Lightbulbs?!?

Wow.

This woman is a lunatic and an embarrassment. I wouldn't believe this except, knowing her track record, it makes a sick kind of sense. With all the things in this world she could spend time - and taxpayer dollars - on, she chooses to fight the good fight about light bulbs. Light bulbs!

This of course begs a comment about her being a dim bulb herself, but I'll refrain.

Please, oh please, vote her out of office. Someone. Anyone.


http://www.startribune.com/politics/national/house/17002506.html?page=1&c=y

Bachmann is pro-choice on bulbs

By KEVIN DIAZ, Star Tribune

March 25, 2008

WASHINGTON - How many members of Congress does it take to change a light bulb? Americans may soon find out, courtesy of a contrarian piece of legislation introduced this month by Rep. Michele Bachmann of Minnesota.

Titled the "Light Bulb Freedom of Choice Act," the bill seeks to repeal the nationwide phase-out of conventional light bulbs, the kind that have been used for more than a century -- pretty much since the invention of the incandescent light bulb.

Bachmann, a first-term Republican, is challenging the nation's embrace of energy-efficient compact fluorescent lights, saying the government has no business telling consumers what kind of light bulbs they can buy.

"This is an issue of science over fads and fashions," Bachmann said in an interview Tuesday.

"Congress tends to jump on whatever the current buzz is in the 24-hour news cycle, " Bachmann said.

Her bill, the first challenge of its kind, raises safety questions about the small amounts of mercury in fluorescent lights. It also lands her squarely in the middle of the debate over global warming. In recent remarks to a gathering of Sherburne County Republicans -- reported in the West Sherburne Tribune -- Bachmann called any human connection to global warming "voodoo, nonsense, hokum, a hoax."

"By 2012, incandescent light bulbs will be no more," Bachmann said. "Fluorescent bulbs are more polluting because of their mercury content. We are working on a light bulb bill. If the Democrats can hose up a light bulb, don't trust them with the country."

The electrical and manufacturing industries, in a rare alliance with environmentalists, portray Bachmann's mercury concerns as overblown. They argue that fluorescent lights actually reduce mercury emissions in the long run. That's because the new bulbs use so much less electricity, much of which is produced by burning coal, which emits greenhouse gases and mercury.

"That's not just the industry talking," said Mark Kohorst of the National Electrical Manufacturers Association. "That's an accepted aspect of these products, and that's why they've been promoted so heavily."

Whatever one's views on global warming, Kohorst said, the energy savings of fluorescent lights are real. "The lamp thing has merit," he said. "Unfortunately, [Bachmann] has lumped it in with this whole conspiracy thing."

Environmentalists are more emphatic in downplaying the mercury hazards of fluorescent bulbs, which they say are minimal.

"There is 200 times more mercury in each filling in Congresswoman Bachmann's teeth than there is in a compact fluorescent light bulb," said Julia Bovey, a spokeswoman for the Natural Resources Defense Council.

The federal government is also on board, with Congress' last energy bill, signed by President Bush in December, having mandated a phase-in to energy-saving bulbs starting in 2012.

But in a letter to congressional colleagues earlier this month, Bachmann asked for support of her legislation to reverse that mandate, unless a comptroller general report shows clear economic, health and environmental benefits from the switchover to fluorescent lights.

Her letter says that the energy bill "forces consumers and businesses to use only light bulbs chosen for them by the government" and that further study "is simple due diligence."

Mercury disposal an issue

The mercury content of fluorescent light bulbs has long been a concern of federal and state regulators. Minnesota is one of a handful of states that ban the disposal of fluorescent lights as general waste, and Xcel Energy, the state's biggest utility, actively reimburses many customers for recycling them.

The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and Minnesota Pollution Control Agency (MPCA) outline a series of steps that homeowners should take to clean up broken fluorescent lights: Open windows, use rubber gloves, dispose of all material in sealed bags and remove it to a hazardous waste facility.

