A nose by any other name...

The 'cheap seats' are sometimes referred to by the colloquialism 'nosebleed seats' in reference to their hemorrhage-causing altitude and relative distance from the speaker/players/singer/quick-change artist. So, let's start our own colloquialism for the expensive seats while keeping with the nose theme. We'll call them the 'nosehair seats' as that is the unfortunate view you have from up that close.

Most of the time, when seeking nosehair seats (notice there is no quotes around that phrase...caught on fast, didn't it?) you fail to realize that this will be the consequence. You pay extra, wrestle others who have similarly expendible cash/are as ambition free as you are, and blow your savings on seats that end up being enveloped into a mosh pit. Sorry, did I sound bitter? Not that this is from any specific incident where I ended up tossing an elbow into the chest of what I hope was an at-least-18-year-old kid.

I'll watch it on the big screen next time.

Smartypants

Lesson learned today at the airport: The "Einstein" in Einstein's Bagels is not a reflection of or a commentary on the caliber of staff employed there. "Not scholarship material," as my father-in-law the college professor would say. I think Albert would be so mad about the geniuses working at his namesake bagel shop that his hair would fray...

While I am not one to poke fun at those less endowed mentally, I do have to say that if all you do all day is sell bagels and drinks, you should be able to handle just about any order that is thrown at you by the general public. It's not like I introduced extra change at you at the wrong time during the transaction or spoke in a foreign tongue...

Tomato

Fed up with croissant, entendre, je ne sais quoi, etc. I kill myself trying to pronounce them correctly. I'm not being a stupid, uneducated American devoid of extra-language skills. I've semi-silently listened to all of you mispronounce harakiri (Harry Cary), kamikaze (Comma Cause-ie), and karate (KUH-RAW-TEE) for many years. But if the French pronunciations are required, then all languages should be. Nuff sed.

Not nearly enough it turns out...just kidding. I just feel really silly saying croissant. I say it 'crescent' and feel good about it. No need to get silly and demand all the strange diphthongs and fancy endings foreign to English. Unfortunately, Japanese is easier to pronounce since they don't even use all of the sounds English uses. When using a subset of sounds, it seems like there would be an easier road to pronunciation perfection.

iFone 3G(S) XLT M-Class

Planned obsolescence is the process of a product becoming obsolete and/or non-functional after a certain period that is planned or designed by the manufacturer. While this sounds like my body, it's more like my new iPhone - I'm sure GEN3 will be paper-thin, be able to project a feature-length movie on an IMAX screen, and be powered by a combination of friction and lint naturally occurring in my front pants pocket.

I love this phone - but as sure as last year's make and model of car is somehow all-of-a-sudden ugly, this thing will be replaced by a better, sleeker, faster, more desirable model. I think it would be responsible of the manufacturers to just go ahead and make these phones as fast, cool, and stylish as will ever be possible. That way my phone will never look like a Chevette.

Slip into Silent Slumber

Randy Gardner holds the scientifically documented record for the longest period of time a human being has intentionally gone without sleep not using stimulants of any kind - 264 hours (11 days). I believe parents set 'undocumented' records of this nature all the time - especially when their kids go to the midnight showing of "Harry Potter and the Cellar of Souls" or was it the 'Goblet of Money' or 'Prison of Pesos.'

I don't know Randy Gardner but he was 17 years old when he set this record. I tend to think that at 17 I probably could have done the same thing - although at that age nothing held my attention for 3 days, let alone 11. I also got a kick out of the fact that Randy broke the previous record of 260 hours - by 4 hours. Nicely done. I think I may have tried to shatter the record. This is not a record I would like to attempt over and over and if someone was able to go 260 hours and I only added 4 more I would be instantly threatened with defeat - watching insomniac after insomniac attempt to beat my record.

I think that would keep me up nights.

I remember sleeping. I remember enjoying sleeping. I don't ever remember a time when I could not fall asleep easily. I was in San Antonio with my dad one time - we were teaching a training class. The night before the class we decided to attend the Imax presentation of the Alamo near the Alamo. Pretty cool. The best part was that it was a double-feature. My dad seemed tired and actually SLEPT during the Alamo movie - gunfights and cannons not withstanding. When the lights came up and we were waiting for the second feature I told my dad that it was then that he should be sleeping. He said, "...you're right," and bowed his head and literally one breath later he was asleep. Now that's a gift. Sleep anywhere. Sleep anytime. Sleep on command. Nice!

Fun Sway

I was reminded yesterday that we used to consider breaking into people's houses, vacuuming the carpet and rearranging their furniture. We wondered if we could be arrested. Aside from the obvious trespassing I think the only other crime we would commit is a violation of the laws of the natural order of feng shui.

We literally thought of things we could do that seemed like crimes but were not. Break in and leave a $20 on the counter. I don't know where this came from but then again my friends and I were deep-thinking, considerate, cautious people who were not prone to spurious thought.

I was reminded of this line of thinking by Mer who sent me this year's Darwin Awards. They were exceptional - this one that triggered my memory was the one where a guy went into a convenience store and put a $20 on the counter and asked for change. When the clerk opened the register he demanded the money. He rushed out with the stolen cash but left his $20 - the stolen cash totalled $15. So the question was posed - if you leave money, is a crime committed? Too funny.

I'm sure there are other random acts of kindness that can be perpetrated on the public at large with similar consequences. Weird how that was a funny thought we had so many years ago.

Pyracantha Pounding

Corporal punishment is the deliberate infliction of pain intended to discipline or reform a wrongdoer or change a person's bad attitude and/or bad behavior. I define it as my 6th grade teacher Mr. Fernandez (inflictor) smacking me (wrongdoer) with a wooden paddle that had holes drilled in it for improved aerodynamics. And all that for innocently participating in a pyracantha berry war. He broke that paddle on me.

And by the way, who plants pyracantha bushes in an elementary school anyway? Bunches of ripe, round, red amunition, er, um, berries fill these plants several times a semester just daring us to pick them and throw them (after trying to eat one - they do look like tiny little apples, after all - gag) at each other. They make a significant mess as they are sorta soft and smushy and stick to Keds.

I remember after a particularly involved pyracantha berry war we looked around the battlefield to see spent ordinance everywhere. As good citizens would do, we at least kicked them off the sidewalk and onto the playground. That didn't seem enough of a philanthorpic gesture to Mr. Fernandez to stay his hand. He lined us up in front of the class and gave us each a whoopin'. Funny, as I recall, there was one girl involved in the fray who received one gentle swat. I'm sure she couldn't see the circles from the holes in the board on her hind end that night like I could.

