A perfect day!

It was a record-breaking day today here in Iowa. We hit at least 91 degrees – a bit warm for yard work, but perfect if you have a motorcycle.

I have a motorcycle.

After working the requisite amount of hours, my beloved Austrian bride and I took the motorbike for a quick tootle – we hit the backroads and eventually ended up in LeMars, my hometown. We visited the nephew and nieces (who are all adorable – we pinched their cheeks), ate a couple hotdogs at Bob’s (a local hot dog stand that’s well-known in Northwest Iowa, parts of Nebraska, some of South Dakota, and I’ve even known people to drive in from Minnesota just to get a Bob Dog), zipped up the highway home, and then sat outside on the front stoop and had a beer. (Guess what kind – I betcha you can’t guess!)

While sitting on our front stoop having a beer, we discovered that there are about nine kids under the age of seven living in the house next door. We also learned that there’s a guy living in that bus we thought was abandoned.

It was a perfect day. I’d write more, but frankly I’m pooped. I hope everyone else managed to have a happy day as well!

Yep.

A few weeks ago my beloved Austrian Snickerdoodle traveled the plains to Omaha on a day trip. “Is there anything you vant?” she asked on her way out the door. “Fine silks from India, perhaps, or rare spices from the mysterious Orient?”

“Bring me some beer,” I said, pecking her on the cheek.

“I go to the World Market in Omaha and he asks me for beer,” she said. “Beer.”

“Well, okay,” I replied, “get me some exotic foreign beer, then…”

She smiled at me. “He has the world to choose from, and he picks beer. My husband.” She kissed me on the nose and headed off for the big metropolis.

About six hours later, the light of my life returned with her spoils of conquest. I forget exactly what she bought, but there was some kind of fancy popcorn salt and six happy bottles of beer. There was a Guinness, something from Germany, a bottle of Texan beer (which I still haven’t tried yet – I’m still sore at Texas for foisting President Bush on us), a few others, and a beer called “Abbey.” I chose one of the beers at random and put the rest in the fridge and went about my business.

A few days later my wife was again on one of her mysterious errands (I think she was with her mama across town, actually), so I took the opportunity to get some yardwork done. And, you know, nothing finishes an afternoon of semi-arduous yardwork like a happy beer… Again I grabbed one of the “mystery” beers at random.

About an hour later Dagmar came home. According to her report, I was still sitting on the front stoop, bottle in hand, stunned look on my face. “Vhat happened?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“I think I’ve found it,” I said. “I’ve finally found it.”

“Vhat have you found?” she asked. “Und just when did you lose it?”

“You know how when you’re a kid you see beer, and hear about beer, but you’ve never tasted beer, and you have an idea in your mind of what beer is supposed to taste like?” She nodded, a quizzical look on her face. “Well,” I continued, “I just found a beer that tastes like beer is supposed to taste like.” I glowed. (Glew?) I could feel my aura pulsing happy colors. The world smiled at me. “It’s like, well, bananas and coffee. That’s not right. It’s like, maybe, I don’t know… It’s good!”

She pried the bottle out of my hand. “Abbey,” she said. “We’ll have to remember that.”

Well, you know, within days the name of the beer had left me. I couldn’t find the empty bottle anywhere, and all I could remember was that taste, that incredible taste! I knew it had something to do with some kind of religious order… “Nun’s Buns?” Nah… “Bishop’s Balls?” No, that wasn’t it, either… Thankfully my beloved remembered the name! I went around for days mumbling “Abbey… Abbey” under my breath, afraid of forgetting the name again. (Notice that I’m not bright enough to simply keep the bottle or write the name down? That may explain why it took me seven years to get a four-year degree…)

For weeks I thought of this beer. The sweet, nutty flavor… The gorgeous aftertaste. But how to find it? I know I’ve never seen that particular label on the shelf. I couldn’t even remember the brewery. A quandary.

Yesterday I was e-mailing back and forth with a buddy of mine who now lives on the left coast. “Man,” I wrote, “I had the best beer a few weeks ago. Something called Abbey.” Within minutes, my pal wrote back “I know that beer! It’s from the New Belgian brewery in Fort Collins, Colorado. They make Fat Tire there. My in-laws bring it to me whenever they go through Colorado…” I do believe my buddy knows beer so well he could probably tell me the exact recipe of the beer, and who designed the label to boot.

I staggered through the rest of the day yesterday, and made it to quitting time today before I broke. I just couldn’t take it any more. “Honey,” I said into the cell phone as I punched out, “I’m going shopping. Do you need anything?”

“You? Shopping?” she said. “This I have to see. Pick me up.” Two minutes later, we were on our way to the first booze outlet. Eagerly I pushed my way to the beer aisle and started scanning labels. They probably had 200 different kinds of beer, but nothing called Abbey. A bit downcast, I led my bride back to the car and we made our way to the next vendor of liquid happiness and joy.

