of them all.
And guess what? Uh huh, you guessed it. Before it was renamed Manderson that little town was called Alamo!
Of course, I now have to figure out how my grandmother heard of Charles Manderson, former chief counsel for Burlington Railroad. We've still got the immense unlikelihood of an American Manderson (myself excluded since naturalisation) being related!
Thirty years later my aunt retold the story. I can't remember if I asked her about it or if she volunteered the information and, given that she's been dead thirteen years, I can't go back and ask. She, as it happened, had almost nothing to add beyond there being 'some family connection'.
I have to admit I thought it unlikely unless you also consider the possibility that I'm related to the last Tsar of All the Russias! Sure, I thought, there may have been a Manderson at the battle. (howmanyofme.com[^], at the time of writing, estimate there are a thousand Mandersons in the US) but a common ancestor had to have been some centuries ago.
I fear we sometimes forget in the age of the internet how much more difficult and expensive it was to keep in contact with people on other continents. According to the AT&T history page at att.com[^] the first phone service between London and the US (they don't say where in the US but I'll lay money it was New York City) was established in 1927, capacity a single call at a time, at $75 for the first 3 minutes!
At prices like that I doubt many people were discussing family minutiae.
So this 'family connection' with the Alamo always puzzled me. I had heard of no US relatives. Of course, I'd heard of precious few English or Scottish relatives either so that didn't count for much but if you know much of Australian Colonial History and attitudes you'd realise that it was far more likely we'd know about (and have) British relatives than American ones.
A couple of weeks ago, whilst indulging in ego-surfing, I found what I suspect is the answer to the mystery.
There's a tiny town in Wyoming called Manderson. I know it's tiny because Wikipedia says it has a population of 104. I'd suspect it was small even without Wikipedia if it's in Wyoming, the US state with the smallest population of them all.
And guess what? Uh huh, you guessed it. Before it was renamed Manderson that little town was called Alamo!
Of course, I now have to figure out how my grandmother heard of Charles Manderson, former chief counsel for Burlington Railroad. We've still got the immense unlikelihood of an American Manderson (myself excluded since naturalisation) being related!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
That's quite a change
You'll remember I tried your patience as a loyal reader a week or so ago when I reported[^] that United Airlines had emailed me to advise of a two minute change in departure time from Phoenix on my way to Australia. 54 days and counting!
As part of the anticipation heightening process I re-checked my itinerary a few days ago and discovered that they'd moved my departure back another 45 minutes. I don't leave Phoenix until 7:33 now, assuming they're on time. That leaves me with about 80 minutes to walk the couple of hundred metres from the domestic to the international terminals, grab a quick smoke and run the gauntlet of security again.
That ought to be enough time though I note that the last time I went to Australia I had to go through a second level of vetting. One fronts up to a counter (on the sterile side of security) and hands over ones passport. They go through the pretence of checking ones passport on the computer and, if all is well, they stick a red dot on the outside of your passport.
Do I really believe they have a live line to some Australian computer system in DFAT? More importantly, given that if they do it'll be an internet link, do I really want to accept that my passport details were just sent over a public system? Sometimes it's better to be a cynical old bastard.
I'm telling you, you aint getting on that plane without the red dot! It's almost as though we (Australians) are trying to outdo the US government in the paranoia stakes. Remember Richard Reid[^], the shoe bomber? He was apprehended mid air over the Atlantic on December 22 2001. That was December 23 Australian time. On December 25 I flew to the US and had the pleasure of being on the first flight where one was required to remove ones shoes and have them checked for explosives! I reckon that had to have been *before* the first US checks!
Not only that; they've changed my return flight. I'm going out via San Francisco but I thought I was coming back through Los Angeles. Good thing I checked the flight again because now I'm returning through San Franciso. If I remember rightly, the SFO flight departs Sydney half an hour before the LAX flight and I've had LAX on the return so fixed in my head that I'm sure I'd have missed the plane if I hadn't checked.
I haven't received a peep out of United via email regarding these latest changes. Do you reckon someone there read my previous post and put a block on my email address? Nah, that'd be too paranoid even for me!
As part of the anticipation heightening process I re-checked my itinerary a few days ago and discovered that they'd moved my departure back another 45 minutes. I don't leave Phoenix until 7:33 now, assuming they're on time. That leaves me with about 80 minutes to walk the couple of hundred metres from the domestic to the international terminals, grab a quick smoke and run the gauntlet of security again.
That ought to be enough time though I note that the last time I went to Australia I had to go through a second level of vetting. One fronts up to a counter (on the sterile side of security) and hands over ones passport. They go through the pretence of checking ones passport on the computer and, if all is well, they stick a red dot on the outside of your passport.
Do I really believe they have a live line to some Australian computer system in DFAT? More importantly, given that if they do it'll be an internet link, do I really want to accept that my passport details were just sent over a public system? Sometimes it's better to be a cynical old bastard.
I'm telling you, you aint getting on that plane without the red dot! It's almost as though we (Australians) are trying to outdo the US government in the paranoia stakes. Remember Richard Reid[^], the shoe bomber? He was apprehended mid air over the Atlantic on December 22 2001. That was December 23 Australian time. On December 25 I flew to the US and had the pleasure of being on the first flight where one was required to remove ones shoes and have them checked for explosives! I reckon that had to have been *before* the first US checks!
Not only that; they've changed my return flight. I'm going out via San Francisco but I thought I was coming back through Los Angeles. Good thing I checked the flight again because now I'm returning through San Franciso. If I remember rightly, the SFO flight departs Sydney half an hour before the LAX flight and I've had LAX on the return so fixed in my head that I'm sure I'd have missed the plane if I hadn't checked.
I haven't received a peep out of United via email regarding these latest changes. Do you reckon someone there read my previous post and put a block on my email address? Nah, that'd be too paranoid even for me!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
I call maledictions down upon the heads
of all vile website designers who will *insist* upon having sound files automatically begin playing when one is foolish enough to navigate to their sites. When I'm listening to the music of *my* choice the last thing I want is some fools idea of what constitutes music thrust upon my unexpecting ears. Especially when it's some vilely tuneless 'popular' travesty. You'd be amazed how fast I can hit the 'back' button on such websites. A pox upon them unto the seventh generation!
