Timing

Who was the genius in the Guilford County school system that decided to schedule a student holiday on October 31? Wouldn't the smart move be to give them the day AFTER Halloween off instead?

If it weren't for my laundry...

If it weren't for my laundry, I'd probably be dead right now. I know that sounds dramatic, but I had a rough weekend.

I awoke Saturday morning with a bad headache, and no, it was not the result of drinking too much on Friday night. It might be sinus/allergy related or I may be developing a brain cloud. Either way, I wanted it to stop. I started with ibuprofen and over the course of the weekend worked my way up the painkiller ladder. I got to the point where I was one step away from intravenous morphine drip and just about at my wits end.

It was one of those throbbing headaches and my skull felt like a dam ready to burst. Dogs barking, birds squawking, children playing, water dripping; all these things added to my pain. Irrational as it may seem, the idea of breaking my head open and releasing that pressure seemed like the only path to relief.

It is believed that Stone Age surgeons made holes in the skulls of their patients to release the evil spirits that caused headaches. Scientists have found these skulls with neatly cut holes dating back to around 8,000 B.C. and some show definite signs of healing which means that patients actually survived the surgery. Even now there are people who still believe in this practice and it is known as trepanning. I started to think that maybe they're on to something.

How to make a hole in my head? Delirious with pain, I went to my toolbox and found a hammer and chisel. It was very awkward holding the chisel on top of my head and trying to line up the hammer for a quick, clean blow.

After a few minutes of holding the chisel and practice swings with the hammer, I realized that this was not the answer. Yes, there was the realization of the potential finality of this solution, but it was more complicated than that. You see, I was in the middle of doing my laundry; one load in the washer, and one in the dryer. I figured that if this procedure went awry, my friends and family would be dumbfounded at the timing of my demise.

I could just picture the eulogy. "David's passing leaves so many unanswered questions. Why would he bother to do laundry if he planned to take his life? We may never know."

And so, to spare my family this embarrassment, I put my tools away and stretched out on the couch with a hot compress on my forehead. One more selfless act in a long list of sacrifices I have made for the sake of my wife and kids.

Lance Crackers - The Untold Story

It has just been revealed that the annoying "I got Lance in my pants" radio jingle was originally written by Sheryl Crowe.

Janet's "Billie Jean"

I think it may be time for Janet "The Flash" Jackson to enlist the help of her big bro'. The singer's former brother-in-law claims that she has a secret 18-year-old daughter with ex-husband James DeBarge.

I can't say that I care one way or the other, but wouldn't it be fun to see Janet and Michael team up for a duet. What rhymes with Renee?

Lying To The Camera

Last night WFMY broadcast an exclusive interview with the CEOs of JP and Lincoln Financial. It was clear that they wanted to put the people of Greensboro at ease about the takeover, sorry "merger."

Lincoln Financial's CEO, Jon Boscia, said that after the initial job cuts growth will continue for the next 20 to 30 years. "Life insurance HQ and operations center will remain in Greensboro. So I think for us to be able to say that those jobs are going to be here the building is gonna be here." (I picked up that quote from WFMY's website. As he is speaking these words during the interview broadcast on the 11:00 newscast, Boscia is shaking his head from side-to-side).

I don't know much about body language, but it seemed a clear indication that Mr. Boscia did not really believe what he was saying. Unfortunately, the WFMY webcast does not include this portion of the interview.

purple shirt

My sister, the self-appointed arbiter of family fashion bought me shirt a few weeks back and I wore it to dinner at her house last night. The color is purple, bright purple because (and I don't know why) her crusade in this life is to add color to my wardrobe.

Sure, that's me in the picture.

It's a long-sleeve jersey knit polo which is also a change for me. I don't mind long sleeve shirts, but I like the kind of cuffs that allow me to roll up the sleeves. You see, I have gorilla-like arms and most long-sleeve shirts that fit my body are too short in the sleeves. I also feel more freedom of movement with my lower arms uncovered. This shirt wasn't designed to accommodate my predilection and I was forced to bunch up the sleeves around my elbow (not very comfortable).

But getting back to the color, it just didn't feel right. I would look down at my arm and see this purple limb and thought that it must belong to someone else. It's unsettling to be startled by your own appendages. Maybe if I really did resemble the guy in the photo above, I could pull it off, but when your own 15 year-old daughter tells you that you look "gay" then it's time to change your shirt.

