The witches pulled into the parking lot and piled out of their cars.
“Oh, it’s a bit cold!”
“Nonsense, it’s just right! A ‘bite’ in the air, eh, sisters?”
They all laughed, even the cold one.
“Tonight’s the night!” said one, and they all broke into a Phil Collins song.
The trail up to the cave was easy to follow, lit by a full moon. The witches laughed at the Park Service sign reading, “Enter Cave at Your Own Risk.”
“Once we’re in there it will be THEY’RE own risk!” They all laughed, although some nervously.
The witches shuffled up the trail to the cave. The trail was wide and even, thanks to the Park Service, but, even so, some of the witches felt a shortness of breath as they climbed towards the cave.
“Whew, I definitely need to get back to the gym!” They all laughed.
Although the entrance to the cave was somewhat small the cave itself was surprisingly large with enough room for several hundred witches. The five who entered the cave had room to spare.
The first witch entering the cave carried a battery powered lantern which she turned on casting weird shadows on the walls of the cave as the rest of the witches entered.
“Well, here we all are,” announced the witch with the lantern, “All Hallows Eve. Let the Las Cruces Crucible come to order!”
The witches clapped in appreciation and looked at each other in anticipation.
“Settle down, settle down,” the head witch extolled, her hands held out and waving the witches to be seated, “All in good time, all in good time. Now, who brought the caldron? Great, and the burner? Fine, and the other stuff? Fantastic.” Each witch on cue raised her hand and pointed to her offerings.
Then, without much bother the witches set up their fire, caldron, offerings and settled down to an evening of incantations and fun.
After a few rounds of beers and tequila shots the witches were feeling quite merry indeed. No one noticed that the caldron was bubbling fiercely and throwing off a few green sparks.
Feeling very merry indeed the witches danced around the caldron and with each turn was given a shot of tequila. Dance, shot, dance, shot!
Suddenly the caldron went very quiet. The steam stopped, the bubbling stopped. Everything stopped. The witches stopped dancing.
“Did the fire go out?” asked one.
“Nope, it’s still going,” replied another.
They drew close to the caldron.
Suddenly, the caldron became red hot, glowing incandescent and from the center rose as if to fill the cave ...
Sarah woke up in her car, sitting in the driver’s seat, clutching the steering wheel. It took her an hour to unclutch her fingers and it was only then that she noticed that her clothes were singed. Sarah remembered fire and screaming and something else.
Something else.
Something that came out of the caldron.
She remembered running for the cave entrance and scrambling out, running blindly across the desert to the car park. Then nothing. She blanked out.
She looked around. All the other cars were gone, so, maybe everyone else went home and she slept the night in her car.
Humph, Sarah thought, they left me here. Some friends. And she drove home.
In the subsequent year Sarah tried to call her friends in the coven but it seems that all had disappeared without leaving a forwarding address. Furthermore, Sarah observed, she lost all interest in tequila.
“Devil’s brew,” she would tell her friends, then shiver for an hour.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Conversation with an Artist
Me: So, you see, this is trees on a road. Autumnal etc. What the eye sees, the finite. HOWEVER, the Soul sees Hipstamatic. The indefinite..
Artist: lol. you're such a hipsta poet.
Me: You infected me. I'm not seeking a cure.
Artist: i'm not sorry
Me: I thought you would not be.
Artist: you thought not wrong
Me: I'm glad I didn't think so.
Me: Jayse, I can't hold a candle to you, although if I dripped red wax on you I'd totally photograph it in Hipstamatic ... Lucifer and Ina's 1969. Yeah, that would be cool.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thinking Inside the (microwave) Box
Hey, I hear water running!
No problem, I'm on it.
(minutes later)
Hey, I still hear water running!
I said I'm on it and I'm on it.
(microseconds later)
Why is the water running? Why is the water still running? I can hear it!
OK, I'm waiting for it to get hot, OK? It takes time. Small pipe, long distance. Rate times time times pipe equals not soon hot, OK?
I got it, I got it! Sheeeesh, what a grouch. How much hot water do you need?
About a cup.
One cup?
Yeah, maybe a bit less.
Well, why didn't you put a cup of water in the microwave for 30 seconds. That would have been much quicker, don't you think?
No, I don't think.
I would say "obviously" but I won't.
Thank you for your restraint.
By the way, when's dinner?
About two hours, as soon as I get this butter churned ...
No problem, I'm on it.
(minutes later)
Hey, I still hear water running!
I said I'm on it and I'm on it.
(microseconds later)
Why is the water running? Why is the water still running? I can hear it!
OK, I'm waiting for it to get hot, OK? It takes time. Small pipe, long distance. Rate times time times pipe equals not soon hot, OK?
I got it, I got it! Sheeeesh, what a grouch. How much hot water do you need?
About a cup.
One cup?
Yeah, maybe a bit less.
Well, why didn't you put a cup of water in the microwave for 30 seconds. That would have been much quicker, don't you think?
No, I don't think.
I would say "obviously" but I won't.
Thank you for your restraint.
By the way, when's dinner?
About two hours, as soon as I get this butter churned ...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Game Over
"Hey, whatcha doin?"
"I'm playing this new pinball game on the iPad. Just like the real thing, except I can't tilt it."
"What's tilt mean?"
"Well, that's when you bump it ... hey, get out of the way ... I can't see the ball!!!"
"Tilt like what? Like when I purrrr?"
"Kink! I can't see what I'm doing! Move your butt!"
"Ohhhh, look at the little ball go! Hey, I can get it, really I can! Watch this ..."
"No, Kink, not now! We can chase the mouse toy later. I'm about to beat my high score!"