Chicken Mentor

SAT question: Q. Emeral Legasse is to kitchen mentor as Colonel Sanders is to ________ ________. A. chicken torment. I didn’t realize flip-flopping syllables was so much fun until many years ago when a non-native speaker told me he had two chickens in his house – he meant kitchens. It was strange to me that the chicken/kitchen conundrum had never occurred to me. Not that I’m pidstu…

I get that torment /mentor is cheating a little - what with the 'T' being used twice - also, I get the folly of the comparative where one is a title of a person and one is an act but this isn’t a real SAT question to be challenged for validity so let’s move past all that. We're all about breaking the rules here at ByteBlog. I still think it is funny that words I have literally known since I could speak would become interesting because the flippage of them had never occurred to me. I’m far too lazy to think of others right now which is sorta the reason I haven’t written about this before – or maybe it is just that it never occurred to me to blog about something so inane.

I did think of butthead/headbutt but that one is really obvious. I am convinced that more of these will naturally occur to me as life accumulates. I heard torment the other day and it flipped voluntarily in my head – much to my delight. I heard about the chicken/kitchen one literally 28 years ago in Japan. The guy who told me this was an English teacher at the high school which meant his English was only rotten, not atrocious. It was actually quite good, but not near idiom-level of understanding (although I’ve spoken to many folks who aren’t at idiom-level of understanding as a native speaker…). But because he studied English, and must have some affinity for it, I can see how this could happen to him being an inept speaker of a foreign language myself.

This phenomenon cannot be broadened to include the joke format: What’s the difference between a boxer and man with a cold? One blows his nose and the other knows his blows. This is a broader format consisting of a phrase that flips – a much less amusing occurrence. Word flipping? Now that’s entertainment.

Believe You Me

So I often get caught off guard by people whose interests, thoughts and reactions are different from mine. Well, it seems the arguments most often stem from one of the big 3 – religion, politics, or programming language. Fierce battles rage among committed zealots trying to establish their supremacy or justify their convictions. I just think they are wrong if their misguided thinking or belief systems disagree with my perfect, humble take on life. We are lucky to have so many who work so hard to defend their stance. It causes me such amusement.

I love the way many over-the-top enthusiasts emphatically thrust their own beliefs on others as if to assume they are able to superimpose their will on everyone else. While I hold my own opinions and beliefs it is rare that I force others to wear them. I am happy to state my opinions, and I am strong in my beliefs. Just ask me. I’m not shy about extolling their virtues. But it is strange to me that there are many who would do harm or seek to destroy others who do not agree with them. However, it is funny to me to watch programmers fight – there seems to be more disgust and assumption of ignorance on both sides of that war. I love it.

They are all just wrong. Am I wrong? No.

Gel-ous

I thought our naturally occurring deposits of gel and hairspray were depleted in the '80s. I think the Flock of Seaguls band single-handedly consumed the majority of it and in large part caused the shortage. Yet somehow we have managed to find more. We must have found an alternative source as I see more and more gel products. Gel is now found in everything from hair to shoes to cell-phone cozies. My daughters have 'Gel-ies' which I pronounce and write 'Jellies' that somehow passes as footwear. Arch support not withstanding, (or not considered) I think the artificial substitute for the good ol' gel we used to know from our childhood will never return. The new-fangled gel is much less viscus, and much more 'sticky-plastic' like. Do you know how many polymers it takes to make just one little Winnie-the-Pooh breakfast spoon rider?

What's next? Three-piece gel suits with matching vest and fob pockets? Day-glow gel weapons that slap and tear. Can't imagine gel ammo but it may be next. I love the thought of a beanbag gun, but a gel-firing pump-action sawed-off shotgun just seems wimpy. The sticky, stretchy gel that acts like snot can be used as a weapon I suppose - like the frog toy with gel tongue that you swing and it sticks to the wall. Handy in an alley fight. With nun-chuck-like percision (which isn't very precise for most of us) we could wield the Frog-tongue Fighter. Oh, wouldn't the ladies swoon as you whip that thing out to defend their honor.

I get that gel is fun. I concede that gel in hair is often necessary. I count on gel for a comfortable ride on my bike and a comfortable fall for my cell phone. I just think the all-too-broad definition of 'gel' is what I have a problem with. In the name of simplicity we have relegated anything remotely resembling (and sometimes not at all resembling) jello to being called gel. It has been deemed the dominant substance of the 21st century by byteblog.blogspot.com - and if it is on the Internet, it MUST be true...

PB and J

Peanut butter (chunky Jif) spread so thick you need a shackle knife, apple jelly chiseled out and neatly spread on 3 slices of bread - the middle piece keeping order between the unruly peanut butter and its jelly nemesis. Washed down with ice-cold milk one degree warmer than a slurpee so as not to incur brainfreeze. Perfection!

Movieland Bucklist #5

The chief screams something about being a rogue cop and demands my badge. I surrender my weapons (2 guns, knife, nun-chucks, a machete from my pant leg), slide them slowly across his desk, and leave. I turn back to get the lunch my smokin' hot wife made for me when the building explodes blowing me into the street. Great! I have to spend the rest of the movie hungry with smudgy blast-face!

Past Facebook Stati

For NON-Facebookers, here have been my stati for the past several months. From now on I will post both places with more explanation here. That way I won't be limited to the few characters provided by Facebook status.

Stati II

Q. Who designates official 'days?' A. Julius Sterling Morton, who designated 'Arbor Day.' Since he died in 1902 I decided to become the self-proclaimed Day Designator. I think today will be designated, "Throw that piece-of-junk lawnmower away and get a good one" day. (observed) I think the 'week' and 'month' people were just greedy. Don't you think a day is enough? Maybe not for "Get Organized Month" - PARTY!

That that is, is. That that is not, is not. That that is is not that that is not. That that is not is not that that is. I'll have one with, one without, two with both, and one with each.

Do you ever get a hankerin' for the good ol' days when waddys could hornswoggle fellers, put a whoopin' on 'em, or call 'em varmits and they'd still belly up and paint their nose together? The gallows was always handy fer a necktie party to string up the gaddabouts and ne'r-do-wells and ifn that didn't work, order was generally maintained with Old Bessy on yer hip. Fancy meant sup'm differnt back then...

I miss "The Tick." Nobody else handed out a steaming hot cup of justice quite like him. I raise my antennae in your honor, Tick. Spoon!

