I've posted notices, put up signs, advertised in all the major media, made verbal and physical threats, yet the birds continue to build nests in the seemingly endless array of nooks and crannies we now have. And don't pay rent. If you build it I will come. Any of you who've crossed your landlord know what I'm talkin' about.
I have one set of very busy wrens of some sort above the back patio that I've grandfathered in until the current kids leave the nest - sorry, but there that was.
Today I decide to purge the door lights outside my office of the doves therein. As I approached the light, not yet even assuming my most threatening posture, a gray mass was seemingly catapulted onto the rock drive in front of me. There, the poor bird was obviously in its death throes, or at least in some sort of horrific agony, a broken wing at the very least, thrashing about, chirrupping, somersaulting. I cautiously approached and this pitiful creature and its torments edged farther away, out into the middle of the driveway. Again I moved to get to the poor thing, again it maintained the same distance between us. What an incredible, Oscar-worthy performance.
When we'd moved our million-years-old dance clear over to in front of the garage door, a seeming miracle occurred. The writhing, miserable creature at Death's door suddenly burst into flight and disappeared around the corner of the next house to the north.
Like so many other feral creatures before me, I lost track of my original purpose, and wandered, dazed and bemused, off to some other endeavor.
Can't be sure of course, but I thought that in the wind coming from the north I heard "Neener neener neener".
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Calf Creep $210
Is $210 a good price?
We traveled Thursday to visit the Children of the Corn in honor of the missus's brother's 50th wedding anniversary. We got to Omaha, drove past the house we built and lived in for twelve years, past the houses her father had built and she had lived in, and had a Runza at the Runza Hut. Then we decided to spend the night rather than drive to Lake Okoboji and decided to dine at the French Cafe in the Old Market, where we'd had many delicious, candlelit dinners more than a quarter century ago.
In the Market I stopped by Homer's Record Shop where my last purchase had been Lou Reed's masterpiece "Berlin".
On 8-track.
Then east and across the street to the French Cafe. I walked in past the bar, looking for a maitre d', and could not believe the stench of the place. I think Nebraska is relatively new to the "no indoor smoking" fad sweeping the nation, and the smell in the Cafe was overwhelming with stale cigarettes, cigars, and spilled wine and beer, I'm guessing now. I beat a hasty retreat and found a good steakhouse, Spencer's, where we whiled away a few hours before bolting out the door without paying our check.
Jeez, you people! I'm kidding.
Friday morning we drove the rented covertible up the 29 and east at Mo Valley. We stopped in Logan for lunch at a bucolic clapboard cafe with a pool table partly blocking the entry. Delish. Back into the 'bishi bug and up the street where we saw the Calf Creep sign on a feed store. My best guess was that it's a treatment for restless leg syndrome, but no: it's a small, apparently portable feed station designed specifically for, you guessed it.
More on the adventure later.
We traveled Thursday to visit the Children of the Corn in honor of the missus's brother's 50th wedding anniversary. We got to Omaha, drove past the house we built and lived in for twelve years, past the houses her father had built and she had lived in, and had a Runza at the Runza Hut. Then we decided to spend the night rather than drive to Lake Okoboji and decided to dine at the French Cafe in the Old Market, where we'd had many delicious, candlelit dinners more than a quarter century ago.
In the Market I stopped by Homer's Record Shop where my last purchase had been Lou Reed's masterpiece "Berlin".
On 8-track.
Then east and across the street to the French Cafe. I walked in past the bar, looking for a maitre d', and could not believe the stench of the place. I think Nebraska is relatively new to the "no indoor smoking" fad sweeping the nation, and the smell in the Cafe was overwhelming with stale cigarettes, cigars, and spilled wine and beer, I'm guessing now. I beat a hasty retreat and found a good steakhouse, Spencer's, where we whiled away a few hours before bolting out the door without paying our check.
Jeez, you people! I'm kidding.