"What's a high score? Ohhhh, look at the ball go! I can get it, really I can ... Watch this ..."
"Kink! Uh, never mind. Game Over."
"What's Game Over?"
"Nap time."
"I like this game! Chase the ball, Game Over and Nap Time. We'll take a cat nap and play again, OK?"
"You're on, Kink, you're on."
"I'm playing this new pinball game on the iPad. Just like the real thing, except I can't tilt it."
"What's tilt mean?"
"Well, that's when you bump it ... hey, get out of the way ... I can't see the ball!!!"
"Tilt like what? Like when I purrrr?"
"Kink! I can't see what I'm doing! Move your butt!"
"Ohhhh, look at the little ball go! Hey, I can get it, really I can! Watch this ..."
"No, Kink, not now! We can chase the mouse toy later. I'm about to beat my high score!"
"What's a high score? Ohhhh, look at the ball go! I can get it, really I can ... Watch this ..."
"Kink! Uh, never mind. Game Over."
"What's Game Over?"
"Nap time."
"I like this game! Chase the ball, Game Over and Nap Time. We'll take a cat nap and play again, OK?"
"You're on, Kink, you're on."
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Ta-chich! Ta-chich!
That's the sound mockingbirds make when there's a predator around.
I'm always looking for signs of predators after that incident in Antarctica, but that's another story.
This time I was grillin' ribs on the BBQ when I heard "ta-chich! ta-chich" which is mockingbird for "cat."
I looked around but no cat. So I called ...
"Kink! Old buddy, Kink! Where are you?" And soon enough a pair of Kink-ears appeared behind the fence.
"Ah, Kink-O, you old mockingbird hunter, they're up there!" I pointed to the live oak tree but Kink wasn't interested seeing as how his cover had been blown. Besides, the aroma of the cooking ribs got his full attention. He ambled towards the back door and meowed to be let in.
I opened the door and he headed right to the kitchen table, found a spot right in the middle and proceeded to groom his hindquarters, as they say in polite company.
Ribs in 10 good buddy, I said!
Kink flicked his tail in response.
I'm always looking for signs of predators after that incident in Antarctica, but that's another story.
This time I was grillin' ribs on the BBQ when I heard "ta-chich! ta-chich" which is mockingbird for "cat."
I looked around but no cat. So I called ...
"Kink! Old buddy, Kink! Where are you?" And soon enough a pair of Kink-ears appeared behind the fence.
"Ah, Kink-O, you old mockingbird hunter, they're up there!" I pointed to the live oak tree but Kink wasn't interested seeing as how his cover had been blown. Besides, the aroma of the cooking ribs got his full attention. He ambled towards the back door and meowed to be let in.
I opened the door and he headed right to the kitchen table, found a spot right in the middle and proceeded to groom his hindquarters, as they say in polite company.
Ribs in 10 good buddy, I said!
Kink flicked his tail in response.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Another Terabyte!
I can't believe I ordered a computer with a terabyte of disc storage!
I didn't even see my first terabyte until 1997 when I started a job to, among other things, manager a whopping FOUR terabytes of disc storage.
Now, my kids complain with sarcastic t-shirts:
Back when I was a kid we couldn't even afford binary; all we had were 0's. The rich neighbors down the street had 0's AND 1's. In an engineering lab in college we built an 8-bit storage latch out of transistors, barely above bearskins and flint knives, and clocked data in using pushbuttons. You got an A if your latch didn't catch fire.
I got a B-.
(It was a small fire, hardly worth using a fire extinguisher on. Srsly.)
My cat, who has more bytes in his flea collar than Carter has liver pills (look it up) got an A to give you a clue.
I don't know what I'm going to do with another terabyte. Did I mention that I already have three? Yeah, this will be number four, not to mention the multiple of gigabytes wandering around the household. Since my entire life fits into a flea collar I'm thinking about renting out the extra space.
I could become a byte slumlord. Sorta like the ring of that. At least I won't have to worry about plumbing.
I didn't even see my first terabyte until 1997 when I started a job to, among other things, manager a whopping FOUR terabytes of disc storage.
Now, my kids complain with sarcastic t-shirts:
Dad went to Disney World and all I got was a lousy terabyte!
Back when I was a kid we couldn't even afford binary; all we had were 0's. The rich neighbors down the street had 0's AND 1's. In an engineering lab in college we built an 8-bit storage latch out of transistors, barely above bearskins and flint knives, and clocked data in using pushbuttons. You got an A if your latch didn't catch fire.
I got a B-.
(It was a small fire, hardly worth using a fire extinguisher on. Srsly.)
My cat, who has more bytes in his flea collar than Carter has liver pills (look it up) got an A to give you a clue.
I don't know what I'm going to do with another terabyte. Did I mention that I already have three? Yeah, this will be number four, not to mention the multiple of gigabytes wandering around the household. Since my entire life fits into a flea collar I'm thinking about renting out the extra space.
I could become a byte slumlord. Sorta like the ring of that. At least I won't have to worry about plumbing.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Autopilot
An autopilot is a good thing in an airplane.
Not so much in a car.
Today I was on autopilot. Just driving along, singing radio songs, drinking coffee and having a good time.
Too bad “autopilot” missed the turn.
So, there I was, cruising down the highway when suddenly, out of the blue, a Red Light.
Cue Scooby-Doo.
Arrrrrrrroooouuuuugggggghhhhh?? Red Right??? Ruh Roh!
There shouldn’t be a red light on the highway to Austin, but that’s because I wasn’t on the highway to Austin. I was on the road to Moronville, population me.
I turned off the Metallica, put away my guitar, dumped the ineffectual coffee out the window and made a U-turn at the designated U-turn-4-Morons U-turn place. Judging from the tire marks in the lane I wasn’t the first.