My sister insists that I wear too many earth tones. I will admit that I have an affinity for green and khaki. Sometimes I think I was meant to be in the French Foreign Legion or maybe an Australian bush guide. That's just me and I have no interest in auditioning for a role in Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat.

I have never owned a purple car or painted any rooms in my house purple. My wife does not have purple hair. I think that as a color, purple should be reserved for royalty and let's be done with it.

Nothing Serious About Blogging

The blogging world. What a great place to visit. You can laugh, you can learn, you can feel righteous, you can get indignant, you can simply talk about the trivialities of your day. And all this from the comfort of your own home or office. The added bonus is that when you write something you may even have an audience.

As a reader, there is so much to do and see; a myriad display of individualism. Be careful looking around, though; you might just discover that you aren't that funny, you aren't so well-informed, you aren't so clever, your opinion may be wrong, you aren't that creative. Visiting all the other fantastic blogs, you might start to believe that you are anything, but unique.

I don't really wallow in that kind of mudhole. Those feelings creep up on occasion, but only in fleeting glimpses. I handle it by simply trying to make my own blog better.

The most important thing to me about blogging is keeping a sense of humor. I really believe that you can find balance in your life if you can laugh at yourself and the world around you.

Rage Against The Machine

There is a vending machine in the building where I work that surely belongs in one of the nine circles of hell. No amount of coaxing can convince this stubborn device to accept paper money.

Oh sure, there's a slot with a picture of a smirking George Washington and it will even tease me by taking in the best bill I can find in my wallet, but then this capricious pile of scrap metal invariably rejects my hard-earned money. I stand there, my dollar on the floor, my face pressed against the glass mere inches from my prize.

I could take a brand new one-dollar bill, hot off the press at the US Mint, and feed it directly into this machine and I guarantee it would spit it out like a bad piece of gristle.

Don't these vending folks understand the torture of the rationalization I had to go through just so I could be standing in front of their stupid machine? "Yes, it's OK to get a snack. You've been working hard this morning and it's a long time until lunch. Go and have a small treat. You're not really that heavy."

If nothing else, I am a patient man and so I waited. Days on end I huddled in a darkened corner of the break room waiting for the vending man with his precious key. Once he arrived and opened the glass-front door, I clubbed him on the back of the head with a sock full of quarters.

With full access to the treats inside I gathered my spoils. Reaching to the back (that's where they put the fresh candy) I clutched the bright white wrapper of a pristine Baby Ruth candy bar. Then, I took a crumpled dollar bill from my pocket and dropped it on the chest of the prone vending man writhing on the tile floor. I took the exact change from the machine's receptacle then checked the bin for dollars bills. Not a single bill had been accepted since his last visit. Madness!

Back at my desk , I was finally able to relax with my candy bar and enjoy the rest of my day.

Don't Squeeze The Shaman

What a great weekend to get out and catch up on the yardwork. All that rain brought my lawn back from the living dead and I actually had to drag my mower out of hibernation. Not only was the grass taller, but I also had a fresh crop of mushrooms.

As I passed over a patch of mushrooms with the mower, large chunks of fungus shot out everywhere. I guess I must have inhaled some spores or something because next thing I know I'm no longer mowing my yard.

During college, I read a few Carlos Castaneda books, but I have no recreational experience with mushrooms and I am not a licensed medicine man. My memory is a little foggy, but as best I can piece together, I traveled through space and time to a tiny Plains Indian village and the early 1800s.

I was greeted by a shaman and he told me I was on a spiritual journey. He said I should enjoy my brief stay with his people and that I should not try to share my experience with anybody who may not understand. Unfortunately, circumstances dictate that I provide an explanation for my actions.

For the record, I'd like to apologize to my next door neighbors, Bob and Judy. I am not familiar with crossbred hybrid roses like the ones mentioned in your lawsuit, but I will do my best to make this right. As for the humiliation suffered by Brutus, all I can say is that in my hallucinogenic state, I thought he was an appaloosa pony and we were hunting buffalo. Winter is coming and I was trying to provide for my people. You must admit that some of the large-breed dogs do resemble equines. The good news is that I can assure you that there are no buffalo roaming through your property.

My wife is not speaking to me and I have to replace the Merle Norman make-up that I used for warpaint. The back yard is total disarray. A large comforter is draped over the kid's swing set. I guess I was trying to construct a sweat lodge or maybe just a tepee. If you happen to live nearby and are missing a comforter from your clothes line, please don't judge me too harshly.

