This Olde House - Part 3.5

Some early mid-demo shots of the bathrooms. We're not planning on doing much with these in the short term future, but since I have a dumpster ($250/month!) in my driveway for only two more weeks, we decided to go ahead and get under way with some of the work.

First shot is the current Master Bathroom. The gaping hole is the former home of a 1960's gas-powered wall heater. Point of conjecture here. I'm not sure exactly which Southern Mississippi this house used to be in, but the one it is in now has Winters that are so cold we usually wear shorts up to Christmas. And in thirty years it has snowed down here a grand total of... um... TWICE! So I imagine the heater saw action less than a dozen times since Nixon took ofice. And speaking of the 60s, check out the sweet color scheme we have in here. Yellow tile, green fixtures, and a white linoluem floor. One day, dear friends, one day I'll breathe new life into this humble salon.

Second shot is the smaller bathroom off of the Master Bedroom. Aside from the lovely hole (yes, another heater!) of interest we have pink flooring, powder blue tiles, mustard yellow walls, and a fine fine fine wooden toilet seat. News flash: pee & wood are not the best of friends! Anyway, we barely use this bathroom and never shower in it. So I'm going to go ahead and demo the whole thing and get it ready for an overhaul once the living room and dining room are completed.

Any progress is good progress, in my book.

MOVIE: Dragon Wars

About once a month, the Sci-Fi Channel hauls out a really nasty, low-budget crapfest composed of grotesque acting, pitiful dialogue, and insane plotlines. Fortunately, those shows are free and I can change the channel.

The fact that I not only paid to see this movie, but that I didn't walk out after the first fifteen minutes speaks poorly to my intelligence and theatrical tastes.

The plot was limp. Liam & I couldn't have been more confused. Fortunately, Liam got to eat popcorn, the last 10 minutes had some fairly interesting special effects, and it was a short movie.

Final verdict? One of the characters said said best: "What are you talking about?" Unless you're into Korean folklore and half-ass acting, keep away, keep away, keep away!

MOVIE: 3:10 To Yuma

My father and I caught the evening show. Just the two of us. My brother, Jason, was supposed to join us. But he backed out. We missed him.

I can't say I saw the original 3:10 To Yuma. (Considering it was from something like 1957!) And I can't say I'm a big fan of Westerns. But I do like Russel Crowe. And I'm a big fan of Christian Bale.

The acting saved the flick. The writing wasn't bad, but it was predictable in some places and over done in others. And it rapidly degraded to a full blown shoot-em-up in the final minutes. Complete with a horde of villains expending hundreds of rounds against a hero that can effortlessly dispose of a dozen of them with pin point accuracy simultaneously running across rooftops on horseback and rustling cattle.

Good characterizations, great direction, and gorgeous settings. But it required too much of a willing suspension of disbelief. And I couldn't relax enough to enjoy the movie while suspending so much.

Final verdict? Worth renting to see the "extras" but no reason to pay more to see it on the full screen. Unless you're a Western fanatic...

Counting my blessings

Cindy drove up to Jackson yesterday, for a Nurses' conference. I woke up with the children and did the dance: make the bed, get dressed, get fed, make lunches, brush teeth, and be nice to Daddy while he throws off the fog of sleep.

It made me realize how fortunate I am to have Cindy. The kids are great, but they're a handful. And they're usually filling Cindy's hands each morning.

And that's on top of tending to the house, shopping for the groceries, and fixing dinner.

I should count my blessings more often.

Here there be pain

I don't know how. I don't know why. But I can barely walk. Maybe it was the squatting in the attic. Maybe it was the demo work. Maybe hauling sheet rock. I dunno. I just know it hurts.

I'd ache when I had to get out of my chair. I'd winch as I'd walk to get something to eat. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Like a gang of really angry midgets punching me in the quads.

And since I pretty much didn't get more than three hours of sleep last night, there's pain and there's exhaustion. And there is little else.

This Olde House - Part 3

Eighteen more hours of work on the house. This time we dropped the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. And put up a 14" header. Something to match the one we blew out last week.

Couple of pictures to mark the occasion. (Click them to enlarge, I think.) The first is the "before" shot. The cabinet is going to come out. The wall is going to come out. And there is a large standing cabinet barely visible on the left that is going to come out. As a bit of foreshadowing, the big Spanish tiles on the floor (along with the huge grout lines) are next on the hit list.

The next shot (click to enlarge?) is half way through the demo process. We removed the cabinet and most of the sheet rock. Now, exposed for the first time in probably a decade, you can see the original color of the wood panels. I think it is pea green. Darker than lime. Lighter than grass.

Those are wooden tongue-and-groove boards we're about to smash. They were as hard as rock. "Seasoned" Dad said. "Old," I said. I wish I could have re-used them, but I beat them silly and they're resting outside in the dumpster.

Last shot (click to enlarge!) is the finished product. The goal was to open the space and create a natural flow between the kitchen and the dining room. So there's now a 14" high by 144" wide header where there used to be a wall. Mission accomplished?

In the background of the second and third shots, you can see the results of our adventures last week: lots of new sheet rock and lots of dried gypsum mud. There used to be painfully red wood panels back there. They hurt Cindy's eyes. They made me almost sterile. But now they're gone. Never to see the light of day again.