When I eventually arrived at my destination I used the excuse that I got stuck behind a herd of sheep, which always worked in England, and that seemed to be OK. Nobody challenged it.
Next time I have my truck serviced I’m going to have them check that autopilot. I think it’s flakey.
Not so much in a car.
Today I was on autopilot. Just driving along, singing radio songs, drinking coffee and having a good time.
Too bad “autopilot” missed the turn.
So, there I was, cruising down the highway when suddenly, out of the blue, a Red Light.
Cue Scooby-Doo.
Arrrrrrrroooouuuuugggggghhhhh?? Red Right??? Ruh Roh!
There shouldn’t be a red light on the highway to Austin, but that’s because I wasn’t on the highway to Austin. I was on the road to Moronville, population me.
I turned off the Metallica, put away my guitar, dumped the ineffectual coffee out the window and made a U-turn at the designated U-turn-4-Morons U-turn place. Judging from the tire marks in the lane I wasn’t the first.
When I eventually arrived at my destination I used the excuse that I got stuck behind a herd of sheep, which always worked in England, and that seemed to be OK. Nobody challenged it.
Next time I have my truck serviced I’m going to have them check that autopilot. I think it’s flakey.
Friday, August 06, 2010
ET No Phone Home
I forgot to take my cell phone with me the other day. Left it on the counter. Just walked out of the house like it was 1989.
No. Cell. Phone.
Actually, to be precise, I forgot to take my shirt pocket computer with a built-in phone.
I was mapless. Facebookless. Googleless. And helpless.
About ten minutes into my drive to the airport, and too far gone (in many ways) to return, I habitually patted my belt where my iPhone lives only to pat my belt.
No phone. No computer.
Just belt. Just panic.
For an instant I thought that I had put the iPhone in the console as I often do, but the console was empty save for some parking receipts, a few pennies and an empty Tic Tac.
No phone.
What to do, what to do?? I couldn’t check on traffic conditions. I couldn’t check on the weather. I couldn’t call that high school friend I’ve been meaning to call for the last 30 years. I was helpless.
How did we survive 1989? Srsly!
Finally, at the airport, I picked up my passenger and my first words were not “Hey, how was the flight?” or “Hey, you must be exhausted, do you want to grab a coffee or a bite to eat?” or “Hey, good to see you!” rather it was “I can’t believe I left my iPhone at home!”
My friend, sensing alarm, proffered her Blackberry and asked, “Do you need to make a call?”
I looked at the Blackberry and had a quick fantasy about grabbing it and licking the display in some sort of techno-orgy kind of moment, but snapped out of it (realizing it wasn’t an iPhone) and replied, shakily, “No thanks, it can wait.”
We drove home in silence.
My iPhone was there at home in its dock fully charged and somewhat sad that it didn’t get a ride to the airport. For my part I promised not to leave it Home Alone again.
1989, pffft! No wonder we moved on!
No. Cell. Phone.
Actually, to be precise, I forgot to take my shirt pocket computer with a built-in phone.
I was mapless. Facebookless. Googleless. And helpless.
About ten minutes into my drive to the airport, and too far gone (in many ways) to return, I habitually patted my belt where my iPhone lives only to pat my belt.
No phone. No computer.
Just belt. Just panic.
For an instant I thought that I had put the iPhone in the console as I often do, but the console was empty save for some parking receipts, a few pennies and an empty Tic Tac.
No phone.
What to do, what to do?? I couldn’t check on traffic conditions. I couldn’t check on the weather. I couldn’t call that high school friend I’ve been meaning to call for the last 30 years. I was helpless.
How did we survive 1989? Srsly!
Finally, at the airport, I picked up my passenger and my first words were not “Hey, how was the flight?” or “Hey, you must be exhausted, do you want to grab a coffee or a bite to eat?” or “Hey, good to see you!” rather it was “I can’t believe I left my iPhone at home!”
My friend, sensing alarm, proffered her Blackberry and asked, “Do you need to make a call?”
I looked at the Blackberry and had a quick fantasy about grabbing it and licking the display in some sort of techno-orgy kind of moment, but snapped out of it (realizing it wasn’t an iPhone) and replied, shakily, “No thanks, it can wait.”
We drove home in silence.
My iPhone was there at home in its dock fully charged and somewhat sad that it didn’t get a ride to the airport. For my part I promised not to leave it Home Alone again.
1989, pffft! No wonder we moved on!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Shazam!
Whatever happened to just chilling out?
When did it become law that you had to be doing something all the time?
I’m not complaining, I’m just observing.
I’m observing that when I was at the PostNet shop sending off a package I didn’t have the zip code, so I looked it up on my iPhone.
There was a song playing on the radio in the store and I Shazam’d it and downloaded a copy to my iPhone.
While I was waiting for my ticket to be rung up I checked out the Huffington Post for the latest political drama.
And when I left the parking lot I checked the traffic to figure out if I should take a detour or just drive over summer school students stupid enough to be standing in the road.
Door Number B for failing calculus students for 500, Alex!
I should be sleeping but there’s a mud wrestling contest in the Ukraine to watch!
Da!
When did it become law that you had to be doing something all the time?
I’m not complaining, I’m just observing.
I’m observing that when I was at the PostNet shop sending off a package I didn’t have the zip code, so I looked it up on my iPhone.
There was a song playing on the radio in the store and I Shazam’d it and downloaded a copy to my iPhone.
While I was waiting for my ticket to be rung up I checked out the Huffington Post for the latest political drama.
And when I left the parking lot I checked the traffic to figure out if I should take a detour or just drive over summer school students stupid enough to be standing in the road.