After my weekend misadventure I am probably going to hire a lawn service. Too entrenched in the duties of husband, father and neighbor, I must, heretofore, leave spiritual journeys to those who really have the freedom to travel.

Shortest book in the library

The Agoraphobics Travel Guide

The Subtlety of Outdoor Advertising

I spotted a billboard downtown on Washington St. for the Kersey Valley Spookywoods. It took me a minute, but after reading the caption, "another satisfied customer" I noticed the illustration showed a man who peed his pants.

I have never visited any of these haunted attractions and maybe I just don't know the fun I'm missing, but I have no desire to lose control of my bladder. I'm too young to be wearing Depends, especially for recreational purposes.

Please tell me why I should pay good money to have some Jethro with a chainsaw chase me through the woods at night. I mean if you want scary, just try raising teenage daughters.

They do have a cool website though. Spiders attack your cursor. www.spookywoods.com/

I just can't help myself

Everybody has seen the oval bumper stickers touting desirable destinations; OBX for Outer Banks, HHI for Hilton Head, MB for Myrtle Beach...ad nauseam. You can find them plastered on the back of nearly every minivan and SUV in town. Originally based on the European country code stickers, they have been adopted by every Homer Simpson wannabe who has ever hauled the family to the beach for a long weekend and stopped at Wings for souvenirs.

As a chronic smartass, I had to have my own version.

A nano in my pocket

I know, that's not the best line to use on the ladies, but when it comes to portable music, smaller really is better. I went from a mini iPod to a nano soon after I dropped my mini on a concrete floor (not my most graceful moment).

As someone who has made a career in the advertising and graphics field I have long been a fan of Apple products. I now spend a great deal of time working on a PC with Windows, but my home computer is a Mac. Using a PC for the last 10 months has taught me that the platform is not inherently evil and I see more similarities than differences.

Regardless of your computer preference the new nano mp3 player is your ticket to walking through this world with your own personal soundtrack motivating your feet. It's tiny, lightweight and easy to use. Songs and pictures are stored in flash memory so it is more stable than the hard drives used in the mini (more resistant to the jarring effects of concrete floors). Slip 1000 of your favorite songs into your shirt pocket and your ready for anything.

Day 3 - Un-Dewing It

This is day three without Mountain Dew. I didn't write about this issue yesterday because I was in a mild comatose state induced by lack of sleep and caffeine deprivation. To see why I no longer indulge, please view my post from Sunday. As a hint, think back to the old Monty Python song about Eric The Half A Bee. (If only I could recall lectures from college so readily).

It's been a tough road, prying this monkey off my back. If memory serves, I had less trouble kicking the big H. My sleep patterns are all haywire. Yesterday I found myself asleep at the wheel on the way home from work. Napping at the office has never caused any problems, but sleeping during my commute might get me into trouble.

I'm planning to hang in there, though. I'm told that the delirium tremors don't last too long.

this makes my teeth hurt

The following letter to the Editor in today's News & Record frightens me. A few days ago I posted a humor piece about Greensboro's fluoridated water after reading the same article this guy mentions. I was just having fun with the conspiracy theorist gang, but I come to find out that there are some folks who take this business seriously. I'll be the first to admit that I may be wrong and I would have been interested in learning more about this issue from credible sources, but this guy lost me when he laid it all on Big Brother (see below).

I have never been able to determine if Big Brother is an actual person. Maybe it's a DC powerbroker, a secret society, covert government operatives, aliens from outer space, pick your demon. I suppose it doesn't really matter, but until someone gives me a more definitive villian than Big Brother, you might as well blame all the woes of the world on the boogey man.

<><>Posted by News & Record at 03:00 AM | Comments (0)

Fluoridation of water is slowly poisoning us

So, Greensboro is out of fluoride. This is great news. Oh, how I wish the entire country would run out. Who needs this poison, anyway? That's right, it is rat poison. Sodium fluoride is what I'm talking about, not natural fluoride. Sodium fluoride is a byproduct of the aluminum producers, an insecticide used as rat poison.

Could this poison play a part in autism? Children get this poison in pills, toothpaste, swish treatments in school, and in drinking water. How much of this poison do they need in their bodies? This borders on child abuse, if you ask me.

One of the last cities in Europe to permit fluoridation was Basel, Switzerland, and they have stopped. Why? Because after they started fluoridation, the kids' cavity rate increased.