"It's almost as if you have to call the haz-mat team out to your home," Bachmann said.

Environmentalists argue that most of the steps are the same as cleanup from any broken glass accident, except for the special disposal requirements.

Industry experts say the amount of mercury in new compact fluorescent lights -- about 5 milligrams, on average -- is small but significant enough to warrant common-sense safety precautions and consumer recycling efforts to keep it out of landfills.

"There are minuscule amounts of mercury, but it's a hazardous waste, and we want to take it seriously," said Kim Sherman, product portfolio manager at Xcel Energy.

MPCA spokesman Sam Brungardt said the use of compact fluorescent lights, which use one-fourth the energy of regular bulbs, should certainly be encouraged. If new legislation is needed, he said, it should be to encourage consumers to recycle. "You have to make it easy to do this," he said.

Growing market

With or without the help of Congress, the market for compact fluorescent lights is growing. They are now more than 20 percent of the consumer market in the United States, up from 1 percent in 2001, according to Steve Rosenstock of the Edison Electric Institute.

"These bulbs use significantly less energy, so consumers can save lots of money by switching over," said Jason Mathers of the Environmental Defense Fund.

Fluorescent bulbs, however, cost several dollars more than regular household light bulbs, a factor that Congress failed to take into account when it passed its new mandate, Bachmann said.

For her, changing a light bulb should remain a matter of personal freedom.

"I was just outraged that Congress would want to substitute its judgment for the judgment of the American people," she said. "It struck me as a massive Big Brother intrusion into our homes and our lives."

Kevin Diaz • 202-408-2753

© 2008 Star Tribune. All rights reserved.

Happy Easter to all, and to all a good night.

One of my all time favorite songs: The Vatican Rag

Dammit.

http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/16853741.html

Minnesota novelist Jon Hassler dies

By SARAH T. WILLIAMS, Star Tribune

March 20, 2008

Beloved author Jon Hassler, whose unconquerable will to write became as much admired as his novels steeped in small-town Minnesota, died early Thursday of Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a Parkinson’s-like disease. He was 74.

Hassler, of Minneapolis, battled PSP for almost 15 years, a disease that progressively stole his ability to write, to speak and, finally, to walk. But, fueled by the sheer force of will and the love and support of his wife, Gretchen Kresl Hasssler, Hassler devised ways to keep at it.

A spirited problem-solver, Hassler wrote his most recent few novels by “typing.” His fingers, however, would fall randomly on the keyboard, and only he could read the resulting “gibberish.” He’d translate the typewritten pages to Gretchen, who would then retype them.

“Through all this, I loved him for his courage and his pluck,” Gretchen Hassler said. “He just kept going and going. He had a book to finish, and, by golly, he finished it, too.”

A new novel, “Jay O’Malley,” was finished in the weeks before his death.

Hassler was born March 30, 1933, to Leo Blaise (a grocer) and Ellen (a teacher), of Staples, Minn. His career path took him from schoolteacher in Melrose to a regent’s professor at St. John’s University in Collegeville.

Along the way, he published more than 15 works of fiction for adults and young adults, including “Staggerford” (1977), “The Love Hunter (1981), “Grand Opening” (1987) and “The New Woman” (2005).

He is survived by sons David Hassler (Joyce), of Alexandria, and Michael Hassler, of Brainerd; daughter Elizabeth Hassler Caughey (Lonnie), of Brainerd; stepdaughters Catherine Cich (Geoff), of Robbinsdale; Elizabeth Seymour (Chris), of Richfield; stepson Emil Kresl, of Austin, Texas. and five grandchildren.

Sarah T. Williams • 612-673-7951

© 2008 Star Tribune. All rights reserved.

A Three Hour Tour

Geez, but I'm tired.

As a civilian, I kind of like Holy Week. As a musician, I can't stand it.

