Concrete Evidence

I have decided that there is nothing easy about concrete. I come by this knowledge honestly - through good, hard experience. I meant to say that.

Some years ago I replaced the gates in my driveway with wider ones. Not that I needed them, I could have parked my stuff behind narrow ones with a bunch more practice and some pretty nasty scratches on said trailers. But, in the immortal words of Joe M., I would rather widen the opening than...oh, never mind. So, I had a guy replace my gates and remove a couple of columns of block to accommodate the new gates. The result was a strip of concrete under the gate that consisted of broke-out block. It looked like Tom's teeth every time Jerry hit him in the face with a giant frying pan. Most impressive was the way Jerry could levitate high in the air and still have the leverage to swing that massive cast-iron skillet in order to reshape Tom's face -- and his teeth, by the way. (didn't think it would come back, did you...)

Anyway, I went to Home Depot, which I now own as a result of the remodel, to get some concrete patch material. I got a large bucket and followed the directions. I even got a trowel. Is that how you spell it? So, I mixed the concrete and applied it all along the broken-teeth jaggy-ness. Then, I went back to smash it into the cracks of the broke blocks to smooth out the driveway.

When I went to hit the first, um, I'll call it a clod of concrete, I expected to be able to manipulate it like drizzling chocolate in the voids of the three-scoop mountain Debi loves so much. Not to be confused with the two mountains Jeff loves so much. Instead of the soft, smooth, creamy substance I expected, I hit solid rock. I think it hit me back. The bag said it would dry hard and fast but this was ridiculous. I threw the clods away. I threw the bucket away. I even threw the trowel away. I have such animosity that I didn't even look up how to spell it. I ended up having the slab company patch this gap and it looks great.

I may have mentioned that during the remodel (mind you I didn’t say ‘…before the remodel began when it could have been properly planned’) we decided to add a veggie sink in the kitchen. To do this, we had to saw-cut the newly poured slab to accommodate the wires and pipes necessary to tie the plumbing to the island. The saw-cutter came out and cut the concrete. I busted it out. There is strangely nothing straight-forward about this. It looks cracked, it can move, but I cannot remove the piece I am working on.

I found it gratifying to use the sledge hammer on the concrete right up until I got to the deeper foundation concrete. My sledge hammer literally bounced off this stuff. So, I found it hard to work with. Next, I went to Home Depot, which I own, and rented a jack hammer. This 30-lb light-duty device helped me chip out some of the more delicate areas around existing pipes and corners. It, however, failed to penetrate the foundation sufficiently. So, I went to Home Depot, which I own, and rented The Whacker. This device actually comes with its own moving dolly. I was able to jackhammer my way to success using The Whacker. I’m sure the digital nerve damage and hearing loss were worth it.

Now I'm scared of concrete.

Merry Christmas 2006

Much like Saddahama Huseinne, we have been living our last several months of freedom in a cave or basement. I don't know if we will be found and removed from this hole, but it seems unlikely. The contractors will grind the floor tomorrow morning at 7. Joy to the World.

So, Merry Christmas to everyone. We, the Crandalls, have many things to be thankful for or complain about depending who you are. The drywallers were in today to do some touch-up sanding of some rough spots and Debi was following them around making sure all was OK. I should preface this by saying that I am the inept contractor of our remodel. I try to run a safe jobsite and periodically I am caught off-guard because I could not forsee problems that could easily been avoided by someone who does this more or less professionally. I, on the otherhand, regularly endanger others who view our progress. One of the issues I might have under-addressed in the safety void that is our house is the 3" pipe that used to be the down-draft in our old island. This pipe will end up being under the new island and has not been filled in. Nor has it been marked or ground down or temporarily bridged or secured in the least. Until now, everyone has successfully navigated the kitchen without incident. Until now.

So, Debi is wandering around with the English-is-my-second-language-and-I-should-get-around-to-studying-it-someday drywaller chick and she is examining the computer desk area in the kitchen. She then spun around as la chick wanted to show her something across the room. She mistakenly looked at the thing, not down at her feet and her left foot went into the pipe. Not the picture of agility, Debi bent forward and back like one of those crappy toy figures they give out at Sonic with the suction cup on the bottom. She sprang back upright but not until she had sufficiently injured her shin bone and twisted her ankle.

She is resting comfortably now in our bed with soreness in her shin, ankle, and surprisingly, her left hip doesn't work anymore.

Eyes like Marty Feldman

My eyes are beginning to struggle. I have always had great eyesight. According to my kid's ophthalmologist, I am one of the few lucky ones. My dad, oh, I have to write about him someday, always had bad eyesight and glasses. My mom had good eyes and has concealed the fact that here eyes are bad now. Her mother was nearly blind. Throughout her life, my maternal grandmother had varying degrees of eye trouble, cornea transplants, collapsed pupils, and generally poor eye health. I think this is where my mother got her intensity about eyesight. I remember driving down the road one day when I was young and commenting that I thought I looked good in glasses. I may have mentioned that I wanted to damage my eyesight in order to deem it necessary to have these glasses to make me look good.

My comments must have been credible enough because my mom reacted in a violent way. Her tirade contained many reasons why I would not want to do such a thing. She was spitting fire and hollering as she demanded that I swear on a stack of shoes that I would never do anything so stupid. Of course I wouldn't. Although it was a known fact even then that people with glasses were smarter than people who were unbespecticled. There I was -- Mr. Dunderboy Nakedface.

I remember how much my friends were jealous of my eyesight. When we would drive somewhere (especially to the South Twin where it was dark) I could see the street signs far sooner than my friends. They thought I was blessed with a super power to be able to see like I could. I would deem that superpower-lite as my vision at the time was 20/15.

I was told that my eyesight would vanish when I turned 40. I remember reading a book aloud that night and when the clock struck 12 I still had the ability to read and see. I beat the odds, donchaknow. Now, at 45, I recognize the symptoms of gradual blindness. I didn't know doing that would cause such a belated effect. Checking my palms now. I now read everything just fine except when I get tired. I find that focusing when I am really tired has become interesting. I have tested this to see if there are times when I have more or less difficulty and the only thing I can tell is that when American Idol comes on I am instantly blinded. It must be Realitvigmatism.

Here's the weird part: I got some +1.25's for the tired reading times. If I get tired, I bust them out like a proud grandpappy dragging a fart through a crowded mall. I use them for a second and then I realize that I don't like them so I take them off and I can see better with them off. I can't explain that. I didn't think corrective lenses actually corrected anything. But they seem to correct my ability to see as Mr. Nakedface. So much for me donning glasses to look smarter. I can't wait for the day when I get to wear a neck-strapped pair of +2.00's around my neck everywhere I go. That will look cool. Sorry mom.