“Can I help you,” said the nice lady, after she noticed my wife and I staring intently at the rows of brightly colored bottles. “Yes,” I said. “Do you have Abbey? It’s made by the Fat Tire people.”

“Fat Tire?” she said. “No, Iowa law won’t let us get anything from the Fat Tire people – there’s too much alcohol in the beer. We have to stay under five percent. You might try South Dakota or Nebraska…” With that we thanked her and headed for the door.

“I’m getting tired,” my wife said as we got into the car. “I haven’t eaten all day. Do we have to go to Nebraska?”

“It’s just across the bridge,” I said. “There’s a liquor store right at the end of the bridge. It’ll only take a minute.” Sure enough, a minute later we were across the bridge in Nebraska, perusing the five different kinds of beer in that particular store. Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite and Michelob for the fancy folk. “Just one more store,” I pleaded. “It’s right across the street…” Of course, there was nothing there called Abbey either.

Downfallen, we headed homeward.

“Vell,” said my bride, “We can alvays go to Omaha again sometime this summer…” Being too sad to answer, I merely sobbed, dripping beerless tears on the steering wheel.

Once home, I put on my jammies and comfy slippers and resigned myself to one more night without the perfect beer. Dagmar puttered around in the other room. We ate something. It wasn’t beer. I probably didn’t enjoy it much.

A bit later, I found myself at the computer, randomly hitting keys. Inspiration struck! I started up Google Earth and did a search for “Nebraska Liquor” and started sifting through the results. “Honey,” I called. “Did you know there’s a liquor store in Dakota City? That’s not too far away.” She looked up from what she was reading, “You’re still thinking about that beer?”

“Yeah, and there’s a Hy-Vee grocery store that has a liquor store in it just across the bridge in South Sioux City, too,” I continued. “And there’s a store in Wayne, and it looks like there are two in Fremont…”

“If you’re going to go dat far,” my wife said, “you might as well just go to Omaha. We know there’s beer there!” I started doing mental calculations. Eight-five or ninety miles to Omaha, sixty-five miles per hour, it’s seven o’clock now…

“Vait!” my wife said. “Did you just say there was something in South Sioux?” I nodded. “Why don’t I just call them and ask?” She rummaged around and found a phone book whilst I stood in my flannel jammies, fidgeting. She pushed the buttons on the phone with her perfect pink finger as I chewed my nails. She held a mumbled, one-sided conversation while I silently raged. Finally, after seconds and seconds of anticipation, she hung up and said…

“They have it.”

By the time she was finished with those three short words, I was running buck naked through the living room, trying to find my britches, flannel jammies fluttering delicately to the floor. Within ten minutes, we were across the bridge, running into the store. I was still buttoning my shirt. “Abbey?” I gasped.

The lady looked at me. “That’s funny,” she said. “Some lady just called me about Abbey.”

“Dat vas me,” my wife answered.

The lady looked at us, shook her head slightly, a small smile dancing around her eyes, and pointed to a corner. “I DON’T SEE IT!” I wailed.

“Here it is,” my level-headed better half said. “It’s right here.”

“Oh, man… And they have lots of it, too! How much money do you have?” I said, grabbing wildly at my billfold. “I have five bucks!” My wife rolled her eyes. “This beer better be worth it,” she said, reaching for her purse.

We bought two six packs. “Do you sell much of this Abbey beer?” my wife asked the cashier lady. “Or is it just my crazy husband?”

“Oh, no,” the lady replied. “We sell a lot of it. We’re the only people who carry it around here. One guy drives in from fifty-five miles away every week to buy some.” She probably talked more, but I was glazed over and drooling by that point and didn’t really pay attention. My wife took me gently by the elbow and led me out of the store.

A mere matter of minutes and we were home again. I put half the beer in the fridge. Dagmar grabbed one bottle and put the rest in a chilly corner of the kitchen. “Hmmm…” she said, peering intently at the label. “It says to serve cool, but not cold. Okay, we have some now.” She popped the cap and took a tentative swig. I watched, hopping up and down on one foot, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes widened. Her eyebrows went up. Her pupils dilated. “Mein Gott!” she breathed. “Now THAT’S beer!”

I took a sip. Nirvana. Sheer happiness, bottled. A bit warm, but very, very good nonetheless! I feel complete. I am at one with the universe.

So, if you’re looking for a beery adventure, Abbey Belgian Style Ale, brewed by the nice folk at the New Belgium brewery in Fort Collins, Colorado is what you’re looking for. They have it at the Hy-Vee in South Sioux City, Nebraska. It’s well worth the drive! Trust me.

Martinsburger

It’s been flying all over the Interweb. Kioti started it. “Hey, what say we all head to Martinsburg for a burger on Sunday?” he wrote to the local group of motorcycle enthusiasts to which I happen to belong (the Okoboji chapter of VROC, “Vulcan Riders and Owners Club”). Within days the e-mails were flying about with startling speed. “Sounds good!” and “Hell yeah!” and “I’ll be there!”