SR:NOT a Gila Monster - although I'd love to see one of those. BN: Very Funny! HE: So who invited these critters to invade our garage space? CS: Should have caught it and ridden it or given it to Isaac - oh, wait, he would feed Kaleb to it. HG: NOOOOOOOOOOO. The tail is best grilled with chipotle and lemon. And it grows back so it's kinda like having a garden of meat.

She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She

Suspended animation is the slowing of life processes by external means without termination. Cryogenics does NOT fit in this category since death and reanimation are required. What I find poetic is that Walt Disney is reportedly cryogenically frozen. That joke writes itself, "Old cartoonists never die, they just suspend animation." I think they keep 'Frosty Walt' on display in the Haunted Mansion somewhere.

I am decidedly ignorant on a number of topics. But since zero is a number, I'm ignorant of nothing. You may call me Captain Zero if you wish. "Jeff, what's on your mind?" Nothing.

It's like my father-in-law says each time he takes out the trash: Garbage is my life - and my life is garbage. Quotable stuff!

I got to the end of the Internet today. I looked over the edge. Just as I suspected - Elvis, ET and Jimmy Hoffa were playing cards at a green felt table. I ducked before they saw me - electronically, of course.

I have two friends who nearly beat each other to death after an argument as to whether you can truly be '______ and a half' years old. Yep. Great wars have been caused by less. Good thing my smokin' hot wife doesn't get the half thing. Most '...half' things are derogatory. Half-wit, half-pint, half-baked, half-cocked, half-truth, half-asked (or at least that is what I though it was when my dad yelled it at me...)

A posthumous recognition is a ceremonial award given after the recipient has died. We all make the assumption that the recognition given is for something done while they were alive. Not so fast. I'm sure if you asked a medium they would tell you that plenty of great acts are done by dead people - there's just nobody to attend the award show. Yikes! What would that red carpet look like? Bonus question: why is it red?

Eye to eye. Tet a tet. (Head to head) Mano a mano. (Hand to hand). Arm in arm. Toe to toe. Nose to nose. Back to back. Shoulder to shoulder. Cheek to cheek. Clavicle to clavicle. Really!?!? Did I leave any body parts out? I'm calling this Siamese language. I have one thing to say: BACK OFF, man! Mind the man-bubble. (This message is intended for everyone except my smokin' hot wife.)

Is frenzy a small friend? Or a group of small friends? Or a small group of friends? When my mom used to talk about "feeding frenzy" she was feeding my friends but it never occurred to me that she might be referring to my friends and not our method of eating.

I should write the SAT test questions: #1 - Hooker is to Fisherman as Popper is to ____________. #2 - A train heading south leaves New York at 2pm traveling at 78mph and a train leaves Philadelphia heading north at 105mph at 3pm. They are on the same track. Where do you set up your ultra-high speed super slow-motion camera to get the best footage of this epic, colossal collision. Bonus: who wins?

Theme park synopsis: Pay WAY too much to get in, eat something that is WAY too nasty, WAY too expensive, and unnaturally colored, use bathrooms that are WAY too dirty and then ride WAY fun roller coasters that beat your body to a pulp. The people-watching is worth every cent. I now know that to fit in I need pink, faux-hawk hair, some sort of tattoo, and britches that sag but somehow don't fall off.

By now, we were supposed to have small Cessna-brand Flitepax that propelled us from here to Wendy's to buy a Frosty and back instantaneously. We were supposed to have picture phones, too. All too often I hear someone say, "...they can put a man on the moon, but they can't make a bicycle seat that doesn't cause nerve damage or an ice cream cone that doesn't leak." When will the suffering end?

Some words are just better with an echo. Given, the word shampoo is good in and of itself, but you have to admit that sham-sham poo-poo is just better. I feel this way about Amsterdam as well. I have a friend who named his kid based on how it sounded en-echoed. OK, maybe that wasn't the only consideration, but it is SOLID. Jake jake jake Fox fox fox!

Bawitdaba-da bang-da-bang-diggy-diggy-diggy Said the boogie-said up jump the boogie Bawitdaba-da bang-da-dang-diggy-diggy-diggy Said the boogie-said up drop the boogie. It's the nuance of 'jump' the boogie -vs- 'drop' the boogie that intrigues me.

People who are engaged (engagged) are FREAKS OF NATURE - they are neither married, nor single and because they are in this foreign state they don't really know how to act. I think there should be a special island of seclusion somewhere (ok, an ugly island, to be fair) that keeps 'gaggers' away from the rest of us normal people.

Is it me or is everyone around me getting smarter? I see others who are faster, sharper, and better-looking with more capacity than I have. And random just doesn't seem very, well, random anymore. I don't know what I'm searching for but it gets harder and harder to find it. I must really be getting old. ******Sorry, just channeled the thoughts of my iPod for a second - I think it needs therapy.

A friend of mine got a '68 Thunderbird - perfectly restored. At first I was amazed because it looked really good, then I got in. WHAT?!?!?!?! No int. wipers, no cruise? This is just old. I got out and exclaimed that I can't ride in an antique relic with no seat belts or air conditioning even if they weren't invented when the car was. I guess I have no appreciation of the finer (read: older) things of life.

I'm a little bugged - we're approaching 2010 but we still say two thousand ten. Should be "twenty ten." I think it will naturally happen in 2011 because eleven has so many syllables. I mean, really, who would say two thousand and eleven? And how will we refer to this decade? We had the '80s, the 90's, and now the, um, aughts? I can't wait to say, "...I remember back in aught 6." Oh yes, I will say that one day...

Movieland Bucketlist Item #4: I stand in the mud, in the rain, in my underpants with my rifle held over my head as the Drill Sargent screams non-obscenities like 'maggot' in my face. I grin as the scene changes behind me to reveal the oncoming aliens. I spin around cutting them down with the orange Rego-plasma quark-beam that's standard issue these days. I take the extra time to sign my name in the smolder...

I think I get dumber every time I introduce extra coins late in the retail purchase transaction to make the change come out evenly only to garner the "...why did you do that to me?" OR "...you already gave me enough," OR "...I already pushed the button-thingie," look they get on their faces. I never do this on purpose but I love that reaction.

Kleenex should be spelled Klee-dex because that is how you say it right before you use one. "I deed a Kleedex." I think they should put facts or trivia on each sheet. That way we would 'know before we blow.' Hey, does he have 'street-smarts?' Nope, he has 'snot-smarts.'

Lunatic fringe is a pejorative term used to characterize members of a usually political or social movement espousing extreme, eccentric, or fanatical views. I define it as the edges of food people eat that they shouldn't - like watermelon rind, OR the efforts people make to remove parts of food they SHOULD eat - like crusts of a peanut butter sandwich, potato skins or orange juice pulp.