Door Number B for failing calculus students for 500, Alex!
I should be sleeping but there’s a mud wrestling contest in the Ukraine to watch!
Da!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Chiquita
Cat People.
You’re either cat people or you aren’t.
Of course, who can resist a kitten rubbing around your ankles, pulling your shoelaces, purring and looking at you with pure love.
Of course, who can resist a little puppy, all movement and action and never ending slurps going in your mouth, up your nose and in your ears.
Everybody loves puppies. Everybody loves kittens.
Those of us who raise puppies and kittens to adult animals also know that the love doesn’t end with the pulled shoelace or the slurped ear. Love matures over time and, perhaps, it’s the gentle extension of claws into your belly as your cat gazes up at you in abject adoration, or the simple sigh of a jowly muzzle resting on your knee in total contentment.
We humans may never know the minds of our pets, but who of us could claim to know the minds of our fellow humans. If I gathered a bunch of pet owners together I’m sure that in their stories would be a common theme. A theme of love, devotion, trust and, yes, heartbreak and sadness, usually at the passing of a beloved companion.
We do not mourn for the departed. We mourn for ourselves. In loss.
And that brings me to Crystal.
Crystal is a friend of mine and she had the extraordinary fortune to live with a cat, Chiquita, for nearly 19 years. Crystal never really knew “family” without Chiquita who was her friend and companion for nearly two-thirds of her life. As Chiquita grew older, developed diabetes and moved into her Golden Years it was clear that she wouldn’t live forever, but Chiquita was forever young, playing, leaping, pouncing and loving.
We all think our pets will do that. Twinkie the Goldfish lived nearly ten years; nine years, eleven months and three weeks longer than we thought he would! Truth is, it’s sooner than later; we outlive our pet kin.
As you have figured out by now, Chiquita died and even knowing that outcome in advance Crystal is still coping with the loss of her treasured friend and companion. We pet owners are all Crystals at some point. We mourn our little friends, miss their antics and presence and, if we’re lucky, learn to treasure our brief time with them.
So, here is Crystal’s tribute to Chiquita which I have yet to read without a tear coursing down my cheek. Not out of sadness but out of understanding and love for the animals we bring into and make part of our lives.
Thank you, Crystal, from all of us.
You’re either cat people or you aren’t.
Of course, who can resist a kitten rubbing around your ankles, pulling your shoelaces, purring and looking at you with pure love.
Of course, who can resist a little puppy, all movement and action and never ending slurps going in your mouth, up your nose and in your ears.
Everybody loves puppies. Everybody loves kittens.
Those of us who raise puppies and kittens to adult animals also know that the love doesn’t end with the pulled shoelace or the slurped ear. Love matures over time and, perhaps, it’s the gentle extension of claws into your belly as your cat gazes up at you in abject adoration, or the simple sigh of a jowly muzzle resting on your knee in total contentment.
We humans may never know the minds of our pets, but who of us could claim to know the minds of our fellow humans. If I gathered a bunch of pet owners together I’m sure that in their stories would be a common theme. A theme of love, devotion, trust and, yes, heartbreak and sadness, usually at the passing of a beloved companion.
We do not mourn for the departed. We mourn for ourselves. In loss.
And that brings me to Crystal.
Crystal is a friend of mine and she had the extraordinary fortune to live with a cat, Chiquita, for nearly 19 years. Crystal never really knew “family” without Chiquita who was her friend and companion for nearly two-thirds of her life. As Chiquita grew older, developed diabetes and moved into her Golden Years it was clear that she wouldn’t live forever, but Chiquita was forever young, playing, leaping, pouncing and loving.
We all think our pets will do that. Twinkie the Goldfish lived nearly ten years; nine years, eleven months and three weeks longer than we thought he would! Truth is, it’s sooner than later; we outlive our pet kin.
As you have figured out by now, Chiquita died and even knowing that outcome in advance Crystal is still coping with the loss of her treasured friend and companion. We pet owners are all Crystals at some point. We mourn our little friends, miss their antics and presence and, if we’re lucky, learn to treasure our brief time with them.
So, here is Crystal’s tribute to Chiquita which I have yet to read without a tear coursing down my cheek. Not out of sadness but out of understanding and love for the animals we bring into and make part of our lives.
Chiquita
I Miss you.
I miss being awakened by your deranged meows at 3,4,5 or 6 in the early morning. You've even saved me a few times from being late.
I miss you poking me in the eyes, and the ear with your white poofy schitty paws, and sharp nails to pull my hair just to wake me up.
I miss you walking towards me and falling over on your side so I could pet you when I came home from work...I still look for you.
I miss you looking at me through the mirrors while I was washing dishes in the kitchen or when I was fixing my hair or putting on make-up in the restroom.
I miss you waiting for me to get out the shower so you could attack my wet legs and feet!
I miss your random and sporadic sprints across the apartment.
I miss how when I would pet or hug you, I would instantly feel better, even if I was crying.
I miss giving you exaggerated kisses even when you didn't want me to!
I miss watching you sitting on YOUR chair in front of the window looking as pretty as can be and soaking up the sun rays.
I miss you climbing your way around the couch and sneaking behind me to beg for my food! I miss sharing it too.
I miss your Presence, I never knew what being "alone" felt like until now.
I Miss You and Love You so much and Forever Grateful that you grew up with me, been by my side, brought me comfort for everything I've gone through, and filled my heart with unconditional love for so many years.
I will join you again in Heaven my Pretty Kitty.
Chiquita was born sometime in April or May of 1992 and placed to sleep on April 19th 2010.
Her 19th Birthday was to be celebrated next month on May the 5th.
Thank you, Crystal, from all of us.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Two B and not Two B
It is cruel to apply for a seat upgrade using somebody else's email address.