The odd thing is that these e-mails were all signed by people named Rock, Kioti, Mag, Bartman and such.

By last night I had figured out about what time the Okoboji contingent would be cruising through town, and when the Sioux Falls group should be there, and when the Omaha gang was gonna hit the bypass. “Vhat time are you gonna leaf?” asked my beloved Austrian Snowflake this morning. “When are dey all gonna be there?”

“Well,” I replied, “Looks like they’re all planning to hit Martinsburg between noon and one. I’ll need to leave at about quarter after eleven, I imagine.”

My wife looked at me with that special, endearing, “are you an idiot” look. “You know,” she said, “if they say noon, it’ll be two before they show up. It alvays happens that way. They’ll see something shiny on the way and they’ll have to stop and gawk at it.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “but food’s involved this time. They’ll be there by one at the latest.”

By ten-thirty this morning, the yard had been watered, and I was happily readying myself for the trip. It’s a vast forty miles, but one must prepare. First one must dress appropriately. I chose blue jeans and a T-shirt, just to be different. And boots. Now for the fun part…

“Honey,” I yelled. “Where are my leather chaps?”

“They’re with your helmet,” she hollered back from the other room.

A pause. Then, “Honey, where’s my helmet?”

After a brief but frantic search, both helmet and chaps were found. Now, to get them on… Hmmm… Er… Well, they fit last year, dammit. “Honey, I can’t get my chaps on,” I wailed. “My legs are too fat!”

To her credit, my beloved didn’t giggle. She dutifully helped me zip the silly things up (for the uninitiated, chaps belt around the waist, and have two chunks of leather – one for each leg – that zip from hip to ankle). “There you go, Tubby,” she said, smiling. “All better.” (I have to admit, she didn’t really say that. I make a lot of stuff up. It’s more interesting that way.)

Coat, helmet, cell phone, camera, keys and dark glasses in hand, I hobbled out the door.

Ah, the adventure! The open road! The freedom! The cold, biting wind! The hippie is an idiot! By the time I’d cleared South Sioux City and was heading west on Highway 20, my fingers were starting to ache. It was just a chad bit tilly out there! I surely wished I had my gloves. Me, an Eagle Scout, forgetting my gloves. What a silly thing to do.

In any case, I continued on my way, confident that it would be warmer on the way home again. About that time I came to the top of the first hill and met the wind that would be my nemesis the rest of the trip. I’m going west. The wind is from the south at 25 to 35 miles per hour. Not fun… Ah, well, such are the vagaries of life. From a thirty-degree angle, I clenched a frozen fist and shook it at the wind. “Blow,” I yelled to the wind. “Blow all you want, vile wind! I’m going to enjoy myself anyway!”

And I did, actually. About half an hour later, I pulled into Martinsburg, Nebraska – population 103, according to the sign. Personally, I think the sign was a bit optimistic. I was the first one there. Time for some nice color photographs now. I took many.

The first thing I noticed at Martinsburg was my odometer. I like round numbers.

This is Bob’s Bar, home of the Big Burger

I’ve never understood this. A door to nowhere? Cool, in an existential sort of way…

Again, Bob’s Bar.

Just up the street from Bob’s Bar

As soon as I got off the bike, I had a thought. I opened my saddlebags. Sure enough, there were my gloves. Doh!

Soon after my arrival, the rest of the group started dribbling in. (Most of them do dribble, actually. Some have advanced to outright drooling at times. Especially when they’re leering.) The first group to make it was Rock, Bartman and Magdag from the Okoboji area. By the time I got done gawking at Bartman’s new fairing on his Nomad, the Omaha group pulled in.

Bartman’s award-winning Nomad. Pretty!

Carl, Gunner, Glen and Andy

It wasn’t too long afterwards that Kioti and company showed up from Sioux Falls. We all wandered around for a bit, drooling on each other’s bikes, then headed in for food.

It needs to be said at this point that the burgers at Bob’s are, yes indeed, well worth the trip. It should also be pointed out that I’ve never, ever seen anyone order a burger and fries and finish both. Most people can plow their way through the burger, but no one can really dent the six pounds of fries they throw at you. (About a third of the way through the meal, I heard someone – I think it was Glen – say, “By the time you eat your way to the bun you’ve already had a meal.”) As you can see in the picture below, your average Bob Burger takes up a pretty hefty majority of the plate…

While we were happily gorging ourselves and making giddy “erp” noises, another group of bikers made their way past us to a back table. There were a LOT of bikes in that small town today!

These are the “other group’s” bikes.

Buddy Rock, gawking at the pretty Kawasakis.

After stuffing ourselves to the gills and paying our bills (mine was $3.95) we all wandered back outside, and soon were splitting off in our various groups to head homewards. I hitched up with the Okoboji crew and headed back up Highway 20 towards Sioux City. It was still windy.

It was a GOOD day. I’m happy. I had a good time meeting the “new” people, too! (Why is it that everyone I’ve ever met who drives a Kawasaki cruiser is nice? What do the mean people drive?)