So why is it that if you look at a word long enough it A) looks like it's misspelled, and B) looks like it is not of your language. The word noises was the latest word to morphtate on me. It looks French. I can imagine that if someone were watching me stare at the word noises they would attempt to put me away with a drool can. Oh, shoot, drool just morphtated.

I think I need a nickname! Something cool like King Biscuit Skeletorous or Ed. My smokin' hot wife needs one too. I'm thinking Zanadu Angel Wing or Jenny. We usually just call each other by our bowling names: Bud and Dot...we need them stitched on matching shirts, though.

Scientists have determined that fungi are more closely related to human beings and animals than to other plants. Does this mean I have to name - and start a college fund for - every mushroom that grows in my yard just in case?

Feeling sorry for Snap, Crackle and Pop today. They can't sneak anywhere. Always making VERY recognizable noise. I want my name to be a sound too but I want a fight sound from the old Batman TV show. I can't decide between BOFFO (right cross) or DOINK (eye poke).

Movieland Bucket list item #3: I get the phone call demanding $120,000,000 ransom in unmarked bills as I hiss in the phone, "...you've got 12 hours to release my ferret. You have no idea who you're dealing with..." He laughs as I sky dive through his ceiling, snap his neck with my legs while simultaneously feeding Commodore, my traumatized ferret, a Cheeto with my mouth.

Scientists have determined a standard way of measuring attractiveness. 6th graders have also come up with a scale. It is measured in 'cooties.'

I hate to nap. I never sleep as long as I want, I always sleep too long, and I never feel great when I wake up -- especially after being rudely awakened by oncoming traffic.

I think it would be convenient to be known by one name like Rhianna, Madonna, Sting, or Prince but it may be a little hard making 'Jeff' a household word by itself. "You know, Jeff. Jeff who? No, not Jeff who, just Jeff. You know, awwww NEVERMIND!" Prince reinvented his name continuously from Prince to an unpronounceable symbol, to The Artist formerly Known as to The Artist. I think I ended up calling him Artie

At the ballpark, when I yell, "Heads up!" for a foul ball everyone ducks and covers their head. At a restaurant I say, "Don't look now but a man with a red Mohawk just proposed to the carp on his plate (you could tell from the engagement ring)," she immediately looks. What in human nature makes us do the opposite? I can use this to my advantage: Don't laugh! (did it work?)

On the table, pig is pork, cow is beef, and calf is veal. Venison is defined as any game hunted for food, especially deer, and poultry is any domesticated bird kept for eggs and meat. I wonder if chickens are angry that they don't have their very own meat-word?

I'm convinced I will never hear the following from anyone under 30 years old: "I love that song, in fact, the whole album is good!" Listening to music with my kids is a study in attention deficit - I can listen to that whole song in 4 notes! Next! Playlists contain single songs from single artists. Rant some more Grandpa Jeff!

The challenging part about finding Nemo isn't the vastness of the ocean, it is that all the other fish answer to the name Nemo too. You've seen it on National Geographic, right? When an entire school of fish turns around at the exact same time? See what I mean?

Movieland bucketlist item #2: Avoiding Henchman #2's pursuit, I leap from a 4th floor window and land on the roof of a car that breaks my fall like a stack of mattresses. I climb in the shattered window, pull 2 wires from under the steering column, spark up the car and speed off. Who should sit up in the back seat? H2. I take him out with a lethal combination of seatbelt and cigarette lighter.

My smokin' hot wife's pet peeve in movies is people who read words on the screen out loud: "Six months earlier in Bangladesh..." On the other hand, I want to cause people to talk in a movie. I think next time I go I will have SHW lead me into the theater as though I were blind. I wish I could hear them, "...maybe his heightened sense of smell will allow him to virtually 'see' the movie..."

One TP swipe around the seat completely sterilizes it, right? That or a crinkly micro-thin piece of crate paper dispensed in the name of hygiene. The Purel folks keep ignoring my product submission idea for some sort of prophylactic bottled hiney balm.

Q: What do you get when you cross a bird with a lawnmower? A: Shreaded Tweet! One of the only "Boy's Life" magazine jokes I remember from when I was 12. The best part was that they had to explain the jokes to us in parenthesis. Son: Dad, my pet rabbit ran away. Dad: You know what they say, son, hare (here) today, gone tomorrow. What, did they think we were kids or stupid or something?

Step 1. Lie on the floor (on a smooth surface preferably in a grocery store or at the mall) on your left shoulder. Step 2. 'Walk' or 'Run' in a circle pivoting on your shoulder. Step 3. Scream as if you are on fire. This time-tested tantrum technique is guaranteed effective. I've tried it on my SHW with little success which I don't get - it worked so well on the kid's mom.

I'm not NORMALLY clumsy. But I learned yesterday that I'm not NEARLY as good at the I-meant-to-do-that recovery as I used to be. I also confirmed that you shouldn't swear...especially not at church.

The suffix ...ies is typically used to make something cute. Sleepies, pukies, and grunties are just a few words softened by this suffix. I think it was invented to soften the blow of some heinous diseases: Rabies, herpes (technically), or heebie-jeebies. Anyone for Flu-du-Swinies?

A good friend of mine recently attended a 'Mold Seminar' in California. My first thought upon hearing that was that the words 'mold' and 'seminar' live so far apart in my brain as to never have had the good fortune to meet, let alone hang out in a sentence together. Then I realized I've held my own impromptu 'mold seminars' with children who didn't understand the concept of "refrigerate after opening."

If you don't like my singing, get out of my shower.

I have always thought that if you can smoke while doing it, it isn't a REAL sport. Bowling and golf come to mind.

I look forward to the day when I’m so senile that all of life’s problems seem funny to me and I can laugh all day and periodically forget to wear pants.

Auto-Gov

Now that the government will be in the Auto industry, I have come up with a list of the cars we can look forward to seeing in the next few years. I borrowed the images from the web - I hope nobody gets mad. Of course these are just concept cars, I’m sure the real cars will be much less appealing.

Care to contribute a few of your own? 

Ford Forclosure

Plymouth Pelosi

Dodge Depression

Chevy Taxation

Pontiac Pundit

Cadillac Bailout

Dodge Embargo

Chrysler Senator

Ford Repo

Chevy Capitol Hybrid

Dodge Inflation

GMC Securra

Ford Caucus

GMC Judicia

Ford Welfairlane

…and Europe will surely follow closely behind with:

Lamborghini Liar

Comeonover

Yikes, when was the last time you were here?