Vomitorium

I haven't posted for two weeks - since the ugly bug got the house. I guess I should record our experience so if we ever look back on this we will remember the days following Thanksgiving 2006. It was Thursday, and by Friday midnight 5 out of 6 of us were blowing. It hit each of us at about the same time. There was literaly one moment when Max was driving the porcelain bus, Caitie was hanging over the sink, Olivia had a bowl in the bathtub, and I came around the corner headed to the bathroom. Debi, the only survivor of this ordeal, began to laugh and directed me up stairs to find a functional toilet because there was absolutely nowhere else to puke. It would have been funny if it weren't so gross.

New Pictures 11-30

http://picasaweb.google.com/jeffbyte

Lookie here - notice the Harry-Potter-forehead-like lightning ceiling.

Idea Germ:

I have recently become fascinated with the specialized language used in each profession or situation. Handsome Dan is a great example. Another is Crime Central. I was watching CSI with Abby and they used 'crime central' to mean a specific situation. Now, the word crime and the word central don't trip me up individually. But collectively, they mean something different. I am not talking about difficult or unintelligible language such as is used by doctors and lawyers. That's the biggest bunch of habius corpus. I am talking about word groups that have been assigned meaning to help out a profession communicate in our otherwise weak language.

Some examples in my profession. Spaghetti Code. Technical Refresh. Boolean Drill. Kludge. One of these if 'jargon'. Can you guess which one? But the others are easily identifiable as possessing the characteristics of that which fascinates me. I have started paying attention to people who say, "...we call that X." The 'we call it' identifier in any conversation signifies the approaching word group that has been reassigned meaning. These are fascinating to me – at least the ones that are foreign to me. The ones I know and use...not so much.

Bovine Pate

I don't know whose idea it was. We were the Westwood Warriors. They were the Mountain View Toros. It was high school. I worked at a butcher shop every morning boxing meat that had been slaughtered, cut, and frozen from the previous day's carnage.

I think a bunch of us were talking about mascot pranks and our desire to participate. Mountain View was getting a little too big for its britches so we decided we would try to do our part to bring them down a notch or two. Since they were and are the Toros, we needed something to do with cows or bulls. I pointed out to the group that I had access to any cow part they wanted. We originally spoke of a cow hoof – a part I had used earlier in the year in a skit I did for a talentless show. “Anything tastes great when it sits on a Ritz.” That didn't seem like enough.

So I told everyone what a cow head looked like once it had been skinned. With the red meat and connective tissue that made up the muscles in the face, they were always a splendid site.
Our plan was to take the meaty cow head and place it somewhere that would bring out the secret passions of the Toros. We thought it best if sports were involved since A) mascots are most closely associated with sports, and 2) emotions ran quite high during these sporting events. We chose basketball. The most difficult obstacle was how to smuggle a cow head into a basketball court, hold it until the right time, and then somehow deliver the present with the dignity it deserved.

We chose the night and I secured the head. It was beautiful. Our method of bovine execution at the butcher shop was firing squad – er, um I mean a single bullet between the eyes. This victim was no exception and as a bonus he had horns. As an added, added bonus, we found a blue feather which fit perfectly in the cranial hole and completed the picture. After all, we were The Warriors! We were now ready to pull off the caper. My mind is fuzzy on who brought the head in the gym and stored it nonchalantly next to their seat. Then we waited.

During a time out and with both teams still on the court but gathered at their respective benches, a group of us crowded around the head and escorted it out to center court. Nobody could see what it was nor what we were doing. We set it down, took it out of the plastic, inserted the feather, and faced it toward the Mountain View side of the gym. Then we walked away.

I wish we had a picture of this. Meaty, glassy stare with horns and a feather as if massacred by a Warrior. There is one picture and a small write-up in our yearbook which I will post sometime but you can't really get a good feel for the splendor in black and white. The head sat there and a stunned silence fell over their crowd. Then they began screaming and wondering what they should do about this. Finally, a group of boys came out of their stands and gathered up the head. They brought it to our side of the gym and deposited it on our sideline. Laurel (and those of you who know him know just how scary this is) leaped from our stands and grabbed the head in one hand and sprinted across the court – winding up to throw it into their crowd. That is when the adults tackled him. He was respectful enough to cooperate once he was apprehended.

He was removed from the game. We were all banned from any further games and we completed several hours of campus beautification as punishment for our crime. It was worth it. I have seen some of our principals later in life and asked them about this prank. Each remembers it with fondness and only punished us to show that they could not approve – though they admitted that they did.

Plaster and Alginate

When Kansas and Styx were fighting it out for best band using an organ, I was in high school. OK, there are many stories from that time but two come to mind immediately: the cow head story (later) and the plaster parts story (now).

My friend Jeff M's father was an orthodontist. This profession requires making plaster casts of people's teeth in order to construct Marquis de Sade-level appliances to force said teeth into perfectly pleasing position. To do this, a rubbery, gooey substance called alginate is applied to the teeth. This solidifies so that plaster can be poured in to create a positive of the model. Why the dissertation on straightening supplies? Because given a few dozen boxes of alginate, access to the orthodontic offices and the cover of night -- not to mention the hormone-deranged thinking of two 16-year-old boys, there were a few ideas that spawned to help us kill a little time in our latter-formative years.

I'm talking, of course, about plaster body parts. Our first idea was to create plaster casts of our hands. We used box after box of alginate creating many different finger/hand configurations. We poured the plaster into the alginate. After it hardened we tore away the milk carton-like box the alginate came in, pealed away the alginate, and revealed the perfectly white, perfectly formed plaster replica of our hands. We made several hands the first night we did this.

Not knowing what to do with them once they were created, we threw them down the street toward a dumpster at the end of a cul-de-sac. This alone paints a strange picture as we were not too careful to actually hit the garbage can, but rather let the plaster digits shatter into pieces in the road. Oh to know the thoughts of the adult who found those.

We then got the great idea to bring dates to the alginate parties. We did this under the guise that we wanted to create a fist-shaped gear shift for our cars. We drove stick shift cars in those days (said with a certain swagger and mist for the good ol' days). All day long we would grasp girl's fists and determine if the were worthy of being cast -- literally. I did get one I liked. Small, fitting, and I even painted it blue to match my VW. I drilled out the wrist and epoxied it onto the shifter. It worked for many moons.

In time, boredom set in. Who didn't see this coming? Jeff and I decided we needed to do a face. This, however, presented a problem. The fists and feet (did I mention we did feet?) could fit in the alginate boxes so we would make a whole box of alginate right in the box, shove hands and feet in, and wait. Face: no structure. Our only alternative to using alginate was to use plaster to make the negative and then fill it with plaster to make the positive, and then crack away the negative. This in not uncommon but it was our first try.

Jeff was the victim. To breathe, we found some surgical tubing and stuffed them up each nostril. For lubrication, we used Vasoline on his face. Then, we applied a generous thickness of plaster to his face, and waited. It hardened. When it was time to take it off of his face, we gently turned him over to allow gravity to assist and with minimal effort it separated from his face – except for his eyelashes. We gently tugged on the now hardened negative of his face and it wouldn't budge.