I diced up the sheet rock. Dad did the electrical action. We both did the demo and carted off the scraps. Not bad for a weekend's work.

Improvised Colon Grenade

Under normal conditions, I'll pass on greasy food. I'm not usually partial to eating a fast food burger that has been simmering in a puddle of its own juices.

But today wasn't normal. I've been prepping for tomorrow's battle royal with the kitchen wall. Much of my morning was spent in the attic. The airless, sweltering attic. Stripping off tiles and boards from the old roof that was covered with an extended roof when the former owners enclosed the garage. I had to cut through the old roof to get direct access to the ceiling joists.

It wasn't fun. It was brutal. It was sweaty. It was cramped. And dank. So I loved it.

And then, on a ride to Lowe's, I passed Checkers. I haven't eaten a fast food burger that wasn't flame broiled since we moved down here. But it was there and I was hungry. And HOLY JUMPING CHRIST IT WAS GOOD! A triple thick triple cheese Nascar grease bomb with a side of fries that tasted like God Almighty himself fried up for me.

I've spent a long time trying to convince my friends and family of the dangers of fast food. And know I realize why they've been laughing at me for a very long time. I crave another one, already.

This Olde House - Part 2.5

Many times, little things make a difference. Take for example this little project. The subterranean moles that used to own the house not only had an affinity for disgusting paint colors, but they also loathed light. In our bedroom, the ceiling fan didn't have any sort of attachment for light. So I added this subtle little piece to it. And now, we have light. One less thing on my Honey-Do list.

My other experiment with lighting was outside the front door. We used to have a faded, 1960s plastic light that had amassed two inches of gnats under the bulb. I replaced it with a rustic looking piece that had a lot more character and a lot fewer bugs concealed within. (Click to enlarge!)

When I say, "I" did it, it actually means "my Dad." He does the electrical. I do the heavy lifting or demo work. And, of course, everything was picked out by Cindy.

Two projects down. Ten thousand to go.

September 9th

My younger brother celebrated his... um... 34th birthday, today. Mom, Dad, and I went over there for a while. Liam was running a fever, so Cindy stayed home with the kids.

Jason's friends and their kids were there and we all sat outside talking about our adventures and life in post-Katrina Mississippi.

Sadly, I don't remember what we did for Jason's birthday two years ago. I'm not even sure what we did LAST year. It's all a gray fog behind my old eyes.

Sorry, Jay! But I'm sure you'll understand now that you have Morgan to eat up your spare braincells. It's all down hill from here, bro.

This Olde House - Part 2

Another day of toil and strife. But it we reached all our goals and I'm extremely happy with the results. First up is the next view of the front door. Click to enlarge and you can see the new light switches Dad installed. Notice the lack of raging red wood panels. How about the missing wood trim? All new sheet rock in place and the first layer of mud is down.

Next up is a new view of the long wall stretching toward the kitchen. All new sheet rock. And click to enlarge to see the new outlets along the bottom. It'll look much better once the mud is finished and smoothed and we get to the painting. But even like it is now, we're happier than we were with the wood panel and the red paint job. Maybe it is a trick of the mind, but I think the acoustics have changed. And the lighting is greatly improved.

Remember the white wood paneling around the dining room window and the big thick trim? All better, now. New dry wall in place. A new outlet below it, which isn't visible because of the my camera angle. And some temporary contractor's blinds in place to keep out the voyeurs.

Barely visible at the bottom of the picture (click to enlarge) is the gap that will have to be filled with new cement. I hung the dry wall all the way up to the ceiling, so there's space where the floor needs to be raised. I'm still trying to find a contractor to do that. And I'm not at all happy with the quotes so far. We're talking about a 12' x 15' room here, but the first quote came in at $400 and the second for $550, just for the labor to finish the concrete. The materials alone will be $250!

Finally, a picture of the expanded wall between the dining room and living room. The gap used to be barely ten feet wide. Now is it ten feet. That's my surprised bride about to say something profane!

Still a lot of work to do. The mud has to be skimmed and sanded. We'll probably put up two coats of primer. At least one coat of flat paint. And then the floorboards and crown molding. Sometime thereafter, I'll replace all the ceiling fans.

And miles to go before I sleep.

Her own waves

Cindy called and told me about the scores for Meg's literacy test, today. The average score was around 100 points. Meg scored 133. Even though she's only in Kindergarten, she's already reading on a second grade level.

So, much like her brother, Meg (click the images to enlarge) is well ahead of the game. Five, going on fifteen. And she's turned out to be a magnificent artist. I'll post some of her amazing artwork if I can get a decent picture of it.

This girl doesn't follow in anybody's wake. She's going to make her own waves.

This Olde House - Part 1

Labor Day is supposed to be celebrated mainly as a day of rest and marks the symbolic end of summer for many. At Chateau McDougal, it marked the beginning of This Olde House. A project to overhaul our living and dining rooms, and to re-do the floors in the dining room and kitchen.

The first Before Pic shows an example of 1) the red paint in the living room, 2) the wood panel lurking under the red paint, 3) the Little House On The Prairie molding that trimmed and cased everything and cleverly accentuated the freakshow red wood panels. IT ALL HAS TO GO!