Go on, tell me I'm wrong! :-)
Go on, tell me I'm wrong! :-)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
I love the way United Airlines works.
Right on schedule I received an email from United Airlines regarding my flight to Australia 65 days from now (not that I'm counting!). The email advised me that my flight time had been changed. From 6:42 PM to 6:44 PM.
I'm pretty sure they sent a similar email about a year ago to Heino to advise him that his flight time had also been shifted a miniscule amount. I certainly remember, the last time I was counting down the days to a trip back to Australia, receiving email from United with much the same advice; a two or three minute schedule change.
Hmmm. Maybe I err on the side of caution when flying, for I'm always at the airport at least an hour ahead of time, but it seems to me that if you're cutting it so fine that a two minute difference in flight time might mean the difference between catching or missing a flight then you need to readjust your expectations.
I'm pretty sure they sent a similar email about a year ago to Heino to advise him that his flight time had also been shifted a miniscule amount. I certainly remember, the last time I was counting down the days to a trip back to Australia, receiving email from United with much the same advice; a two or three minute schedule change.
Hmmm. Maybe I err on the side of caution when flying, for I'm always at the airport at least an hour ahead of time, but it seems to me that if you're cutting it so fine that a two minute difference in flight time might mean the difference between catching or missing a flight then you need to readjust your expectations.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Crap!
My stepfather kept pigeons from 1967 onward. I'm sure he'd have loved to keep them before then but the house in which we lived at the time, in Seddon, had hardly enough room for us let alone a pigeon coop. But once we moved to St Albans he had all the space he could desire and so the pigeon coop was born. I recall helping him build it, little knowing the misery that damn coop held in store for me.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
His interest in pigeons didn't come as much of a surprise; as the youngest of a large family he had ample example in his older brothers. At least three of them, as far as I can remember, kept pigeons and we'd always end up standing beside the cages when we visited, gravely discussing the merits of that 'blue' or this pink one.
And of course they raced the pigeons. Small sums wagered each week and form gravely argued over. The locals in Yarraville and Footscray even had a 'pigeon fanciers' club house; a strange brick building down by the Maribyrnong Wharves that looked, for all the world, like a council toilet block from the twenties. It may have been exactly that at one time. (I just checked on Google Earth and it seems to have gone; I will, of course, double check in 68 days when I'm there again). But heck no, I'm not counting down the days.
It fell to my lot to clean the cages out every fortnight or so. I think he had 25 or 30 pigeons in total at any one time and you wouldn't believe how much shit they could produce in a week! A nasty smelly job at the best of times but particularly bad in summer. The thing being that it dries out fairly quickly and forms hard lumps all over the inside of the cage. We're talking a cage plenty large enough to climb into and an inch depth of dried shit. The technique was to take a plasterers trowel and hack away at the lumps. Then scrape it all up into bags. After fifteen minutes the air would be thick with dust which of course one breathed in. It got into my hair, stuck to my face; I swear it got into my underpants! And the smell was indescribable.
What I wouldn't give to go back and have to do it all over again!
Our two youngest cats, not kittens anymore yet not fully grown, haven't entirely outgrown the catbox. I don't know what Tiny's eating but when he leaves his calling card the odour is quite pungent. Unfortunately, due to space limitations, the catbox is close to where I sit when watching movies. Not much farther from there to where Andrew sits playing World of Warcraft. Strangely enough my smokers nostrils, 37 years older than his, seem much more sensitive.
I took it upon myself, much to Sonyas amusement, to teach Andrew the finer points of cleaning up a catbox. It seems only fair that he should make *some* contribution to the household but he doesn't see it quite that way.
Now there's the wasteful approach and there's the thrifty approach. I use the thrifty one; that's the approach where one doesn't toss out the entire contents of the catbox every day. It's perfectly possible to reuse most of the cat litter at least once by judicious removal of the lumps.
And if one is taking that approach there's the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is to pick em out with the bare hand. But I've been doing this for years and I'm an observant bastard. Taking a leaf out of the anti-doggie poo brigades book I use plastic bags. We haven't yet got the point of supermarkets imposing a surcharge on the bags so there are always too many of em around the joint. Would you believe it's next to impossible to get the checkout person to NOT put a gallon of milk in it's own plastic bag???
So you take a plastic bag in each hand, one open to receive the nuggets, the other around the nugget removing hand. It takes less than a minute to snag em all out of the kitty litter and at the end of the process one has a nice tidy bag of cat crap ready to be disposed of and a relatively odour free catbox. Sprinkle some fresh litter on top and the cats will be milling around waiting for you to get out of the damn way so they can have a crap!
The other night, on our return from dining out, we stopped by the supermarket to pick up a fresh bag of litter. Then followed the argument with Andrew about just *why* he should be the one to do it. I've given up with the persuasion; I tell him straight out that it's because he's the youngest and I don't care that it's not fair. Calling him Morgan also works!
Arrived home he rushed in through the door and made straight for the computer, doubtless in hopes that we'd have forgotten, in the space of three minutes, all about such unpleasant subjects. No such hope.
Reminded of the task that lay ahead he grabbed a bag and started picking out the nuggets aforesaid. I couldn't help laughing. 'Ok, what are you going to do now?' I asked, as he realised he had only the one bag and that wrapped around the busy hand.
Poor bastard had the grace to look sheepish.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
A small mystery
You'll remember that a few weeks ago I had to attend court as prospective juror. I made fun of the fact that they provide transport[^] to cover the two blocks from the free parking to the courthouse!
Not only do they provide the shuttle bus aforesaid, they also provide a free pass, sent in the mail along with the juror summons, good for a days travel anywhere in the Valley on any Metro Bus or Rail Route. I'm not sure which rail route they're talking about - I certainly haven't seen any trams running on the light rail[^] and there's no suburban rail system.
In addition, they also pay mileage on the assumption that one has driven in; the amount paid is so many cents per mile (I can't remember the number) based on ones zipcode. It's certainly an assumption; the cheque arrived in the mail a few weeks ago without my having to turn in the free bus pass and without my having to do anything to claim the money apart from appearing as summoned.