The Jam

“Okay,” said my beloved Viennese bride, “I can drive you to the Chesterfield for the silly jam session, but I’m gonna come home and sleep. I’m tired. Can you find someone to give you a ride home?”

“I’m sure I can,” I said. I hate bumming rides all the time, but I really don’t wanna get pulled over for drunk driving. I’m happy my wife is willing to drive me to drink every now and then. “Russ and Denelle are going to be there. He’ll give me a ride, I’m sure.” Russ and I were in two bands together, Hippie Go Lucky and the Smokin’ Clams. I like Russ. He’s a nice guy.

“Oh,” said my wife. “Well, if Denelle is going to be there, maybe I’ll stay and watch for a little bit. But I have to be home by 10:30…” I danced a little jig of joy. I like hanging out in bars watching bands play, but it’s not my wife’s cup of tea, so I always enjoy it when she comes along with me. I like her. She’s nice.

We got to the club at about 8:30 or so. My wife opened the trunk (or “boot” as the English would say) of the car. “What are you doing?” I asked. “What’s in there?”

“I bought Russ and Denelle’s boys some little Christmas presents,” she said. “But we haven’t seen them since Christmas last year…” She rummaged about in the trunk (or “boot” as the British would say) and found the packages, and off we went to enter the club.

Five minutes later, beer in hand, I sat at our favorite table. A few musicians (Wavelength) were wandering about aimlessly on stage, as is their wont. Within a few minutes they started playing… With the happy addition of some guy playing keyboards. I don’t know who he was, but he was pretty good. Whilst my wife and I were gawking at the band, friends Ritchie and Sarah joined us. Ritchie is a fellow bass player. I like Ritchie. He’s a nice guy.

After a few songs, the band on stage decided it was time to drink beer instead of play. “Hey, we need people up here,” hollered bass player Ed into the microphone. “Radloff, get up here.” I looked around. My buddy Russ still wasn’t there, and he was the guy I really kinda wanted to jam with. “Hey Ritch,” I said, “you wanna play now?”

“No,” he said. “Not really. I’m waiting for Russ.” It should be noted at this point that Ritchie and Russell are brothers. Not seeing any other bass players in the room, I allowed myself to be persuaded to get on stage. I was sad. I wanted to jam with buddy Russ. Oh well… He and Ritchie like to play together too.

Once ensconced on stage, I immediately noticed something. The keyboard was right in my way. I was kinda stuck back there by the drums (which is okay, just limits the mobility a bit). The next thing I noticed is that the song was going pretty well, considering none of us on stage had ever played together before, other than the odd song at a previous jam. In fact, I kinda liked it. The next two songs went really well, too. I was happy! Giddy with glee! Joyful!

The next band wandered up towards the stage, so I relinquished the bass, grabbed my beer and headed back for the table. Just as I sat down, Russ and wife Denelle showed up. “Hey,” he said, “wanna jam?” You have to realize, jam session etiquette forbids me to take two turns so close together when there are other bass players in the room. “I just got done,” I said.”Oh,” said he. “Oh.”

We all sat and watched the musicians play for a while. Rock, funk, punk, classic rock… Good stuff! After a bit, Ritchie and Russell came up with a few songs they wanted to play and put their names in for a time slot on stage. Very shortly thereafter, Ritchie was dragging his shiny new-looking upright bass onto the stage and Russ was tuning up. They play well together! I was surprised at the good tone Ritch got out of the upright – usually they sound a little clunky or thin for rock ‘n roll in my opinion (but perfect for jazz, which they weren’t playing). I applauded. My friends play well. I was happy and drank more beer. They finished to a flurry of applause and came back to the table. We were happy. We drank more beer.

“I’m getting a bit tired,” my wife said eventually. “It’s past my bedtime.”

“Yeah, me too,” I replied. “I’m a little sad I didn’t get to play with Russ, but it’s time to go home.”

Just then a guy walked past, pointed at me and Russ and said, “You guys are next.”

Hmmm… That changes things. Dagmar and I sat back down and patiently waited until the band on stage finished up, which they eventually did. To my dismay, however, a few other people hopped up on stage right away. Russ and I looked at each other and shrugged. Our wives looked at each other and shrugged. I waited to see how the little drama was going to play out… What was the consensus going to be? Were we going to stay for a few more songs so we could jam, or was everyone going to decide to go home? The tension was palpable. (Not really.) We decided to stay.

A few fidgety songs later, Russ and I were finally on stage. I was happy! Then I saw that former Clammate Rick was fiddling around with the drums and congas and stuff, and that made me happier! Ken was on stage, too, so we had two great drummers playing with us. Wheee! (Ed took the picture, by the way. I stole it from his website.)

We started off with an instrumental surf medley we did in both Hippie Go Lucky and the Smokin’ Clams. It was fun! I was tickled several shades of pink!

Then we played a blues song. Oh joy! Rapturous joy!

