My Thoughts

Fridge Follies

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 19:22:14 -0700

I got up last Monday morning, staggered into the kitchen around 5:15, and instead of going cuckoo for a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, I noticed a stream of water going from the bottom of the freezer, across the kitchen floor, and over to the stove. Awesome.

We had two good weeks between the first breakdown and this one. I opened up the freezer and it was completely defrosted. Good Times. I called GE to get The Man (as they would call him in Sparta) to come out and fix things...Of course, no one could come out on Monday, so we set a time for Tuesday...and narrowed it down to between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. Again, Awesome.

Have you ever had to race to 7-Eleven to get 10 bags of ice at 5:30 in the morning? Neither had I, until Monday. Luckily, we have three big coolers that I was able to stuff everything in and then cover with ice. I ended up "working" from home on Monday, and although it was a pain in ass to deal with the fridge and coolers, at least the experience gave me the opportunity to go to Ole's, my favorite breakfast joint, where I had chicken-fried steak and eggs. Now, that was Awesome.

I ended up staying home Tuesday, and of course, The Man didn't show up early as I had hoped. In fact, he didn't come over until 4:30. Nice enough guy, and I only felt a little bad after he rang up the $269 for the repair on my Visa card. So much for ever paying that off. It ended up that the relay (whatever the hell that is) went out, and the compressor wasn't compressing like it should. The Man popped this panel off the back of the fridge, yanked the bad relay out, shoved the new one in, screwed the panel back on, and was done in about 15 minutes.

And for that, it cost $269...$119 for the part and $150 FOR THE LABOR. I mean, $150??? It wasn't like the guy had to get under the hood of my truck and dig around to pull out a water pump or replace the alternator.

Adding more fun to the circus...The Man came over just as Megan and I were meeting with ANOTHER contractor about doing some work on our place. This was only about the 23rd dude we have had over in the last six months. And we are still not close to starting any of the work.

To top things off...I just realized this moment that I spent two full days "working" at home...and didn't order and watch any porn. What the hell is wrong with me?

All Hail The Second Amendment

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 12:38:17 -0700

Whenever I get the mail, it is usually full of about 96% junk. Flyers with coupons that I’ll never use; credit card offers that I shouldn’t answer, even with the 0% A.P.R. On Balance Transfers For The Next Nine Months...Or Until You Actually Make A Transfer, and unwanted, and unwarranted requests from the Democratic Party [smirk] for donations. I gave up on those clowns after Jimmy Carter gave away the Panama Canal...And don’t think he isn’t going to Hell for doing that.

But this week, nestled amongst all the detritus and remnants of clear-cut trees, was something that I had been waiting for. I ripped open the envelope, and there it was. A card...The Card, with a background picture of an American flag and a Bald Eagle. Could anything look as strong as this double team. I think not.

There it was...my member number: 156590958. It’s official: I’m the NRA.

Despite what the photo above may imply, I don’t own any firearms. No machine guns, automatic rifles, handguns, BB guns or even water guns. I have never owned a gun of any type and I have never hunted and killed any wild game or people with a rifle. The closest I have come to taking anybody out was at the Gun Store in Las Vegas when I used the M249 SAW to take out an upside down poster of Osama bin Laden. And I concentrated so much on targeting his “center mass” that I failed to put one round through the dirty, bearded bastard’s face. Oh well.

So why did I join the NRA?

Why not? I like the idea of going against the constipated politically correct ways of much of the Bay Area. I love the image of some pseudo-educated 20-year-old, pierced-in-places-she-shouldn’t-be-pierced Berkeley chick trying to get me to sign a petition to put an end to oil because”it’s evil” [nothing like giving human characteristics to inanimate viscous liquids] and this conversation occurring:  Chick [with unfortunate hair]: We need your help to stop...
Me: To stop what? Business? Culture? Your ability to waste your parents money and dreams for you?
Chick: No, I...
Me: No, I...I AM THE NRA! Want my John Hancock, now? Chick: Who’s John Hancock?
Me: Exactly.

So, here I am, an official card-carrying member of the National Rifle Association. My $25 a year gets me a subscription to America’s First Freedom magazine [this month’s issue includes a story about how “anti-gunners (love that term) are grasping at pseudo-research to revive their gun-ban plans], as well as access to all kinds of gun-nut club benefits like discounted insurance [in case I shoot myself?], NRA credit cards and, I assume, discounted member rates to the annual NRA convention [I wonder who we’re nominating for President this year?],15% off any and all guns bought legally and one free kill during the lifetime of my membership.

