Update

South Dakota State 97, Centenary 52

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Here’s for the overachievers.

Every year I manage to find a team that catches my fancy. There are only three sports that I follow: football and men’s and women’s basketball. And I only follow them in college. At least there I can pretend that they aren’t overpaid.

This year, it is the South Dakota State Jackrabbits women’s basketball team. I tried Ball State’s football team. (Okay, every man in America has some kind of fantasy connection with Ball State!) But they ended the season disastrously, so I changed allegiances. I can be very fickle when I want to be, but my true love is, and will always be, the Ducks.

South Dakota State is not one of those traditional powerhouses in any sport. They’ve only been division one for a few years, and here they are ranked number 16 in one of the polls. You go, Rabbits!

The campus is in the town of Brookings. It’s just a stone throw from my ex’s family. (When I met Doug, three of his siblings and his parents all lived within 25 miles of Brookings.) So it has a bit of hometown feeling for me.

And it isn’t like the college has somehow attracted gifted athletes from around the country. Of the 14 women on their roster, 6 are from South Dakota, 5 are from Minnesota, 2 from Wisconsin and 1 from Iowa.

It is pretty certain that the Jackrabbits will be involved in March Madness. All I can say is “Woo! SDSU!”

Anatomy of a Bad Day.

Okay, it isn’t technically a “day”: it is the last 24 hours. It started last night at pub quiz. We didn’t win. I knew nothing… well, except that Chile was the South American country that extended the farthest south. Other than that, I felt pretty stupid. The whole team seemed somewhat deflated. As we were leaving, Jarren mentioned driving his car off the Hood River Bridge. I sure hope he didn’t. I should check around about that tomorrow.

Anyway, as I drove home, I ran into a snow flurry, but it is that time of year in Oregon, and I live at a moderately high altitude, so I wasn’t surprised. And it wasn’t sticking, so no big deal. Got home, greeted the pets (always a major production), grabbed a bite and talked with Richard for a while, and after the obligatory dog & cat treats, went to bed.

At 5AM, as is prescribed by the gods, I awoke and jumped out of bed, totally invigorated and ready to face a new day. I was chipper and knew that this would be the day that I finally got that big promotion.

At 5:15AM, I awoke from the dream and drug my fat ass out of bed by my fingernails. I was so glad to see the total darkness of the new day. Staggering into the kitchen, I searched for what seemed like hours for the coffee maker. Damn that Richard, every night he moves it to a new location. I finally get it all together and get the coffee brewing and decide to go look out the front door.

“OH MY [expletive deleted] GOD! THERE IS 8 [expletive deleted] INCHES OUT THERE. HOW THE [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]AM I SUPPOSE TO… OH MY [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted].

I thought I screamed loud enough to wake the dead, but no animal in this house woke up.

At 5:30AM, I bundle my big-boned body up and trundle outside to see what it is really like. I shovel to the cars, or the mounds of snow that I recognized as potential car prints, and then on to the base of the driveway. Right then and there, my driveway grew to a mile long and the snow became 4’ deep. Pretty much freaked me out, so I took a break.

Called work. It didn’t snow in Hood River. I ain’t getting no sympathy. Tell ‘em I’ll be late, but I’m digging out. Richard needs his car, so I need to get my pick-up out. Means scraping the driveway down to bare pavement. No easy task. But I am done by 8AM. I am pretty sure that is a personal best! Okay, the berm

“A berm is a level space, shelf, a raised barrier separating two areas or a cursory phrase used by some residents of the Upper Hood River Valley in reference to the mountain of crap left at the end of their driveway by the State of Oregon snowplows.”

wasn’t perfect, but Richard’s car got out beautifully. So, I showered and all that jazz and took off for work in my sweet little pick-up. I know I’ll make it out of the driveway as long as I don’t have to stop in the berm. I get to the end of the drive and [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] there are forty cars coming down the highway. I have to stop in the [expletive deleted] berm. After what seemed an eternity, I finally wriggled my way out of the driveway onto the highway of glare ice. I recall saying, “Oh my [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted], this is not good”, as I crawled along at speeds nearing 30.