The delight of "You've got mail!" announcing breathtakingly that you've been upgraded from 28-C, which is so far back that it's not even on the plane, to 2-B where the cashews are warmed and the flight attendants fart rainbows, and the seats are so wide that you can't wait to get home so you can stuff yourself with chocolate just to fit in more snugly, only serves to intensify the whiplash of the realization that the Golden Ticket email is for
Someone. Else.
Oh, the fall heralded by a cartoon trombone, whaaa Whaaa WHAAA!!
Then YOUR official boarding pass arrives announcing that you've been moved from a balmy 28-C, conveniently located 9 millimeters from the blue ice generating toilets to 59-K; not even on the plane. No, you're placed in a little pod and towed behind the plane by a rope. Well, at least I've got a pod.
On the bright side, I've only got 2,455,300 more miles to fly to qualify for Plastic Elite status. With that I'm guaranteed a toilet seat! Every time!
Can't wait!!
(posted from my iPad)
The delight of "You've got mail!" announcing breathtakingly that you've been upgraded from 28-C, which is so far back that it's not even on the plane, to 2-B where the cashews are warmed and the flight attendants fart rainbows, and the seats are so wide that you can't wait to get home so you can stuff yourself with chocolate just to fit in more snugly, only serves to intensify the whiplash of the realization that the Golden Ticket email is for
Someone. Else.
Oh, the fall heralded by a cartoon trombone, whaaa Whaaa WHAAA!!
Then YOUR official boarding pass arrives announcing that you've been moved from a balmy 28-C, conveniently located 9 millimeters from the blue ice generating toilets to 59-K; not even on the plane. No, you're placed in a little pod and towed behind the plane by a rope. Well, at least I've got a pod.
On the bright side, I've only got 2,455,300 more miles to fly to qualify for Plastic Elite status. With that I'm guaranteed a toilet seat! Every time!
Can't wait!!
(posted from my iPad)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A Little Protein
Zinfindels have been on the menu recently. A rediscovery.
We tend to go through wine phases. There was the Cabernet Phase, the Chardonnay Phase, the Chenin Blanc Phase, the Petit Sirah Phase, the Pinot Grigio Phase and the Pinot Noir Phase, to name a few.
There never has been nor ever will there be a Reisling Phase. Just saying. No offense to the Reisling Bros.
I'm usually pretty careful pouring the first glass out of a bottle to scoop out any bits of cork or "stuff" that might come out in that first pour, but if I get a piece of something floating around, it generally goes down the hatch quite happily.
Tonight, though, I ended up with a bit of something I didn't think went in the glass when I poured it, but sometimes I blink. As I chomped on it with my front teeth I tried to figure out if it was a piece of cork or a piece of dinner.
Didn't feel like cork. Not potato. Definitely didn't taste like chicken (which rules out NOTHING). Not springy like cork. More like a soggy potato chip, but I hadn't eaten one of those in a week. Some texture, slightly crunchy. Who knows?
A Mystery to be solved later, if at all.
Hmmm, I thought, just a figment. Or a fig newton! Ha, I crack me up.
Smiling, I turned and reached for my wine glass just in time to see another kamikaze fruit fly dive into the ruby surface and shortly thereafter float immobile on the surface.
We tend to go through wine phases. There was the Cabernet Phase, the Chardonnay Phase, the Chenin Blanc Phase, the Petit Sirah Phase, the Pinot Grigio Phase and the Pinot Noir Phase, to name a few.
There never has been nor ever will there be a Reisling Phase. Just saying. No offense to the Reisling Bros.
I'm usually pretty careful pouring the first glass out of a bottle to scoop out any bits of cork or "stuff" that might come out in that first pour, but if I get a piece of something floating around, it generally goes down the hatch quite happily.
Tonight, though, I ended up with a bit of something I didn't think went in the glass when I poured it, but sometimes I blink. As I chomped on it with my front teeth I tried to figure out if it was a piece of cork or a piece of dinner.
Didn't feel like cork. Not potato. Definitely didn't taste like chicken (which rules out NOTHING). Not springy like cork. More like a soggy potato chip, but I hadn't eaten one of those in a week. Some texture, slightly crunchy. Who knows?
A Mystery to be solved later, if at all.
Hmmm, I thought, just a figment. Or a fig newton! Ha, I crack me up.
Smiling, I turned and reached for my wine glass just in time to see another kamikaze fruit fly dive into the ruby surface and shortly thereafter float immobile on the surface.
Oh little fruit fly
How you dive into my glass
Mystery is solved
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Concerned. Sincerely.
There’s nothing like the First day of Spring. So, special I’ll capitalize First. Twice.
Yeah, technically, it’s not the actual first First day of Spring, but here in south Texas Spring sprungs early.
This weekend was it. Warm sun. Cool breeze. Mosquitoes still asleep. Perfect.
I was all decked out. Gloves, old t-shirt with a peeling, snarky design that said “I’m with STUPID” over an arrow pointing to the right (love that shirt!), faded blue jeans and mud-crusted boots.
Let’s dig!
There was a lot to do. The compost needed turning. The trees needed trimming. The sheep were in the meadow and the cows were in the corn.
First. Day. of. Spring!
Humming to myself, I set out to greet the day. “Inna godda da vita, baby, doncha know my heart is true ...”
My reverie was broken by a shout from the garage.
“OMG! The sprinkler system, it no work!”
I was shocked, but pulled myself together and shouted back, “OMG! Your grammar, it no work!”