Then we did a punk version of “Ring of Fire” that I’ve always liked. My life is complete. I have officially gone over my happiness quota. It felt SO good to play with familiar players and jam on songs I actually knew. Jam sessions are fun, but it’s so much better when you know what you’re doing, and are confident with the people around you!

To top it off, my beloved bride supplied me with a Boulevard Wheat at the end of the night. A treat indeed!

Here are a bunch of pictures Dagmar and I took…

Me with some guy who can sing and drummer Ken

Buddy Rick from the Smokin’ Clams, waiting to drum

Charlie from Wavelength

Jerry, also from Wavelength

Guitarist Extraordinaire Jeremiah

A pretty picture

The Brothers Howard, Ritchie & Russ.
This is the first time Ritch brought his upright. Nice!

My buddy Russ. We were in Hippie Go Lucky together,
then later the Smokin’ Clams for a while.

Just an old-fashioned jam…

Conga-bongos are cool.

Good stuff, Maynard!

This was the first jam I’ve been to with keys. ‘Twas nice!

Fellow bassist Ed. I never get tired of taking pictures

The magical fingers of the sound guy, Robert.

Waiting for the Trees

Yep, it’s springish out there today. Yesterday, too, really. But there still are no leaves on the trees, so the skyline looks a bit stark yet. Lots of mud, some grass, naked trees, it’s Iowa in April.

“It’s spring!” I said to my beloved Austrian bride yesterday. “In a few more days we’ll be able to get the bike out of storage and go for a ride!”

“Yes,” she said in that perfect accent of hers. “It’s nice to hear de birds twitching in de trees again.”

Time Warp

I could swear I got to work about sixteen hours ago at 8 this morning, but it’s not even lunch time yet. Is this what Einstein was referring to when he talked about relativity? To me, I’ve been sitting here staring at this computer for sixteen hours, when in reality it’s only been three hours. So my job has a 16:3 suckiness ratio today.

This afternoon I will go home, do some spring chores (gotta mow and trim real quick, then water the new patch of what I hope will be grass eventually), check my e-mail and grab something to eat. That’ll put me at about 6:30, I imagine. Then I’ll wait for another twelve hours for it to be 8:30 so I can go to the Chesterfield’s jam session. Time is indeed subjective, I guess.

(When I typed “jam session” it came out “ham session.” I almost left it that way. It fits. Lots of people on stage hamming it up.)

It’s a bit later now. I had to do some actual work, since I am at work, you know. I found it odd that I went home for lunch, sat down, ate a cracker, looked at the clock, and was already late getting back to work. There’s that pesky time warp again! Maybe it’s a corporate thing… The big businesses got together and decided that from 8 in the a.m. to 5 in the afternoon they’re gonna make all the clocks run slower to get more work out of us poor peons while simultaneously shrinking the hour between noon and one to fifteen minutes.

DeLay That

I saw on the news today that Texas Republican Tom DeLay decided not to run for re-election. The former House Majority Leader is awaiting trial on money laundering charges, and is the target of a federal investigation that has revealed that one of his top aides was running a criminal enterprise out of DeLay’s office source. Mr. DeLay insists that he has never done anything wrong, yet he’s dropping out of the race. To me that implies that he’s running scared – he knows that the investigators are going to find something, or the Texas people are going to find him guilty. He’s also tied up in the whole Jack Abramoff scandal as well.

On the news, Mr. DeLay said that this was not a fall from grace, as he’s always in God’s grace. Must be nice to be able to do dirty rotten things with a clear conscience. “God will forgive me. I don’t have to apologize or feel guilty for anything, even though I did dirty rotten things.” (He didn’t say that, actually. I did.)

Mr. DeLay won his primary in Texas, but said he dropped out of the race NOT because he’s a dirty rotten man who’s done dirty rotten things, but rather because he thinks the Democrats might beat him.

I hope that Mr. DeLay’s trials and investigations and whatnot go quickly. I’m tired of seeing him on TV.

What’s the Big Hairy Deal?

Katie Couric is the big hairy deal, I guess. Everyone seems to be talking about her moving from whatever inane morning show she’s on now to some other network to be an anchor. I’m happy that the networks are having female anchors, but I’m not sure Ms. Couric is a good choice. She seems too giggly while at the same time taking herself WAY too seriously. And she has no neck. That bothers me.

I wish her well – I sincerely do – but I’m still rather skeptical. Who knows? Maybe it was the editor of the inane morning show she was on for the last 15 years that made her do giggly inane pieces. She might be a good journalist who was forced to do silly things.

STRESS relief

Sometmies, atfer werking al day tpying thigs for udder peepul, I secretely come hmoe and mispel werds un porpoise. (It makes me feel better.)

Every time I see the word “porpoise,” it reminds me of this joke (warning, no one said it’s a good joke):

A man had a friend who owned two very intelligent porpoises. They could do amazing tricks and were able to communicate with humans very well. After much urging, the owner agreed to sell the porpoises to his friend. “But remember this,” said the seller: “The porpoises will never die as long as you feed them each one live seagull every day. As soon as you miss a day, they will die.”