Am on hour 18 since getting up. Been one of those days that you run from the minute you leave bed. Got back about an hour ago from a three hour rehearsal for the church gigs I have for the whole Triduum. Three hours. This is on top of the regular work day, plus the weekly guitar lesson. And I've been up for the past hour since I got home sorting through the music folder for the three days and trying to figure out what the heck is going on. Not my favorite.

(Side note - a blog post from my cat: 52222222222222222222222222222223)

And I have to work again tomorrow - the alarm is ringing at 5:15, same as always. So I'm going to have another glass of wine and hit the hay.

Most people like holidays. Musicians learn early on to hate December and March - or April - whenever Easter is.

There goes the neighborhood

In oddities for today, was noodling around reading the news online and saw the headline for an article I figured I should read - two candidates vying for the Democratic endorsement for an open House seat. So one of the guys looked a little familiar... turns out he graduated from my high school. But I didn't know the name, and we were enough apart according to his age that we weren't there at the same time. So why did he look familiar? I went to his web site, read his bio, and the description of where he lives matches my area. Hm. I went back to the article. Another candidate is quoted mentioning he lives in an apartment. Double hm. I couldn't stand it. I went to Anywho.

Darned if he doesn't live in the building right across the courtyard from me.

So is this a good or a bad thing?

Welcom to Teh Holiez Bibul

This has to be fairly close to the funniest thing I've ever seen online: LOLCat Bible Translation Project

It's the entire Judeo-Christian Bible, translated into lolcat speak. Srsly. Don't read if you're easily offended.

But then, if you're easily offended, what the heck are you doing reading this blog?

Linkage a-go-go

This has got to be about one of the funniest darn websites I've seen in a long time: Garfield Minus Garfield. It takes standard Garfield comic strips and removes the title character, making for these odd existential comments on modern life. I truthfully haven't had much use for Garfield for years now, although I really liked the strip at first, but these lend a whole new meaning; make the strip entertaining again.

Ran into the site through a new favorite: MinnPost. MinnPost is a new online only newspaper that conveniently hired many of the castoffs of the local papers, the ones more-or-less forced into retirement to save money, the ones who are smart, knowledgeable, really can write. There's a fair amount of thought in the articles, which is what I like. Besides having Uncle Al, whom I have loved for years, the paper can claim John Camp, more commonly known as novelist John Sanford. Camp wrote a series of pieces from Iraq, which are quite good.

Went out tonight with T and S. Idiot me forgot until S called me; thank goodness she did. We're planning on going out once a month. As they're two of my oldest friends, I'm glad we're making the effort.

Darn tired now, though. Daylight savings or something... I just can't get it together...

Idiots in Sports

Anybody who knows me can tell you I'm no more a sports geek than I am a gamer. I grasp neither concept, really. But I did manage to run into the sports blog:

http://www.firejoemorgan.com/

Oh my.

What's likely my favorite recent post encapsulates quite well why I don't really care for football or anything else other than baseball, really: idiots. And I quote...

Sunday, February 10, 2008

This Might Be Dangerous

On a slow Sunday, Vikes' fullback Tony Richardson talks about his long-term plans:

"I don't want to move at this point in my career. I had a good meeting with the owners. I've got some gas left in the wheel and want to keep playing."

One assumes there is a corresponding tread in his tank. Both problems should be fixed post haste.

posted by Ken Tremendous # 12:56 PM

There's been yet another school shooting. Seven dead as of this morning.

I think that the most depressing thing might be how little news coverage it's getting. We're getting used to this type of tragedy; immune, somehow. It gets talked about briefly during newscasts, we see film of people on stretchers, loaded into ambulances, huddled together in shock, then go on to something else. Last night, Nightline led with the story, but promptly went on to a fluff piece for Valentine's Day about two married police officers in San Francisco. I seem to recall there was yet something else on after that, but I got irritated and turned it off. The other newscasts I saw last night were the same. Most didn't even lead with the story.

What does this say about us?

I dunno, maybe it's cause I'm so stressed. But this song makes me cry every time. Every single one.

Song of the day: Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark".

Schoolsville - Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

Included in the book, Sailing Around the Room: New and Selected Poems.