And I thought belonging to AAA was a bonus.

It’s A Phelps World, After All

Sun, 17 Aug 2008 15:03:54 -0700

I certainly wasn’t expecting to get so worked up about the Beijing Olympics this year, but as soon as the Opening Ceremonies were done and Michael Phelps hit the water, I couldn’t get away from the TV.

Now, I’m seriously thinking of naming our daughter after him. Michael Phelps Crum. What’s wrong with that?

I was lucky in that I got to see some of Phelps’ first races live on the East Coast during my trip to North Carolina. Beijing is 12 hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast, and I guess NBC twisted enough arms to get the Olympic organizers to run much of the swimming in the morning in China so the races could be shown live in at least part of the U.S. For whatever reason, NBC delayed the West Coast show by three hours, meaning that if a race was on at 8 p.m. ET, it wouldn’t be shown on the West Coast until 11 p.m. Go figure.

All I know is that I couldn’t get enough of Phelps. The best races had to be the freestyle relay, in which Phelps’ teammate, Jason Lezak, came from behind to beat the blathering French, who before the race were claiming that they would throw back the Americans just like they did to the Germans in the spring of 1940, and the 100m butterfly, when Phelps let loose with a last-second half-stroke to beat some clown who was born in the U.S., went to Berkeley, and swam for Serbia. Idiot.

Five solo golds and three relay team wins. Phelps was everything we thought he would be. The guy even got a $1 million bonus from Speedo for winning all eight gold medals. That payout will soon be pittance compared to whatever the International Sponsorship Syndicate has lined up for him. Take the money, Mike. You earned and deserve it.

And no one is going to begrudge you for one dime you make. Tiger’s going to have some serious competition for the title of World’s Most Popular Athlete, too. Phelps will be Sports Illustrated’s Sportsman of the Year, and Time wouldn’t be out of line naming him its Person of the Year, even during a presidential election year.

Besides, he’s likely to be a better pick than whoever gets elected in November.

“Eat ‘Cha Somethin’!”

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:38:46 -0700

That was one of the first things my grandma said to me upon my arrival in Sparta, North Carolina last week. And I followed her advice by eating a lot of “country” food over the next six days, including the barbecued pulled pork (above) that was sandwiched between two corn pancakes at the Bluffs Restaurant along the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was about as big as a manhole cover and finishing it left me nearly in tears.   I love visiting Sparta. It’s a classic small town where churches nearly outnumber residents. In a town of about 2,000 people, there are at least three Baptist churches, and all of them still throw the hail and brimstone fastball at you during a service. And it’s a place were the sidewalks still roll up around 8 on Saturday night. On Sundays, it’s like the old Blue Laws are still in effect because about the only thing open on Main Street was the BP gas station at one end of town and the Hardee’s at the other. And don’t even think about getting a “drank”, because the state A.B.C. (Alcohol Board of Control) store is shut tighter than the Baptist minister’s mind about gays and lesbians  Food is even bigger in Sparta than religion and all the local restaurants have their sanitation ratings proudly on display. JB’s Pizza got a 93, but judging by how sticky their tables were, I think they should have been docked a couple of points. And never mind that the waitress held two customers sodas with her hands covering the glasses rims for a full five minutes while talking to "Jethro", some other redneck there. Also, you got to love a place where the girl at the drive-thru window keeps her Marlboros on the cash register, just in case of an emergency.

(An aside on JB’s…When you order a pizza and pick your toppings it is the same price for two or three toppings, or four or five toppings. So, if you like pepperoni, sausage, black olives and hamburger…you can add mushrooms, or anything else, for the same price as if you just got the first four toppings. It looks quite funny on the menu.)

The week started innocently, and tiringly (is that even a word?) enough with my 12:30 a.m. flight to Houston, followed by a three-hour layover there, a 2.5-hour flight to Raleigh and a three-hour drive to Sparta, which I stretched to 4+ ours thanks to a stop at one of the many Cracker Barrel restaurants/stores that are scattered across the South and have helped contribute to everything from the Civil War to the region's astronomical cholesterol rates.

Still...I highly recommend the country-fried steak, which comes with three sides, a biscuit AND cornbread. And pick up some Kits and Sugar Babies on your way out the door.

I rolled into Sparta [If any of you have read Tom Wolfe's "I Am Charlotte Simmons" you'll remember the title chick is from a small town in NC called Sparta. Well, there you have it. It's real and my mom is from there.] around 5 on Wednesday night, exhausted and barely able to talk. Grandma lives in this old farmhouse on 10 acres with a creek running through it and just a week ago she saw a bear ramble down by that creek, which is about 30 yards from her front door, and over toward my aunt's house. Deer and wild turkeys are often seen chomping their way through the grass, too.