I thought about pondering a dirt clod I’d just dug up. Pretty little thing with what looked like half a worm hanging out. But that tiny part of my brain that keeps me from getting hit by a bus or doing things preceded by shouting, “Hey, y’all, watch this!” told me that I had better high tail it into the garage and find out what was wrong with the sprinkler system.
Or at least appear that I was concerned.
Yeah, that would do. “Concerned” generally involved “no work” and that was fine by me. Besides, a faulty sprinkler system wasn’t nearly as ripe as planting some shrubs, that, granted, might later dehydrate and die due to lack of aforementioned sprinkling, but already my cognitive resources were stretched to the limit and my brain was full.
One thing at a time.
Strolling into the garage I affected my best “concerned” with a hearty, “Wazzzzzzzzzzz?” complete with Jazz Hands.
“I thought I’d test out the lawn sprinkler system after that hard freeze and, so far, none of the zones work. I’ve tried them all. Maybe the valves are turned off.”
I heard most of that but it was along the lines of, “Blah blah sprinkler blah blah none blah blah work blah blah something off.”
Nodding my head knowingly I replied quite correctly and appropriately, “I’ll check into it.”
“I’ll check into it” is a phrase I learned many, many years ago and it has been a veritable timesaver. I can’t count the hours I’ve been able to go about my business, examining dirt clods or whatever, by the grace of “I’ll check into it.”
Occasionally, I have to provide an update and I can always get away with a couple of, “Still checking on it,” whatever “it” is. Maybe three times on a good day.
Today, though, as I was walking back to my shrub hole and that fascinating dirt clod I had one of those rare moments of insight.
If you pointed a Brain-O-Scope at my head you would have seen an old set of gears spinning into motion, engaging other gears and turning faster and faster until enough brainpower was generated to illuminate a small light bulb about a tenth as powerful as a nightlight flashing the word,
“E REKA!” (The “U” burned out years ago.)
From the dim past came a fragmented conversation. Somebody, I think it was the Sprinkler Repair Guy, telling me, “You have to drain the system for winter. Turn off these two valves and stick a screwdriver in here until the water stops squirting out. That will keep the back pressure valve from exploding in the Spring. Got it?”
I heard, “Blah blah blah two valves blah blah,” and I remember turning the two valves. I don’t recall no dripping thing after that.
Whatever.
I was quite pleased with myself that I had figured out why the sprinkler system wasn’t sprinkling: the water was turned off at the back pressure valve.
All I had to do was flip the valves to the “ON” position and we’d be in business.
I went around to the side of the house and was doubly pleased with myself to see the valves neatly turned to the “OFF” position. Next to examining dirt clods I love being right.
I bent down, grabbed the valve handle with my soft, little, inside-person hands and gave a mighty twist.
URRRRRRRRRRGggggggghhhhhhhh!
Nothing. I looked at my delicate palms and figured I’d have a nice bruise there in the morning. I lodged that away as my Excuse Number 55 for Not Doing Yard Work; should be good for a week. I needed a tool and I knew just the tool. This was a plumbing problem and every amateur plumber knows the best tool was a large pipe wrench.
I returned to the garage in confident strides, found my large, red pipe wrench exactly where I left it hanging about eight years ago, and returned to the scene, soon to become the Shrine to the Sprinkler Fixing Hero.
I bent over the pipe, fixed the wrench to the valve lever and gave it a mighty pull.
The valve turned as if buttered. Easy Peasy. I imagined a Hero’s Welcome.
Then, several things happened more or less at once. Actually, they happened in sequence, but so quickly it seemed to me it happened at once.
This is the chain of events in slow motion.
City water at mains pressure surged into the back pressure valve cavity generating a lot of pressure. The back pressure valve tried its best to shunt the excess pressure through the orifice beneath the brass cover and nearly succeeded. Unfortunately, the structural components that hold the whole thing together, that had been weakened by excessive freezing temperatures (and probably by not having been drained properly) gave up the ghost and failed catastrophically.
“Catastrophically” is a word that is followed by a brass cover shooting into my jaw followed by a spout of water attempting to reach a height of ten feet through my nose.
Of course, my first instinct was to drop the wrench and I acted on that. My second instinct told me that the entire city water reservoir was draining through this pipe and I had to shut the valve.
What would Captain Kirk do?
Must. Shut. Valve. Save. Spock.
I bent over the open valve, the jet of water pounded my chest and I scrabbled in the gravel for the wrench handle. After what seemed like an eternity or three seconds at least I got the jaws on the valve handle and wrenched it Righty Tighty. The wrong way.
Of course I wrenched it the wrong way! Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey, but I was bending over the valve and had entered Bizarro World where everything is backwards. With water pounding even harder I wrenched the other Righty Tighty and the torrent ended with an audible “Glerk!”
I stood up and wiped water from my eyes and face just in time for the Audience to arrive.
“Wow! What happened to you? You’re all wet and I think you’re bleeding from the chin.”
“Just a flesh wound,” I said gallantly, “a scratch. I found the problem. The back pressure valve is broken. We’ll need to get the plumber out here to fix it.”
“But, what happened?”
“Nothing,” I replied, trying to hide the wrench behind my back.
“I see you got out The Wrench. Remember the last time you used The Wrench. Cost us about $200. What’s this going to cost us?”
“About the same. I could have drowned out here, you know,” I said trying to change the subject, “as if you're concerned. Seriously!”
Then came the unexpected.
Laughter.
First a little titter, then a couple of ha-ha’s and finally a long, extended bout of guffaws and rib-holding hilarity.
“Your shirt! Your shirt! Look at your shirt!”
I looked down. The force of the water had washed off some of the old, faded lettering. It no longer said “I’m with STUPID.”
The “with” was gone.
In silence I walked back to the garage making a squelching noise with each step and made a couple of mental notes:
Call plumber.