Included in the book, The Apple That Astonished Paris .

New Year music

Happy last day of 2007.

It's snowing again.

We've had... I dunno... maybe 17 inches so far this December. That's close to normal, but less than the past few years. I somehow think maybe I've forgotten how pretty it is when there's fresh snow, when there's snow all the time. It just keeps coming and coming. Instead of getting all depressed about it, I'm enjoying sitting here, staring out at the big puffy flakes as they drift down to join their mates.

Songs of the day, or rather song versions of the day:
Fields of Gold
Time After Time
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
What a Wonderful World

These are all Eva Cassidy's versions. Just lovely. That woman had some serious pipes. Really serious. Damn.

Here's some stuff from Nightline about her:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

More in the Songs of the Day category - the Minnesota Orchestra's versions of the Beethoven symphonies. I've heard and/or performed these things... I don't even know how many times. But these recordings are different. Non-musicians, and even some musicians, may wonder why on earth we need yet another recording of any of these. Non-musicians don't always get what any good classical musician knows immediately: there ain't ever going to be two interpretations that are exactly the same. I don't even know how many versions I own of the Bach 'Cello Suites, for example. So new versions of old pieces can be great. But just like any remake, you have to ask yourself - is it worth it? Is there anything new being said? I hate note for note, exact interpretation remakes. What's the point then? Studio time is expensive, and for an orchestra, out of this world (see the Mpls St Paul mag article below for deets). So do we really need another recording of the Beethoven symphonies? Oh yes. This one... mmm... I just purchased the 1 and 6 one, which is brand-new; don't yet own the others that have been released (4-5, 3-8, 9).

Nice stuff. Really nice stuff. Osmo has a tendency with his musical interpretations to stick close to the score. He has a reputation as a perfectionist and taskmaster. He pushes his musicians. Hard. Thing is, they like him, and they work for him, and you can really tell. It's hard to play softly well. It really is; much harder than louds. The piano quality the Minnesota Orchestra is achieving these days... really masterful. Unbelievable. I haven't been fortunate enough to hear a ton of world class orchestras live, but these days I think Minnesota is up there with the best of them. There's a just flat out LIFE to this recording I can't remember hearing from others. These people aren't going through the motions. They're laying it all out on the line with all they've got. I noticed things I never noticed before. Amazing.

Brief historical info
MN Orch Archives and pictures
Mpls St. Paul Magazine article
St. Paul Pioneer Press article
MPR Article - "Does the world really need another Beethoven's Fifth?"

A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens, 1843

I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C. D.
December, 1843.


Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

.........

A Cup of Christmas Tea
Tom Hegg, 1981

The log was in the fireplace,
all spiced and set to burn.
At last the yearly Christmas race
was in the clubhouse turn.
The cards were in the mail,
all the gifts beneath the tree.
And 30 days reprieve till VISA
could catch up with me.

Though smug satisfaction
seemed the order of the day,
Something still was nagging me
and would not go away.

A week before, I got a letter
from my old great Aunt.
It read: Of course I'll understand
completely if you can't,
But if you find you have some time
how wonderful if we
Could have a little chat and share
a cup of Christmas tea.

She'd had a mild stroke that year
which crippled her left side.
Though house bound now,
my folks had said
it hadn't hurt her pride.
They said: She'd love to see you.
What a nice thing it would be
For you to go and maybe have
a cup of Christmas tea.

But boy! I didn't want to go.
Oh, what a bitter pill,
To see an old relation and
how far she'd gone downhill.
I remembered her as vigorous,
as funny and as bright.
I remembered Christmas Eves when
she regaled us half the night.

I didn't want to risk all that.
I didn't want the pain.
I didn't need to be depressed.
I didn't need the strain.

And what about my brother?
Why not him? She's his aunt, too!
I thought I had it justified,
but then before I knew,
The reasons not to go I so
painstakingly had built
Were cracking wide and crumbling
in an acid rain of guilt.

