Something foreign to you...

Dear Bro,

I have to prepare you for my next topic because based on your current situation and location it is probably something that is a distant memory and will require much reflect from on your part to conceptually understand the phenomena I am about to discuss.

In most parts of the world, there is an event related to the hydrologic cycle that allows life forms other than camel spiders and scorpions to metabolize by assisting in growth of agrarian food stock. This event occurs due to the evaporation of moisture from the Earth's oceans to create a thing called clouds, something you might see in the sky above you and wonder what the exact purpose they serve beyond the occasional relief from the 100 degree Fahrenheit (38 Celsius) generated by the solar mass directly overhead.

Now, I will give a second to reconcile yourself with the fact that those white things that once in a while appear over your head actually continue water....

Here is the hard part to fathom, in other parts of the world, other than where you currently reside, these clouds, which eventually becomes overloaded with water vapor, form droplets of water in the air. Eventually, if the droplets keep growing, they will reach a mass where they can't stay floating in the cloud because they are too heavy - and will start to fall. Some may get caught in upward blowing winds and get blown back into the clouds for a while, but once they are heavy enough to overcome the force of the wind, they will fall to earth. This little known occurrence is referred to as rain!

Between you and me, there has been a lot of this "rain" falling here in the last 12 hours. Enough in fact to completely soak everything that is not sheltered from it. The closest comparison I can think of is: you know after the sun has been up for several hours and all of your clothing is sweat soaked and sticking to your body? It's kind of like that.....

Now, I would be careful in discussing this with your fellow soldiers, as you need them to be your friend and watch your back, not thing you are some kind of "crackpot".

So we will just keep this between ourselves, shall we?

Yours in disbelief,
Rich

The Bengals win again...

I had actually spent a good part of Sunday working on the tank of the toilet in mum's bathroom trying to fix a leaky valve, however all I really managed to do was spray the place with the blue water in the tank that started streaming out after I did not secure the new flow meter properly. After attempting to fix this for over an hour and a half, I realized I was swearing profusely at an inaniment object, in this case a toilet tank. Thus the decision was made (by myself) for the sake of my own personal sanity that I should pack up, plan on finishing the work next weekend, drive to my humble abode, and watch the Bengals play the Steelers on TV.

Now, it is a tough occupation being a Cincinnati Bengals fan. They have been referred to for the last decade as the "Bungles" by ESPN sports network, and have a competitive team the last few years for the first time in sixteen years. At the lowest points in the mid ninties I even resorted to wearing a grocery bag over my head while watching at home in case someone looked in the window. It was all very sad...

On Sunday the Bengals went into Heinz field in Pittsburgh, home of the Superbowl champ Pittsburgh Steelers and stole a game from them. I use the word stole because Cincinnati would not have won if Pittsburgh had not handed it to them on a platter by committing so many turnovers.

And of course, some of these "manly men" did what any self respecting wealthy mid-twenties year olds would do: they caught the plane home to Cincy, hooked up with a teammate who was suspended by NFL management for failing drug tests, and proceeded to drink themselves silly at a bar. Here is an excerpt from the newspaper column regarding the incident.

Odell Thurman registered a .181 on the Breathalyzer, then told the cop, "I was driving because they had more than I did." For those unfamiliar, .181 is more than twice the legal drinking limit in Ohio. It's flaming, smoking pickled.

"They" in this case were Thurman's passengers and teammates, Chris Henry and Reggie McNeal. Police said that while an officer cited Thurman, Henry barfed out the vehicle's window. Hear those Ben-gals hurling! Maybe Henry ate some bad shellfish.

Unfortunately win success (in some cases) comes the inability to handle it properly. But as a now successful Bengals fan I can honest say that it has not gone to my head. I have not had to be "tasered" by the local police force for disorderly conduct. I have not been pulled over while being three sheets to the wind. I have not bought liquor for any sixteen year old girls. And, I have not had the urge to wave a handgun at people I think are "dissin me".

Guess I wouldn't make a very good football player....

Grocery Shopping is Fun!

When I consider that my brother's best selection of food will be trying to decide whether to mix the whole MRE together or eat the individual unidentifiable components separately, I know that I have here back in America that I have it made, with large overstocked grocery chains full of all the lastest no fat, high fiber, low carb, zero calorie, new & improved products that the marketing geniuses of America managed to conjure up.

For the past eight years Melody and I have shopped at a local supermarket called Jungle Jim's International Market. This establishment started off as a small grocery store (when we first started shopping there) with a large produce and international section and over the years has morphed into a 300,000 square foot multicultural repository of food and drink from all corners of the planet. It also helps that the owner, Jungle Jim Bonaminio, is just a tad off center in his thinking, allowing him to build this giant without listening to all outside parties explaining to him that he was certifiable for trying to do it.