This is a sham put on the American people by Big Brother. In North Carolina the public cannot vote to use or not to use fluoride in our drinking water. We should have pure, safe, drinking water only. No poison added, please.

Pete Comer
Madison

Gator Wraslin'

My yard has gone from Sahara Desert to Florida Everglades in the past few days. This morning I had to wrassle a gator just to get to my car.

Yesterday we lost one of the kids in the quicksand by the swing set. My wife was kind of partial to that one so she's mad at me now. I told her we have more, but she still wants me to get rid of the python hiding in the shrubs.

I tell you, when you own a house there's always something to do.

Asking a favor of Mr. Sun

For the umpteenth day in a row it's gray in Greensboro. Sure, I was on here not too long ago bitchin' about the drought, but now I think we could all use a little light in our life. I'd like to ask Mr. Sun if he could put in a good word with his namesake and get some rays to shine down on our fair city.

Thanks

Day 1 without the Dew - trouble posting

I stayed up too late last night and I could really use my caffeine fix. (If you would like to know why I am giving up my beverage of choice, please see yesterday's post). It's difficult to type with trembling hands. Probably the worst part is the hallucinations. I keep seeing news stories that Bush has appointed a political crony to the highest court in the land, and oh yeah, she has absolutely no judicial experience.

My wife is an attorney and a few weeks back I jokingly suggested that she might be selected to replace Rehnquist. She answered, quite seriously, that she had no time on the bench. Well guess what? It doesn't matter.

The obvious lesson to young people in America is that it's not what you know, but who you know. Don't waste your time studying for chemistry. You'd be better off campaigning for prom queen.

Ewww......what I found in my Dew

I have never been a coffee drinker, opting instead to get my caffeine from Mountain Dew. I will admit to having a rather insistent sweet tooth and the belly to go along with it.

This morning I found a nasty little surprise; a bee at the bottom of a can of Dew I was drinking. That's right, I was nearly done when I found this little bonus.

It was terribly unsettling and I had to give my stomach a pep talk to keep everything in its place. I guess it could have been worse; it could have been a cockroach. I grew up in Florida where the cockroaches can be bigger than Buicks and I have a strong aversion to those critters.

In any case, I may be swearing off the Dew for a while. Perhaps it was a sign from whatever deity it is that sits atop the food pyramid. Time for a healthier diet.

Go Dawgs!!!!!!!!

Losing It

I’ve been trying to convince the guy who cuts my hair that he should start charging me less and less each time I visit. You see, although I prefer the term “thinning,” my hair is basically falling out. With a reduced amount of hair to cut each time, it would seem to me that there is less work to be done. Brian counters with the argument that it actually takes longer to make my head presentable. By “presentable” he means less likely to frighten domesticated animals and small children. He says that the job takes more effort because he has less material to work with; something akin to a sculptor trying to make do with an inadequate amount of clay.

I always use the term “the guy who cuts my hair” because as a manly man I don’t like to say that I go to a hair stylist. I would prefer to say that I use a barber, but you don’t see too many of those anymore. If you do find one, chances are, the only haircuts he knows are the bowl cut or the Sergeant Carter.

When I was a kid, my dad used to wear his hair as though he had just been inducted into the marines and he insisted that my brothers and I do the same. This was back in the late 1960’s in Central Florida and astronaut chic was all the rage. We lived just an hour west of Cape Kennedy before the Disney invasion so NASA provided one of the strongest cultural influences in our neck of the woods. Of course, now everyone who lives in Orlando wears Mickey Mouse ears.

The space cowboys wore their hair short because of their military background. All the geeks and engineers who supported the space program wore their hair the same way in hopes of fooling naive space groupies into thinking they were astronauts. The bars in Cocoa Beach were crawling with women who wanted to meet astronauts.

My father wore his hair that way because he was a serious guy and he was in the business of supplying electronic components to NASA. Engineers and scientists are a timid bunch, wary of outsiders. You have to approach cautiously or they scurry down their rabbit holes and hide. My father had to talk the talk, walk the walk and wear the hair, but I’m sure he wasn’t interested in space groupies.

I will always remember being dragged to the barber shop with my equally reluctant brothers on Saturday mornings. The prospect of getting a buzzcut while at the same time missing a new episode of Jonny Quest was almost too much to bear. For my father it was a simple male bonding ritual. For my brothers and I it was one more opportunity to view the ever-widening chasm which came to be known as the generation gap.