Entangled

Surrounded by the likes of men

without one thought pursues another

she waits if only in a memory

and strengthens him once more.

In silence scarce a whistle blow

alert to some but not complete

recurring thought disturbs sweet sleep

no fault of him mid pleasant dream.

The sun bathes part, the light burns dim

a sketch of solitude confines

the origin of demented thought

leads him closer to the dark.

And goes she with the angels shift

moves to and fro and back

explores the reaches of his mind

and waits for his sustained embrace.

Majestic scenes decorate the ground

with hope of one so stark and real

the sluggish resting casts a pall

to fuel desires deep within.

The quiet shapes cast shadows deep

to feed the soul and spike the notion

come quickly here be still and see

or lend a voice that echoes strong.

Fill his mind with open sky,

with smooth resolve and calm repose

and spark the fire fanned within

to nourish his imaged world.

Then he will seek the meadow green,

the sky of blue, the amber glow

and watch and wait with heart entombed

no claim save hers allowed to dwell.

Her wistful gaze a dagger makes

her eye a saber, hands as thorns

or pedals both continuous

and yet admired each alike.

The hellish sound the cutting crack

of distant, violent, unquiet men

disturbs the setting in his mind,

distracts from blossoms and warm wind.

He waits unable not unwilling

for his time creeps without end

wanting to his core attempt

a sculpture of life to shape and mold.

Weak and torn his being tried

far such goes beyond compare

to try resolve to bend or rupture

ignorant of driven love.

The ocean shallow the desert narrow

the universe space is filled

the morning brings another tryst

of sane and insanity.

So love contained that gnaws like hunger

unplanned spills and takes a shape,

a form anew bathed in pale light

reflected off a thousand tears.

Imagined union chides his pain

one moment from the next

and stills the speechless babe once more

his sentence to longing dream.

And twilight finds this broken man

withdrawn into the echoes grim

who hates the cage, who scarce awaits

her phantom healing dreams.

You Smell Good

Before it jumped the shark, Boston Legal used this line (Spader to Rhona Mitra) in place of something meaningful a boy would say to a girl. She muses that when boys are smitten they often say something really sharp like, "you smell good." Yes, they do smell good. That’s how they get you. Or at least that is what I heard on a TV show last night. A little boy had a little girl over at his house and then later when he was talking to his dad about it he said, “…she smells good,” to which his father replied, “...that’s how they get you.”

 

I remember Uncle Doug telling me that he likes waking up in the middle of the night so he can smell Lynnetta – look, I don’t make this stuff up to creep you people out. But when he told me that he didn’t have to explain to me. I get it. My wife smells good. Really good. She is clean and smells fresh and good and yummy. This is the truth: when we were dating and often even now, my wife’s breath smells like peaches. I used to tell her that but she didn’t believe me. It is still true. I should probably study why this phenomenon occurs.

 

I had a girlfriend when I was 19 years old named Ruthie Jones. A year later, while in Japan, I was in a drug store and SMELLED her. I was walking down an aisle and was so convinced she was there that I actually looked over a few aisles just to verify that I was still in Japan and that she was not there.

 

Nothing has a more mind-altering affect on humans than music. Smells, like the cherry-almond smell of lotion or the un-duplicatable smell of Prell, can make you think of something or somebody, but a song can take you somewhere. When talking to a non-drug-impaired adult about an old song they happen to hear on the radio or in a store, they usually use words like, “…this takes me right back to the back seat of the 1973 Country Squire station wagon with my brother playing head-punch...” or something like that. The emotions surrounding music are strong. The song that everyone else seems to dislike but that you rock out to probably brings you back to your bedroom, in your underwear, gazing at the mirror with a Coke bottle mic in your hand screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs and hoping that you both would and would not get caught while dreaming of being David Lee Roth rocking out on a stage and wishing your hair were longer/chest were harrier/voice were lower/voice were higher/fame would catch on.

 

To put a finer point on it, I was whisked back to the locker room annex at Westwood High School the other day by a rousing and too-loud version of Tommy Bolin’s Post Toastie. What caught me off guard was not the memory of the annex: the sights of the tackling dummies, locker room, powder footprints leading from the shower box, the stacked high-jump pits awaiting a different season, the team and personal record plaques posted on the walls, the orange slump-block construction, the concrete floor worn smooth by cleats, the cage filled with pads and helmets, or the navy blue Volkswagen parked in the carpark in front. It was the smells I actually smelled. I actually identified two smells. One was the smell generated by the sweat so prevalent that it could be wrung from the gray shirt worn under the shoulder pads. The other smell was the musty, sort of old smell of the equipment storage. This smell was not bad to me, but it was nostalgic. This is not the first time nor will it be the last that a song brings back many senses at once. Sight and smell seem to be triggered by sound. Interesting.

The Pancreas Truck

I tread lightly on the pancreas issue...Dave had pancreatitis and didn’t particularly enjoy it. He was what you call sick. And not that kind of sick. Oh, no, I feel a divergence coming on. I can’t fight it – I have to follow it…ah, I just figured out how to tie them both in – buckle up and give me a little latitude. When I was in high school I had a girlfriend named Jeri. Jeri was a All-American and NCAA Title-winning gymnast. Have you seen gymnast’s bodies? I have. They are great. She actually had a body exactly like Shawn Johnson. I picked this picture to illustrate the legs – those extremely powerful legs. About 10 years ago Jeri was inducted into the ASU Hall of Fame for Gymnastics. So, we were driving near the place where I worked – a small meat locker/butcher shop owned by my dad’s friend Bill. I should set aside a day and blog nothing but that. Anyway, as we drove by I proudly pointed out where I worked and commented that it was the “…baddest place to work,” to which she replied, “…you don’t like it?” So the ‘sick’ comment above (frequently used by my daughters when describing something great) spawned that. I digress. Anyway, back to the pancreas. At that very same meat locker business they owned a powder/baby/sky/oxidized/light blue truck. The braking system on this truck was suspect – only functional when you had plenty of road and plenty of patience to eventually stop. This truck was called the pancreas truck. It was used for other functions and deliveries occasionally but its main function was to make a 20-30 mile trip to various meat processing plants around the greater Phoenix area to pick up cow pancreas glands harvested from the day’s meat source to be processed and used as medicine – insulin to be specific – for diabetics. Twice a week we would make a pancreas run. This was not, however, a trivial task. I remember distinctly the first time I went with Dennis on the pancreas run. Somewhere in the middle of Phoenix, we went through a light and there was a vehicle stopped just after the intersection awaiting other cars so they could turn left. Remember the part about the brakes? Well, looking out the front windshield of the pancreas truck was much like a dream sequence of a violent ride – kinda blurred (probably from the goo transferred from our hands after handling pancreas) and very surreal. I remember Dennis telling me that there was no way to stop and then he just veered left into the middle suicide lane and kept going as if he had planned it. Thinking back on it, I really wonder how we survived those trips. I can tell you that if we had gotten in an accident it would not have hurt the pancreas truck at all. Just hose the blood off the dashboard and move on. No sense worrying about that. I think an accident would not have reduced the resale value of the truck, either. The rotting bovine pieces took care of that. Sort of a sweet, pungent, sour, decaying smell that resembles what a tyrannosaurus’s breath must have smelled like because he didn’t have the dental formula kibble available to him for good oral hygene. Much like the choices you have for soup and sauces at a Chinese restaurant. I think we should have died a few times but then again looking back on my life, there are MANY times when dying was a possibility. I hate death.