Recycle shirt.
Srsly.
Yeah, technically, it’s not the actual first First day of Spring, but here in south Texas Spring sprungs early.
This weekend was it. Warm sun. Cool breeze. Mosquitoes still asleep. Perfect.
I was all decked out. Gloves, old t-shirt with a peeling, snarky design that said “I’m with STUPID” over an arrow pointing to the right (love that shirt!), faded blue jeans and mud-crusted boots.
Let’s dig!
There was a lot to do. The compost needed turning. The trees needed trimming. The sheep were in the meadow and the cows were in the corn.
First. Day. of. Spring!
Humming to myself, I set out to greet the day. “Inna godda da vita, baby, doncha know my heart is true ...”
My reverie was broken by a shout from the garage.
“OMG! The sprinkler system, it no work!”
I was shocked, but pulled myself together and shouted back, “OMG! Your grammar, it no work!”
I thought about pondering a dirt clod I’d just dug up. Pretty little thing with what looked like half a worm hanging out. But that tiny part of my brain that keeps me from getting hit by a bus or doing things preceded by shouting, “Hey, y’all, watch this!” told me that I had better high tail it into the garage and find out what was wrong with the sprinkler system.
Or at least appear that I was concerned.
Yeah, that would do. “Concerned” generally involved “no work” and that was fine by me. Besides, a faulty sprinkler system wasn’t nearly as ripe as planting some shrubs, that, granted, might later dehydrate and die due to lack of aforementioned sprinkling, but already my cognitive resources were stretched to the limit and my brain was full.
One thing at a time.
Strolling into the garage I affected my best “concerned” with a hearty, “Wazzzzzzzzzzz?” complete with Jazz Hands.
“I thought I’d test out the lawn sprinkler system after that hard freeze and, so far, none of the zones work. I’ve tried them all. Maybe the valves are turned off.”
I heard most of that but it was along the lines of, “Blah blah sprinkler blah blah none blah blah work blah blah something off.”
Nodding my head knowingly I replied quite correctly and appropriately, “I’ll check into it.”
“I’ll check into it” is a phrase I learned many, many years ago and it has been a veritable timesaver. I can’t count the hours I’ve been able to go about my business, examining dirt clods or whatever, by the grace of “I’ll check into it.”
Occasionally, I have to provide an update and I can always get away with a couple of, “Still checking on it,” whatever “it” is. Maybe three times on a good day.
Today, though, as I was walking back to my shrub hole and that fascinating dirt clod I had one of those rare moments of insight.
If you pointed a Brain-O-Scope at my head you would have seen an old set of gears spinning into motion, engaging other gears and turning faster and faster until enough brainpower was generated to illuminate a small light bulb about a tenth as powerful as a nightlight flashing the word,
“E REKA!” (The “U” burned out years ago.)
From the dim past came a fragmented conversation. Somebody, I think it was the Sprinkler Repair Guy, telling me, “You have to drain the system for winter. Turn off these two valves and stick a screwdriver in here until the water stops squirting out. That will keep the back pressure valve from exploding in the Spring. Got it?”
I heard, “Blah blah blah two valves blah blah,” and I remember turning the two valves. I don’t recall no dripping thing after that.
Whatever.
I was quite pleased with myself that I had figured out why the sprinkler system wasn’t sprinkling: the water was turned off at the back pressure valve.
All I had to do was flip the valves to the “ON” position and we’d be in business.
I went around to the side of the house and was doubly pleased with myself to see the valves neatly turned to the “OFF” position. Next to examining dirt clods I love being right.
I bent down, grabbed the valve handle with my soft, little, inside-person hands and gave a mighty twist.
URRRRRRRRRRGggggggghhhhhhhh!
Nothing. I looked at my delicate palms and figured I’d have a nice bruise there in the morning. I lodged that away as my Excuse Number 55 for Not Doing Yard Work; should be good for a week. I needed a tool and I knew just the tool. This was a plumbing problem and every amateur plumber knows the best tool was a large pipe wrench.
I returned to the garage in confident strides, found my large, red pipe wrench exactly where I left it hanging about eight years ago, and returned to the scene, soon to become the Shrine to the Sprinkler Fixing Hero.
I bent over the pipe, fixed the wrench to the valve lever and gave it a mighty pull.
The valve turned as if buttered. Easy Peasy. I imagined a Hero’s Welcome.
Then, several things happened more or less at once. Actually, they happened in sequence, but so quickly it seemed to me it happened at once.
This is the chain of events in slow motion.
City water at mains pressure surged into the back pressure valve cavity generating a lot of pressure. The back pressure valve tried its best to shunt the excess pressure through the orifice beneath the brass cover and nearly succeeded. Unfortunately, the structural components that hold the whole thing together, that had been weakened by excessive freezing temperatures (and probably by not having been drained properly) gave up the ghost and failed catastrophically.
“Catastrophically” is a word that is followed by a brass cover shooting into my jaw followed by a spout of water attempting to reach a height of ten feet through my nose.
Of course, my first instinct was to drop the wrench and I acted on that. My second instinct told me that the entire city water reservoir was draining through this pipe and I had to shut the valve.
What would Captain Kirk do?
Must. Shut. Valve. Save. Spock.
I bent over the open valve, the jet of water pounded my chest and I scrabbled in the gravel for the wrench handle. After what seemed like an eternity or three seconds at least I got the jaws on the valve handle and wrenched it Righty Tighty. The wrong way.
Of course I wrenched it the wrong way! Righty Tighty, Lefty Loosey, but I was bending over the valve and had entered Bizarro World where everything is backwards. With water pounding even harder I wrenched the other Righty Tighty and the torrent ended with an audible “Glerk!”