Friday morning we drove the rented covertible up the 29 and east at Mo Valley. We stopped in Logan for lunch at a bucolic clapboard cafe with a pool table partly blocking the entry. Delish. Back into the 'bishi bug and up the street where we saw the Calf Creep sign on a feed store. My best guess was that it's a treatment for restless leg syndrome, but no: it's a small, apparently portable feed station designed specifically for, you guessed it.
More on the adventure later.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Today
Today was a pretty good day, even though it started out with all the characteristics of total crappola.
We've cut back our summer grandchildren duties from past years to just Mondays and Wednesdays. She has them Mondays and Wednesdays until noon, and I have them Wednesdays afternoons. An equitable distribution of responsibility.
So, today is Wednesday and Her's computer has et up and then disposed of her complete itinerary from January forward, and won't give it back. It's all gone. Goddam Vista and goddam Palm conspiracy, near as I can tell.
Now, her's is not a tidy, predictable calendar. Her's trips to Our Gentle Neighbor Northward, her talks to the stupid, unappreciative locals, and even, god forbid, her hair appointments, all at odd, non recurring intervals were gone, disappeared, null, nixo, gotverloren and seemingly irretrievable.
Seems her stuff didn't appear to have backed itself up since NinederJune, when Yerstruly manually made it do so, and yes, Sherlock, that culpability trail was so obvious a 20 year old schnauzer with hay fever could just sneeze and point.
So we phoned for Bob, Miracle Bob. An Aspergers candidate who charges less than 65% of what the last microsoft healer did. Bob shows up, timely. He's not optimistic, not cheerful, not communicative, but not expensive. Stuff doesn't work that should. Drives are stipulated that don't exist. Outcome seems hopeless. Thanks, Bob.
So, what does a guy like me do in this situation?
Takes the grandkids to the Museum, of course.
On the way over we stops by the bank, entertains the patrons. We stops by the pool store to get our pool water tested; entertains the pool store patrons. Pool water fine, by the way, thanks for asking. We sets the bus computer for the museum address, and then find multiple ways to confound the computer. We goes round in circles in the pool store parking lot. We goes north when the bus computer insists on south. We goes right when the computer insists left. We find this hysterically entertaining, hilarious. We imagine the computer cursing, furious that we won't follow its directions. We are consumed by paroxysms of laughter, most of us.
B: "Grampa, wouldn't it be cool if we could put the address into the computer and it just drove us there? You wouldn't have to do the driving and could just talk to us and have fun!"
"Well. Sweetie, by the time you're able to drive, I'll bet that we'll be able to do just that! What are you, fourteen, fifteen?"
"Grampa, I'm 8!"
"OK then, I'm sure we'll be able to do that when you can drive."
"Will you still be alive then Gramps?
We spend a bit more than two hours at the museum, which has a special display on the Mars Rovers and has added an astonishing skeleton of a 60,000 year old mammoth. We pan for gold, marvel at the snapping turtle, try out the bunks from the Arizona territorial jail, and make sure that B has to handle the fossilized dinosaur poop. She squeals and rubs her hands on our shirts.
We head back to the Junction. School starts up in five weeks and this particular aspect of grandparenting will be over for another year.
A text fom Herself tells me that Miracle Bob has found and restored the lost data. "It's safe to come home and bring the babies to swim in the pool."
"Can we stop at DQ, Gramps?"
"NO!" I bought you drinks at the museum, you're too expensive, no more, I'm done."
"Grampa, you know you always do"
"Ahhhhh ok"
"Grampa, how come you smile so much?"
Today was a pretty good day.
We've cut back our summer grandchildren duties from past years to just Mondays and Wednesdays. She has them Mondays and Wednesdays until noon, and I have them Wednesdays afternoons. An equitable distribution of responsibility.
So, today is Wednesday and Her's computer has et up and then disposed of her complete itinerary from January forward, and won't give it back. It's all gone. Goddam Vista and goddam Palm conspiracy, near as I can tell.