Amazingly, I held my eyes open until about 10, and then ambled upstairs to bed. Grandma has photos on the walls of the Busics (my mom's maiden name) and the Fenders (Grandma's maiden name) that go back from the present to the late 1800s. Everything from some great-great-great-great grandfather who looks like he was run off farm by the Czar to me in my 1986 high-school graduation photo, complete with my red, hand-tied bow tie to my cousin’s latest adorable progeny. The lines run deep on the walls at Grandma’s house.

While there are a lot of pictures and history at Grandma’s, the place is lacking in some modern amenities…like electrical outlets. I had never noticed this before, but there is not a single wall outlet upstairs. There are only a few outlets coming out from the ceiling light bulb sockets, and when you run three extension cords and plug in your iPod and cellphone charger, you’re lucky that you only burn out the light bulb and don’t send all the old knob and tube wiring up in flames.

I slept for 10 hard hours that first night and awoke in good spirits. I immediately “druve” my rental car to the other end of town to Hardee’s where I got one of their traditional Southern biscuits and came back home in time to go to the gym at the Alleghany County Wellness Center. My mom used my aunt’s ID (I don’t know if you remember, but my mom and her sister are twins and look EXACTLY alike, even at 67) to get in and the Hardee’s-fed gal at the front desk let me in for free using one of my aunt’s exercise class credits. I should probably let her know about this before she tries to go to Stretching For Seniors tomorrow.

The Center has a really good gym with a lot of new and undamaged equipment, and I proceeded to work out for the first time in three days. About 30 minutes into my routine, I checked my cellphone to see if Megan had responded to the email I sent her earlier that morning.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

I had six voice mails and three text messages from Megan. Why? Because she said she got up and the freezer had completely thawed out and there was now a San Francisco Bay sized amount of water all over the kitchen floor. OK…Here was a Major Crisis, indeed, but what could I do about it from 3,000 miles away?

I told her to pull the fridge out and turn off the water to the ice maker and water spigot. Nice try, as Megan is now 21 weeks along and isn’t supposed to lift anything heavier than a Big Mac. Much wailing and crying ensued, and I finally calmed her down enough to get her to realize that she had to stay home and deal with it. It wasn’t like I could reach through the ether and put some towels down on the floor.

She called Sears, which told her to call “a certified GE (the fridge maker) technician,” which she did. They let her know that they would promptly be over…THE NEXT DAY, SOMETIME BETWEEN 8 A.M. AND 5 P.M. I guess the cable TV guys look good compared to these clowns. Megan got one of her friends (Katherine, her maid of honor. Gary remembers her) to come over and help her out, and soon they had four coolers full of ice and whatever fridge and freezer items they could save.

Well, Megan couldn’t stay home another day so, luckily Katherine was able to come over and hang out and wait for The Man to come over. Which he did, around 11:30, only to say he didn’t know what the hell was going on as Megan had unplugged the fridge. His only advice was to call and have another guy come over because, “If this happened once, it might happen again!” Thanks, man. I’ll be sure to send a letter of commendation to GE CEO Jeff Inmelt on your behalf.

Katherine left…And another guy came over around 3:30. This was good except that no one had called for another guy and, as such, no one was home. Megan got one of our handyman friends to come over, and he really didn’t do anything except make sure the water line was turned off.

Well, I guess there were no more disasters because Megan didn’t report anything like this again for the rest of the week. Yesterday, I unscrewed the water filter inside the fridge, emptied it out, turned the water back on, and everything is working fine. So far.

The rest of my week in North Carolina was fairly uneventful, save for the shuttling I had to do between my Grandma’s house, where I was staying, and my aunt’s house, where I showered and got cleaned up. This was because:

1) Grandma is 89 years old and has some sort of sitting contraption set up in her tub so she can sit and shower. Removing this for me to shower would have been a constant pain in the ass.

b) The water at Grandma’s house vacillates constantly between Arctic Cold and Lowest Level of Hell hot. It also didn’t help that as soon as I got there, and through no action of my own, the boiler (yes, the boiler) went out and there was no hot water to speak of for a day and a half.

Other highlights of the week included:

Going to the Busic family plot at the Piney Creek cemetery. I was able to trace back my roots to my great-great grandfather who was born in 1840.

Seeing the “A.B.C. Parking Lot” sign. Want to know what ABC stands for? Alcohol Board of Control. The only place in town to get the Hard Stuff. And it’s closed on Sunday.