I put on boots and gloves and cap,
shame stinging every pore.
And armed with squeegee,
sand and map,
I went out my front door.
I drove in from the suburbs
to the older part of town.
The pastels of the newer homes
gave way to gray and brown.

I had that disembodied feeling
as the car pulled up and stopped
Beside the wooden house
that held the Christmas cup.
How I got up to her door
I really couldn't tell...
I watched my hand rise up and press
the button of the bell.

I waited, aided by my nervous
rocking to and fro.
And just as I was thinking
I should turn around and go,
I heard the rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
The triple beat of two feet
and a crutch came down the hall.

The clicking of the door latch
and the sliding of the bolt,
And a little swollen struggle
popped it open with a jolt.
She stood there pale and tiny,
looking fragile as an egg.
I forced myself from staring
at the brace that held her leg.

And though her thick bifocals
seemed to crack and spread her eyes,
Their milky and refracted depths
lit up with young surprise.
Come in! Come in!
She laughed the words.
She took me by the hand.
And all my fears dissolved away
as if by her command.

We went inside and then before
I knew how to react
Before my eyes and ears and nose
was Christmas past, alive, intact!

The scent of candied oranges,
of cinnamon and pine,
The antique wooden soldiers
in their military line,
The porcelain Nativity
I'd always loved so much,
The Dresden and the crystal
I'd been told I mustn't touch.

My spirit fairly bolted
like a child out of class
And danced among the ornaments
of calico and glass.
Like magic I was six again,
deep in a Christmas spell.
Steeped in the million memories
That the boy inside knew well.

And here among old Christmas cards
so lovingly displayed,
A special place of honor
for the ones we kids had made.
And there, beside her rocking chair,
the center of it all,
My great Aunt stood and said how nice
it was I'd come to call.

I sat and rattled on about
the weather and the flu.
She listened very patiently
then smiled and said, "What's new?"
Thoughts and words began to flow.
I started making sense.
I lost the phony breeziness
I use when I get tense.

She was still passionately interested
in everything I did.
She was positive. Encouraging.
Like when I was a kid.
Simple generalities
still sent her into fits.
She demanded the specifics.
The particulars. The bits.

We talked about the limitations
that she'd had to face.
She spoke with utter candor
and with humor and good grace.
Then defying the reality
of crutch and straightened knee,
On wings of hospitality
she flew to brew the tea.

I sat alone with feelings that
I hadn't felt in years.
I looked around at Christmas
through a thick hot blur of tears.
And the candles and the holly
she'd arranged on every shelf,
The impossibly good cookies
she still somehow baked herself.

But these rich and tactile memories
became quite pale and thin,
When measured by the Christmas
my great Aunt kept deep within.
Her body halved and nearly spent,
but my great Aunt was whole.
I saw a Christmas miracle,
the triumph of a soul.

The triple beat of two feet and a
crutch came down the hall,
The rattle of the china
in the hutch against the wall.
She poured two cups. She smiled and then she handed one to me.
And then we settled back and had
a cup of Christmas tea.

A Visit From St. Nicholas
Clement Clarke Moore, 1822


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

Jesu, joy of mans' desiring.

Or, to quote a favorite former physics teacher, I'll be dipped in poop.

I just through one thing and the other managed to run into an ex-boyfriend online. It's a bit of a long story involving idle curiosity combined with reading too many books combined with the wonder that is the Internet.

In other words, I managed to discover today that in the 14-15 years since I finally dumped this particular ex-boyfriend, he's gone from working in a dead-end job in a small grocery store in a college town in the Midwest to being a dive instructor in Grand Cayman.

WTF?

If nothing else, this proves how easy it is to find someone online. It's not like I looked that hard, or have that much knowledge about where to look. Google, combined with hits on a message board he posts on, combined with my memory and brain power put things together. A little scary, thinking about it further, about how a stalker could easily find a person if they knew a little bit about them to begin with. Makes me a bit afraid of message boards. And blogging, for that matter.