Methinks they know we don't use the buses. Indeed, I've been here more than five and a half years and haven't been on a bus yet. I don't even know how one pays the fare; is it cash or does one purchase a card somewhere? If paid in cash what is the price? Do they provide change?
The free bus pass has been sitting on the desk above my keyboard and below my monitor ever since receiving it. Today, for some reason, I moved it and found the following inscribed on my desk.
Andrew swears he didn't write it and I'm inclined to believe him; I'm not sure he knows how to spell the word. Somehow I can't see my wife writing it. That leaves one obvious suspect but I think not. If it were Morgan I'd expect the word to be carved into my heart rather than texta'd onto the desk.
So who?
Not only do they provide the shuttle bus aforesaid, they also provide a free pass, sent in the mail along with the juror summons, good for a days travel anywhere in the Valley on any Metro Bus or Rail Route. I'm not sure which rail route they're talking about - I certainly haven't seen any trams running on the light rail[^] and there's no suburban rail system.
In addition, they also pay mileage on the assumption that one has driven in; the amount paid is so many cents per mile (I can't remember the number) based on ones zipcode. It's certainly an assumption; the cheque arrived in the mail a few weeks ago without my having to turn in the free bus pass and without my having to do anything to claim the money apart from appearing as summoned.
Methinks they know we don't use the buses. Indeed, I've been here more than five and a half years and haven't been on a bus yet. I don't even know how one pays the fare; is it cash or does one purchase a card somewhere? If paid in cash what is the price? Do they provide change?
The free bus pass has been sitting on the desk above my keyboard and below my monitor ever since receiving it. Today, for some reason, I moved it and found the following inscribed on my desk.
Andrew swears he didn't write it and I'm inclined to believe him; I'm not sure he knows how to spell the word. Somehow I can't see my wife writing it. That leaves one obvious suspect but I think not. If it were Morgan I'd expect the word to be carved into my heart rather than texta'd onto the desk.
So who?
Friday, July 11, 2008
Really?
Yesterdays East Valley Tribune[^] ran the headline 'Monsoon expected to bring rain and lower temperatures'.
Gee, ya reckon???
Joking aside, we had our first monsoon event of the year yesterday as well and boy did it rain! Not only that, the temperature dropped amazingly, to a mere 73 at midnight. I fear we won't see the magic hundred at midnight this year (as we seem not to have seen it last year). Quite the disappointment when we peaked at 115 only two days ago.
It just doesn't feel like summer if it's not a hundred at midnight!
Gee, ya reckon???
Joking aside, we had our first monsoon event of the year yesterday as well and boy did it rain! Not only that, the temperature dropped amazingly, to a mere 73 at midnight. I fear we won't see the magic hundred at midnight this year (as we seem not to have seen it last year). Quite the disappointment when we peaked at 115 only two days ago.
It just doesn't feel like summer if it's not a hundred at midnight!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
She's a good shot
Anyone who points out that my occasional (meaning every weekend) need for an afternoon nap is really a sign of advancing years is welcome to go read another blog! Nonetheless it's true that I do enjoy the odd Saturday afternoon nap. I also enjoy the odd recline between arriving home from the office and dinner.
Such a pity, then, that we still have Morgan here, in the room directly above ours. Now I'll admit that it was a strategic error, borne of insufficient experience with the young lady aforesaid, when, five years ago, I suggested we remove the carpets and lay down hardwood floors. How was I to know, then, that Morgan is capable of making more noise, for less reason, than a fully laden 747 on it's take off run?
Well, maybe I exaggerate, but not by much.
Thus, over the last nine months or so since we were 'blessed' with her return, I find myself sometimes unable to nap. I don't know what she's dropping on the floor but I refer to it as 'someone dropped their testicles again'. More than once I've vaulted up the stairs to shout at her. Such are the vicissitudes of sharing a house with the thoughtless. Every time I make protest she tries the 'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' pose of innocent surprise. 'I didn't know you were trying to sleep'.
Hmmm. I could go on with the justifications for my position on the matter but methinks you get the drift.
Today Ryan, her infant, was somewhat cranky. I don't mind his noise half as much as I mind Morgans. She interprets that as 'I can't do anything right as far as Rob is concerned' and she may be right. Just the other night Sonya asked me, apropos of a conversation she'd had with her daughter, 'why do you live?'. Without even thinking about it I replied 'I live to thwart Morgan at every turn'. Sonya laughed but I fear there is more than a grain of truth in my reply. The original question was prompted by Morgan musing on the paradox of working for a living. As she apparently expressed it (she never says these things in front of me - I get them secondhand) 'I can live at Dads and be broke, or I can get a job and have my own place and be broke. So why work?'.
Words fail me. I could have wasted my breath retailing all the standard reasons for working and being independent and standing on your own feet and all that. Given that my audience was Sonya it would have been preaching to the converted.
I've digressed somewhat but no matter; Ryan makes noise because he doesn't know any better. He's only 25 months old. Morgan at 245 months should know better.
This afternoon the little princess was trying to get an afternoon nap and Ryan wasn't having any of it. She came downstairs complaining that it was 'impossible' to get any sleep in this house.
I fear that I was less than charitable. Indeed, it struck me as quite the funniest thing I'd heard in ages. Morgan didn't much appreciate my laughing quite as uproariously as I did; she whizzed a cushion at me.
How unfortunate that I'd just made myself a coffee. Uh huh, the entire cup (barely sipped at) went flying, all over my three computers. Fortunately they had the covers on (the geeks among you will understand that) and there was no damage.
I couldn't see her face so I don't know what she expected. I can guess the expectation was of a confrontation, which would probably have been exactly what she wanted. Instead, I picked up the cup and said 'damn, now I have to make another coffee'.
Sometimes you just have to mess with their minds. But damn, she's a good shot. I suppose I ought to be glad there wasn't a knife handy!
Such a pity, then, that we still have Morgan here, in the room directly above ours. Now I'll admit that it was a strategic error, borne of insufficient experience with the young lady aforesaid, when, five years ago, I suggested we remove the carpets and lay down hardwood floors. How was I to know, then, that Morgan is capable of making more noise, for less reason, than a fully laden 747 on it's take off run?
Well, maybe I exaggerate, but not by much.