It's made of people

It’s about people.

 

The movie is Soylent Green. No, I haven’t seen it. I hear Heston is great in it. I thought of this because recently I have been thinking of the people in my life and wondering if I am a good enough people in someones life to make a difference. People make all the difference. My father thought that. He was ALL about people. If he was talking to people he was happy. I believe this too. I have many people in my life that dramatically affect me. My friend Richard got me carrying a knife and cleaning my new gun. My wife is an ever-changing influence on me. I love her and when I contemplate all that she is I am in awe of her. I really appreciate her talents, intellect, and wit. I try to be worthy of her. This continually shapes my actions.

 

I was thinking about the dedication prayer offered last Sunday by Pre s. O st ler for the new building on McDowell. It was one of those things you hear that changes you. He is a great man and one that has influenced my life. I think of him or his words or his actions in various facets of my life and am once again pleased and honored to know him. This example is legendary. I’ll give you one example this: In passing during a meeting, Pre s. O st ler mentioned that he often has difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. He is 100% successful, though, using a trick he learned and has now passed on to me. He says he counts to three. 3. One, two, three. On three he gets up. Why? Because he has told himself that he, “…doesn’t want to be one of those people who doesn’t get up on 3.” Simple, effective. I love this. I have often thought of this when waiting to arise. I guess I don’t want to be one of those people who doesn’t get up on three.

 

I was channel-surfing the other day and stumbled, digitally speaking, upon a man preaching the gospel of success. He was directing a success seminar in which he stood in the middle of a crowd and taught them wearing a beard, a bald head, and a shirt that can only be described as hick-fire. As the red, orange,and yellow flames shot up his black corduroy sleeves, he told the crowd that they were in charge of whether they were successful or not based on what they were thinking and doing. He then ridiculed a guy for writing that down as if it were a new concept. He did, however, teach one concept that stuck with me. He said that to become successful we had to do something. Anything. Don’t tell me what it is. Shut up and do it. He said he was tired of *hearing* all the things people were going to do to become successful. He asked the audience to stop talking about it and do it. Anything. Sleep on the wrong side of the bed. Anything. You are at your current level of success because of your current actions. So, change them. This change may lead to other things that will influence your behavior and the outcome could be success. Or cancer. You choose.

 

My son, Max, is on a mission. I’m sure he is having an impact on people in his sphere. There was a missionary here from Japan who had a sudden and dramatic impact on me. He arrived a couple of months ago and told me he was from Tokyo. Cool. So, I took him and his companion to sushi a couple of times and chatted with him. He left Tuesday (yesterday) for home but not before coming over to our home to visit and teach us a little bit. He and his companion, Silski, were very grateful for the rides and food I have provided them but they were all business at first when they arrived. I busted out the pictures of Japan and softened them up a bit. Utagawa was interested in the pix of home so I took a second to show him what was there.

 

Funny, in a country of 127.5 million people, I asked Utagawa if he knew three people. One was my first companion Watabe Masasue, one was a greenbean I knew named Koyama Norio, and one was Ikeuchi Eiji. The odds were about 42 million to one that he would not know these guys but I took a shot. Let’s ignore the focal effect of church affiliation – it sounds better. He knew two of them. Get that? Two of the three people I asked about he knew – one of whom would be his relative soon as a member of his family is to marry a member of Koyama’s family. Cool, right? He knew two of them and had heard of the other one. We had a funny discussion about this. After identifying that Watabe lived in Orem and had a son named Leo, Silski piped up and said, “Wait, I know him, he was in a class with me at BYU.” Tiny, tiny world.

 

 

Japan — Population: 127,433,494 (July 2007 est.)

According to https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/print/ja.html

 

 The following is from Wikipedia - so there's nobody to credit but the last line is funny.

Soylent Green is a 1973 dystopian science fiction movie depicting a future in which overpopulation leads to depleted resources on earth. This leads to widespread unemployment and poverty. Real fruit, vegetables, and meat are rare, commodities are expensive, and much of the population survives on processed food rations, including "soylent green" wafers.

 

The term "soylent green" and the last line "Soylent Green is people!" became catch phrases in English, in part due to a Saturday Night Live parody where comedian Phil Hartman mocked Heston's acting in the final scene of the movie.^[4]

Soylent Green is referred to in a number of television series and other media, either for dramatic or comedic effect. The film was referenced in an episode of the US television sitcomBarney Miller (1975-1982), which was set in a New York City police station in Greenwich Village. The animated American sitcom Futurama, which is set in the year 3000, makes a number of references to fictional "soylent"-based foods. The show, created by Matt Groening, depicts billboards that advertise a variety of "soylent" foods, including "soylent cola" (the taste of which, according to Leela, "varies from person to person").

Dig Bean Town

So there I was. Teaching a software class. You know I used to teach 30-80 member classes for two days on how to run their software. And they loved it. Well, the first day we always wore suits. I wore a suit to teach the class at Boston. Boston was a great experience. I remember having baked beans and seeing the Green Monster at Fenway. I remember meeting a dealer and having him show me around – to where Cheers (exterior) was filmed. The interior, I discovered, was NOTHING like the interior of Sam's famous bar from the television show. However, I could say that I had been to Cheers, really called Bull & Finch Pub, had eaten there in the really cramped, underwhelming atmosphere, and lived to tell about it.

The day of the class, I dawned my suit and made my way to the training room, which was customary for classes we all taught. In the very front row was the dealer who had been so kind as to show me a good time the night before. She (just kidding) He waited until a few minutes into the class to call me over to where he was sitting and inform me that my fly was down. On my suit. I said, "You're kidding!" I mean I whispered. Then I stood and casually walked to the back of the room and out the door ostensibly checking for late-arriving pupils and gently but firmly and carefully zipped it back up. I really don't understand the stigma surrounding the down-zipper other than it is like I didn't fully get dressed. It's not like my winkie was in free-dangle danger. But it is still funny even for old guys.