At one point, the entire weight of the plaster mask was hanging from his eyelids. Panic. After several minutes of teasing and coaxing, he finally RIPPED the mask from his face, taking approximately three fourths of his eyelashes with it. I think he experienced pain.
We took the eyelash-plucking mask and poured a boatload of plaster in it. We waited, then chipped off the mask. The resulting positive, much like a death mask, looked remarkable like Jeff with two strange anomalies: the nostrils were enlarged as a result of the surgical tubing and, you guessed it, it had eyelashes. Spooky.

“What body part is next?” we asked with hormonal eagerness. Of course, a butt. Jeff was again the victim. We piled a large mountain of dirty lab towels in the middle of the floor of the lab. Jeff dropped trou and 'peeked' on the towel mountain. I had the dignified job of applying the large amount of plaster. Then we waited – not much of an awkward conversation there, and then Jeff slowly arose and tried to remove the shell from his butt. With minimal effort it separated from his butt – except his butthole hair. Really not a pretty picture here, but the psychosis continues.

At one point it was hanging from this hair. He got brave and RIPPED it out and then we commenced pouring the positive. We chipped away the shell to reveal the butt and guess what. It had hair. Jeff was grossed out enough that he decided to burn the hair out. So, he got a lighter and burned the hair out. This had the desired effect of removing the hair but had the undesirable effect of turning the crack brown/black. Stark white butt, browneye.

We decided this was a bad deal so we took it to my house where I had some sandpaper. We were sanding the butt in the family room when my mom caught us. I think she hasn't really recovered from that one. I kind of wonder what happened to that thing. Jeff still has the face. With eyelashes.

NO, we never tried a wee-nah.

Daddy Daughter

A couple of weeks ago, trauma hit our area hard. I am hoping they don't come in threes as the saying goes. I received a phone call from Doug informing me that he was called to help with a search and rescue behind Dennis' old house. He explained that two little kids had fallen into the canal and needed to be rescued.

The next call was much worse.

Doug called back and told me that two kids had indeed fallen into the canal, that one was alive, and the other was dead. The little two-year-old girl was Isabella, a girl we all knew from a family we all knew. She and Jesus, her best friend, had slipped out the back gate which was left open by the pool construction crew who left for the dump but forgot to close the gate. Minutes later, the 19-year-old boy, Michael, went looking for the kids. When he couldn't locate them immediately, he called for his dad, John, who had been ill and was very weak. Despite this, John and Michael went into the backyard to look for the kids. When he saw the gate open, he ‘knew we were in trouble.’ They went out the gate and immediately noticed the dirt slide marks down the bank of the canal leading to the water. Michael jumped in there but was unable to find the kids.

On instinct, and judging from the current flow, Michael climbed out and he and John began running ‘downstream’. About a quarter of a mile from their home, the canal runs under McDowell Road. On the other side is a water-flow regulation gate. Michael ran across McDowell and jumped in the water just in front of the gate. He quickly found Jesus who was clinging to a pole with his head beneath the water. How he knew at two years old to hold on to a pole is beyond me. Michael grabbed the boy and hastily handed him up to John. John took the boy over to the sidewalk – Jesus was coughing and gasping.

Michael returned to the search – frantically looking for his little sister. If Jesus was here, she would be too. Soon John heard a scream from the water – and Michael held Isabella’s lifeless body up for him to pull from the canal. John told me later that he knew she was gone. By this time, 911 had been called and helicopters were on the scene to take the children to the hospital. John said he was relieved to let the professionals continue to administer CPR – taking over where he left off.

When I arrived at their home, the other children were all home and news reports described two kids in critical condition. Two television stations had parked their vans in the cul-de-sac and periodically would come to the door and ask if there was an update on the children’s conditions. The home has a large front door that is mostly glass. We covered the door with a sheet so the media could not shoot through the door and capture the hugging and crying going on in the entry.

I have never in my 45 years upon this earth seen grief and sadness on a person’s face like I saw when John walked in the door from the hospital. His wife, Jacqueline had similar sorrow on her face. They wanted nothing more than to hug their children. Then, officially, they took their children into the master bedroom and informed them that their little sister had passed away. We all waited for ‘the meeting none of ever wanted to be invited to’ to finish.

By the time I arrived to their home there had already been a lot of food prepared and delivered. The family, of course, was not terribly interested in eating it. Probably the most interesting/touching gesture from a neighbor was luminaries. Their walkway was lined with small, white lunch bags filled with sand and a candle in the bottom – a fitting tribute or gesture that really said nothing more than ‘we care’.

I was asked to help assemble a DVD with music depicting pictures of this little girl. I also was asked to help with the funeral program. I was honored to be able to help. As the week progressed, I prepared to leave town to take my daughters on the ‘Daddy-Daughter Campout’. As I had not received all the information on time, I ended up constructing the program and delivering it to Kinko’s for printing over the weekend. I was unable to deliver it so while I was gone, Debi chased around to different establishments to get this thing printed. She saved my life. Without her, I would not have been able to go to the campout – which was fun.

The Sunday after the campout was the viewing for this little girl. They held the viewing in their home and opened the front door to HUNDREDS and HUNDREDS of well-wishing friends, family, and neighbors. The DVD was playing just inside the front door while the body lies in state in the family room. The courageous parents stood by and greeted the throng. One particularly poignant comment offered was, ‘…it’s not right that they make caskets that small. It should be illegal.’

The most surreal part of the Sunday night event was that Jesus was running around, in and out of the crowd, obilvious of his friend in the box.

The Clothing Chair

This morning, I went to the corner of Gilbert and Broadway and asked of three young men would get into my car and come to my home and help me clean up some of the debris left by the several trades who recently concluded their construction activities on my house. They agreed and climbed into my car. I listened to the radio on the way home.

When I arrived at home, I went to the back yard and began describing, in my best international sign language invented by the same guys who invented talking louder to foreigners so they can understand better. I described – digitally -- my desires for the garbage, wires, concrete, insulation, dust, dirt, rocks, wood, cultured marble, paper, pipe, nails, plastic, drywall, and other materials to be removed from the house and place gently and lovingly in my 40-yard, $330 per dump dumpster. They agreed and the sweeping and shoveling began. As they started picking up the smaller things, I began removing the larger things such as shower doors, lights, planks and marble splash. There was a wall that had a sheet of cultured marble that had not been removed yet, so after I took the large stuff, I busted that thing off the wall.

Three hours, three carnitas burritos from Filibertos, three large cokes, and some cash later I had a remarkably clean workspace ready for inspection.

Meanwhile, Debi was cleaning up for Jeannie. This is always a delightful event culminating with every piece of dirty laundry piled knee-deep in the laundry room. I did not know, however, that you could use a stack of dirty laundry as a chair. I went to visit her in the laundry and she was sitting on a stack of laundry while folding, sorting, and searching other laundry. I wondered, silently, where she sat when she completed all the laundry in front of her and had no material to work with except that upon which she sat. I didn’t ask.