Thus, over the last nine months or so since we were 'blessed' with her return, I find myself sometimes unable to nap. I don't know what she's dropping on the floor but I refer to it as 'someone dropped their testicles again'. More than once I've vaulted up the stairs to shout at her. Such are the vicissitudes of sharing a house with the thoughtless. Every time I make protest she tries the 'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' pose of innocent surprise. 'I didn't know you were trying to sleep'.
Hmmm. I could go on with the justifications for my position on the matter but methinks you get the drift.
Today Ryan, her infant, was somewhat cranky. I don't mind his noise half as much as I mind Morgans. She interprets that as 'I can't do anything right as far as Rob is concerned' and she may be right. Just the other night Sonya asked me, apropos of a conversation she'd had with her daughter, 'why do you live?'. Without even thinking about it I replied 'I live to thwart Morgan at every turn'. Sonya laughed but I fear there is more than a grain of truth in my reply. The original question was prompted by Morgan musing on the paradox of working for a living. As she apparently expressed it (she never says these things in front of me - I get them secondhand) 'I can live at Dads and be broke, or I can get a job and have my own place and be broke. So why work?'.
Words fail me. I could have wasted my breath retailing all the standard reasons for working and being independent and standing on your own feet and all that. Given that my audience was Sonya it would have been preaching to the converted.
I've digressed somewhat but no matter; Ryan makes noise because he doesn't know any better. He's only 25 months old. Morgan at 245 months should know better.
This afternoon the little princess was trying to get an afternoon nap and Ryan wasn't having any of it. She came downstairs complaining that it was 'impossible' to get any sleep in this house.
I fear that I was less than charitable. Indeed, it struck me as quite the funniest thing I'd heard in ages. Morgan didn't much appreciate my laughing quite as uproariously as I did; she whizzed a cushion at me.
How unfortunate that I'd just made myself a coffee. Uh huh, the entire cup (barely sipped at) went flying, all over my three computers. Fortunately they had the covers on (the geeks among you will understand that) and there was no damage.
I couldn't see her face so I don't know what she expected. I can guess the expectation was of a confrontation, which would probably have been exactly what she wanted. Instead, I picked up the cup and said 'damn, now I have to make another coffee'.
Sometimes you just have to mess with their minds. But damn, she's a good shot. I suppose I ought to be glad there wasn't a knife handy!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The car rental business
There's been an ad running on radio recently where Budget are offering a single class upgrade, for free, for every car rental. They bill this with various superlatives such as 'rent with genius' and they seem to be trying to appeal to those of us, such as myself, who've had to travel a lot as part of the job and yet aren't high enough on the totem pole to warrant a luxury car.
Never mind the fact that I don't care much about what I drive; its sole purpose is to get me from point A to point B. But you, knowing that I drive, by choice, a Kia Rio, already knew that!
Call me a cynical old bastard if you will but I'm deeply suspicious of the entire ad. It seems to me that Budget have found themselves with a pile of larger so-called luxury vehicles that no one, in these days of higher petrol prices, wants to rent. I'd guess they have far more bookings for economy vehicles than they have economy vehicles. How to avoid pissing off the customer who made the economy booking only to be disappointed? Aha, genius! Let's offer *everyone* a single level 'free' upgrade!
Hmmm, that sounds a lot like reclassifying a compact as an economy, or a midsize as a compact. And if I, booking a compact, am going to be lumbered with a midsize, whether I want it or not, how is that an 'upgrade'?
It's been a common enough trick in my experience; book off a website, front up and 'oh we're sorry sir, we don't have that model. I can let you have this for only $12 a day more'. How very generous.
As for me? If I book an economy that's what I expect. If they* want to foist something larger off on me I'll have no qualms about submitting a bill for the extra petrol it used. Whether they'll pay it is another question entirely but at least it'll annoy em! Who knows, they might even start rethinking their business strategy.
There you go, cynicism and naïveté in the same post!
*they, in this context, means any car rental company, not just Budget.
Never mind the fact that I don't care much about what I drive; its sole purpose is to get me from point A to point B. But you, knowing that I drive, by choice, a Kia Rio, already knew that!
Call me a cynical old bastard if you will but I'm deeply suspicious of the entire ad. It seems to me that Budget have found themselves with a pile of larger so-called luxury vehicles that no one, in these days of higher petrol prices, wants to rent. I'd guess they have far more bookings for economy vehicles than they have economy vehicles. How to avoid pissing off the customer who made the economy booking only to be disappointed? Aha, genius! Let's offer *everyone* a single level 'free' upgrade!
Hmmm, that sounds a lot like reclassifying a compact as an economy, or a midsize as a compact. And if I, booking a compact, am going to be lumbered with a midsize, whether I want it or not, how is that an 'upgrade'?
It's been a common enough trick in my experience; book off a website, front up and 'oh we're sorry sir, we don't have that model. I can let you have this for only $12 a day more'. How very generous.
As for me? If I book an economy that's what I expect. If they* want to foist something larger off on me I'll have no qualms about submitting a bill for the extra petrol it used. Whether they'll pay it is another question entirely but at least it'll annoy em! Who knows, they might even start rethinking their business strategy.
There you go, cynicism and naïveté in the same post!
*they, in this context, means any car rental company, not just Budget.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
A little excitement
Last night we had a fire. When I say we I mean in the condo block - not our building. Nor, to be honest, was it much of a fire.
When I arrived home and was locking my car one of the neighbours approached in a somewhat agitated frame of mind, asking if I could smell smoke. As it happened I couldn't but I pointed out that there was (still is at the time of writing) a bushfire burning to the south west of the Greater Phoenix area. That's some distance away but prevailing winds, such as they are, blow the smoke toward us. Indeed, half an hour earlier, as I drove past Sky HarboUr Airport I was greatly tempted to pull over in the emergency lane and take a quick shot of the sun through thick smoke; it was blood red and the entire scene bathed in a soft golden light quite unlike that normally seen here this time of year.
She was somewhat doubtful (perhaps it was my accent) but went away so I did too.
A couple of minutes later we became aware of shouting and screaming outside and poked our heads out. The same woman was running back and forth, yelling for buckets of water and we could see a few wisps of smoke curling around the balcony on the next building over.