*waves at all my exes*

It also proves a bit about how, although my friends were too nice to say it to me at the time, I should have ditched him long before I did. He was a decent person and all, but we were never a good match and I was slow to see it. But really. Talk about divergent life paths. And what can happen in a relatively short period of time.

I'm glad for him, truthfully. He was on a path to nowhere in particular, last I knew. Smart, with a bachelor's degree, but down in the dumps because he couldn't get into grad school and couldn't get a decent job in his field with no grad degree. He had no sense of, to use a music term, directed motion. So he was a stockboy. Whose hobby - and passion - was sailing. Hence the connection. Good for him for finding a direction and reinventing himself. Most of my exes, with an exception or two, headed straight for Loserville.

*evil grin*

In other news, the cat is currently licking my leg to the point that my pants have a spot that's soaked. I'm not entirely certain why, and I'm a little afraid of whatever the answer might be. I need to change their litter box at some point today, which is hopefully unrelated. They've been so much trouble lately that it's like I have 10 cats. Constantly underfoot and in my face. I haven't been home much, which I'm thinking is part of it.

However:

I have a week off. This makes me want to sing, rumba, Charleston, and tango. Today, I did little other than to revel in the fact that I don't have to go to work for another nine days. Ten, including today. Mmmm....

The cats have also provided me with a built in excuse for not exercising - like I actually need one. Dug out the resistance bands today and one was promptly stolen such that it could be dragged around the house, a bit like a kitten; although hopefully a kitten would not be dropped, batted around, chewed, and then picked up again for a repeat performance.

I have to do Christmas Eve dinner, plus am bringing the stuff for our particular branch of the fam to Christmas itself. Am also going to a concert tomorrow night. Somewhere. Am not done with my Christmas shopping, my cards, or anything else, really. Might want to get on that.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but I found a website today I must share: the T. Herman Zweibel Memorial Foundation. My favorite part, I think, is from The Life and Timeline of T. Herman Zweibel:

1885: Ulysses S. Grant dies and, after an elaborate funeral procession through the streets of New York, is buried in an unmarked grave; today, the exact location of his remains is unknown.

And that, right there, is why I have always loved The Onion; since college when they were headquartered across the street from my dorm. It always gives me some reason to chuckle evilly.

Last night went out with friends and colleagues. Was mostly very fun as got to hang out with some people I hadn't seen in quite a while. Stayed out longer than I meant to as there ended up being some drama towards the end of the evening and I wanted to make sure everyone made it home OK. I finally couldn't take the drama any more and had to leave. Why, oh why, are men so stupid? Blind, really, especially while having had WAY too much to drink. But then, the corollary to that is why are women so stupid that they actually listen to them. *sigh* T and I commented to each other at one point amongst the awkwardness that we were the only two normal people there. Not coincidentally, we were also the only two who were sober.

*double sigh*

Hopefully all will be well. At least eventually.

OK, this is plenty long for one post, and it's taken me all day, and I'm tired. Off to bed.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.



ETA: This is my 50th post. Huh.

My concerts are done. I could sing.

OK, that's an exaggeration. One more. And then I'm done. I can hardly wait.

Normal people don't get how much December sucks for musicians. We're constantly on the run. I'm just tired in general of being stressed. And tired. And cold, come to that. But it's been that kind of year. I'm in a lull between major projects. Things should get truly hideous right around the first of the year, lull again in early April, then suck through to June. Or something like that. The writers' strike is killing me. It would be nice to be able to watch decent - for lack of a better word - TV to relax. But no. We get such crapola as Gladiator. Who thinks of this junk? And PBS, as much as I love them, is in the middle of a fund drive. So the Roadshow and This Old House get preempted for the likes of stinkin' Andre Rieu, who I hate. *sigh* When you can't count on PBS, you can't count on nobody.

Anyway, concerts are almost done, shopping is almost done, wrapping is almost done, decorating is almost done, baking is almost done... huzzah. Cards need to occur. But it could be a whole lot worse. That aspect of stress at least is under control.