Yale Trip

I refer you to http://picasaweb.google.com/jeffbyte again only this time to look at the Yale pictures. We had a blast. The game, however, didn't turn out so well. As Wil would say, they played too long. Yale was up the whole time but Princeton came back in the 4th with a few minutes left to beat Yale 34-31. Bret had a concussion and did not play. He should play next week in the Harvard-Yale contest.

I won't bore you with all the details of the trip but there were a couple of great things.
The mascot for Yale is the bulldog. They are the Yale Bulldogs. A real live bulldog roams the field during the game. His name? Handsome Dan. Could that be better? I almost feel dumb that I didn't know this before.

The halftime show was nothing short of a travesty - terrible music, bad announcing, filthy innuendo punctuated by two violins -- in the marching BAND???? It's gone awry in New Haven on that front.

OK, so boring. I just got a look at the last couple of posts. Sorry for that. I think I need to reboot my brain and then I will be able to come back online with a little more interesting content.

Busy Ness

I was talking to Mike W the other day, whom I love-no not that way-fag. Our conversation turned to business and I listened as he talked as if right through me, strumming my pain with his fingers, saying my life with his words. Killing me softly with his tale, killing me softly... I realized that the hell that is big business is not unique to rogue companies who buy small companies and exploit them. After thinking about my experience with the Red Menace that I used to work for I formulated the following rant: In business management school they teach students how to manage business. There are two very important parts of that discipline that are sadly overlooked in many cases and it shows. The two aspects are customers and employees. Oh, I could go on all day about how employees are treated in a large business but it seems almost trite. Everyone knows that nobody treats employees well, no business cares about individuals, and employees are 'hot-swappable'. This is for another rant another day.

My beef has to do with the inability of management levels to address real customer needs. I can tell you from personal experience that the higher you climb in a company, the less you talk about customers, the less you care about customers, and the less you do for customers. This seems absurd but it is all too true. I will give you an example ripped from the pages of a business management textbook.

There is a concept known as ‘JND’ which stands for Just Noticeable Difference. This concept allows a company, for example, to maintain the price of a product but reduce its size slightly. So, the 12 oz. can you used to get is now a 10.5 oz. can costing the same. This allows profits to rise because less is produced but sold for the same price. The JND threshold is such that if customers don’t notice the difference, they will continue to consume at the same rate. Revenue forecasts and production rates do not need to fluctuate which holds revenue stead while reducing costs.

I ask you, is this evidence of a customer-centric organization? I answer before you--no. A customer-centric company would not do this to their customers. Their goal would be to reduce costs, maintain product levels, and ultimately deliver more to customers, determine what customers want, and make it easier for them to get it.

As I became more involved with the management of the business I became less involved in running the business the way I would run it. I catered to the stockholders and spent most of my time justifying each move I made to them and to upper management. The problem with this is two-fold. First, you NEVER talk about customers, and second, you tend to be cautious in your approach to your job because you don’t want to have to try to help the c-level managers understand what really needs to be done. Heaven help the guy at Kodak who thought digital cameras were a passing fad…

What you end up with is a bunch of butt-covering, mediocre lemmings that have had the creativity squashed out of them. I can’t tell you how many times I heard comments like, “…if you choose Microsoft, you keep your job.” Tragic.

Wow...Sorry

It's been too long. How have you been? I've missed you. First things first. Here is the latest on the house:

http://picasaweb.google.com/jeffbyte

Electrical should be done today or tomorrow. Then inspection. Then low-voltage. Then insulation. Then drywall. Then stucco. Then doors. Then paint. Then cabinets. Then shelves and closets. Then countertops. Then tile and carpet and finished. Then Christmas.

Office Software by Google

Google docs and spreadsheets is kinda cool if you need a browser-based word processor or spreadsheet. I can't think why I would buy Office for my kids when these are free...go figure.

Ame 2

Rain. That is what I said. I tell you, we wait for it to rain here in the AZ with grand anticipation. The problem is the while 6" per year thing. So, I have the roofer scheduled for Oct 16. That's 9 days to you and me. Nine. We can't wait for our little storm for a measly 9 days? No, we have to get a gully-washer today and soak the indoors of the new Crandall home. And let me tell you, that really soaks. The back side filled with water (sounds like the start of an enema story) but it would not drain out, so it drained into the basement...a little at a time. Just enough to drip in 4-5 places and cause extreme constraination. I tried with all my might to suck out the fluid with a rather large machine I purchased at Home Depot but the damage was already done. Debi used the ever popular 'closing the barn door after the cows are already out' speech on me. That one never gets old. The kicker is that the forecast including the extended forecast shows no more rain until the roof is on. Famous last words.

You see, the issue is that the roofing had to be pealed back in order to tie the framing into the existing house. That said, I thought the

So, basement living isn't all it's cracked up to be. More butt jokes. Sorry. I think our biggest problem is no kitchen.

We put the *fun* in funeral

I went to a funeral today. Dick Campbell, the guy I spoke of a few days ago. It was nice. I wish everyone knew him. He was one great guy. Parkinsons disease robbed us of a great man. Two things that were funny and I must record them:

Teri, Dick's daughter, had a *friend* over and Dick came wandering out into the kitchen in his underware. Teri, embarassed, told her dad to get something on to meet her friend. He returned a moment later, still in his underware but wearing a cowboy hat. He asked, "Is this better?"

Steve, his brother, got up and said, "Dick's favorite color was brown. I didn't have a brown suit to wear, so I went out and got this blue tie that has a little brown in it. It cost me $50 bucks. I guess I can return it when we're done..." He went on to say that maybe it would become his favorite tie. I really enjoyed the funeral. Too bad but great for him...

I burned down the fence and other lies

OK, busted. I lied to my parents when I was young. I did it to make sure I didn't get in trouble. It worked. I, however, had to come clean and appologize to them later. That was bad. I should not have done it and I think it is being done to me to some degree. I can tell when the lies come out, and I think my folks could too.

The first lie I remember was when I was playing with matches with Lisa, my next door neighbor in Phoenix. When we were done playing with the matches, we simply took all the cardboard and match covers and papers we burned and threw them into the alley. The alley ran behind the Beck's house. For those who don't know what an alley is for, the garbage cans were kept back there and the truck would come through the alley once a week and collect it. This thoroughfare was not paved and was full of weeds. You can see it coming down 5th Avenue, can't you? To top things off and complete the picture, the city would periodically drive through the alleys spraying the weeds to try to control them along the fences of the neighbors -- the wooden fences, that is. I think I have set the stage completely now. Allegedly, when the half-burnt materials were gently discarded into the alley, they must have set alite the weeds which in turn torched the fence. I didn't know this until the firetruck arrived. I didn't even make the connection until Lisa asked me later if it could have been our materials and carelessness that caused this scene. I assured her that I had no clue and began to feel the guilt.