Before we could do anything else the fire trucks arrived. Most definitely in the plural; within about five minutes there were six full sized appliances plus a couple of smaller trucks, a police car, the local power company and CBS 5 News. Oh, and the news helicopter hovering overhead!
I have to say the firefighters seemed to enjoy their job! Out came the pick axes and the buzz saw; they kicked in the door of the condo seeming most affected and proceeded to chop holes in various walls to isolate the source of the smoke.
I should probably be somewhat circumspect about what the hysterical neighbour was saying; she was insistent that the fire was the result of a bunch of younger renters throwing their cigarettes over the balcony. This doesn't quite jibe with what the firefighters were saying; they reckon it was electrical wiring and I'm more inclined to believe them than a hysterical layman.
I suppose it was tactless to roll and light up a cigarette while she was trying to convince me!
Once it was clear the place wasn't going up in flames the atmosphere became almost festive. Naturally everyone living there (I'm guessing there are a hundred or so apartments) was out rubbernecking. Everyone except the poor bastards occupying the source of the smoke; they seem to be out of town. Someone had the forethougt to post a note on the door so when they do return they won't assume burglary.
I've lived here five and a half years and I didn't recognise most of the folk there! Sonya's lived here eight years and she knew almost no one either. We met the woman who lives four doors up; she's lived here since 1984! I honestly don't think I'd clapped eyes on her before yesterday. Sad commentary on modern community life methinks!
The CBS 5 news report was interesting. Uh huh, I've finally watched network news on TV here! According to them there were flames shooting everywhere and one neighbour was credited with saving the life of a resident. Can't say I saw that!
I said before that everyone living here was out rubbernecking. I lied a little; Andrew totally ignored it and continued playing World of Warcraft. I'm starting to get worried about that boy!
When I arrived home and was locking my car one of the neighbours approached in a somewhat agitated frame of mind, asking if I could smell smoke. As it happened I couldn't but I pointed out that there was (still is at the time of writing) a bushfire burning to the south west of the Greater Phoenix area. That's some distance away but prevailing winds, such as they are, blow the smoke toward us. Indeed, half an hour earlier, as I drove past Sky HarboUr Airport I was greatly tempted to pull over in the emergency lane and take a quick shot of the sun through thick smoke; it was blood red and the entire scene bathed in a soft golden light quite unlike that normally seen here this time of year.
She was somewhat doubtful (perhaps it was my accent) but went away so I did too.
A couple of minutes later we became aware of shouting and screaming outside and poked our heads out. The same woman was running back and forth, yelling for buckets of water and we could see a few wisps of smoke curling around the balcony on the next building over.
Before we could do anything else the fire trucks arrived. Most definitely in the plural; within about five minutes there were six full sized appliances plus a couple of smaller trucks, a police car, the local power company and CBS 5 News. Oh, and the news helicopter hovering overhead!
I have to say the firefighters seemed to enjoy their job! Out came the pick axes and the buzz saw; they kicked in the door of the condo seeming most affected and proceeded to chop holes in various walls to isolate the source of the smoke.
I should probably be somewhat circumspect about what the hysterical neighbour was saying; she was insistent that the fire was the result of a bunch of younger renters throwing their cigarettes over the balcony. This doesn't quite jibe with what the firefighters were saying; they reckon it was electrical wiring and I'm more inclined to believe them than a hysterical layman.
I suppose it was tactless to roll and light up a cigarette while she was trying to convince me!
Once it was clear the place wasn't going up in flames the atmosphere became almost festive. Naturally everyone living there (I'm guessing there are a hundred or so apartments) was out rubbernecking. Everyone except the poor bastards occupying the source of the smoke; they seem to be out of town. Someone had the forethougt to post a note on the door so when they do return they won't assume burglary.
I've lived here five and a half years and I didn't recognise most of the folk there! Sonya's lived here eight years and she knew almost no one either. We met the woman who lives four doors up; she's lived here since 1984! I honestly don't think I'd clapped eyes on her before yesterday. Sad commentary on modern community life methinks!
The CBS 5 news report was interesting. Uh huh, I've finally watched network news on TV here! According to them there were flames shooting everywhere and one neighbour was credited with saving the life of a resident. Can't say I saw that!
I said before that everyone living here was out rubbernecking. I lied a little; Andrew totally ignored it and continued playing World of Warcraft. I'm starting to get worried about that boy!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Every picture tells a story
or so they say. I felt this sign, seen yesterday on our way to lunch at Jerome, told its story very well indeed.
I love the direct way it jumps into the story and then heightens the tension. Seen as I saw it, hurtling along the road at 60 MPH, that bold 'All loads must be' followed by the imperative need to get closer so I could read the denoument.
Narrative brilliance!
I love the direct way it jumps into the story and then heightens the tension. Seen as I saw it, hurtling along the road at 60 MPH, that bold 'All loads must be' followed by the imperative need to get closer so I could read the denoument.
Narrative brilliance!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
BigBoy is dead. Behold, FatBastard!
Late last night BigBoy, our HTPC (Home Theatre PC) died. Can't say I blame him, not after two and a half years of sitting in the dark beside the TV and never being switched off.
The first symptom was the loss of network connectivity; no guide updates. That's important when you have a couple of hundred channels available, even though I only ever check about a dozen or so on anything like a regular basis.
So I did what any self respecting geek would do, I rebooted him. At which point he stubbornly refused to restart. Ok, I can take a hint, especially since we're having a heatwave and hitting temperatures in the 115 range. Took him apart and blew out the dust and accumulated cat hair. Plugged him back in and nothing.
Long story short I concluded, correctly, that a new motherboard was probably in order. The CPU itself seemed ok so I took a chance and a drive over to Frys for the cheapest MB they had. I'm stingy like that. 60 bucks and an hour later and the new motherboard was installed. Still no reboot but that was expected; you can't change to a different motherboard and expect everything to still work.
Re-install of XP MCE 2005. Sounds simple. 7 hours later it was finally working. Perhaps I should have bitten the bullet and reformatted the boot drive but that's also a backup location for the rest of our PCs so I did an install over the top of the old one. In retrospect it would have been quicker to pop the system drive out, stick it in another PC and copy the backups but that's the benefit of hindsight. If I'd known in 1970 what I now know about what was going to happen to property values in Carlton (Melbourne) I'd be a millionaire today!