The second Before Pic shows the white wooden panels in the dining room and the thick wood trim. That ceiling fan is out of there, too. And it doesn't show, but the floor is almost three inches lower in this area. I'll probably have to get it filled with cement and finished to be level with the kitchen and living room. Maybe I can convince Cindy I have cement finishing skills? Well, maybe not.

The third Before Pic is looking from the dining room into the living room. Notice the red wood panel walls? Won't be with us much longer. The trim around the everything? Next on the list. Once the walls are pretty and there is new molding, I'll send those two old school ceiling fans packing. First, though, I'm going to demo the left side archway in the picture and expand it to at least ten feet, maybe twelve. Right now it is only six feet of opening, and it constricts the space. I'm gonna open it up. Let some more light shine through.

* * *

Several hours later. The first After Pic. We've removed all of the trim (Liam was a huge help. He hauled all the pieces outside after I ripped them up.) And we tore down the wood panels on the entryway. That's my Dad on the left. He's measuring to see how wide we can safely make the gap. Thankfully, it is not a load-bearing wall.

That's my Mom on the right. Not sure what she's up to at the moment. But most of her day was spent cleaning up our multitude of messes and bringing us Powerade.

And the second After Pic is looking from the living room toward the dining room. Meg wanted to contribute, so I use here she is. Shortly there after, the wooden studs on the right were removed and the 2 x 10s overhead with them went with them.

It is hard to see, but my father re-wired all of the light switches. For example, the switches to the left of Meg used to to be on only one side of the wall and controlled the ceiling fan in the dining room. Now, there's one switch in each room and each switch has a really cool LED that faintly shines in the dark, so it is easier to find them at night.

And we more doubled the number of electric outlets in both rooms. There used to be only 3 outlets in the living room. Now there are eight. There used to be only two in the dining room. But now there are four. Now we don't have to hunt for power and string extension cords across the floor.

So much for my long, relaxing weekend!

GMA - Katrina revisited

ABC's Good Morning America sent Robin Roberts down South to broadcast live, from the Gulf Coast, this morning. I captured the show and edited out the non-Mississippi parts. This will mark my first attempt to mess with captured video. I had to muscle my way through a couple of programs before I could get it close-to-right. I'm not super impressed with the final product, but I am proud of my efforts. If nothing else, it was a learning experience.

Two notes about the show. Robin initially broadcasts from Trinity Episcopal Church, in Pass Christian, Mississippi. I was married in that church. It was beautiful. I also held my High School Graduation Ceremony at that church. It, however, was unremarkable. Shortly after the storm, Cindy inched her way to the site, to see what was left. There wasn't much. Only the frame of the building and a few chandeliers survived. The rest was gone. Outside of it, only a large brass bell remained on the grounds. Nothing else was salvageable. Seeing the remains again touched both of us in uncomfortable places. Rekindling feelings we had thought we were past. Like suddenly realizing it is the anniversary of a dead family member.

Also, early into the first episode, Robin flies over the border of Long Beach and you can see my brother-in-law's subdivision. It's the graveyard of streets with bare foundations in all but a handful of places. A fairly new neighborhood, mercilessly wiped from the face of the earth. It's still unrecognizable as you drive past. And sun-bleached "For Sale" signs occupy almost every lot.

Otherwise, I think the rest speaks for itself. We're still rebuilding. It will be years before we're able to say, "We're done." But we'll get there. One day.

Downtime

Stanley's death hurt. I've never had a friend die. And now, he is gone.

He is gone.

That's Stanley, now. Gone.

I was starting to get my head around it, when MacArthur Wright died. A friend and coworker from Tunica, MS. On Saturday, August 4th, after celebrating my son's eighth birthday, I got a call informing me that Mac had died of a heart attack earlier that evening. I'd had lunch with him two weeks earlier. Met his wife, and his youngest son. And while doing some yard work with a friend, his heart stopped pumping.

That's Mac, now. Gone, too.

And in his wake, I had to spend a couple of weeks in Tunica. Picking up the pieces of his puzzles. Everyone on eggshells. Everyone slow and quiet. I had to check his voice mails. I had to check his emails. And sometimes I'd have to call people to give them the news.

It all burned me. A dull ache behind my eyes. No energy. Too much sleep.

So, I took some downtime.

I miss you, Stanley. I miss you, Mac. But, I'm gonna get on with living.

RIP - MacArthur Wright

Liam's birthday, he turned eight.

MacArthur Wright's last day on the earth. He was helping a friend spread some fresh mulch across the yard, when said he had to sit down for a while. His friend walked around the corner. Mac told him, "Don't get too hot!"

When his friend came back, Mac wasn't there. His friend went around the corner of the house, and found Mac on the ground, clutching his chest. Mac kept asking, "Why isn't it working?" But his pace maker never went off.

His friend called 911, and called Mac's wife. She and her youngest son were only a couple of blocks away from him. They made it in time to speak with him for a few minutes.

The medics showed up. They put him in the ambulance. But that was it. They called the coroner and he pronounced right there, in the vehicle.

So now my son's birthday is forever entwined with the death of a friend and coworker of mine.

Rest in peace, Mac.