Naturally, we rebelled against this oppressive intrusion on our basic sense of freedom. Although the Apollo missions were exciting to dream about, we were more interested in looking like Paul McCartney than John Glenn. Let’s face it; the Beatles had more groupies than the astronauts and boy could they scream.

My younger brother disappointed me whenever the subject of haircuts came up. I counted on Steve to get the dialogue started on controversial matters. He had a knack for inciting conflict and usually ended up butting heads with my father. He would often get my dad so angry that yelling would follow and, in the end, a harsh punishment was his reward. During the aftermath, I could usually step in as a concerned diplomat and, while my father was feeling guilty for meting out a stiff sentence, I would secure at least a partial concession on his part. Steve didn’t know that I used him this way, but it was a system I manipulated for years. Anyone who doesn’t understand this is probably an only child.

Haircuts were different though. For some reason Steve didn’t mind getting the old buzz cut. Here was a boy who wore cowboy boots with dark socks and shorts so you might assume he had a better sense of style. But no, this was one of the few ways Steve actually ingratiated himself to my father.

Without an opportunity to take unfair advantage of my father’s guilty feelings, there was nothing I could do. My brothers and I were young and we had no rights so we suffered the indignity of short hair until we got older and my father mellowed. He continued to wear his crew cut well into the 1970’s, but gradually my brothers and I were allowed to grow our hair longer.

I guess it’s mildly ironic that now I wear my hair short. It’s not a crew cut and it’s probably longer than my father ever wore his hair, but it’s pretty conservative. I’m also happy to report that the passage of time along with intense psychotherapy have helped to diminish my fear of barber poles.

Styles change and so do values. Haircuts seem to run the gamut for teenagers these days. I think this subject is less often a battleground for freedom of expression like it was when I was a kid. Today parents are faced with bigger concerns like tattoos, body piercing and co-ed sleepovers. All things considered, can you blame me for keeping my kids locked in the basement?

© 2005 David Theall

You, you light up my shrubs...

Why do people feel the need to put their landscaping on display at night? I suppose the simple answer is aesthetics. It looks good.

If I were a part of the upper class, I might understand this phenomenon, but at my current station in life, I can only provide a very long list of expenditures that would have to come way ahead of ambient landscape lighting. Even the cost of the electricity to power such displays is beyond my reckoning.

If you take a minute to stare at one of these yards one night, eventually the visual effect comes into question. I mean, what is the point of shining 200 watts of glare at the underside of a Dogwood? Are we to assume that the shrubs and trees are on stage in some sort of floral burlesque? It's all sort of obscene, threatening healthy botanical sensitivities.

I'm worried that we need to investigate this issue a little further. Rich folks are different from you and I. Perhaps these yards are actually set up with landing lights for mutated flying squirrels training to take over the world. Remember the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz? I'm pretty sure the Wicked Witch was well-to-do, living in a castle and all.

My saner acquaintances will likely point out that I am motivated here by the classic sour grapes syndrome. That is entirely possible. The truth is, even if I had the lighting, I'm not sure my shrubbery measures up.

I am a lineman for the....

As a spectator at my daughter's soccer game I was pressed into duty as a lineman this weekend. Unlike the hero in Glenn Campbell's song, there is nothing poetic about running up and down the sideline of a soccer game and calling out which team gets the ball when it goes out of bounds.

I had no uniform and therefore no respect. Parents on both teams were oblivious to the fact that I needed a little space to do my job. I was constantly tripping over coolers, lawn chairs and toddlers.

Quite a few parents were unaware that I was appointed substitute line judge and simply mistook me for a rabid fan with too much energy. Some folks offered me a chair while others commented that I more closely resembled a door than a window.

All in all I did a lousy job. I frequently found myself 20 or more yards from a call I was supposed to make because I had momentarily lapsed into spectator mode abandoning my official duties.

It is also difficult to remain objective when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that your child's team deserves to win more than any other team in the universe. Add to that the fact that sometimes two opposing players will kick a ball at the exact same time and it flies out of bounds. How do you make that call?

In the end I made no friends on either side of the ball. I do feel confident that my efforts on the sideline generated several angry letters to the GYSA (Greensboro Youth Soccer Association) demanding a full compliment of legitimate officials at all games.

Philosophical conundrum

Is it wrong to yell "MOVIE" in a crowded firehouse?

time for another nice picture