About half way through the “s” curves just north of my house, I caught up with the pack of cars. I was stunned that they were going so slow that I actually caught up with them. I tapped on my brakes. (I live in snow country, I know about tapping breaks.) The [expletive deleted]pick-up started to fishtail.

You know, it is amazing what you think about as your take that first spin. You curse, you scream, you speak poorly about your relations. But by the second spin, you’re starting to think more rationally. You’re wondering why you were never able to articulate your morbid fear of dying in a car accident, or why a bucking pick-up could make you fear ditches.

But by the third spin, you’re noticing things that you otherwise would have missed. Like, “My gracious, isn’t that Joanie and Tim in that car that is coming at me head on? Wow, I haven’t seen them in ages. I sure hope they survive this.”

And by Willow Flat, you finally regain some semblance of control of your cute little pick-up.

And then you go to work.

At the Inn of the Damned!

Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday

It is Tuesday, but I prefer not to think of myself as fat. I prefer to think of myself as big boned. Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got huge bones, oddly located beneath my belly button. (Mind out of the gutter, people.)

Okay, so today is the last day to party like rock stars until Easter. And no one parties heartier than I. Okay, some people do, but they can stay awake past 9PM. (I always try to stay awake at least until 9PM. It makes me feel so urbane.) And it’s hard to ruminate about Trixie without thinking “party animal”. Throw in Max, Ralph and Spike and you can tell we have got quite a little fête happening here. (Richard opted out – he’s teaching a class at CGCC).

Many of the festivities of Mardi Gras are based on pagan celebrations. Let’s face it, pagans have more fun. (Imagine if you were blond and pagan – talk about having more fun!) Non-pagans just have trouble with the idea of enjoying themselves. When the early non-pagans got a hold of the holiday, they tried to replace the alcohol consumption with pancake consumption. Okay, at your left hand you have a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and at your right hand you have a six-pack of Black Butte Porter. Hmmm, which do you consume? Decisions, decisions. I suppose you could be a paganistic non-pagan and eat the cakes and down the suds, but I’m not sure about porter and syrup mixing well. There may be a cultural clash involved.

Yeah, its a righteous party around the ol' homestead tonight! Not a pagan among them. I tell you, the snoring is deafening.

We live in an amazing time.

Technology has brought awe-inspiring advances in the past twenty-five years. Gone are the rotary dial phone, long play record and typewriter. They’ve been replaced with cell phones, I-pods and laptops. The advances in the past two and a half decades have been mind boggling.

For all of our steps forward, there is one technology that is going backwards: one science that is slowly returning to the dark ages. I refer, of course, to mirror-imagery.

Has anyone looked in a mirror lately? I can tell you from personal experience that the reflection quality is slipping. Thinking about the deterioration in mirror-imagery in the past 25 years, I dread to think of the unfortunate refections 25 years from now, unless something is done immediately, not only to stop the deterioration, but return mirror-imagery to its glory days.

Come on, folks! It’s time to take to the streets. Write your congressperson and demand that saving mirror-imagery become the nation’s #1 priority. Forget about resources for education, we’ve got a developing crisis here.

The perfect example: a modern-day mirror looks at a perfectly tidy and clean room, but reflects a dusty, disorganized, dirty, disgusting room.

It just keeps getting better.

Excuse me, Mr. Used-to-be-President, I think it would work a little better the other way around.

My Favorite Valentine

With thanks to Raquel, for sending it to me. For some off-the-wall reason, she felt it appropriate.

(And the next person who calls me 'Peggy' gets the curse of the pox.)

And a quick “Happy Birthday” to Miep Gies, who turns 100 today.

And you ask, “Who the hell is Miep Gies?” You haven’t been to Anne Frankhuis lately, have you?