The new owner took the porpoises home and put them in his outdoor swimming pool, where he kept them alive and well for some time. Each day he would go down to the beach, capture a couple live seagulls, and bring them home to feed to the porpoises.

One day as he was returning home with a gull in each hand, he found a lion lying across his doorstep, basking in the sun. He panicked, because he knew that if he didn’t get through to feed the porpoises, they would die, so he jumped over the lion and ran quickly into the house.

Inside, much to his surprise, were two FBI agents who promptly placed him under arrest. “What’s the charge?” asked the stunned porpoise owner. “What have I done wrong?”

“You, sir,” replied one of the FBI agents, “are being charged for illegally transporting captive gulls across a sedate lion for immortal porpoises!”

ITMFA

While I don’t use foul language in my blog (if that’s the only way you can express yourself, you need help), I do enjoy people who use profanity creatively. (Thanks to Bacon for pointing that one out.) Other fun blogs are chet not stupid, which deals with Iowa gubernatorial candidate Chet Culver and his, well, questionable intelligence. I always like Talk Like a Pirate, too. And this gem about another guy running for governor of our fair state.

Responsibility

This is simple. Take responsibility for your actions. I’ve seen a lot of this not happening lately, in all aspects of life. Unfortunately, it seems that the nation at large is taking it’s moral cue from the top – United States President George W. Bush and his administration. This is an administration that ran it’s campaign elections claiming the high moral ground, only to get into power in 2000 via what are widely considered “strongarm tactics,” thus setting the stage for the rest of the administration’s term — win at all costs, even if it means abandoning morality and ethics.

I could list myriad examples of Mr. Bush and his administration fleeing responsibility, but I’ll settle for one or two recent examples.

Mr. Bush is seen on film listening to an expert tell him that the levees in New Orleans will not hold should a hurricane hit. A few days later, New Orleans is under water because the levees broke during hurricane Katrina. Guess what Mr. Bush said? “No one could have known the levees were going to break.” Ducking responsibility.

Another cop-out was when Mr. Bush assured the nation that if anyone in his administration was cheating or lying, they’d be fired on the spot. When Mr. Scooter Libby was caught doing bad things, Mr. Bush poo-poo’d the incident. You see, the rules simply don’t apply to them.

A bit later, lobbyist Jack Abramoff admitted to buying off half of congress. Did any of our tainted members of congress resign? No. You see, they learned from our leaders. The rules don’t apply to them.

A bit later, native Sioux City embarrassment Chris Rants, a republican state representative here in Iowa, took tens of thousands of dollars from the tobacco lobbyists and in return blocked legislation to raise cigarette taxes. Did Mr. Rants resign? Or even apologize? No. He went golfing with another lobbyist. He’s taking his cue from the Bush administration, you see. The rules don’t apply.

Just a few days ago I read that a small town in Texas had to replace their entire police department. It seems they were taking bribes. I wonder where they got the silly idea that the rules don’t apply to them? Could they have been learning from the Bush administration?

You see, the Trickle-Down theory DOES work!

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

This one’s great… I heard Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld on C-SPAN last night (yes, I watch C-SPAN once in a while in the middle of the night) and couldn’t believe my ears. I had to look this up to make sure he really said it. He did. It’s a long quote, so I’ll trim it down a bit. You can see the entire version HERE on the Department of Defense’s web site.

SEC. RUMSFELD: “When something happens, the people we’re up against are vicious, and they lie. And they are — obviously, they have media committees, they plan what they’re going to do, they plan how they’re going to manipulate the press, and they get out there fast and do it. And there’s no penalty for that. Indeed, there’s only rewards, because the misinformation race is around the world while, as they say, truth is still putting its boots on. Our task is to figure out what actually happened. And that means that they’ve got to go in there and talk to people, and it takes time, and it takes 24 hours, 48 hours, whatever it takes. And they end up — some cases, it takes weeks to figure out what actually took place.

“And it’s just very difficult. And here we are, in the 21st century, with all these means of communication and information racing around the globe, and it just makes it a very tough thing to do.

“And clearly the United states government has not gotten to the point where we are as deft and clever and facile and quick as the enemy that is perfectly capable of lying, having it printed all over the world, and there’s no penalty for having lied. Indeed, there was a reward, because great many people read the lie and believed it. And it takes weeks and weeks afterwards to figure what actually took place…

…”And I don’t know any solution to that, except that, you know, if you live in a small town, and one guy walks around the corner and lies to you one day, and he walks around the corner and lies to you the next day, and he walks around the corner and lies to you the third day, pretty soon you say to yourself, ‘That’s a liar. … That’s lying Joe.’ Don’t believe what he says! Don’t put it in the newspaper! Don’t print it! Don’t repeat it! Because it’s probably not true, because he’s a liar.”

