Sib trip to New Orleans... could it be a sign of the times?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Saint Rituals.
The Ritual of the First Sacramental Treat.
Nothing is more sacred, nor more procedural, than the Ritual of the First Sacramental Treat. The origins of the ceremony are based on archaic canons of the Saint Bernard caste, Most meanings are lost to the ages, but the motions are meticulously followed to this very day.
At 5:01PM, Ralph and Trixie (Grand Duke and Duchess of the Saint colony in Hood River County) scratch at the grand entry to the Temple of the First Sacramental Treat. (It should be noted that the grand entry to the Temple of the First Sacramental Treat is badly marred and in desperate need of replacement.) Max and Spike (hell, I don’t know their exact roles. I guess they are like acolytes, but I’m not sure. If I understood all the intricacies of the ritual, I think they would have to kill me) toddle down the hall and take their positions behind the ingress. The access is opened and the mighty Saints charge in like there is no tomorrow. Trixie immediately climbs the three steps to the Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. Ralph high fives and takes his position, blocking the approach to the sacred Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. Spike darts between Ralph’s legs and joins Trixie in the pantry. Max dawdles, roaming as only a cat can roam.
The cast is in its place, the stage is set for one of the greatest pageantries know to man, dog and/or cat.
Oh, I should mention that there is a manservant at all of these rites: a manservant with opposable thumbs to open the grand entry and to get the First Sacramental Treats out of their sacred receptacles.
After maneuvering past Grand Duke Ralph, the manservant first takes two large-dog sized First Sacramental Treats out of their sacred receptacle in the Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. He hands the first one to Duchess Trixie, who snaps it out of his hand, runs down the hall and jumps up on the hallowed Bed Where the Duchess Devours her large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat. (Don’t think Richard doesn’t know why there are crumbs in bed!) The second large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat is handed to Grand Duke Ralph, who lies down on the floor of the grand entry and places the large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat between his massive front paws.
The manservant then takes the two large-domestic cat sized First Sacramental Treat out of their sacred receptacle. The first is handed to Acolyte Spike, who is as likely to take a bite of the manservant’s hand as not. The second First Sacramental Treat of the large-domestic cat size is then held in the manservant’s hand as he runs after Acolyte Max.
Only when Grand Duke Ralph is satisfied that all of the cast has received its First Sacramental Treat, does he devour his. He is such a gentledog.
(There would be pictures accompanying this post, but for the strict canons against cameras.)
Nothing is more sacred, nor more procedural, than the Ritual of the First Sacramental Treat. The origins of the ceremony are based on archaic canons of the Saint Bernard caste, Most meanings are lost to the ages, but the motions are meticulously followed to this very day.
At 5:01PM, Ralph and Trixie (Grand Duke and Duchess of the Saint colony in Hood River County) scratch at the grand entry to the Temple of the First Sacramental Treat. (It should be noted that the grand entry to the Temple of the First Sacramental Treat is badly marred and in desperate need of replacement.) Max and Spike (hell, I don’t know their exact roles. I guess they are like acolytes, but I’m not sure. If I understood all the intricacies of the ritual, I think they would have to kill me) toddle down the hall and take their positions behind the ingress. The access is opened and the mighty Saints charge in like there is no tomorrow. Trixie immediately climbs the three steps to the Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. Ralph high fives and takes his position, blocking the approach to the sacred Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. Spike darts between Ralph’s legs and joins Trixie in the pantry. Max dawdles, roaming as only a cat can roam.
The cast is in its place, the stage is set for one of the greatest pageantries know to man, dog and/or cat.
Oh, I should mention that there is a manservant at all of these rites: a manservant with opposable thumbs to open the grand entry and to get the First Sacramental Treats out of their sacred receptacles.
After maneuvering past Grand Duke Ralph, the manservant first takes two large-dog sized First Sacramental Treats out of their sacred receptacle in the Pantry of the First Sacramental Treat. He hands the first one to Duchess Trixie, who snaps it out of his hand, runs down the hall and jumps up on the hallowed Bed Where the Duchess Devours her large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat. (Don’t think Richard doesn’t know why there are crumbs in bed!) The second large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat is handed to Grand Duke Ralph, who lies down on the floor of the grand entry and places the large-dog sized First Sacramental Treat between his massive front paws.
The manservant then takes the two large-domestic cat sized First Sacramental Treat out of their sacred receptacle. The first is handed to Acolyte Spike, who is as likely to take a bite of the manservant’s hand as not. The second First Sacramental Treat of the large-domestic cat size is then held in the manservant’s hand as he runs after Acolyte Max.
Only when Grand Duke Ralph is satisfied that all of the cast has received its First Sacramental Treat, does he devour his. He is such a gentledog.
(There would be pictures accompanying this post, but for the strict canons against cameras.)
Monday, March 29, 2010
Impaired Eyesight.
I’m finding that as I age, messed up eyesight is a two way street.
Not only do I not see others as well as I used to see them, but apparently others don’t see me as the hot young stud I used to be. (I never was the "hot young stud I used to be”, but that is another posting.)
For now, let’s just curse failing eye sight.
Not only do I not see others as well as I used to see them, but apparently others don’t see me as the hot young stud I used to be. (I never was the "hot young stud I used to be”, but that is another posting.)
For now, let’s just curse failing eye sight.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
NCAA Women's Basketball
Everyone will be pleased to learn that Portland State is making its inaugural appearance in the NCAA Women's Basketball tournament!