Escorting my mom and aunt to their 50th high school reunion on at the Olde Bleu Country Club on Saturday night. Only 42 people made it (I think they had about 65 in their class), but the bar was good and got a 95 on its sanitation rating. The gal there also made a nice Bombay Sapphire and Tonic.

Watching Michael Phelps win his first three gold medals, live. This is a Big Deal, as there is no live coverage now here on the West Coast. Man, that relay was awesome. I can’t believe the French were talking smack. Losers.

Well, my week done, I headed back here on Monday. This entailed a three-hour drive back to the Raleigh airport. No stop at Cracker Barrel this time. I allowed extra time, though, because I didn’t know what the traffic would be like.

I got to the airport with way more than enough time to spare. This was because my flight was delayed an hour due to bad weather up in Newark. Does that city do ANYTHING right? Now, I have dealt with delays much longer than an hour, so at first, this wasn’t a big deal.

But what made it a big deal was that because of the delay, my flight to Houston would only give me 4 minutes to make my connection to Oakland…for what would be the last flight to Oakland that night, meaning I would have to stay the night in Houston if I missed my connection. The dude at the Continental counter booked me on a flight from Houston to Oakland Tuesday morning, just in case I missed my connection. This really didn’t bother me because, since by the time my flight got in and I got home, it would have been about 1 a.m. and I was planning on taking a personal day or calling in sick anyway.

So, I set myself up at the airport bar, downed three 24-oz. Sam Adams, ate a bacon cheeseburger, marveled at the chick bartenders’, um…”great personalities”…and finally got on the plane at 7:20, an hour late, as expected. We barreled down the runway and were airborne.

Amazingly, we made it to Houston on time…And I did my best OJ-Hertz-Commercial-Before-He-Killed-His-Wife Sprint over a quarter mile across the airport terminal and got to my plane just before it was about to back out and head for the runway. I think I was the next-to-last person on the plane, and I waved my arms in victory to the crowd on the plane as I took my seat.

I landed in Oakland right on time, 11:15 PM…and I think all of Mexico was arriving at the same time. My God, it was like all the lettuce pickers in TJ had just made a break across the border. Whatever. I wound my way through the crowd and got to baggage claim where, much to my amazement, my suitcase showed up on the conveyer belt. I have to give Mad Props to the Continental baggage handlers in Houston who slung my bag from one plane to another just in the nick of time.

A violent, 30-minute Super Shuttle ride later I was at home. I finally hit the sack at 1 A.M. But instead of getting up at 4:30 to go in to work, and cover a Dell dog-and-pony show, I had earlier emailed to say I would be stuck in Houston overnight. Again, whatever. They did fine without me.

Who Needs Casinos When You’ve Got the M249 S.A.W.?

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 19:43:43 -0700

Well, July 16 will go down as one of the Great Days in our life together as Megan and I got the news about our baby’s amnio.

She’s fine. Forty six chromosomes, just like she should have. Everything was clean and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t so happy I could cry. I’m thinking of getting a number “46” tattoo to commemorate Madeline being OK. Thank God. And there is a God for sure, this I know.

We weren’t supposed to get an ultrasound at the time, but Dr. Thomas was so excited for us that she wheeled in one of the machines and took this photo. That’s her head to the left and you can kind of make out the legs and an arm. Seventeen and a half weeks at the time.

I was so happy that the day after the ultrasound, I went to Las Vegas with Brian.

It was the first time I had seen him in more than two years, and he and I planned this weekend getaway with two other dudes, Dan, who lives in Phoenix near Brian and whose kid goes to the same Japanese school with Kohei, and Luther, a guy that used to work with Brian in Japan.

It was a fun weekend, but the highlight was going to The Gun Store and letting loose with a few rounds of hot lead. I saw an ad similar to the above one while walking through the terminal at McCarran Airport. Who could possibly resist an ad for a place called, simply enough, The Gun Store, and which advertised, WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS, WHERE YOU CAN STILL SHOOT A REAL MACHINE GUN!

Well, sign me up and point me to the range.

I went with the Coaltion Package (Iraq Paq), which included 40 rounds with an M249 Squad Action Weapon, also known as the SAW, 40 rounds with an M16 assault rifle and 20 rounds with an M9 pistol. They were all amazingly lightweight and easy to shoot. The poster of Osama bin Laden didn’t stand a chance. For $110, it was the best fun I had all weekend.

And that included watching a midget pour drinks down the throats of coeds at a sort-of Irish bar on the Strip.