RIP - Stanley Cline

I was told that some time last night, the body of Stanley Cline was found dead at his home, in his bed. It was not an apparent suicide. "They" are going to perform an autopsy.

I swapped emailed with Stanley on Monday, about LOLCats. I didn't know he was into them. He didn't know I was into them. We chuckled and went about our merry way. The last thing I received from him was this link.

He left vmail for Adam on Saturday. He sounded absolutely normal. Well, normal for Stanley. Nothing unusual. Nothing alarming.

Now Stanley is dead. And not knowing what happened makes me weak and angry and sad and furious all at once. I broke the news to Adam, George Williams, Chris Miller, Shawn Blair, and Frederique Delius. Adam called Lisa Mooty and Christian Schreiber. I'm sure the word has spread further and will continue to spread for days or weeks.

Nobody can believe it.

Everyone is shocked.

Nobody expected it.

I don't know what to say other than: I miss you, Stanley! You were one of the first people I met in Atlanta. You taught me a great deal about telcos. I always respected your talents. I never met your equal on such matters and doubt I ever will. If I needed you, you were there for me. I considered you a close friend. I'm sorry if I wasn't there for you last night and you needed something. I will always carry a piece of you with me. Always. Where ever you are roaming now, I hope it is a better place for you.

Monkey Mind

Usually, I have to fight the Monkey Mind. That's what yogis call the constant chatter behind our eyes. It clouds our judgment. Distracts us. Wants us to do things the easy way. Path of least resistance. My Monkey Mind tries to sabotage my drive to the gym. Fills my head with excuses NOT to work out.

"You didn't sleep well last night."

I never sleep well.

"You ate too much. You are too full to work out.

I'll be fine.

"You are too tired."

Am not.

"You can miss today. Work out tomorrow."

SHUT UP!

Negative thoughts echoing through my head. Excuse after excuse.

Gotta force out that Monkey. Chant my mantra of positivity: you can do it, you can do it, you can do it. Drown out the Monkey. Trek to the gym. You can do it. Keep it in check, until I get changed into shorts and t-shirt. You can do it. Force it down until pilates starts. Do it! Once I'm on the mat and the music is going, the Monkey Mind surrenders. Leaves me alone with my sweat.

But the lack of sleep swirls around me like black water. Does something odd. Something really really strange. I drop out for a couple of seconds. Like a long blink. Close my eyes while I'm doing The Hundred. Open my eyes and I'm in a plank. I don't think it was a black out. I was clenching my abs, exhaling as I grip. But I don't remember the transition. Lost the time.

On the weights, doing pec' flies, I dropped out again. The first three sets bled together. Don't remember the second or third. During the fourth, my eyes find focus. See myself in the mirror. Realize I'm critiquing my own form. Trying to slow it down. Do it right.

If I did it during the first three sets, I don't know. I didn't really spin up until that last set.

No matter what happened during those lost seconds or minutes, I feel better. Relaxed. Calm. Completely free of my Monkey Mind.

Shaggy's Tourette's

I forgot to mention the lone exception to my enjoyment of Die Hard v4.0.

I forgot to mention the shaggy-haired unshaven teenager. The one next to me who thought he was going to talk to the screen the whole time. The only loud mouthed idiot in the whole theater just HAD to sit next to me, right?

He started when they were rolling the trailers. Something about no soul food in China during "Rush Hour 3."

I tried to block out his gibberish.

But after he cranked up his second outburst of chimpery, I stared at him and asked, "Hey, Slick. Are you going to talk during the whole movie, or just the credits?"

He didn't look at me, but said, "Oh, sorry," all moppy like. As if I had ripped up his favorite Yugioh card.

To his credit he made it about 2/3rds the way through the movie before his Idiot Gene resumed control again. And he started talking to the damn screen again. Something like, "Yeah, get you some! Get you some...." which totally disrupted my feng shui.

So I twisted in my seat, leaned in next to him, looked PAST him and at his shaggy-haired buddies, pointed to the empty seat at the end of the aisle and loudly said, "Why don't you sit on the other side of your buddies and do you Tourette's thing over there? I'm trying to watch this movie."

His buddies recoiled. But he didn't blink. Wouldn't look at me. Just shut up. And let me enjoy the rest of the flick.

The four of them didn't jump me afterwards. I would have put a mean indian burn on at least one of them. But they had age and numbers on their side.

I guess I made a big impression?

Unrest

Most of the time I am struggling to figure out if I am awake, trying to sleep. Or if I am asleep, dreaming I am awake. Either side of the coin sucks. Most of this past week I barely managed four to six hours a night.

Was closer to three hours last night.

I've always been short on sleep. But it got really bad after the car wreck in Atlanta. Crazy chick side swiped me. And my neck has never been the same. Sleep suddenly became even more rare.

Now, reading for hours barely makes a dent.

I workout for hours. It doesn't matter.

Do yard work until I'm drenched in sweat. Can barely lift my arms. But even that fails to make a difference.

I don't want medication. I know it will work. And I know I'll get addicted.

I just want true, natural sleep.

Not this perpetual unrest.

Gray Nirvana

I'm fortunate that I make a living doing something I love. People pay me to make technology work for them. To fix what is broken. To upgrade what is old. To breathe new life into an old operation. For a digital junkie like me, it is Nirvana.