It should be noted that Mr. Rumsfeld said all this with a straight face. Apparently the irony of the situation is lost on him… Has Mr. Rumsfeld forgotten the spin he helped orchestrate to confuse the foreign-sounding words “al-Qaeda,” “Osama bin Laden,” “Iraq,” and “Saddam Hussein”enough that a majority of Americans believed Hussein was responsible for the terror attacks on September 11th, when in reality that’s an out-and-out falsehood. A lie. A lie very similar to the ones leading up to the attack of Iraq and the bombing of Baghdad, where Mr. Rumsfeld and company convinced us that Iraq was hiding weapons of mass destruction, when in reality there were no WMD’s to be found.

Speaking of Mr. Rumsfeld…

The United States Supreme Court heard both sides argue in the Hamdan v. Rumsfeld case. The case is about the government’s handling of the detainees at Guantanamo Bay, and how the detainees should be tried in court. The government wants to set up special tribunals to deal with the matter, but everyone else seems to think that this skirts beyond the boundaries of presidential powers and is in violation of the Geneva Conventions.

“The president seeks not merely to detain temporarily but to dispense life imprisonment and death through a judicial system of his own design. Anyone, anytime, may be swept into this system and forced to endure years of waiting before their cases are even heard.” – Neil Katyal, the defense’s counsel of record in a brief to the Supreme Court source

I saw part of this on C-SPAN. Chief Justice (and Bush appointee) John Roberts was not presiding, as he’d already ruled in the government’s favor in a lower court. Justice Antonin Scalia (more on him later) pretty much said that the United States President should have the power to do anything he wants to do. Other justices, though, seemed to be of the opinion that the government’s case was nutty.

They won’t issue a ruling on this until sometime in June.

Personally, I think the whole affair stinks. The detainees at Guantanamo Bay have been there WAY too long. From the beginning they should have either been brought to America (not Cuba) and put on trial, or sent to the international war crimes court at the Hague. Keeping them penned up in a third nation for four years without trial is, in my opinion, an un-American thing to do. We’re supposed to be the good guys, here. The attitude that we can do whatever we want to do (because, remember, the rules don’t apply to us – we learned that from Mr. Bush) led to the Abu Ghraib torture as well as questionable treatment of detainees in Guantanamo. It’s shameful.

Freedom of Speech at it’s Finest

Judge Antonin Scalia is following in Vice President Richard Bruce “Dick” Cheney’s footsteps in regard to the freedom of personal expression. Evidently the Supreme Court Justice gave a reporter a hand gesture in church the other day – a gesture the reporter found obscene. The Justice denies it, of course. Because, you see, the rules don’t apply to him. (Mr. Cheney, if you remember, brought a new low to congress when he told a congressman to go reproduce with himself. He didn’t use that phrase, though. The phrase he chose was a bit pithier.) Justice Scalia said that the gesture was an Italian gesture meaning “I don’t care.” I doubt the reporter got the meaning of the gesture wrong, though. source

Here to Stay? Maybe?

Normally I’m a really nice guy. But doesn’t the phrase “illegal immigrant” mean that, well, the immigrant is here illegally? I may be breaking with official party line here (there are those out there that think I lean a bit to the left), but I’m not sure that giving illegal immigrants amnesty is a good idea. They came here illegally, they are breaking the law, they should pay the consequences. Simple enough? This issue is pretty murky, and, to be honest, I’ve not spent much (any) time researching the topic. Can anyone tell me how this is supposed to work? Do we all get one “get out of jail free” card?

Just between you and me, I think the weather this year sucks, and it has to be U.S. President G. Walker Bush’s fault somehow.

The Etymology of the Situation

A while ago I briefly pondered the phrase “under way.” The thought flitted across what I refer to as “my mind” that it could be “under weigh,” and may have nautical references.

I was wrong.

A ship has way on it when it is in motion, and thus the idiom to get under way [or underway] means “to begin to move,” just as the idiom to be under way [or underway] is “to be moving,” regardless of whether what’s moving or beginning to move is a ship, a car, or a fund-raising campaign. The idea of weigh, as with an anchor, is an error in either use, although in the past many reputable authors have chosen that form. Under way and underway are both now Standard spellings of both adverbial and adjectival uses. – source

So now I know.

A rather cruddy day indeed

I forgot to take my sleepy-pill last night because I was so tired I fell asleep on the couch WAY too early. I woke up at midnight with a book on my face, a bowl of popcorn on my tummy and a smallish orange cat named Fruitloop on my chest, the TV mumbling away to itself in the corner. Oddly enough I had a Tootsie-Roll in my hand.

I set the Tootsie-Roll down, got the book off my face and nibbled on some popcorn in a speculative sort of way. It’s midnight, I’m dead tired and wide awake, the cat and the wife are both snoring gently away (one of them still on my chest)… Do I force myself to get up and do something productive until I’m sleepy again? It’s too late to take a sleepy-pill. Shall I continue to loll about on the couch, munching popcorn? That sounds good… I don’t have to move that way.