I stood up and wiped water from my eyes and face just in time for the Audience to arrive.
“Wow! What happened to you? You’re all wet and I think you’re bleeding from the chin.”
“Just a flesh wound,” I said gallantly, “a scratch. I found the problem. The back pressure valve is broken. We’ll need to get the plumber out here to fix it.”
“But, what happened?”
“Nothing,” I replied, trying to hide the wrench behind my back.
“I see you got out The Wrench. Remember the last time you used The Wrench. Cost us about $200. What’s this going to cost us?”
“About the same. I could have drowned out here, you know,” I said trying to change the subject, “as if you're concerned. Seriously!”
Then came the unexpected.
Laughter.
First a little titter, then a couple of ha-ha’s and finally a long, extended bout of guffaws and rib-holding hilarity.
“Your shirt! Your shirt! Look at your shirt!”
I looked down. The force of the water had washed off some of the old, faded lettering. It no longer said “I’m with STUPID.”
The “with” was gone.
In silence I walked back to the garage making a squelching noise with each step and made a couple of mental notes:
Call plumber.
Recycle shirt.
Srsly.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Proof in the Berry
For all you skeptics out there here's the blueberry farm ...
... and the blueberries in a little plastic box just like I said.
Ain't that right, Kink?
... and the blueberries in a little plastic box just like I said.
Ain't that right, Kink?
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Berry Blues
"Hey, back from the gardening center already? Wha'd you buy?"
"I got a couple of blueberry bushes and a fig tree."
"Nice going! Blueberry pancakes in the morning and pork with figs on Wednesday."
"Uh, how do you figure that?"
"Easy peasy! Blueberries are ready to harvest in 4 hours and figs take a couple of days max. I'll go upstairs and print out some recipes."
"Not so fast, Emeril, how do you figure blueberries grow to harvest in 4 hours?"
"Aw, come on! I'm an expert blueberry farmer on FarmVille. You know, that farm game on Facebook. And figs, too. I've got an entire orchard of figs. Never actually thought of planting a real fig tree. How tall do they get? Do I need to go out and buy a ladder."
"A ladder? What for?"
"To harvest the figs on Wednesday, silly! I guess I could wait until Wednesday morning, see how tall the tree is and get the ladder then. You're right, that's more prudent."
"Do you know anything about blueberries or figs? I mean, really."
"Yeah, I know everything. It's pretty simple, actually. You click to create a plot of fallow ground, then you click to plow it, then you select blueberries and click to plant them. Then you wait 4 hours for the blueberry bushes to grow, click to harvest them and you're done!"
"What happens to the blueberries after you click to harvest them?"
I had to ponder that one. It was outside my Facebook worldview, but shortly I made the connection.
"Somehow they get transported in little plastic tubs to Kroger's," I offered as a reasonable explanation."
My wife considered this revelation carefully.
"Tell you what," she said at length, "we'll plant the blueberry bushes this afternoon. By the time we're asleep the berries will have been harvested and by morning they'll be at Kroger's in little tubs."
I nodded. She's a genius, my wife. I jumped on the thread.
"And I could get up early, go to Kroger's before breakfast, buy the berries, which are technically ours to begin with, but who's to argue with the right for Kroger's to make a little profit along the way, and we can still have blueberry pancakes!"
My wife smiled at me as she does to bichon frise owners or Volvo drivers, but to be fair a Volvo may have just driven by.
I smiled, too. Because I knew that from here on I could go up to Kroger's at any time and pick up my very own blueberries.
It's good to be king.
Now, about those figs ...
"I got a couple of blueberry bushes and a fig tree."
"Nice going! Blueberry pancakes in the morning and pork with figs on Wednesday."
"Uh, how do you figure that?"
"Easy peasy! Blueberries are ready to harvest in 4 hours and figs take a couple of days max. I'll go upstairs and print out some recipes."
"Not so fast, Emeril, how do you figure blueberries grow to harvest in 4 hours?"
"Aw, come on! I'm an expert blueberry farmer on FarmVille. You know, that farm game on Facebook. And figs, too. I've got an entire orchard of figs. Never actually thought of planting a real fig tree. How tall do they get? Do I need to go out and buy a ladder."
"A ladder? What for?"
"To harvest the figs on Wednesday, silly! I guess I could wait until Wednesday morning, see how tall the tree is and get the ladder then. You're right, that's more prudent."
"Do you know anything about blueberries or figs? I mean, really."
"Yeah, I know everything. It's pretty simple, actually. You click to create a plot of fallow ground, then you click to plow it, then you select blueberries and click to plant them. Then you wait 4 hours for the blueberry bushes to grow, click to harvest them and you're done!"
"What happens to the blueberries after you click to harvest them?"
I had to ponder that one. It was outside my Facebook worldview, but shortly I made the connection.
"Somehow they get transported in little plastic tubs to Kroger's," I offered as a reasonable explanation."
My wife considered this revelation carefully.
"Tell you what," she said at length, "we'll plant the blueberry bushes this afternoon. By the time we're asleep the berries will have been harvested and by morning they'll be at Kroger's in little tubs."
I nodded. She's a genius, my wife. I jumped on the thread.
"And I could get up early, go to Kroger's before breakfast, buy the berries, which are technically ours to begin with, but who's to argue with the right for Kroger's to make a little profit along the way, and we can still have blueberry pancakes!"
My wife smiled at me as she does to bichon frise owners or Volvo drivers, but to be fair a Volvo may have just driven by.
I smiled, too. Because I knew that from here on I could go up to Kroger's at any time and pick up my very own blueberries.
It's good to be king.
Now, about those figs ...
Saturday, February 13, 2010
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