Went to Covington, LA, for some business. Making ends meeting. Usual stuff. Find a solution, make it work. Money is secondary to results.

Got distracted. Dragged into a long series of flashbacks. Glancing at the scars from the storm. Everyone in different stages of recovery. Most notably the trees. Actually, the stumps. So many stumps. Vacant slabs. Still-damaged, unlit houses. Almost two years after Katrina but people haven't pulled together the pieces of their lives. A quiet, beautiful community still sporting open wounds. Dragged me back to my own dark tales. All the pain and long days we fought through.

I'm happy to have the work. But now I'm in a cold gray Nirvana.

MOVIE: Live Free Die Hard

John McClane has returned. Older. Angrier. A cowboy quoting throwback in a digital maelstrom. Welcome back, John. You've been sorely missed.

I like pissed off old codgers spewing quick, venomous commentary. I like creative cinematic uses of modern technology. I like lithe ninja chicks kicking loads of buttocks. Rampaging tractor trailers. Elevator chases. Joint Strike Fighter. This movie had it all. And then some.

I won't dwell on the loopholes in the technology. I won't nitpick on the the amazing fact that as John gets more and more wounded, he seems capable of ever more difficult feats. (By the last fifteen minutes, I was expecting him to raise the dead and solve the riddle of steel.)

I don't know if it will win any Academy Awards, but it certainly won my vote.

Sign me up for Diehard 5.0.

Pod Rage

Last week I'm grinding along. Blaze of angry juice washing over my eardrums. Feel the music in my bones. Helps me march through the workout. One more set. One more rep. One more song.

Now, it is dead. Stone cold. An iPod nano paperweight.

My workouts aren't the same without it.

I can't run without it.

I think I'm depressed.

I know I'm angry.

Pod rage!

A divine cell phone call

God called. Well, not exactly GOD. This other dude. Benny Hinn. Called my cell. He did!

Caller ID showed "Unknown Number" but the ANI came across and it was an 800 number! 800-725-6570.

Benny said he wanted me to know about an a "training conference" for his "ministry." Said it is coming to Birmingham, AL, in September. Then he hung up.

Couple of thoughts blipped through my mind after I heard that click: What church is so desperate that it wants to train ME to handle its people? Have I ever had a dive phone call before?

And how did Benny get my cell phone number???

Fiddle while it burns

I anger easily these days. Every time I turn around there is another wound rent in our world. Our country is hemorrhaging. And we ignore it. I feel like a one-eyed man in our vast kingdom of the blind. Is nobody else watching this carnage? Can anyone taste the pain?

• Louisiana Senator David Vitter, a vocal conservative advocate of the "sanctity of marriage" announced that he had previously employed the services of a Washington D.C. prostitution ring. Supposedly he had only received a "massage." Yeah. Sure. If by "massage" you mean, "furious humpity hump of a early-twenties silicon-infused hooker," then I believe you. To further develop the man's character, a former-brothel owner in New Orleans (Jeanette Maier) said Vitter had also frequented her establishment in the past.
  

  Vitter hustled into Congress after replacing former Bob Livingston. Livingston “abruptly resigned after disclosures of numerous affairs” in 1998. At the time, Vitter condemned extramarital infidelity and took a snipe at (then under attack) Bill Clinton by stating: “I think Livingston’s stepping down makes a very powerful argument that Clinton should resign as well and move beyond this mess.” [Atlanta Journal and Constitution, 12/20/98]
  
  So two questions: When is Vitter going to resign? And when he is going to be charged with soliciting a prostitute? Yes, yes. Rhetorical question. I know the cheating, hypocritical scamitician will never pay for his crimes. It still maddens me.
  

• Alaskan Senator and "Bridge To Nowhere" architect, Ted Stevens openly admits he is worried a new Democratic probe will shed too much light on his shady past. This guy uses tax payer money to help renovate his mansion. This guy gives multi-million dollar deals to his hunting buddies. This guy is known to have "made a change that hid many of his assets," a couple of years back.
  
  So two questions: When is Stevens going to resign? And when is he going to be charged with tax evasion? I know, I know. More rhetorical questions. More fuel for the fires.
  

• Republican Senator Rick Santorum gives us blatant, unfettered glimpse of how the GOP is planning to steal another election, in 2008: whipping the populace into a sheep-like stupor by playing on their fear after the GOP allows another attack to take place ON AMERICAN SOIL.
  
  So two questions: How is Rowe going to extra revenge on Santorum for revealing the Sith Lord's diabolic plans for 2008? And why is the mass media not reporting on the fact that a ranking Republican Senator is openly inviting another mass terror attack on fellow Americans, with the sole purpose of recapturing control our government?
  

Instead of trying to right the wrongs our "elected officials" have wrought since 9/11, we countdown the days until the release of Paris Hilton.

Instead of holding our leaders accountable for their lies and their deceptions and their crimes, we get in line for another Harry Potter movie.

Instead of realizing that there's another attack looming because our power-crazed politicians are openly orchestrating it, we tune in to another episode of Flip This House.

Rome is blazing. And the wide-eyed sheeple fiddle while it burns.