Tomorrow will be a relatively easy day at work. Most of my projects should involve sitting on my derrière and listening to other folks. Little thought or preparation involved for me. Hallelujah. My brain is starting to shut down. OK, wrong tense there. But you know. Going to have a review on Thursday, so need to prepare for that. But shouldn't be too bad.

And then there's today's puzzler: why do the cats, who have a perfectly good water bowl mind you, insist upon drinking from the humidifier basin whenever I take out the tank to refill it? Not to mention the little one, who persists in ripping my Santa window cling down so she can chew on it. Not making me happy. At least they haven't knocked the mini tree over in a few days. And they haven't ripped down any of the Christmas lights. Granted, December is still young.

OK, 9 p.m. and therefore time for bed. I don't get to bed by 9, I regret it the next day. Granted, I've been yawning since 6. Oh adventure, be my wild partner.

Song of the week: Coffee Shop. Yes, I know it's in a commercial. In spite of that, it's lovely. Sorry to not be able to link to the real vid - this was the best I could find on You Tube. I think I like his other stuff too. His music isn't deep, but it's decent. For what I've heard, Coffee Shop is my fave.

In Flanders Fields
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army



In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Not much to say; just figured I may as well say something as it's been a while.

Not so pumped about the TV writers' strike. Moonlighting had to deal with the last big one, back in '88. It's not a federal case or anything, and Lord knows there's plenty in this world that's more important, but it's nice to have an escape, once and a while. And Jim and Pam finally got together. Darn it!

Today traded places with one of my co-workers and did his job for the day. What fun. Things are totally different where he works. Everyone was very nice, helpful, welcoming, willing to try anything. Just different. Had a great time.

Am tired but just can't make myself go to bed. Hm.

Spent time cleaning today, some stuff that has been sitting around gathering dust for quite some time. Hung up piles of clean clothes, made the bed, etc.

Got a book the other day - Country Wisdom and Know-How: Everything You Need to Know to Live Off the Land. Stinkin' awesome. Covers everything from how to build a chicken coop to cooking with tofu to chair caning and seat weaving. You can't go wrong with that.

Went out with T yesterday to Penzey's, lunch, and a yarn shop that is unfortunately closing. We had a good time. Got some sock yarn. Think I'm going to try to crochet some socks. Have been crafty lately. This weekend did some canning, crocheting, soap making.

I can't "p" again. Stupid keyboard.

So I walked in the door after work today, Jimmy John's in hand, to find the radio on. Hmm. Could have sworn I'd turned it off. What the heck...

Oh Lord.

Turns out, somebody who shall remain nameless (my money is on the Littler of the two Sh!t Sisters pictured in the heading of this blog.) decided to dig for China in the plant limping along on the buffet next to the radio.

Dirt and plant bits everywhere, the water bowl contents turned to mud. I hope they were thirsty while I was gone, darn it.

And of course by the time I get home the deed is done and it's too late to yell at anyone. You have to strike when the iron is hot, and they'd both long forgotten when I finally saw the evidence. *sigh*


I've just been cranky lately. I swear everything is going to hell. I've sent out enough sympathy cards in the last few weeks that I should have bought stock in Hallmark, work is insane to the point that I'm spending only two extra hours a day there on a good day, and I'm so late doing more work at home I'm not getting any sleep. When I do finally get to bed I'm too wound up to relax. I'm thinking about all I have to do.

And that one letter on my keyboard? It's not working again, at least not consistently. I can no longer say things about Peeves the Poltergeist.

OK, now it's working. WTH?

'Kay, rant done. Time for bed. Shout out to any of you in Cali who may be reading this. Stay safe.




"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." ~Bertrand Russell

“Stress is when you wake up screaming and you realize you haven't fallen asleep yet”

“Stress: The confusion created when one's mind overrides the body's basic desire to choke the living daylights out of some jerk who desperately deserves it”