The main entrance is at the northwest corner of the main building, conveniently wedged next to the entrance to the gardening center and greenhouse. I use the term "conveniently" as Melody somehow always manages to take a wrong turn and end up in the greenhouse, still not finding Dr. Livingstone. But hey, she's a lot cuter than Henry Stanley so I usually let it pass.

There are three entry doors so if the local gereatric club are pushing carts ahead you can normally gain entry without too much bother. Just inside is a "throne" that the store greeter sits in and hands out the weekly coupon flyer. I use the word throne lightly, as it is without a doubt one of the ugliest and most uncomfortable looking chairs on the planet. My guess is if you are in Jungle's doghouse that you get "chair duty".

Directly in front of the entrance is the main "American" grocery section where you will find the normal non-perishable foodstock items that one would find in any other US grocery store. With the exception of the Campbell soup isle. Above this section is a large mechanical swing with a giant talking soup can with two "kids" beside it. It will occasionally yell "ahoy.. foodies!" and break into some lame conversation about soup. Melody thinks it's cute. I think it is creepy and well... just wrong, with a Steven King "Pennywise" feel to it.

And in typical Jungle Jim fashion, the "award winning" public bathrooms are always kept very clean, but the entrances to both gents and ladies are designed to look just like a porta-potty. According to staff, he seems very proud of the complaints he receives on a regular basis from those who did not attempt entry when they saw them.

One of my favorites is the "Elvis Bear", which is a mechanical puppet that strums a guitar, taps its foot, and plays Elvis tunes. It is in fact a lion, but when Hannah was little she used to call it "Elvis Bear" so I still think of it as one. Even today, as Hannah did in days of yore, little kids stand and wiggle to Elvis tunes as "Elvis Bear" strums and taps, as amused parent stand nearby still amazed by the continuing entertainment power of the "Elvis Bear" on the younger generation.

The "lowlight" of our visit to Jungle Jims is the English food section in the back corner of the store. Now, don't get me wrong... the selection of the delicacies of the British Isles is first rate, considering how poor English cuisine is in the first place. Plus the India section is right next to it, so any self-respecting Brit can grab a curry at will. No, the problem with the English section is that it is placed right below a fake Sherwood Forest setting complete with the cast from Robin Hood overhead. No expense was spared in design and layout of the trees and the characters, but unfortunately I seriously think Jim ran out of money when it came time to record the voices for the "banter" between the Robin Hood and Little John and decided, after spending a little too much time in the wine cellar, to record the voices with their own "English" accents. I put quotes around the word "English" because I thought it was humanly impossible to imitate an English accent as poorly as Dick Van Dyke did in Mary Poppins, but I was wrong. In fact, I can honestly say that I linger in the Indian section until I heard the scripted 2-3 minute recording coming to an end, knowing I have about 30 seconds to dash in and out before the noise pollution continues.

My Daily Walk

Since I have a security pass for CVG I have access to all the secure passenger areas of the airport. This allows me to basically use the airport as an all climate walking track, as it takes about forty minutes to navigate the walkway between Terminals One, Two, and Three, and then through security and the tunnel under the ramp to Concourses A & B. Concourse C is only accessible by a shuttle bus, so unless the transport is empty and I can walk in circles while being driven there across the ramp, it doesn't get included in the daily stroll.

Now part of the fun of my "health club" (besides that if I lose my badge I have to pay $100 to get a new one) is being able to observe the variety of people who are utilizing the facility for its designed purpose, flying from one location to another.

The unhappiest group award goes to when I take a walk in the morning before work. Around 7:00am the flight returning from Honolulu comes in at the end of Concourse B, and large groups of dejected tanned and souvenir shirt wearing people wearily drudge in the direction of a connecting flight or to baggage claim in Terminal 3. It is an overnight "redeye" flight from Hawaii so I can honestly say I can't recall seeing anyone happily sprinting out the gate. Of course if you are out there about 9:30am when the return leg starts to board, you will encounter the polar opposite of the early morning crowd, all grins and giggles as the group wait to board and head off to a long dreamed Hawaiian vacation.

I usually walk wearing my IPOD, as I have become addicted to "podcasts", a form of TIVO for radio shows. This will normally deter all but the most desperate people from bothering me as I stroll. Plus, since I do not work for an airline, I am usually of no help to individuals anyway. That is with the exception of smokers. A person having a "nic-fit" after a long flight will all but rip your earphones out of your head to find out where the ever-decreasing areas are that they can light up. My personal favorite happened in Concourse B in the early morning when an average sized man approached me very rapidly. His haircut and clothing screamed "I am European" and so did his accent. He approached me and I removed my earphones in anticipation of his question. He grabbed my arm quit forcefully and asked in a clear and urgent Russian accent "Vhere ist smoking chamber?".