Words of spice advice

Daniel: I think I'll try the pad thai, with shrimp.

Waiter: You want that mild, hot, or thai hot?

Daniel: How hot is "thai hot?"

Waiter: It will burn the ass off of you.

Daniel: Well, as long as it doesn't make my dick explode, I'm in.

Words of innocence

While watching a documentary about the American Revolution and seeing the Redcoats for the first time, Liam says: "Look at those silly bastards."

At which point I nearly burst a blood vessel from laughing.

And then I had to explain what "bastard" means. He cried, thinking he was in trouble. I could barely stop from laughing.

Words of innocence.

Rambling

Finished the side of the house while the kids and Cindy were at church. Two more wheel barrows full of nature's bones.

I drink 40ozs of Gatorade a day on the weekends.

We prowled the lawn. Scouting ant beds. Half a dozen victims. I'd spread a circle of poisoned granules around the mound. Cindy would sprinkle water from a blue pail. We'd watch them boil up from the earth. And slowly, they'd die.

At night I crave soynut butter and white bread. And a glass of milk.

Watched eight episodes of Heroes.

The more I sweat, the less I hear the ringing. Sometimes it is like a bomb beside my head. When it gets too loud, I ramble.

Call me Paul

Is it possible to have a weird addiction to heat stroke and physical exhaustion? What would you call it? What therapy would help counter it?

Spent a couple of hours in the gym. Back and biceps (since I missed my Thursday workout.) Throwing off the burdens of my own limitations. Weights I'd never done before. Never thought I could do. Then a 3.5 mile run. Lots of sweat. Burnt some crazy number of calories. You get out of it what you put into it. So I put everything into it.

And then (imagine this) I tackled more of the yard. Diced up a fat limb that fell from the oak outside our window. Recip'ed it into a bijllion pieces and hauled them to the alley. Then the wilderness alongside our bedroom. Swinging the machete. Ripping up weeds and pulling up new budding trees. More damn stumps. Again with the stumps! Dogwood trees, I think. New twist on my torture. Couldn't just cut off the lateral roots. Had to tunnel down several feet. Cut through the tap root. Brutal stuff. Freaking barbaric. I'd dig then chop. Until my pulse was punching the side of my neck. The sweat throbbing through my pours. Panting in the mid-day sun. Caught my breath for a few more minutes. More digging. More chopping. Another break. Dig. Chop. Rest. Repeat for a couple of hours.

Five wheel barrows worth of scraps later, I called it quits. Bordering on heat stroke. Limping toward physical exhaustion. Collected my ax and machete and shovel. Shower bound. A modern day Paul Bunyan.

Quoth The Bard

An octosquid. It's pretty much my favorite animal. It's like a octopus and a squid mixed... bred for its skills in magic.

The world still holds surprises for us. There's still something lurking out there for would-be adventurers. Mysteries to be solved. Koans to unravel. Who knows what hides just beyond the reach of our sight? Today we find this hybrid. Tomorrow a sasquatch?

As The Bard once said: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Dating

We dropped the kids off at Gigi's and slipped into the night. Celebrated a day early. Our anniversary. Eleven years.

Went to Jia's. Wanted Thai food. And to get away from the house. From the kids. Dress up and walk through the crowds as a couple.

Sat at a booth and watched the hibachi grill. Lettuce wraps and pot stickers to start. Everything delicious and well prepared. Great service. Great atmosphere. That flatware we both love.

Unfortunately I slipped into Idiot Mode. While I was dying for beef pad thai, I zoned and ordered beef and broccoli. So when our plates arrived, I looked at my plate (loaded with (imagine this) beef and broccoli) and Cindy's plate (stacked with shrimp and pad thai noodles) and realized the scope of my mistake. You can't exactly send a plate back to the kitchen because you goofed your own order. So I finished what I had, but coveted Cindy's plate.

Afterwards, we met Don Murray (down from Rhode Island on business.) Navigated to the pool deck. To find the VIP section and await the fireworks. Since Biloxi was launching their own fireworks on the 4th, our casino waited until the 5th for their show. The Grucci brothers setup a barge and an array of launchers on the roof. We found a spot just in time. Nine minutes cost half a million dollars. It was spectacular. But a touch pricey.

Club Tikki wraped around us. Dancers and fireworks and music. Don talking about the uncertainty of his own future. Two years of own fresh history with the coast. We held hands and watched the show.

MOVIE: Surf's Up

"Dude, she's totally into you! She called you crap!"

And I was totally into this flick. Nice, simple narrative. Great voice overs. And a ton of charm.

I went with Liam and Meg. Popcorn and a Sprite for The Boy. Snowcaps and a Coke for Baby Bear. We sat in the back. Wide eyed and rapt.

I don't recall seeing many cartoons with my parents. Maybe Dad worked too much. Maybe we didn't have a second car to use while he was away. Maybe we couldn't afford it. Probably they just didn't like cartoons. I dunno.

I don't remember many. But I hope my kids do.

All American

There is something odd about celebrating Independence Day by eating Mexican food. We went as a family. Meg had a cheese quesadilla. Liam ate the usual chicken strips with fries. Cindy had a shrimp quesadilla. And I had a burrito with chili ranchero. Left a big tip. Gracias, amigo. Welcome to America.