Miep Gies, along with Johannes Klieman, Victor Kugler, and Bep Voskuijl were the ‘helpers’ who aided the Frank and Van Pels families during their two years in the annex. Sixty-some years ago, Miep risked her own well-being to try to help eight people survive. It was Miep who gathered up Anne notebooks, saving them for Anne’s hoped return. In a way, what she and her co-horts did was basic. They aided friends. But they did it under the threat of death.

Miep lives in Amsterdam, and plans to celebrate her birthday with her son and three grandchildren.

You go, hero!

Woo Oregon

I planned to write something very clever and poignant to commemorate Oregon's 150th birthday, but I didn't.

So, Happy Birthday, Oregon

Friday the Thirteenth – Vendredi le Treizième

For some reason, Friday the 13th has a bad rap. Never mind my butt print on the front walk or the pick-up stuck in the driveway. Who cares, it’s Friday. Two days to waste in the snow!

Now if it were Monday the 13th, I could understand the terror.

Not very impressive, is it? From the picture, there is no reason to believe the truck shouldn't just drive off. That thing is as worthless in the snow as tits on a boar!

Blog Entry #100

Doesn't seem possible, does it? One hundred inane posts. And the world still turns.

Before I forget, happy birthday, Uncle Abe!

Totally unrelated, but there has been a rash of unfortunate incidences lately where people have called me a "smartass". I'm having a difficult time wrapping my brain around the whole set of occurances. I just don't get it. How can so many people be so wrong? It must be the education people are getting in public schools. It is shameful.

Holy Economics 101

Them that gots, got. Them that don’ts, get screwed. Again and again. Long and hard.

Let’s take a gander at a purely fictitious case. This is not ripped from the headlines. This is nothing more than a hypothetical situation.

Let’s pretend your name is Kenny Clueless and you are CEO of a really, really big bank. Let’s call it SuperBank of America. SB of A is one of those truly great banks that treat their depositors with the utmost respect and honor. Unless the depositor’s net worth is less than $10,000,000.00, in which case, said depositor is treated like worthless chattel and spat upon.

Kenny, because you are so gifted and brilliant, you are compensated to the tune of $20.4 million dollars annually. That figure includes salary, bonuses, stock options, prostitutes, cars, reimbursements, disbursements and nose candy. Holy Toledo, you are hot stuff.

Never mind that under your brilliant tutelage, your bank has gone from robust to insolvent. Never mind that if it were not for a generous cash gift from the dumbest and most incompetent president in the history of the United States, SB of A would be in bankruptcy court. Never mind that because of your morally questionable business practices the entire western world is teetering on collapse. (I’ve heard that Iceland is available on E-Bay for a stunningly low opening bid.) Don’t worry Kenny, we all still think you’re hot stuff. (Oh, and Holy Apocalypse, set the crack pipe down.)

Let’s take a closer look at your compensation. As I am sure that you work 24/7, I’ll just divvy up your pay by 8,760 (the number of hours in a year – except leap year, but let’s not get all bogged down with details.) Holy Major Shekels, you get paid a paltry sum of $2,328.77 per hour. Kenny, how do you make ends meet?

Now let’s look at Sally’s pay. Kenny, you know Sally. She’s a teller at one of SB of A’s many branches. Oh, maybe you don’t know her. There are a lot of Sally’s in your bank. You are so generous as to pay Sally the federal minimum wage. Doing some quick math, I discovered that you will have 'earned' the same compensation a little before 6AM on January 1st as Sally will earn in the entire year. Holy How In The Hell Do You Justify That!

I know. That is not a fair comparison. Because of your superior bank-managing skills and over-the-top employee empathy program, Sally will lose her job in mid-January, so the reality is that you will earn more money by 12:30AM on January 1st. But don’t worry Kenny, there are some really high quality shelters out there. Sally will be just fine. Her two young children may not make it, but Sally is still young. She can have more. Don't get your skirt all in a dither!

I won’t give the exact time and date that your income passed my annual pay. Suffice to say that if I find out you took all of New Year’s Day as a holiday, I’m going to be really pissed.