By the time my mom asked me if I had done this, I said, 'No.' I guess I could have left it at that, but being the helpful/lying soul that I am/was I hinted that maybe Danny Blaine may have done it. That was safe, you see, because he was a little older than I was, he was known for his mischevious ways, and my family never spoke to their family. I don't even know if my parents knew where the Blaine family lived. Still, a fitting scapegote was he. I gave no inference that I had witnessed the arson but rather planted the idea seed deeply enough in my folks' heads that they began to reason that Danny fit the crime. I think I fessed up to this one when I was about 30 years old. Accidentally.

The second lie involved a movie I shouldn't have seen in a place I shouldn't have been seeing a girl I didn't want to see while there doing something she shouldn't have been doing. Sorry, this one may need a diagram. Cheerleader movie, South Twin Drive-In, Amy L., Coors. When I went home I told my mom I ran into Amy at the movie...and she was drinking. Mom and Dad were both surprised because there aren't many theaters they could think of that would allow drinking. Oops. I thought of the only one I could think of -- The Valley Art. Sometime I could go just on the Valley Art. But, the Valley Art in Tempe was quite a ways north of where I actually was -- the South Twin. Drinking IS allowed in any drive-in thearer. The problem was if I told my folks which theater I went to they would have been able to figure out the kind of movie I attended. To be fair, I think the Cheerleader movies then would be rated PG-13 now. Oh well. This one my mom will have to read in my blog before I come clean on it...watch for comments.

Two blogs and a packet of gravel

OK, The Devils are worse than I thought. I really don't know what else to say. No amount of explaining can excuse this performance...I hope I am reading this in a year and we have a new coach.

Move on

Jeff Mason quit Seminary. Stunning news that he just gave me permission to share. Weird. I think he is really happy with his decision but at the same time he feels a great loyalty and did not arrive at the decision lightly.

In other news, Dick Campbell is not long for this world. He has suffered over 14 years with Parkinson's Disease and recently underwent brain surgery to help relieve some of his symptoms with disasterous results. We wish him and his family all the best.

The Devils play tomorrow. Oregon. I predict another loss at the hands of a great Pac-10 team. I have never understood why it is that a coach gets fired when the players are the ones who do or do not win. Until now. Our coach, Dirk, is not qualified to lead a Pac-10 team in my opinion. Why do I think that? First, his teams don't ever seem ready to play. Second, they jump offsides, and commit other mental errors that point directly to coaching. Third, I have never seen a Dirk-lead team come out of the locker room the second half and change one thing about their execution of the game. They don't come out more fired up, they don't change their schemes, they don't play with more despiration, they don't play more motivated. Fourth, I can't understand why our defensive secondary won't turn around and look up for the ball. Yes, this is the secondary coach, but if I'm the head coach, I have seen some good players do it right and I watch my players do it wrong and I kick some collective buttocks.

I put all these things on an aweful coach.

Marbyte

Happy Birthday, Marlo!

Puppy Love

Not only will I refer the time period by music, but the titles will also be song titles. This will signify to you that I am writing about the past so you can skip these posts. They may bore you, you see.

Just when Janice and Jimmy bought it, I found my first love. I actually had a girlfriend all through Ingleside grade school. Ingleside was K-8 at the time and there were literally 8th graders running around on the same playgrounds where we played. We were not allowed on certain parts of the campus (if you can call a grade school a campus) and if we were caught there, our teacher would read to us out of a Kindergarden book -- See Spot Run kinda stuff to make us feel like babies and emotionally batter us into avoiding the playground of the younger kids.

First, the girl who liked me...third grade. I met this new girl who was nice and she told somebody who told me that she liked me. I decided to like her because she only had one hand. I don't know if I felt badly for her or she was really a nice girl, but I decided to like her. Her name was Dianna Schmidt. She didn't seem the least bit selfconscious of it. She showed it to me and I marvled at the complete lack of hand that she had on her arm. I don't remember the reason she didn't have a hand. I don't remember asking and I don't remember her telling me. Somehow, though, it was OK. Maybe it was kinda exotic to me. I don't know. I do remember her using her non-hand to restrain herself when she had to pee. I would get her laughing and she would laugh and pound to keep herself from peeing. Why do I remember that? I would love to get ahold of her again to see what she is doing.

Next, the girl I liked. Karen Sullivan. I liked Karen because she had the same birthday as me. Of course, she was cool, very cute, and she liked me too. Those very strong attributes and her cute freckles sealed the deal for me. I think she was my girlfriend until I moved away in 6th grade. I remember years later after moving to Mesa I called her on a dare from my friend. I was no better off with women then than I was in third grade so like an idiot I let my friend do the talking. BIG MISTAKE. I still feel badly about this because she probably still thinks I moved away and got really weird. So maybe I did.

I remember having crushes on the older women at Ingleside. I liked Debbie Drain because she ran for office - 8th grade president or something. I remember her name because it was somewhat unusual. It seems she would be about 5 years older than me. In elementary school, that was nearly as old as my mother.

There was one other lady who meant a great deal to me in grade school. Mrs. Snyder or Mrs. Keith, I think, was her name. When I was 8 my brother died of liver cancer. My older brother is Dennis, my younger brother is Marlo. My other younger brother is Richard. Richie as we called him. He was only a few months old when he died. I remember it very well, though I don't remember him. He was just a little baby, you see, like any other. I do remember that my mother had his crib set up in her bedroom. I remember climbing up on Richie's crib bars and looking at him. One day I was sick - a cold or something - and I climbed up to see my brother. I remember my mom scolding me for breathing on him and possibly making him sick. A few weeks later, my brother died. I remember having two distince feelings: 1) if he could die, so could I and 2) because I breathed on him, I caused his death. I guess I was kind of disturbed after that. Enter Mrs. Keith. She ate lunch with me in the cafeteria everyday and made me feel like it was OK. I don't really think I have deep psychological difficulties as a result of this but I do think I carry sympathy to a little bit of an extreme.

Telling Stories

I wish I were as interesting as my friend Darren. I wish I had a phrase that captured my audience like Darren does. All Darren had to say was, "Well, before I went to rehab..." and he had us. The story that followed that phrase had all the thrill, sting, and linger of an episode of Cops, Jerry Springer, and Miami Vice in one.

In an attempt to assemble some sort of journal, I will, from time to time, relate a memory of childhood. I must come up with a phrase signifying my transition from contemporary events to past, age-improved experiences. Maybe I should say, "...before I went to Japan," or "...when I was still a virgin," or "...before my dad died." I don't think any of those conjure the curiosity and breathless anticipation that 'before I went to rehab' does, but at least it sets a timeline. Maybe just a date or a season will suffice. What if I cite the concurrent music. "So, when Saturday Night Fever filled the airwaves..." or "When Burning Down the House by Talking Heads was popular..."