Headed home and (imagine this) worked on the yard. More roots. More shrubs. More sun. More sweat. I have something akin to a farmer's tan. I don't recognize my own hands. Dirt under my nails. A driving urge to sharpen my machete and buy a long-handled ax. Build a little cabin by a river. Go fly fishing.

I'm becoming Abe Lincoln.

All American.

Cronyocracy

It must be good to be king. You and your court jester can commit any number of crimes, have a patsy take the fall, then you give the patsy a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Sometime in the distant past I imagine a meeting between Curious George, Darth Cheney, and Scooter going something like this:

Curious George: Look here, bubba. Me and Ol' Dick, we done ourselves caught trying to extract some Texas revenge on that dirty snitch, Plame.

Darth Cheney: Hand in the cookie jar, ya know?

Scooter: ...

Curious George: Right, Dick. Right. So, Scoot, me and Ol' Dick, we need you to kinda... Um.. take the rap for us.

Darth Cheney: Take a dive, ya know?

Scooter: ...

Curious George: But don't worry, Scoot. Me and Ol' Dick, we got your back. I'm Pres'dent, ya know? I got all these cool powers. Like amnesty...

Darth Cheney: You mean clemency.

Scooter: ...

Curious George: Right! Right, Dick! Clemency. And make war. I got that power, too. I can free whoever th' hell I want and I can bomb whoever the hell I want.

Darth Cheney: Get that oil slick bastard Chavez, next.

Scooter: ...

Curious George: Calm down, Dick. Don't jump the damn gun! Anyway. Look here, Scoot. You just get yourself through that there trial aaaaaaany way you can. Don't worry about a thing. They can give you eighteen death penalties, and I'll just grant you a big dose of amnesty.

Darth Cheney: Clemency.

Curious George: That, too!

Scooter: ...

Curious George: So. Whadduh ya say, Scoot? You catch all the hell, but I bail ya out. Once the commie left wing media bloodsuckers cool off, I'll set you up as an adviser for the Carlyle Group with a fat ass ten digit salary. We got ourselves a deal?

Darth Cheney: And then we get Chavez....

Curious George: SHUT THE HELL UP, DICK!

Scooter: ...

Curious George: Sorry 'bout that. Deal, Scoot?

Darth Cheney: Take the deal, Scoot.

Scooter: ...

And the rest is history.

Words in the car

Meg: When you see a pink car playing Princess Music, it will be me.

Remembrance

I celebrated solemnly. With a lot of quiet yard work. And a profuse amount of sweating. My children helped me. We played, "Police The Yard." Meg won.

Her children and the rest of the world celebrated with a concert.

She would have been 46, today.

In her absence, the world has grown colder.

Yard rat

I think I'm turning into one of those angry old men who do really manly stuff. Constant sweat stains. Grunting. Fixing things all the damn time.

Today's testosterone drenched agenda included such high adventure as:

• Hitting the gym for a couple of hours, working shoulders and legs
• Getting a short haircut with The Boy
• Eating a triple Whooper for lunch
• Mowing the yard without a shirt (likely blinding the neighbors)
  
• Drilling holes and poisoning several stumps with Stump Revenge
  
• Pulling up two more wheelbarrows of roots
• Saved a baby turtle that almost found itself severed by my reciprocating saw
  
• Gouging up two small stumps over by the garden

I was caked with mud. Sweat had drenched my shirt. It ran down my shorts, to my knees. I continue to have a new found appreciation for my forefathers. I'm exhausted, and I was using POWERTOOLS!

By the end of the summer, I'll be a card-carrying yard rat.

Feargongery

To keep the billions and billions flowing into the military-security warchests, the scamiticians have to continually stoke the ever-cooling fires of our fear. Couple of quick examples: shoebomber on a plane, liquid bombers planning on going on planes, and today's truck bombers in Central London.

But here is the thing: We always remember the initial violently over-done reports of the fearmongery and frequently we're happy to give up a little more of our freedom in order to prevent such problems from happening again, but NOBODY ever keeps on eye on developments once the truth beings to float to the surface.

Case in point: The unsuccessful shoebomber. This kook caused a wave panic throughout America which continues to cling to our security practices to this day. We happily take off our shoes and throw away a little piece of our person freedom. But nobody realizes the "bombs" had no chance of bringing down the plain. Certainly people would have been injured, possibly even killed, but the plane would not have been crippled. Do we sheeple try to take back our freedom? No. We smile and walk around in our socks.

Case in point: The unsuccessful liquid bomb plot. Europe or English intelligence reportedly caught this "terrorist cell" before they could smuggle their chemicals on board and mix them together to create some level of explosion. Again, a wave of panic sweeps through America and continues to linger with no expiration date. We can't take liquids through the "check points," now. Not on our person, and only a prescribed amount inside our carry-on luggage. Does anybody care to mention the "terrorists" were released and never went to trial because of lack of evidence? Does anymore breath a sigh of relief? Does anybody reclaim our forfeited freedoms? No. We suffer through the delays. We waste our time in un-needed lines. We employ a legion of "security agents," to prevent the most unlikely events.