Three-thirty a.m. rolls around. I’m still on the couch, bloodshot peepers staring glazed at the TV. The cat got up once, stretched, turned around three times, and fell back asleep on my legs. I’m out of popcorn, and the Tootsie-Roll has rolled about three inches out of reach. Gaaahhh. Might as well get up.

I extricate myself as gently as possible from the indignant cat, who favors me with a slightly reproachful and groggy-sounding “Merow.” Up I stand, stray bits of popcorn falling out of my beard. I totter off to the facilities, where I’m facilitated. That bit of business over, I decide to sneak into the bedroom and snuggle with my beloved for a bit. Maybe if I get away from the TV and the reading light in the living room I’ll be able to fall asleep.

Three-forty finds me in bed, staring at the fuzzy numbers of the alarm clock. “Alarm,” I think. “Why isn’t it called an ‘awakening clock’? Why does it have to be alarming? Alarm. Alarum…” I then had the sudden realization that for the past 28 years I’ve been putting my glasses on the nightstand every night – right in front of the alarum clock. If I’d simply take a second to slip my spectacles sideways I may avoid the inevitable whacking of the eyeglasses that happens every morning. Odd what you think of at night.

At 3:50, the cat joins us. He curls up on my feet, yawns once, and is out like a light. My Viennese bride is happily snoozing away. I’m staring at the ceiling, wondering if those cracks have always been there. Then I realize that my eyes are closed, and if I’m seeing cracks, there’s probably something wrong. Oh well…

Needless to say, when the klaxon blared at 6:25 a.m., I was finally asleep. With all due groggidity, I aimed a healthy whack at the alarm clock, missing by three inches, hitting my glasses…

“Well, we’re off to a good start,” thought I.

An hour and a quarter later I’d had my shower (though I was too tired to sing), coffee, and was settling down at work. By the time I’d chewed my way through the night’s collection of e-mails, I had the beginnings of a headache and my left eyelid was starting to twitch. You know, this job would be a lot easier if it weren’t for the pesky customers… Always wanting something! The nerve.

Shortly before lunch my e-mail in-box beeped at me. I stirred from my torpid stupor to aim my beady little eyeballs at the new message. It was from my boss. Not good… Turns out my department made a mistake last week. I accidentally left four words off a customer’s newsletter, and the customer was (rightly) steamed about it. Being as proactive as possible, I made a beeline to the boss’ office. “I’ve got documentation showing that we’re okay,” I said, “but push comes to shove, I made the mistake.” After about an hour of being chewed out by both bosses (they questioned pretty much every aspect of my department’s policies and procedures, finally concluding that we’re doing everything right, but we’re in the wrong anyway) I glued my left buttock back into place and resumed my torpid gawking at my computer screen.

I hate making mistakes. I’ve been pondering all afternoon the feasibility of changing departmental procedure to a double-proof method, (a fancy way of saying “Should me and the other guy proofread each other’s stuff”) even though we’re not supposed to be in the business of proofreading…? Nah… After an entire afternoon of headachy contemplation, I’ve come to the conclusion that I do indeed have recommendations to put forth to the bosses.

1. Chocolate pudding at 10 a.m.
2. A basketball hoop on the loading dock
3. Nap from 2:30 to 3
4. Snacks at 3:30
5. Beer in the pop machine

Wish me luck.

We Pay Them HOW Much?

There’s an interesting post on The Daily Curmudgeon today. Mr. Curmudgeon points out that our current House of Representatives has been in session for a mere 19 days ALL YEAR. In the first month of 2006 House members were in session for 47 hours. That’s about one work week for the rest of us. It’s projected that they’ll spend 97 days in Washington in 2006.

For that we pay them $165,200 a year.

For shame! If you take a week off for St. Patrick’s day, you should forfeit a week’s pay. I’ve been at my job for 13 years, and I have to fight to get two week’s vacation a year. Why should congressmen get better treatment? After their first year on the job, they get one week vacation. If they take more time off than that, it should be unpaid.

I’m disappointed in our government.

So THAT’S How They Did It

It comes as no surprise, but it’s so pervasive these days that it’s hard to see. The Republicans are in the minority, but it doesn’t seem that way because they quite simply yell louder. I flipped past that Bill Maher show the other day. He likes to get a conservative, a liberal, and a comedian together and see what happens. During the two minutes I watched the show I had the pleasure of seeing Florida republican Ileana Ros-Lehtinen holler, bellow, finger-shake, yell, and generally do everything she could to intimidate the other two guests on the show – all without ever once really saying anything.

This is how the Bush administration has functioned since about 1999. They simply out shout the opposition. It doesn’t matter that what they’re yelling is utter nonsense – simply by saying it loudly and often, they get their way.

I’m not saying that Democrats are angels, but the trend seems to be… Well, you know where I’m going with this.

I’m disappointed in our government.