Reminds me of a bumper sticker I saw. “If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.”

I had one of those horrible days at work.

I’m sure I am not the only one who had to roll up the shirtsleeves and dive into work today, but what can I say? I did it for the good of the company.

Ranking up there as one of the most dreaded tasks of my career, I had to drive into Portland with a couple of co-workers to taste pastries at the Petite Provence. Who knew there were more than 30 different kinds of French pastries! I see a sugar crash coming!

Brioches, Beignets, Croissants: devilishly good.

Now, I know what I want to be when I grow up. A Professional Pastry Taster!

Le télévision est retourné a l’Haute Valle de l’Hood River.

In a complicated turn of events, Richard and I have regained television reception in our humble hovel. It required begging our neighbors to allow us to place a satellite dish on their property, convincing some company out of some inhospitable land that we were real people and a large amount of plain, old-fashioned good luck. Oh, and cold, hard cash.

I came home from work Thursday to find a technician in our living room finishing the installation process. Richard was grinning from ear to ear. He looked like a child in a candy shop. The techy handed him the remote. I thought Richard was going to burst into tears. Then I looked closely at the remote. “Oh my god, look at all those buttons,” I gasped.

The techy laughed and went on to explain how truly simple it was to use our new remote, as he handed us the 457 page user’s guide. “Now what do you think you’re going to want to do the most with your new XPS International Satellite Micro-Technically Advanced Remote Digital System (or XPSISMTARDS, as we call it for short)?” he asked.

“Uhh, I was kind of hoping to watch TV.”

“Well, that is simple as pie. You just push this button (he pointed to the one marked ‘T>4.7¥’), key in the 26 digit network code for your installation, enter the language you wish to speak and determine the derivative of the square root of λ, and violà, you’re watching TV.”

I don’t think anyone noticed that my eyes glazed about halfway through his explanation.

“Now, be careful of this button that says ‘P4$$1<’,” he continued. “It has the unfortunate side effect of causing a pre-emptive strike against a small European nation if pressed on a Thursday. And this button, the one that is marked ‘Oo7oĦs’ has been known to disrupt the air-traffic control system at LaGuardia Airport, so you want to use it sparingly.”

“Now, if you want to use your six-room DVR or your M-Peg 2 sub-system of your XPS International Satellite Micro-Technically Advanced Remote Digital System (or XPSISMTARDS, as we call it for short), you need to divine the numerical value of your mother’s maiden name, using MacGregor’s theory of partial inductive science, and, placing your hand on a first-edition copy of Ayn Rand’s ‘The Fountainhead’, recite the Pancreatic Oath.”

I pulled Richard aside. “Do the friggin math. We don’t have six rooms in the house. What in hell are we going to do with a six-room DVR? Oh, and what the hell is a 'six-room DVR'?”

“Don’t worry. I'll explain it later and you can build an addition this summer.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. If you don’t want to know how to get the full enjoyment out of your new XPS International Satellite Micro-Technically Advanced Remote Digital System (or XPSISMTARDS, as we call it for short), I can just end the instructions at this point,” the techy chided.

We both shuffled our feet and apologized. “We’re sorry, Mr. Technician, sir.”

“Continuing. This button, the unmarked button which is surrounded by dozens of other unmarked buttons, making it virtually impossible to differentiate any one button from its remote-mates, is critical if you want to have audio with your TV. If you don’t press it, or if you erroneously press any one of the seven buttons to its immediate left or right or up or down or in the shape of the cross of Saint Thomas, you will never have sound again as long as you and/or your TV live. I can’t stress this detail enough. It is irreversible.”

Of course, it is important to note that by this point of the instructional period, all cognitive functions of my brain had ground to an unceremonious halt. I was drooling. (It’s a household tradition.)

From there on out, it was pretty much “Blah, blah blah.”

So, our beloved old TV (Circa 1990) is wired to this amazing world that does damn near everything. I know how to turn the TV on and off (old school – at the TV). Richard has promised me he’ll show me how to change channels one night this week.