One thing I learned in Boston was about the Big Dig. This was supposed to be an $800 million project to dig under the city and run a freeway to alleviate the growing congestion in Boston. When I was there they had completed some of the dig and were talking about cost overruns topping $1.2 billion dollars. I thought this extreme. I couldn't imagine a road being worth such a whopping figure. I was reminded of the Big Dig today for some reason so I looked it up to see if it had been completed and to see if the tally had escalated. Wow.

So the total for the Big Dig will reach $22 billion dollars. 38% of the transportation funds expended by the state of Massachusetts pay debt only. There's not money to fix roads and bridges left.
I have a solution. Or, um, a retrolution. How about instead of paying this much money until 2038, you just pay EVERY HOUSEHOLD in Boston $90,000 not to drive so much. Just telecommute one day, ride the bus one day, or walk, or carpool or do something and cash this check from the government. You could take a couple of years off. You could invest it. You can do with it what you want. No tax on it. We don't want it back. Just stay off the streets. We will be checking. If you don’t stay off the streets, give the money back and we will distribute it to those who will.

Do YOU know what to do?

My darling wife told a friend of mine this and he told me. No, I don’t know why she didn't tell me. She said that I am a complete optimist. I've written about this before. I will probably write again. But one thing she said that he repeated to me was that, *…because Jeff Crandall is such an optimist, he always has options.* Interesting to me. I agree, by the way. I have been given the ability to think outside – sometimes WAY outside – the box. I have a few stories to demonstrate this:

 

When I worked for DHI, which stands for – ehem - Dairy Herd Improvement, I was stationed in the computer room. This was a very large room in the center of the building in which were several mainframe computers and various disc and tape drives and a few card-punch machines. Yes! Card-punch machines! Age-ist! I was an operator. This job entailed sitting at the consoles of the mainframe computers and making sure the jobs and processing happening on these machines, um, happened. There were two things about that job that were the best: the climate in the computer room was VERY controlled so the temperature was always a comfortable 68 degrees, and, of course, Debi regularly brought me steak and cheese sandwiches from The Italian Place. Mmmmm. What memories! Anyway, the DHI experience was good, and fodder for another day. But, while there, there were a couple of times that I was called upon to save or save or save or save the brilliant programming staff from their blunders.

 

Mainframes run jobs. These jobs are submitted by programmers. They execute instructions and product output – usually in printed form. Because they could process many jobs at once, the printers could not keep up with the output. So, the print jobs went into queues. These queues held the print jobs until it was time to print. If there were a job that someone did not want printed, they could ask the operators to access the queues and, using a command, remove or delete the print job from the queue. You can see this one coming down 5^th Avenue, can't you? One time, an egotistical operator issued a command to the mainframe to delete all the print jobs in the queue. Not a job, ALL jobs. The mainframe supported wildcard commands and he issued one that would clean out EVERYTHING. He typed it in just to look at it and then instead of deleting what he had typed, he accidentally pressed the equivalent of GO! He immediately pressed a big red button on the keyboard that is labeled STOP. Everyone knew that this button is NEVER to be pressed. It would interrupt so many processes as to cause pain to users and more pain to the person who pushed STOP in the first place.

 

He came scurrying to me and asked what he should do. I went over and saw the command he had typed and he told me that as soon as he hit enter he hit stop. So, I thought I may have a chance. I remembered that when all goes terribly wrong in mainframe world, you can do the equivalent of REBOOT. It is called IPL – Initial Program Load. I also remembered that IPL'ing also restored the queues as part of its function. The only way to stop the deleting was to IPL. So, I said, "Watch this, jellyman," and I IPL'ed the machine. Wow, it reloaded, and restored the queues and only a few of the A's were deleted from the queue. I had saved the day. Nobody else could think of any options to overcome what had happened.

 

Story 2: There were two mainframes. They were connected to each other. One was significantly more powerful than the other. Programmers submitted test programs or jobs on the weak machine and production jobs on the mighty one. One day, two programmers came running in with a panicked look on their faces. They explained that they were experimenting on the mighty mainframe with a wildcard program that would lock all the records on the whole machine. You lock a record when it is being updated so the same record is not being accessed and changed by two different sources. Anyway, they sent a job that locked EVERYTHING. Can't unlock it because it is locked. Can't send a job in because it is locked. Can't access it through the console because it was locked. Can't do anything but come running into my environmentally controlled heaven and cry to me and admit what you did. Waaaah! I thought for a moment and then proposed that they instead submit an unlock program reversing the effects of their lock program through the weak mainframe. They were connected together and I had seen jobs come over from weak to mighty all the time. It NEVER occurred to them that they could do this. I, the optimist with options, was the only one who thought of it or suggested it.

 

I could go on with this riveting dialog about mainframes and jellymen but I'm afraid the reader hasn't even made it this far. Suffice it to say that I have been blessed with the vastness of options. I also like it that I realize that it is a blessing. I see others about me who are unable to do this. The jellymen were completely incapable of these sorts of solutions. I often take it for granted that I can try other things. When I help my kids with math and they struggle with my first explanation I have 8-10 other ways I can explain until they get it. I'm just wired that way.

...another puke story

It's been too long since my last puke story – so I think it is time to spew one out for you today. OK, this one involves a young and testosterone-laden me on a date. I must set the stage:

 

It was my junior year in high school. That means 1978 – disco was just crowning in the birth canal and I was only too proud to be wearing my Angel Flight triple-knit polyester pants and tight fitting hook shirt. We quadruple-dated this night so there were eight of us waiting in line to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I recommend it. Before leaving the house, I took some medicine for my pizza-face. I was on an antibiotic – probably tetracycline prescribed by Dr. Ponitch, a tiny dermatologist (visualization: two thumbs up high over the head air-squeezing a zit). This medication is not to be taken on an empty stomach. No problem had we followed our original plans to eat first but we decided instead to see the movie and then eat.

 

While standing in line, I began to feel queasy. Green. Nauseous. Vomitous. OK, it wasn't that bad, but I decided to calm my stomach down before things got out of hand. I left the rather long line and found a kiosk selling food and snacks and drinks and such. They had one of those machines that is a big tank on top that fountains inside itself to mix the beverage that it contains. Grape juice. Perfect. I ordered a large grape juice and began to sip it before we went into the theater (or is it theatre?). It made me feel, um, different. Better? Maybe. But at least different. As we neared the door to enter the theatere I noticed the sign that read, *No food or drinks allowed.* So, I hurriedly finished my juice so as not to waste it.