So, the other day, in 1969, when Janice and Jimmy died, I was 8.

photos 3

hmmm

More pix

much too long - pictures only this time...

And the walls came down...

So, today was demo day. Oh, sure, you thought it was last Friday when we had to be out of our family room, right? Well, the kitchen was killed and the master was broken and the walls are down. The trusses and patio go on tomorrow morning.

So, in preparation for demo day, I had to get the rest of the cabinets and the appliances out of the kitchen. This filled the 40-yard dumpster we have and it had to be dumped. The only time I have to work on anything is at night. Did you know that Mesa, AZ has a law prohibiting construction from occurring after 6:00pm? Neither did I. That is until my neighbor came over in her camesol and explained in testy terms that there were ordinances against this sort of thing. So, I politely explained that we were done and that we would not have to bother her beauty sleep (8:00pm by the way and she had obviously missed many other beauty sessions if you catch my drift). I was nice. After I got her laughing, she asked me to convince her husband to make her house bigger. I declined.

Here are some more pictures to give you an idea of the nastiness that is our lives...

Look, the beam. And air.
Pealed back.


The security of three eighth's inch plywood shearing. This impenetrable barrier holds out in the air conditioning and out the dust and thieves.

TheBeam

OK, so I have trusses, I have beams, I have wood, but most of all I have trauma. You see, we are moving out of the back half of our house. That means the furniture has to move out. Normally, this would never occur evidenced by the fact that the indentations in the carpet look like Noriega's face.

The beams are gigantic. Heavy. Nasty. It took me and a couple of boys to move them. My framer picked one up and threw it on his shoulder and moved it back to the back yard by himself. I swore quietly to myself. How can I be the man when he is the man. I can say that I moved all the furniture by myself. That was painful but nothing I own is as heavy as a beam. Not even my beam bag chair. Sorry. I had to.

So the trusses go up tomorrow and a hole will be agape in my roof. Should be a blast.

Translation Score

My friend and I were talking about credit scores the other day on the way in to the ASU football game. Yes, football has started, we just forgot to tell ASU. That is for another rant.

Credit scores are asymptotic in nature. The more credit you amass, the closer to prefect you get. You can get infinitely close, but can never achieve a perfect score because the very act of inquiring about your score lowers your score. As you gain credit score prefection, you borrow, pay, and never delay. The accepted score range is between 450 and 850. But if you have such a great credit score -- say 840-- you probably don't need to borrow. So, you have a great score which means you don't borrow money and therefore take a score hit because you don't borrow money. Asymtotic or Assninetotic?

My credit score is good. My wife is protective of it to a fault. She is vigilant. She is never late paying bills, always keeps us current, and inquires whenever any event may negatively impact our credit score. If the answer is yes, by the way, heaven help the individual who threatens our credit score. She will snarl and posture and threaten the threatener much like a mother bear protects her young -- which may be some form of assault. Let's ask the attorneys.

Of course, this got me thinking. We as mortals must have a translation score. Stick with me, here, I actually may make some sense. OK, it's doubtful, but here it goes...We, as fallen, sinning mortals, have an imperfect translation score -- where a perfect score of 850 gets you translated. The whole city of Enoc had 850's so when the last guy did his final perfecting deed, the whole city was translated. I'm guessing that event looked something like 8500 bottle rockets going off. Not sure what that would look like? Look at this.

Let's say I wanted to perfect my translation score. I'm feeling pretty righteous but maybe not enough to actually be translated. I try things to elevate my score, but all the while decreasing it for a number of reasons - not the lease of which is the act of trying to elevate it. I submit that the Enocians were able to elevate their scores precisely because they did not know they had a translation score to elevate. 'Checking' the score, if you will, degrades the purity of raising the score. Asymptote. This is why I will never be translated. Regardless of how wholesome and pure I am, I know I have a score, I wonder what the score is, and I am not humble enough to ignore the score and expect that it will elevate on its own. So, no twinkling for me. Bummer.

I'm also glad my whole body gets translated together. I don't think my elbows do much sinning so it would be a little disconcerting if just my elbows were translated leaving my sinning spleen to fend for itself.

Chaos in Pictures

Here is a picture from the shed. Which is where we should be living now. But we aren't. We're in the house. And, last night it rained. Fortunately, there isn't too much exposed as of yet. I will post the rest of the pix. They are self explanitory.

Are you still going to live there?

Well, the problem with the question as to whether we will remain living in the house depends on you definition of live. We will dwell here, in the part of the house that is not gutted and removed, until the construction is completed. I do own another kitchen. In the trailer. This we will use as a makeshift kitchen, much as the pioneers did, with Sundays off at Marlo's.

I will post some pix more often as I think the memory of the chapter (as Deanne calls it) of our lives will be comical to reflect upon when we are old and it hits the fan. (as Richard puts it)

Today we are going to look at and secure appliances and flooring. Here's the scoop: The appliances are shown below. Debi is mad that we don't have gas. (fill in your own joke here) She is trying to find reasonable replacements for these appliances and still kinda look like we have gas. (another joke here)

This morning I met my family (minus Dennis, add Brandon) for breakfast as we have for years and years on the first Saturday of each month. Well, check that, we have just started this tradition and have yet to have the whole family there, but still, the intent is there. Here is what I learned: Marci's Melons aren't ripe yet, Marlo's website should have been shown to Dennis but he wasn't there, Jake awoke at 6:00am READY FOR SOCCER, Abby is a bass champion and I am the proud owner of a new Hong Kong bass, there was more but I don't remember now. I'll add more if I think of it.

Snap it out, Rock and Roll

Snap it out refers to using a tape measure, a chalk line, and some plans on a slab of concrete and measuring the lines and then 'snapping' the chalk line to create an imaginary line on the concrete to be ignored by the framer later. In the grade school I went to as a kid, that meant something much different. I currently have the worst case of buyer's remorse I have ever experienced. I will get over this, I trust, but right now I see money going out (or should I say the loan going up) and not being able to live in the filth.

Rock and roll refers to the putting up the wood. Building it. You know, up.

Hard and Flat

...like my stomach...or my head...or the concrete in by back yard. I want you to know that it has been more trauma for the dog than anyone else. She can't go outside because they put a curing agent on the concrete that smells like crude oil. I guess it did the trick, though, because my concrete is hard. Debi likes her concrete like she likes her men...grey and outside.

So, this weekend I went with Koller to ASU Wells Fargo Arena and saw the Sun Devil football team. We got signatures on our posters and helmets that we had and we had a fun time.

Don't tell anyone but Koller and Toni agreed to take Tish. That will help with the concrete thing, and the chaos that is my addition...poor Tishy.

Ame

The word for rain in Japanese is ame. And plenty of it. I would not care at all except I have trenches full of water waiting to be filled with cement. I failed er, uh, cancelled my inspection on Tuesday because I had trenches full of water. I didn't know that they should not be full of water when the inspector shows up for the footing inspection. I did, however, dry out and pass inspection on Wednesday. But, the concrete guy couldn't pour on Wednesday and Thurdsay (today) it is raining. And lightninging. And thundering. Too fun. My trenches, however, are so full I could bathe in them. I don't know how this will effect us but I hope it will give us a little break, soak in, and be ready to pour tomorrow. We will see. I will go buy a pump today. I hope this helps.