The XP MCE 2005 installation itself went smoothly enough, straight off the CD. Even the 'critical' updates (all 99 of them) went well enough. Where it went pear shaped was when it was time to install XP Media Center Update Rollup 2. Unfortunately we needed that for XBox support so's Sonya can watch 'So you think you can dance' whilst I indulge in some obscure Japanese movie. Unfortunately the rollup needed .NET 1.1 plus .NET 1.1 SP1.
And it stubbornly refused to install! At about the 1 hour point I was convinced there was a problem. Ever tried to cancel a .NET 1.1 install? It sits there for a VERY long time pretending to be cancelling but not doing a damn thing. 0% CPU and no disk activity. For as long as you're prepared to wait.
Two or three hours later I finally stumbled on the .NET cleanup tool. Ran it, then ran the .NET 1.1 installer again and finally it consented to finish.
I couldn't resist the idea of renaming the computer to FatBastard. *shrug* After all, he does have a terabyte of hard disks sitting in there! But he's going to be just as neglected as BigBoy was. I follow a simple rule; it's a HTPC and nothing else; it's role in life is to timeshift those obscure Japanese movies that the networks will insist on running at 4AM so I can watch em at a more civlised hour.
I could have thought of better ways of spending my birthday, but on the other hand birthdays are becoming something I'm less and less inclined to celebrate. Another twenty years or so and I'll start being proud of making it past 70 but right now it feels like just another milepost a trifle closer to the end than I'm happy with.
The first symptom was the loss of network connectivity; no guide updates. That's important when you have a couple of hundred channels available, even though I only ever check about a dozen or so on anything like a regular basis.
So I did what any self respecting geek would do, I rebooted him. At which point he stubbornly refused to restart. Ok, I can take a hint, especially since we're having a heatwave and hitting temperatures in the 115 range. Took him apart and blew out the dust and accumulated cat hair. Plugged him back in and nothing.
Long story short I concluded, correctly, that a new motherboard was probably in order. The CPU itself seemed ok so I took a chance and a drive over to Frys for the cheapest MB they had. I'm stingy like that. 60 bucks and an hour later and the new motherboard was installed. Still no reboot but that was expected; you can't change to a different motherboard and expect everything to still work.
Re-install of XP MCE 2005. Sounds simple. 7 hours later it was finally working. Perhaps I should have bitten the bullet and reformatted the boot drive but that's also a backup location for the rest of our PCs so I did an install over the top of the old one. In retrospect it would have been quicker to pop the system drive out, stick it in another PC and copy the backups but that's the benefit of hindsight. If I'd known in 1970 what I now know about what was going to happen to property values in Carlton (Melbourne) I'd be a millionaire today!
The XP MCE 2005 installation itself went smoothly enough, straight off the CD. Even the 'critical' updates (all 99 of them) went well enough. Where it went pear shaped was when it was time to install XP Media Center Update Rollup 2. Unfortunately we needed that for XBox support so's Sonya can watch 'So you think you can dance' whilst I indulge in some obscure Japanese movie. Unfortunately the rollup needed .NET 1.1 plus .NET 1.1 SP1.
And it stubbornly refused to install! At about the 1 hour point I was convinced there was a problem. Ever tried to cancel a .NET 1.1 install? It sits there for a VERY long time pretending to be cancelling but not doing a damn thing. 0% CPU and no disk activity. For as long as you're prepared to wait.
Two or three hours later I finally stumbled on the .NET cleanup tool. Ran it, then ran the .NET 1.1 installer again and finally it consented to finish.
I couldn't resist the idea of renaming the computer to FatBastard. *shrug* After all, he does have a terabyte of hard disks sitting in there! But he's going to be just as neglected as BigBoy was. I follow a simple rule; it's a HTPC and nothing else; it's role in life is to timeshift those obscure Japanese movies that the networks will insist on running at 4AM so I can watch em at a more civlised hour.
I could have thought of better ways of spending my birthday, but on the other hand birthdays are becoming something I'm less and less inclined to celebrate. Another twenty years or so and I'll start being proud of making it past 70 but right now it feels like just another milepost a trifle closer to the end than I'm happy with.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Missing the point
After a slow start the hot weather has finally arrived again. I don't know what the max temperature was today (somewhere around 109?). I can report that it was 96 at midnight so we're possibly not far away from the 100 at midnight that I rave on about at length.
I can't remember if I've specifically written about it but the heat of Phoenix carries a human toll; every year some dozens of people die of heat exhaustion and/or thirst (and that's not including the count, rather higher, of those who die crossing the border and perish in the desert).
You might expect more of a hue and cry until you realise that those who die are, for the most part, 'street' people. I vividly remember seeing a 'street' person fall over in Williams Street Melbourne, about thirty years ago. Everyone walked past, careful not to notice this old, unshaven, dirty (and probably smelly) guy gasping for breath on the pavement. I wasn't much better myself though I did call for an ambulance. My excuse? I didn't know what else to do. Poor enough excuse methinks.
I don't know if he died that day or not.
Today, as I drove to the office listening to KTAR[^] (I really must find an alternative to the obnoxious Ankarlo - alas Charles Goyette is gone) they ran a 'public announcement' to the effect that, now that it was the height of summer, there were drinking water and air-conditioned refuges available to those who needed them. So far so good, they do this every year. But what took my breath away was the continued advice to 'log on' to their website to find the locations!
I can't remember if I've specifically written about it but the heat of Phoenix carries a human toll; every year some dozens of people die of heat exhaustion and/or thirst (and that's not including the count, rather higher, of those who die crossing the border and perish in the desert).
You might expect more of a hue and cry until you realise that those who die are, for the most part, 'street' people. I vividly remember seeing a 'street' person fall over in Williams Street Melbourne, about thirty years ago. Everyone walked past, careful not to notice this old, unshaven, dirty (and probably smelly) guy gasping for breath on the pavement. I wasn't much better myself though I did call for an ambulance. My excuse? I didn't know what else to do. Poor enough excuse methinks.
I don't know if he died that day or not.