 

We sat together in one row and I was close to the aisle. During the credits I heaved. No, not once, not twice, but I emptied. On the lady in the row in front of me. On the floor. On my Angel Flights. Purple wheeze squirting out of me – I swear I should have looked at my eyes to see if any leaked into them. I didn't know what to do so I just got up and ran to the bathroom. I think my date hailed an usher, or a cab, I'm not sure which.

 

In the bathroom, I saw the rather large, purple stain on my pants and so I did what every red-blooded American, 17-year-old boy does – I dropped trou and washed them in the sink. I found it liberating to be standing in the men's room in my tight-whites with my pants in the make-shift laundry sink. They felt cool if not cold slipping back on my body and I returned to my seat to find the usher swearing and finishing up the mop job he was doing. Everyone else on my row was laughing.

 

The lady in front of me never turned around. I pointed out the chunks in her beehive hair to my date. We couldn't pay attention to the movie because of the tears of laughter...

My Girlfriend

Can I first say that I hate election years? 

OK, so there was this guy who graduated with me in college - very intelligent. We found each other early on in our major. And by found, I mean, used. In several classes, within the first few days, teams were formed for a major project which would be due at the end of the semester. I was fortunate enough to get him on my team in one of my first classes and he was different than most of the other participants - he worked, lead, criticized, improved, and contributed. I really don't know why it was, but until that point I was always the one who was working, leading, criticizing, improving and contributing to the teams I was on. He and I realized that we both had similar talents, work-ethic, etc. and decided that we needed to arrange for classes together so we could have a better time conquering same. 

Our strategy was simple: we took the same classes. On the first day we split up on opposite sides of the class and covertly began interviewing other unsuspecting students in an attempt to determine if they would be good team members and if they could comply with our demands: get an A, pull your weight, don't whine when we correct your writing or thinking, work hard, have fun, dominate, claim superiority, and eventually rule the world. 

Our strategy worked. Well! The student/victims were easy to spot. The best ones always looked ready to start and their informal interview would reveal their GPA and an elicited complaint about having to carry previous groups or teams of which they had been a part. BINGO – you're hired, er, um, yes, you should join our group. See my blog April 27, 2007. This is not why I started this jag. 

I wanted to tell you about my girlfriend. That is what Betsy and Debi started calling him. He was the really smart guy. So, he wasn't terribly good with the ladies and so he would ask me to coach him. Also, he called often. Oh, and he wondered what I was doing. And, um, what I was doing. And, could I come over and eat. And, we need to get together and work this project out. And stuff like that. He was hetero but that did not mean he was not, um, attentive. 

I remember running into him years later at a restaurant Debi and I love in north Phoenix. He was on a date – with his soon-to-be-second wife. The first one disappeared in the night when he was on a business trip some years earlier. Anyway, when I walked up to his table, he abruptly reached out his hand to shake my hand and I instinctively matched his jerky motion reaching for his hand. The trouble was, his full water glass was twixt the two of us. I hit it and it didn't just topple, it slammed to the table and doused him. 

He jumped up and slipped off his loafers to reveal the powder in them then sheepishly commented that I was trying to sabotage his date. I wasn't. Even though he was my girlfriend.

Light Ning

No, it's not an advertisement for my expressio.ning.com website. Although I think it would have been fun to put that together and actually have it work...

No, this is a commentary on an eventful storm we had last night. Aug 28, 2K8 is the date, and WOW, never in my many years on the earth have I seen such a display of raw power. Hurricanes? Phooey! Tornados - you're getting warm. This thing was raucous, rowdy, unruly, and other ancient words describing utter violent chaos. It started around 8:00pm as many other monsoon-type storms. I looked to the south to see a very, VERY active cell approaching us. I didn't think it would get here as most of the storms we see off in the distance rarely get all the way to northeast Mesa. I think it was one of those storms that was destined to hit the populated parts of our state after gathering strength from the heat.

As the storm approached, the wind began to blow - much like most monsoon storms. No note taken. Then the lightning started - again, nothing too strange here. Then about 15 minutes into the storm I realized that it had begun to *flash* outside. No, not that kind of flashing. It looked more like the kind of flashing where Dianna runs to the car shielding her eyes and then speeds off in the Mercedes only to smash into the tunnel or where Brittany ensures that the angle is right before conspicuously flashes her cooch while stepping out of or into the car.

The flashing was so dramatic that I went outside to witness what was going on. The news today said that we experienced about 9,600 lightning strikes per hour - FOR TWO HOURS. It was spectacular. I promptly gathered my kids and a chair and went out on the porch and sat to watch God's fireworks. The lightning was almost exclusively cloud-to-cloud and the thunder was absolutely continuous. Not the earth shattering, bone-rattling, grandma's-marinated-pinto-and-green-chili-bean-casserole-fart rumbling, but certainly a constant 747 run-up engine roar that blanketed the night for two solid hours.

The weather-bot stuffed suit on Channel 10 explained that the clouds extended up some 40,000-50,000 feet above the ground. The amount of damage caused by the 85 mph winds was well-documented by the news media as they scoured the city proclaiming, “…see this construction sign, (that resembles a large metal flag on a large metal pole and acts in wind much like a windmill would) it was blown over, and it’s heavy…” Today must have been a slow news day. Senator McCain chose a VP running mate (Sarah Palin, mother of 5 and Alaskan governor) and it rained in Phoenix. What an unbelievable display, though. The VP and the lightning.

When I lived in Utah, going to school, I was awakened by a rather unique lightning storm. It was different than the storm described above – it was almost exclusively cloud to ground. This storm was interesting – not because it chose 3:00am to occur, but because it was so violent in nature. Unlike the constant rumbling, the thunder generated by this storm was every 2-3 seconds and would crackle like Eldon Tyrell’s head under the pressure of Roy Batty’s (Rutger Hauer) crushing force. Each strike would stab to the ground from relatively low clouds and the thunder would immediately pierce the night like fart in a hyperbaric chamber. Hmmm, another fart analogy. And analogy has anal right in it...

I kinda want to get back in the blogging mode. I think I will. This way I can dump out some more of my experiences and put a checkmark in the personal history column of my pathetic list of achievements. That checkmark will be lonely for a while since I am not doing much else. Opening day of Sun Devil football 2008 starts tomorrow. I look forward to it.

Facebook me – search Jeff Crandall. I'll be your friend. Good to be back.