Marci called me last night and told me she went to see Dave Matthews. Killin' me.

The Password is Tlaquepaque

Wikipedia says Tlaquepaque means "place above clay land". For our birthdays, Debi and I went to Sedona. Arizona. We stayed in a lovely little place called the Sky Ranch Lodge - named because it is next to the airport. Now, with Sedona being a hub for one Cessna 172, this was no trouble. The hotel was 'rustic' without 24 hour room service. Not that this is a deal breaker. The thin walls and blairing television at 6:30am Sunday, however, was. Not to worry, we were troopers and got through that ordeal with grace and style.

We mostly watched television, ate, and drove extensively all over that part of the world. Which is gorgeous. Jerome was probably the highlight. We went to the old ghost town there, we ate in Clarksdale, or Clarksville, or Clarkstown at Su Casa - voted best in Clarksbury for two years running. I don't think they have voted for 2006 yet, but I'll cast my vote. It was the best restaruant in which I have ever eaten in Clarkshollow. Such a treat.

We went over to Tuzigoot. Not much to report but I had to work in the word Tuzigoot. As much fun to say as it is to visit.

On our way out of town we visited the guard shack of the Enchantment. Why didn't we go farther? Because Wilford Brimley/Jayson Rhobards at the guard shack took his job seriously. Debi says the only reason he was kinda nice to us was because I made him laugh. We were refused enterance but were given brochures. Check out their website. Our money was not good there anyway. Tennis and Spas and stuff.

Our parting meal was at L'auberge. We all know that the apostrophe (') stands for something. This one, for example, stands for ($). We went for Sunday brunch. I was worried that we would have to pay the $17.95 I expected but Debi was worth it. Saturday's breakfast was Egg McMuffins® so we saved up a little cash for Sunday. After we sat down next to Oak Creek, watched the bubbles rise out of the Champagne flutes on neighboring tables, and saw the menu, we realized we were in for a little more than that. Prime rib, eggs benedict, shrimp, lobster, crab, couscous, an omlet bar, waffles, french toast, vegitables, and a dessert table feature 10-12 different confections, etc. We overheard the waiter tell a guest that the meal was all-inclusive at just $38 per person. Oh, wait, let me restate that -- $$$$$$38 per person. Great food and great atmosphere. Our white trash was showing a little as we ate.

What a great trip we had. Special thanks to Debi. She was AWESOME. I love her and tried to show her a good time there. I think she was generally pleased with the trip. I think next time we will be a little more conventional.

Con or De Struction

Well, the demo is done. The demolition team came in Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning. Now my patio is gone. They took it all. Concrete is next -- I will meet them this morning (Friday). This is Olivia attempting to run the Cat. She made a video, too...



The demo crew, I am told, was not a complement of full-time employees. Ours was such a relatively small job that a regular crew was unwarranted. There were two, Steve and Junior, and they were great. The rest of the 'humpers' were temps. The first day there were two women among the temp crew. It was hard to get a good look at them through their hard hats and sweat.

The first one was ugly. What she lacked in teeth she made up in height. She was tall -- around six feet. She had no upper teeth so she swallowed her whole face when she chewed. And swore. From under her hardhat she had kinda reddish straw hair that looked like a wig. Very damaged. And split ends. A makeover nightmare if you know what I mean. I wouldn't know where to start. Maybe if I shipped her off to Tampa she could have some real professionals help her find her fountain of youth. She lasted one day.

The second 'girl' was hard. About five feet tall, she looked like she ate as much concrete as she tossed. If I had to write her story it would go something like this: She has one kid, came-out-sideways-she-didn't-scream-or-nuthin' style. Temporary demolition crew worker by day, UFC cage fighter by night -- men's, that is. Pays more. She lights her next cigarette with her last one. She has a wheezy, phlegm laugh. She drinks Heineken Extra Dark. Nobody would do her for fear it would snap off. How do I explain the kid? She got knocked up in a bar fight.

Nightmare on Nance Street, Day 3

So, Caitie came in the other morning and said, "Nightmare on Nance Street, Day 2" which I promptly stole for the title of the start of the chronicle of this little remodel project we are attempting. I, your host (and amateur general contractor), am running this build, which is more of a demolition to start. I am not working without a net: I have some contractor friends who have been holding my hand and have really gotten me off on the right foot. This means that we have successfully started, anyway. I will try to post pictures of the carnage as well. The strangest thing happened last Saturday. A man came to the door, dressed in tatters, of Mexican decent with no teeth. He spoke no English. He wanted to pull some weeds for me. I knew this because he made the international hand-gesture for pulling weeds. I made the international hand-gesture for "OK, Pedro, pull all you want. Can I get you a drink of water." He informed me that his name was Ramon. How did I know, he wasn’t wearing a name tag. So, he drank a sip and requested a plastic garbage sack, and he was off. Now, I may be wrong, but I am not required to determine citizenship as a private resident nor am I judgmental enough to assume he is anything but above board, but my senatorial hopes may be dashed on this one.

When Ramon finished, he came to the door, frightening the children. They don’t know that I actually asked him to weed. They wanted to know if he was homeless. They wanted to know if he was dangerous. They wanted to know why he was there. So, I invited him back ‘next week’ and he said he would come. Monday morning at 6:00am he returned and I had some other things for him to do. School started so everyone was up and besides, by the time he had arrived, the jack hammering had commenced so there was not much sleeping going on.

To make a long story longer, Ramon came Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. He cleaned, pulled, trimmed, and cut, and even did some work in the yard. Badum Ching. I’ll be here til Friday. Try the veal. He filled 12 45-gallon garbage bags full of trimmings and weeds and did a fine job. And I didn’t even have to go to Gilbert and Broadway to get him.

So, on day 3, we have a large dirt patch in our back yard ready for concrete. That’s next. Oh, and I have to order the windows. I call the 6:00am to 9:30am shift my first job, and my normal job my second job. I hope I survive to day 4.

Wow, so much happened just a short time ago and now we have to talk.

Deb the Hippie, Part Deu

I came prepared today. Deb is going in for double hip injections this morning. Should be fun. They still have the unsecured Internet connection so it makes it easy to blog. Last time she was so nervous and had difficulty mostly with the anticipation of the procedure she was about to withstand. This time she seems to be a little better but not completely calm. I hope they give her some great drugs so she can calm down a little.

I don't really get the nervous anticipation thing. I must be too dumb to worry. I assume that I will be knocked out and not have to worry too much about it. I will complete this blog when she gets out and the experience is complete.