And now the scamiticians are going to find some way to spin the Central London Bombs three ways:

1. Try convince the American sheeple that a Republican President in 2008 will be able to prevent "terrorists" from setting of such bombs in our own backyard.
2. Funnel more money into the military-security machine, to prevent "terrorists" from being able to get such bomb trucks into critical locations around the country.
3. Find a way to further erode our remaining civil liberties, in order to prevent "terrorists" from having the freedom to park terror vans in front of our daycares. (Perhaps we need to criminalize large vehicle, with the exception of gas-gulp SUVs.)

Our elected officials are unable to please us by actually living up to their promises, but they can easily scare us into obedience.

Watch for fresh fearmongery on the horizon.

Tipping point

I often wonder if I am watching history reach a tipping point. Some of the items that caught my eye today:

• Iran has started rationing gasoline. Now they have riots. The country is loaded with oil, but it is short on refining facilities. I'd suggest they are taking the embarrassing move and risking the social fallout because they are preparing for a siege on their resources. Siege? Yes, an attack on their country. Can't imagine who would be contemplating attacking Iran!
  
• Russia test fired a sea based balistic missile.
  
• North Korea test fired short range missiles.
• The Bald Eagle is no longer on the endangered species list!
  
• Scamiticians again defeated an immigration bill. I have hopes it is a fell blow for the current administration, though it is only small hopes.
  

10 Things I Don't Want To Hear About Benoit

1. I don't want to hear any tributes to Benoit: The man killed his wife. The man killed his son. Anyone gonna give OJ Simpson a tribute when he dies?
   
   
2. I don't want to hear about the steroids: Does anybody possibly think they are telling me something new by mentioning this muscled-up tree stump of a man and steroids in the same sentence? Come on! The guy was 5'10", 40yrs old, and 235 pounds of pure muscle. It is a given that he was slamming the juice on an hourly basis. I would actually be surprised if they found more blood in his system and LESS STEROIDS!
   
   
3. I don't want to hear about 'roid rage: Can I talk about the man's profession for a moment? He made a living beating the brains out other full grown men. He was a full time brawler. His to do list at work included: "punch my opponent in the mouth, kick my opponent in the teeth, choke my opponent until loss of blood to the brain causes him to lose consciousness, and don't forget to slice my forehead open with a concealed razor blade so we can add some exciting blood to the scene."Violence was this man's job! Of course he committed heinous acts of carnage against his family. He's been getting PAID TO DO IT to everyone else for decades!
   
   
4. I don't want to hear about his nicknames: I should be shocked that he was called, "The Crippler" and "the Rabid Wolverine?" Wrestlers don't have peaceful, thought provoking names, like "The Nietzsche Fanatic," or "Mr. Primrose." Their names evoke fear and awe. Sure, sure. It is sooo easy to link his nickname to the crimes he committed. However if he had died of a heart attack or fell to his death, nobody would have made any such connection.
   
   
5. I don't want to hear about his son's disabilities: I know many parents whose children have disabilities. None of them would ever kill their child as a result. To even suggest such a link is an insult to parents of disabled children everywhere who struggle day after day to provide a good life for their children, even in the face of severe adversity.
   
   
6. I don't want to hear about his wife's claims that he was violent: If the man was violent, she should have left him. End of story.
   
   
7. I don't want to hear anything other wrestlers say about Benoit's work ethic: See #1. I don't care if he was the Patron Saint Of Work Ethic. The man murdered two innocent human beings. All the other wrestles that ever came into contact with him should have made formed a long angry line and took turns pissing on pictures of him.
   
   
8. I don't want to hear anything Vince McMahon says about the issue: Vince is going to do anything and everything to spin this into an increased profit margin or diminish the loss on the company's stock price. If Vince isn't in the line of people waiting to make water on The Snaggle-Toothed Wolverine's picture, then he should keep his trap shut.
   
   
9. I don't want to hear what Linda McMahon says about the issue: Could ANYTHING she have to say be relevant? See #8, it is just a marketing ploy to stop the deluge of negative press the WWE is receiving. Shut up, Linda, and make me a margarita.
   
   
10. I don't want to hear anything from Canada: Oh! NOW they're silent. Yesterday it was, "See how much Mike Moore likes us, eh? We got us some good healthcare, eh? That's what we're aboot." As long as Canada keeps its trap shut, nobody else gets hurt.
    

Here is my press coverage of the event: Coward and former pro-wrestler Chris Benoit took the life of his innocent wife and son shortly before taking his own. The WWE condemned the actions of their former employee. Benoit's family condemned the actions of their former son. Lucifer was quoted as saying, "I have a nice eternity of painful monkey-wrench-style sodomy and constant agonizing evisceration waiting for Mr. Benoit, once we've completed his paperwork and he's made it through customs."

Sweat pit

Back in the gym. I knew strange things were afoot when the air cut off during the first five minutes of pilates. By the end, my mat had a wet outline where I had been doing crunches.

By the time I finished working my chest and triceps, I had a rather bib-like sweat ring descending down the front of my shirt.

By the time I ran 3.5 miles, I was drenched. It looked like I'd fallen in a swimming pool. My shirt didn't have a dry inch on it. My shorts soaked down to below the pockets.

As Mom would have said: I was a walking sweat pit.

All in a hard day's work.