They're Back!!!! Go Rabbits!!!!(And yes, PSU's women's team was the only one of eight [men's and women's] teams from the state or Oregon [Oregon, Oregon State, Univ. of Portland and Portland St.] to make it to March Madness.)
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Time to Kill.
And I had my camera with me, so you get to enjoy Hood River, too!!
It was long ago and far away. Somewhere near this site, Geoff and I worked the tourist trap of Mt. Hood Rail Road memorabilia.
The ruins by the railroad track.
Hood River's infamous stairclimb. No, I didn't, but thank you for asking.
Hallelujah! An air conditioner at work, replacing our beloved fan.
It was long ago and far away. Somewhere near this site, Geoff and I worked the tourist trap of Mt. Hood Rail Road memorabilia.
The ruins by the railroad track.
Hood River's infamous stairclimb. No, I didn't, but thank you for asking.
Hallelujah! An air conditioner at work, replacing our beloved fan.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Three Theories to the Canonization of a Breed of Dog.
Theory #1: There once was a pope who was traveling the north of Italy and decided it would be a grand idea if he were to drop into Switzerland to visit his subjects there. He climbed into the Alps and crossed a pass to the Swiss frontier. There he was met by a big, drooling dog. He dropped to his knees and screamed, “OMG, please don’t salivate on me you big beast.”
In the greatest miracle since the parting of the Red Sea, the dog’s massive amounts of slobber missed the pope and flowed harmlessly down the hill. The pope immediately decided it was the greatest miracle of his reign and shouted, “Saints preserve us!”
The pope’s scribe, quick to write but hard of hearing and high on incense, deemed that the pope had sainted not only the dog, but his breed, the pass and the little inn nearby. No one argued the point.
Theory #2: There once was a pope who hated the Swiss with all his might. He would lay awake nights thinking about how he could make their lives more miserable. He dreamed of invoking a plague and of causing global warming to melt their snow, ruining their ski season. But neither scourge would have placated his animosity.
The pope sent his Evil Emissary, Bernard the Nasty, to Switzerland to dredge up all bad stuff he could find. The pope-that-hated-the-Swiss summoned Bernie to his chambers one evening shortly after his return. There the Evil Emissary told the horrific story of this massive breed of dog that had troubled a small area of Switzerland for centuries. The dogs shed like maniacs (causing the first ‘caustic loose fur’ day in Geneva in 749). And they drooled. They could cause mudslides two Cantons away.
The pope-that-hated-the-Swiss quickly devised his ultimate retribution against the people of the Alps. He made the big dog breed saints. There was nothing the people of Switzerland could do but embrace the dog named after the Evil Emissary, Bernie. (Oh, and check the name of the capitol of Switzerland… Bern(e)… see any similarities?)
Theory #3: There once was a pope with an amazing sense of humor. That is all; no more to this theory.
(And yes, I am knee deep in dog fur and have been wiping the drool off the walls.)
In the greatest miracle since the parting of the Red Sea, the dog’s massive amounts of slobber missed the pope and flowed harmlessly down the hill. The pope immediately decided it was the greatest miracle of his reign and shouted, “Saints preserve us!”
The pope’s scribe, quick to write but hard of hearing and high on incense, deemed that the pope had sainted not only the dog, but his breed, the pass and the little inn nearby. No one argued the point.
Theory #2: There once was a pope who hated the Swiss with all his might. He would lay awake nights thinking about how he could make their lives more miserable. He dreamed of invoking a plague and of causing global warming to melt their snow, ruining their ski season. But neither scourge would have placated his animosity.
The pope sent his Evil Emissary, Bernard the Nasty, to Switzerland to dredge up all bad stuff he could find. The pope-that-hated-the-Swiss summoned Bernie to his chambers one evening shortly after his return. There the Evil Emissary told the horrific story of this massive breed of dog that had troubled a small area of Switzerland for centuries. The dogs shed like maniacs (causing the first ‘caustic loose fur’ day in Geneva in 749). And they drooled. They could cause mudslides two Cantons away.
The pope-that-hated-the-Swiss quickly devised his ultimate retribution against the people of the Alps. He made the big dog breed saints. There was nothing the people of Switzerland could do but embrace the dog named after the Evil Emissary, Bernie. (Oh, and check the name of the capitol of Switzerland… Bern(e)… see any similarities?)
Theory #3: There once was a pope with an amazing sense of humor. That is all; no more to this theory.
(And yes, I am knee deep in dog fur and have been wiping the drool off the walls.)
Saturday, March 6, 2010
The Duck Who Is Not Donald!
It is now official. He is not Donald. Disney has released all rights (okay, most rights) to our mighty mascot!
Quack, Quack, Quack
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sexual Harassment Complaint.
I was reading in the news that the percentage of sexual harassment in the workplace complaints by men has doubled in the last two decades. The article made it sound pandemic.
I want to go on record stating that the article is categorically incorrect.
I suggest that the absolute opposite is true. It has been my experience over the last two decades that people willing to sexually harass me, be it in the workplace, on the street, in my home or in some seedy bar, has plummeted at an appalling rate. It is tragic.
Where do reporters come up with this trash?
I want to go on record stating that the article is categorically incorrect.
I suggest that the absolute opposite is true. It has been my experience over the last two decades that people willing to sexually harass me, be it in the workplace, on the street, in my home or in some seedy bar, has plummeted at an appalling rate. It is tragic.
Where do reporters come up with this trash?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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