People watching can be fun also. There tends to be a re-occurring theme on somedays... like bad toupee day, or "this is all that was clean in the closet"clothing day. Occasionally one will see Amish people with their simple clothing and white bonnets for the women and simple black suits for the men. I did a double take when I saw an Amish young lady gabbing away on a cell phone, only to notice an impatient "regular" passenger waiting to get their phone back. I wondered all day who an Amish person would call, being as they don't have home phones either....

Working the Blue Ash Airshow

For the second year in a row in the beginning of September I got a phone message from Dad asking if I wanted to work the Blue Ash Airshow. (click here for webpage) The annual two day event here in the northern suburbs of Cincinnati raises money for the continued operations and maintenance of the airport. General Electric usually supplies a large part of the volunteer workforce for the show, and as a retiree of GE, Dad usually gets a call to come and work. Why I volunteer is still a mystery to me....

As usual, there is no training session before hand, just me racing by Blue Ash Airport last Thursday from CVG airport (where I work about 30 miles south) at the peak of rush hour to get the staff t-shirts, name tags, and parking passes for the event. I was delayed by a backup on I-71 North but got there just in time before they were packing up to leave for the night. Unfortunately, it appears that we had been signed up for 1-5pm on Sunday rather than the 9:30-1 shift we had requested. No matter, Isaac (the co-ordinator) told me "just show up when you can and we will find a place for you".

So Sunday morning at 9:30 Dad and I show up at the Blue Ash Airport. First issue was when we pulled up to the parking lot that the local National Guard unit had roped off for volunteers, as it appeared they did not want to let us in. It appears they could not see the parking pass on the dashboard due to the acute angle it was lying and also that Dad's Lexus "pimpmobile" has tinted windows making outside view difficult at best. Eventually though, I thought to roll down my window and they caught a glance at the lime green official volunteer t-shirt I was wearing and decided that we must be part of the volunteer crew, as no self respecting member of the North American male species would be caught dead wearing a shirt this color.

We ambled over to the gate we were designated to work, only to find it pretty much fully staffed already. However, there was a separate booth they wished to open up after it got busy so we were told to hold in support until that booth opened around 11am. No problem, we just hung out and watched a large amount of people come through the gate on their way to the airshow. Two other latecomers showed up that we eventually worked with, a middle aged couple. I knew they would be fun to work with when I heard her saying out loud "Look at all these people, no way they were scheduled to work the morning shift... I know they weren't all on the schedule." With that I just stared the other direction and whistled at the sky. Uh oh....

Sure enough when 11:00am rolled around we opened the second booth to hand out armbands and take cash from the happy go luck public, along with the happy couple previously mentioned. I enjoyed this more than this year than last as in the prior year we were working inside the actual event (in an extremely stylish red volunteer t-shirt with cheesy graphics) and people are much happier when they are arriving then when they have been in the hot sun for a couple of hours.

The entryway where we had the ticket booth was on the front of the airport's eastern most ramp, with two airplanes from the "Warbirds" group sitting nearby. In fact, the aged noisy airport fueling truck came by to fill them up while we were there, a scary scenario as we were within 25 yards of the closest plane and the fuel truck (vintage my first birthday in 1963) sounded like Dick Van Dyke was manning it in a famous sixties family film.

There was a large cross section of the public coming to see the airplanes. Tons of excited young children dragging their parents along with glee, lots of excited young parents pushing or carrying their infant children with merriment, biker dudes with black Harley shirts, beer bellies, and balding heads trying to look as bored as humanly possible, and scrawny teenage "gangsta" wannabees with J-Lo's in tow with their pants hung low enough that the front pockets can officially be referred to as "knee pockets". And old men, lots of old men coming to see the aircraft of their youth, conversely wearing their pants around their nipples.

We opened the second ticket booth around 11:00am with four of us and proceeded to work out a pretty efficient system for taking cash and attaching wristbands to patrons. We had several "Sea Cadets" assigned to our booth, which their only assignment was to ensure no one got in without a wristband. It wasn't until around noon that we noticed a sign set up 10 yards ahead of our booth that stated that all bags were subject to search. We didn't really think much about it, until an Indian couple came through with a large bag, and then the "not on the schedule" lady asked to inspect it. I thought about mentioning to her that the little red dot usually meant that they were Hindu and the only terror usually associated with them is when an elderly Hindu woman is driving a car within a hundred yards of you, which was not the case here. But I thought the better of it and just mentioned we probably ought to be checking a few more bags so we don't come across as profiling... which in a sense we were doing.

The only angry customer was a large young man with a bald head, bad teeth, and a Steve Austin wrestling t-shirt on his person. He approached with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and I informed him that there was no smoking on the tarmac. Good thing we weren't in a ring, because I would still be in a sleeper hold with a half Nelson, and full Napoleon for good measure, judging from the look I got from this guy.