Back now. She went in and got ready and then they retrieved me. I went back, said hi, showed the doctor a rough video http://www.break.com/index/karmacarcrash.html and then they kicked me out. No good Internet connection in there, though.

Party -- Family Style

There's nothing like a good party. And last night's affair was nothing like a good party. Just kidding, I had to use some Mary Poppins just to keep things light. Last night was great. Almost everyone was there. Den, Laura, Deb, Me, Mar, Dee, My, (no chris - home with sick kids), Brandon (host) and Marci (hostess and most excellent guac salsa maker). Den and I arrived late so we missed Olivia opening the water spigot and flooding the floor. Her solution was great, though, as she described putting her fingers in the two spewing holes until cousin Josh helped her get control of the situation but not until the floor was Lake Powell. Sorry about the mud Marci.

An enjoyable part of the evening (besides making fun of debi-as-medical-patient) was taking a cursory journey through the life of Marlo. He will be attending a business function in which he and his coleagues will exchange little-known fun facts about each other annonymously and attempt to guess who experienced what. Sounds fun. However, in talking about Mar and his life, we discovered two things: first, most all of the memorable events were in some way devious and therefore obvious (so not so great for the coleague party game) and B, it is very fun diving into the past with brothers and sisters and mom in the room.

Debi got Marlo going on a fabulous story involving a baseball game, intestinal distress, and a load of leaves. Mar participated in a baseball league where he was a pitcher for a couple of years. I think it was called Roy Hobbs. Anyway, he arrived for a particular game and found early that he needed to use the facilities prior to his first pitch. However, the bathrooms were locked. My solution to this would be to leave a present directly outside the door of the locked bathroom in protest of them being locked in the first place. Since he was unable to relieve his condition, he decided he would tough it out.

Equally as great as the story was Debi's ability to draw Marlo into acting out the tale (tail?). He got into it as he recounted each inning, the sloshy gut juice, and the additional sphincter focus required to keep said juice contained. Finally, in the fifth inning, after pacing around each inning, (and the teller pacing around the kitchen during the story), he retired the side and casually made his way to a patch of grass near the field with a big tree. He pressed against the tree, dropped trou, and let out a stream of relief. Relief became releaf. With no paper to cleasne with, he followed the example of several dog-pets we had and dragged his butt along the ground on the soft green grass until clean. That evening, while stripping off his baseball pants, Dee noticed a few leaves dropping to the carpet. As he rolled his pants down he discovered that he had inadvertently gathered a pile of leaves and trapped them in his pants in his haste to get back to the game.

Unfortunately, we were unable to talk him into using this story for the party. Oh well.

Bego

I have coined a new name for the arrogance displayed in the Rose Bowl last night. The boys of USC displayed ego far and away exceeding anything I have ever seen. They were the better team. They had the better game plan. With 2 minutes left they even had the game sewn up. But could they humble themselves enough to do it? No. A punt and some defense would have won it. Respecting the other team on at least 2 occasions would have won it. They had the ability, the talent, and the skill to be able to win the game but they lacked one thing that could have won #35 in a row for them -- BEGO. This stands for big ego but it is more than just that. I watched the game on a big screen TV and their collective egos would not fit on it.

Case in point:

1. Opening kick-off - Reggie Bush returns the ball from 5 yards deep in the endzone. To the twelve.
2. Reggie Bush's hair-brained lateral after a great catch and gain. May we point out that there aren't too many running backs that, while being tackled, would consider willingly letting the ball go? Let alone trying to make something out of nothing. Bego.
3. Matt Lienart's forced endzone pass to a closing Texas DB. Really, we should hang this one equally on Matt and Smith, who should have been a little more agressive about getting the ball instead of setting out the basket.
4. Matt Lienart's bone-headed 4th down non-conversions times 2. QB Sneeks are reserved for QB's who can sneek. Matt kinda lumbers. The second try should have been punted. Or passed. But everyone in the North American Continent knew the ball was going to Lindale White. I could have tackled him because I wouldn't have worried about anyone else on the field. He was getting it. No doubt. Bego.
5. Isn't there someone on the USC team assigned to watch the replay and ask for a review. Vince Young was clearly down. The replay showed it. They scored off of it. NOBODY SAW THAT? Seven might have been three.

While I cite several dumb plays, I have to hand it to the boys. They played a great game. They played well enough to win. Even the defense did. The problem is they let their ego, their pride, the invincibility and their lack of respect lose the game for them. Quite literally. They were the better team. They had the better plan. They made some silly plays in the first half but both teams did. Second half they executed flawlessly. Almost.

Don't get me wrong. I hate both of these teams because they aren't the Devils. I root for teams that are from the Pac-10 first so I wanted SC to win even though I'm glad they didn't. This is a good feeling being conflicted, disappointed, and happy all at the same time.

The Sick and the Afflicted

Debi is not a great patient. She has a tendency to suffer anxiety prior to any doctor visit. Additionally, she has the pleasure of experiencing EVERY side effect known to the medication or procedure she endures. Take this latest one for example. As she read the list of side effects to me I immediately dismissed all of them because the were weird things like flushed face, insomnia, etc. Yup, she has had them all. When she's pregnant she barfs for 9 months. When she has any other medical treatment she is the test case for each and every rare occurance possible. She's unique. She's special. Right?

I am lucky that I am not afflicted with the same problems. I rarely throw up while pregnant. I like visiting doctors mostly because I like people smarter than me. I do have a stiff neck today. I understand now when people are described as a stiff-necked people how they can be so stuck in their ways. They don't want to change because it hurts. It hurts to say yes and it hurts to say no.

Impatient

Debi is having a procedure today that requires her to be sedated. They will stick a needle in her hip and inject her with lidocaine and steroid to see if her hip is really the cause of her pain. If this procedure is successful, she will be relieved from some of the pain for a short time. That means that she can only whine about her right hip and her back, but not her left hip. Good thing, too. She has been in pain for about 2 years but she is such a chicken she can't face the problems.

I talked to Dennis about the next few steps that she should take. She has to be OK with treatment and want to be relieved of pain before she can do this. Hip replacement surgery is in her future - about 20 years premature.

Well, today, she was given drugs in preparation for the procedure and one of them made her extremely jittery. She kicked her feet in her waiting chair like Gary Hall, Jr. trying to win the 50-freestyle. She was rather loopy from the drugs but that was great entertainment. Following the procedure she was wheeled to a recovery room and they came and got me. I, meanwhile, had hacked into a wireless network closeby so I couldn't be bothered with her being all done and stuff. I helped her get dressed and they wheeled her out to the parking lot where I almost ran over her with the car. Not what you are thinking. I was trying to get it close so she didn't have to walk far.

The hip is numb and therefore feels much better. This is actually bad news because that means that her hip is the problem and the doc says it needs to be replaced. Yuck. So the decisions facing her next will be when to get another injection for the right hip, if to have them replaced, and what to do about the guys who saw her butt hanging out of the gown as she went from waiting area to cutting table. I say flowers...