Today, as I drove to the office listening to KTAR[^] (I really must find an alternative to the obnoxious Ankarlo - alas Charles Goyette is gone) they ran a 'public announcement' to the effect that, now that it was the height of summer, there were drinking water and air-conditioned refuges available to those who needed them. So far so good, they do this every year. But what took my breath away was the continued advice to 'log on' to their website to find the locations!
Friday, June 13, 2008
The land of opportunity
The other day, as I wandered at lunchtime into the lunch room at the office, PP (Personnel Person) was finishing a sentence. '...my aunts basement was flooded.'
I couldn't resist. 'That's the great thing about this country' I said. 'In America even the ants have basements!'
I couldn't resist. 'That's the great thing about this country' I said. 'In America even the ants have basements!'
Thursday, June 12, 2008
If it's warm weather then it's time for
my annual 'How American are you' test. Three years ago[^] I scored 23%. Two years ago[^] I scored 27%.
Last year I managed 32%[^] so I fear I'm slipping.
Last year I managed 32%[^] so I fear I'm slipping.
You Are 31% American |
 America: You don't love it or want to leave it. But you wouldn't mind giving it an extreme make over. On the 4th of July, you'll fly a freak flag instead... And give Uncle Sam a sucker punch! |
Bright shiny things
Andrew was as happy as a dog with two dicks this evening. 'Look at this' he cried, pointing at his computer screen. Needless to say the screen was displaying World of Warcraft. I peered and beheld something resembling a sceptre. 'That's mine. See how shiny it is?' he said.
Uh huh. 'Andrew' I said, 'I'm not sure how to tell you this but it's just a bunch of pixels on the screen.'
Well he wasn't going to let *me* rain on his parade; no sirree. He launched into a description of the heroic battle he'd fought against thousands of basement dwellers all over the world to win his spoils. I could feel my eyes glazing over!
Description over and the will to live slowly returning I went into the kitchen, grabbed some tinfoil and a handy pen, wrapped the latter in the former and returned to Andrew.
'Hey Andrew' I said. 'See this? Mmmmm, nice and shiny!' as I handed it over.
At least Sonya had the grace to laugh!
Uh huh. 'Andrew' I said, 'I'm not sure how to tell you this but it's just a bunch of pixels on the screen.'
Well he wasn't going to let *me* rain on his parade; no sirree. He launched into a description of the heroic battle he'd fought against thousands of basement dwellers all over the world to win his spoils. I could feel my eyes glazing over!
Description over and the will to live slowly returning I went into the kitchen, grabbed some tinfoil and a handy pen, wrapped the latter in the former and returned to Andrew.
'Hey Andrew' I said. 'See this? Mmmmm, nice and shiny!' as I handed it over.
At least Sonya had the grace to laugh!
Woodmen
Sonya was bored on Sunday so we went to visit a cemetery. Isn't that what everyone does when bored? As it happened I wasn't averse to the idea; I enjoy a good cemetery. We're gradually 'doing' all the Phoenix cemeteries.
I have to admit that I don't enjoy them here as much as I should, due entirely to the climate. There's not much chance of them becoming overgrown and 'romantic'. Instead they're either carefully manicured grass or hard scrabble; mostly the latter.
One of the more interesting ones is down on (I think) Fifteenth Avenue, having, as it does, many monuments dating from when this was the Arizona Territory and one or two more from before the annexation. Interestingly the Mexican flag flies as prominently as does the US flag, only fitting for the graves of those buried when this was Mexico!
Just as interesting is the fact that you can't get into it! There's a little sign on the gate directing one to an address three or four miles east. It's been five and a half years since I last went there (it was the day after my arrival in the US) and I had, at that time, not much idea of the street names. When one goes to the address they hand over the key in return for a deposit. I suppose there must be a market for stolen cemetery keys!
The cemetery we visited this weekend is at Twenty Third Avenue and Van Buren and was, apparently, once four cemeteries in close proximity, since combined into the one. I can see the Jewish cemetery being separate at some time in the past but I couldn't see much rhyme or reason to the rest of it being separated into three pieces at one time. Perhaps one could argue the case for the military section but that'd be about it.
But one feature that intrigued me was the number of tombstones in the shape of a tree stump and with the following plaque attached (image shamelessly stolen from here[^] because I didn't have my camera with me).
I'd never seen this before and at first I thought perhaps I'd stumbled upon evidence of some American secret society. The close proximity of Freemasons and I.O.O.F. markers led credence to the theory but it seemed unlikely. I was closer than I thought[^]. And also see here[^].
A bloody insurance company! Yeah, I can see myself wanting a Farmers State logo on *my* grave!
I have to admit that I don't enjoy them here as much as I should, due entirely to the climate. There's not much chance of them becoming overgrown and 'romantic'. Instead they're either carefully manicured grass or hard scrabble; mostly the latter.
One of the more interesting ones is down on (I think) Fifteenth Avenue, having, as it does, many monuments dating from when this was the Arizona Territory and one or two more from before the annexation. Interestingly the Mexican flag flies as prominently as does the US flag, only fitting for the graves of those buried when this was Mexico!
Just as interesting is the fact that you can't get into it! There's a little sign on the gate directing one to an address three or four miles east. It's been five and a half years since I last went there (it was the day after my arrival in the US) and I had, at that time, not much idea of the street names. When one goes to the address they hand over the key in return for a deposit. I suppose there must be a market for stolen cemetery keys!
The cemetery we visited this weekend is at Twenty Third Avenue and Van Buren and was, apparently, once four cemeteries in close proximity, since combined into the one. I can see the Jewish cemetery being separate at some time in the past but I couldn't see much rhyme or reason to the rest of it being separated into three pieces at one time. Perhaps one could argue the case for the military section but that'd be about it.
But one feature that intrigued me was the number of tombstones in the shape of a tree stump and with the following plaque attached (image shamelessly stolen from here[^] because I didn't have my camera with me).
I'd never seen this before and at first I thought perhaps I'd stumbled upon evidence of some American secret society. The close proximity of Freemasons and I.O.O.F. markers led credence to the theory but it seemed unlikely. I was closer than I thought[^]. And also see here[^].
A bloody insurance company! Yeah, I can see myself wanting a Farmers State logo on *my* grave!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Not that I'm counting
but at this moment 100 days hence I shall, with luck and continuance of life, be high above the Pacific Ocean on my way to Australia. Those fish and chips are getting closer!