Now, her's is not a tidy, predictable calendar. Her's trips to Our Gentle Neighbor Northward, her talks to the stupid, unappreciative locals, and even, god forbid, her hair appointments, all at odd, non recurring intervals were gone, disappeared, null, nixo, gotverloren and seemingly irretrievable.
Seems her stuff didn't appear to have backed itself up since NinederJune, when Yerstruly manually made it do so, and yes, Sherlock, that culpability trail was so obvious a 20 year old schnauzer with hay fever could just sneeze and point.
So we phoned for Bob, Miracle Bob. An Aspergers candidate who charges less than 65% of what the last microsoft healer did. Bob shows up, timely. He's not optimistic, not cheerful, not communicative, but not expensive. Stuff doesn't work that should. Drives are stipulated that don't exist. Outcome seems hopeless. Thanks, Bob.
So, what does a guy like me do in this situation?
Takes the grandkids to the Museum, of course.
On the way over we stops by the bank, entertains the patrons. We stops by the pool store to get our pool water tested; entertains the pool store patrons. Pool water fine, by the way, thanks for asking. We sets the bus computer for the museum address, and then find multiple ways to confound the computer. We goes round in circles in the pool store parking lot. We goes north when the bus computer insists on south. We goes right when the computer insists left. We find this hysterically entertaining, hilarious. We imagine the computer cursing, furious that we won't follow its directions. We are consumed by paroxysms of laughter, most of us.
B: "Grampa, wouldn't it be cool if we could put the address into the computer and it just drove us there? You wouldn't have to do the driving and could just talk to us and have fun!"
"Well. Sweetie, by the time you're able to drive, I'll bet that we'll be able to do just that! What are you, fourteen, fifteen?"
"Grampa, I'm 8!"
"OK then, I'm sure we'll be able to do that when you can drive."
"Will you still be alive then Gramps?
We spend a bit more than two hours at the museum, which has a special display on the Mars Rovers and has added an astonishing skeleton of a 60,000 year old mammoth. We pan for gold, marvel at the snapping turtle, try out the bunks from the Arizona territorial jail, and make sure that B has to handle the fossilized dinosaur poop. She squeals and rubs her hands on our shirts.
We head back to the Junction. School starts up in five weeks and this particular aspect of grandparenting will be over for another year.
A text fom Herself tells me that Miracle Bob has found and restored the lost data. "It's safe to come home and bring the babies to swim in the pool."
"Can we stop at DQ, Gramps?"
"NO!" I bought you drinks at the museum, you're too expensive, no more, I'm done."
"Grampa, you know you always do"
"Ahhhhh ok"
"Grampa, how come you smile so much?"
Today was a pretty good day.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Two Simple Rules
A delightful (I'm guessing, but pretty certain) woman from Santa Monica in her mid-80s writes to the Times that she "continue[s] to be amazed at the number of advice books listed each week in the Book Review as best sellers."
She says she's done very well, thank you, with two 'pieces of advice' she learned in pre-school:
1. Try to play nicely with everyone.
2. If you're crabby, take a nap.
She says she's done very well, thank you, with two 'pieces of advice' she learned in pre-school:
1. Try to play nicely with everyone.
2. If you're crabby, take a nap.
Friday, July 10, 2009
America, America Alas
A survey by the Pew Research Center for the People & the Press, and American Association for the Advancement of Science found that
- almost a third of Americans believe that humans have existed in their present form since the beginning of time
- a bit less than half the population believes that people are responsible for climate change and about 11% says there is no climate warming at all
- a third of Americans think there continues to be a lively debate as to whether the theory of evolution is valid or not
Not real surprising, I guess, but certainly disappointing.
- almost a third of Americans believe that humans have existed in their present form since the beginning of time
- a bit less than half the population believes that people are responsible for climate change and about 11% says there is no climate warming at all
- a third of Americans think there continues to be a lively debate as to whether the theory of evolution is valid or not
Not real surprising, I guess, but certainly disappointing.
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