He's breathing!
As I think I've mentioned once or twice before, I, with my friends, was rather fond of going to movie matinees in the mid 1960's. That was a time when ones choices on TV were somewhat less than they are now. Whether choices today are better is another question entirely. There's nothing quite like having 108 channels of TV and nothing to watch! Fortunately that doesn't happen to me; TCM run a lot of old movies and IFC and Sundance aren't too bad either. You should have heard Andrew though, before he discovered World of Warcraft. 'There's nothing on!' he'd complain. 'What about The African Queen' I'd ask. 'Oh, that? That's old!'
There is no response to that!
But I digress. Back in the 60's we'd go to the Saturday Arvo matinee. A feature film after the intermission; cartoons, a newsreel and a serial before the intermission. Intermission? I still get a chuckle watching the three hour marathons made in the 60's (Spartacus, Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, The Great Race, 2001: A space Odyssey) when the intermission placard comes up. I very much doubt todays teenagers have ever seen the word; certainly not at the movies.
I can't remember much about the serials; I think they ran Flash Gordon[^] once or twice. For the most part the serials seemed to be about cowboys fighting the injuns! We'd sit there in the dark munching on Jaffas[^] and drink in this alien culture. Whenever someone would fall with an arrow in the back we'd watch the actor. And inevitably someone (usually me) would shout 'he's breathing!'. Laughter throughout the theatre.
Good times.
I was watching In the light of the moon[^] tonight (US title is Ed Gein[^]) and couldn't help noticing, in the scene where we see his brother laid out in the coffin, that the actor was breathing. Someone sure screwed up there!
I called Sonya up to see (she and I have long since accepted that we don't like the movies the other likes). Her comment? 'I don't know how you notice things like that.'
Practice :-)
There is no response to that!
But I digress. Back in the 60's we'd go to the Saturday Arvo matinee. A feature film after the intermission; cartoons, a newsreel and a serial before the intermission. Intermission? I still get a chuckle watching the three hour marathons made in the 60's (Spartacus, Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, The Great Race, 2001: A space Odyssey) when the intermission placard comes up. I very much doubt todays teenagers have ever seen the word; certainly not at the movies.
I can't remember much about the serials; I think they ran Flash Gordon[^] once or twice. For the most part the serials seemed to be about cowboys fighting the injuns! We'd sit there in the dark munching on Jaffas[^] and drink in this alien culture. Whenever someone would fall with an arrow in the back we'd watch the actor. And inevitably someone (usually me) would shout 'he's breathing!'. Laughter throughout the theatre.
Good times.
I was watching In the light of the moon[^] tonight (US title is Ed Gein[^]) and couldn't help noticing, in the scene where we see his brother laid out in the coffin, that the actor was breathing. Someone sure screwed up there!
I called Sonya up to see (she and I have long since accepted that we don't like the movies the other likes). Her comment? 'I don't know how you notice things like that.'
Practice :-)
Monday, June 09, 2008
Vote Schmuck!
That's the proud slogan on some electoral signs that have sprung up in Tempe, way down south, where I work. At first glance it might look like an exhortation to the idle, uncommitted voter, to go and vote!
Not a bit of it. Nope, it's the name of the candidate. I'll give him his due, he knows the nature of his name, for the slogan goes on to read 'Schmuck... that's right!'. Full points for a sense of humour. Of course, I could wish he represented a different party.
Yeah, I know I shouldn't make fun of peoples names, but if he can do it I can certainly join in.
Link[^]
Not a bit of it. Nope, it's the name of the candidate. I'll give him his due, he knows the nature of his name, for the slogan goes on to read 'Schmuck... that's right!'. Full points for a sense of humour. Of course, I could wish he represented a different party.
Yeah, I know I shouldn't make fun of peoples names, but if he can do it I can certainly join in.
Link[^]
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Another year, another birthday
The combination lock
In something of a minor miracle Morgan's managed to keep a job for an entire week.
She announced on Saturday that she needed a lock for her locker, that others might not pinch her stuff while she was out on the sales floor. Yep, she's working at a local department store though which department I couldn't say.
Andrew thought a moment and announced that he had a spare combination lock. Sounded reasonable given that his most precious asset at the moment is protected by his World of Warcraft password! So up the stairs he went and down came a padlock of the sort that has four little wheels, each numbered 0 to 9.
Of course he'd forgotten the combination! So Morgan played with it for 30 seconds or so and gave up. There are, after all, only 10,000 possible combinations. She handed it to Mom and she, Mom, handed it straight on to me. Uh huh, that'd be right.
I immediately turned the wheels to 0000 and 'click' it was open! Amazed looks! 'How did you do that?' they chorused.
'Well', I replied, 'it was easy.' Dad (their dad not mine) bought it and gave it to Andrew. And they're both so lazy they wouldn't have read the instructions on how to set the combination. Therefore it had to be still set at the factory default!
Perhaps I ought to have played the role of Houdini rather than that of Sherlock Holmes; now they know how it was done they're not half as impressed. But I bet you are!
She announced on Saturday that she needed a lock for her locker, that others might not pinch her stuff while she was out on the sales floor. Yep, she's working at a local department store though which department I couldn't say.
Andrew thought a moment and announced that he had a spare combination lock. Sounded reasonable given that his most precious asset at the moment is protected by his World of Warcraft password! So up the stairs he went and down came a padlock of the sort that has four little wheels, each numbered 0 to 9.
Of course he'd forgotten the combination! So Morgan played with it for 30 seconds or so and gave up. There are, after all, only 10,000 possible combinations. She handed it to Mom and she, Mom, handed it straight on to me. Uh huh, that'd be right.
I immediately turned the wheels to 0000 and 'click' it was open! Amazed looks! 'How did you do that?' they chorused.
'Well', I replied, 'it was easy.' Dad (their dad not mine) bought it and gave it to Andrew. And they're both so lazy they wouldn't have read the instructions on how to set the combination. Therefore it had to be still set at the factory default!
Perhaps I ought to have played the role of Houdini rather than that of Sherlock Holmes; now they know how it was done they're not half as impressed. But I bet you are!
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