Around 1:00pm we mentioned to the couple that we would have to leave soon due to a prior engagement and we hoped that a relief crew would be along soon. The woman again went into "where on the schedule was a 10-1 shift?" and I proceeded to act dumb and search the sky for pretty clouds. (it was a beautiful day by the way) I found mubling to be the best answer in this situation but I was getting close to the point that if she kept up her line of questioning I would remind her of what a "volunteer" actually was, and that there was a perfectly suitable punching bag in the form of her husband with us in the booth if she felt the need to continue this tirade. He must of sensed this however, as he said that with the slowdown of people coming that we could probably go ahead and leave and they could handle it from there.

So 1/2 later than expected, Dad and I left for our prior engagement... the Bengals-Browns football game....

The battle of the sexes...

I normally write things about home for my brother to read. But I laughed so hard at this I had to post it here.. Thxs to Claude in Ottawa for posting in Multiply.com

Here's a prime example of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" offered by an English professor from the University of Phoenix.

The professor told his class one day, "Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me.

The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story and send it back, also sending another copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely no talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached."

The following was actually turned in by two of his students, Rebecca and Gary.

THE STORY

(1st paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.


(2nd paragraph by Gary)
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. " A.S. Harris to Geostation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle BEAM FLASHED out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.


(Rebecca)
He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspaper to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she wondered wistfully.


(Gary)
Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anudrian mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the Unilateral Aerospace disarmament Treaty through the congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race. Within two hours after the passage of the treaty the Anudrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan. The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid Laurie.

(Rebecca)
This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent.

(Gary)
Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered tedious neurotic who's attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other sort of F**KING TEA???! Oh no, WHAT AM I to do? I'm such an air headed bimbo who reads too many Danielle Steele novels!"

(Rebecca)
A**hole

(Gary)
Bitch

(Rebecca)
F**K YOU, YOU NEANDERTHAL!

(Gary)
Go drink some tea, whore.

(TEACHER)
A+ . . . I really liked this one.

Oh no... my cars rear brakes are squeaking!!!!

And we all know what this means. If you are so inclined it can result in a trip to the autoparts store for some brake shoes and the better part of a weekend staring at the mess you have made of your car's wheels and hoping to all that is sacred that you can put it all back together before work on Monday.

Or, if you are an accountant like me and don't know the difference between a solenoid and a Polaroid, then it means breaking out the yellow pages and finding somewhere to do the work for you. This particular form of adventure usually involves the necessity of leaving your vehicle in the care of a trained professional, who treats you with courtesy and respect at all times and could be trusted with your family fortune, only he has an uncanny resemblance to Attila the Hun, right down to the long unkept hair and the smell of someone who hasn't bathed in 1,553 years... (yes, I looked it up, Attila died in 453AD)

Fortunately (or not, depending how you want to look at it) my son-in-law gave my wife a $75 gift card for Firestone "car care" centers. He would have used it himself, but when he had work done at a Firestone store he was told while paying that it was only good at "Corporate owned" stores and not franchisees like the one that had repaired his vehicle. I think the biggest reason he gave us the card was not that he did not have future use for car servicing, but rather that there would probably have to be very clear signals of the impending apocalypse for him to very fork any money over to any business with the name "Firestone" associated with it again.

So, with card in hand, I searched through the phone book for the closest "Firestone" dealership. Then it hit me that if I go to their website they might have some "coupons" to make the price even cheaper. (they did) Armed with my coupon, the gift card, and a couple of other questions, I lifted the receiver and dialed....

Repair Shop: "(unintelligible mumbling ) .. Matt speaking" (Name changed to protect me)
Me: "Hi Matt, is this the Firestone Service Center"
Matt: "Yeah, it is" (only slightly sarcastic as I think the unintelligible mumbling was maybe telling me that it was a Firestone Service Center)
Me: "Okay, I have a couple of question. Do you have a minute?"
Matt: "Uh....okay...."

After several mono-syllable exchanges I established I could use the gift card, the coupon, and they did work on all models of vehicles.( probably including a lunar rover if I had asked) With this knowledge, I left my car overnight and shoved my keys through the slot as instructed to await their disposition of my squeaky brakes.

And waited, and waited, and waited. Now I did not expect them to call me ten minutes after opening, but I did naively expect a call. Thus, at 2:30pm, the allotted "I better call now because if I don't I might not see my car tomorrow either" I called them.

Matt: "(unintelligible mumbling ) .. Matt speaking"
Me: "Hi Matt, I'm calling to check on my car... the white Hyundai"
Matt:"yeah... can you hold?"
Before I can respond, I am listening to some R&B station. Ten minutes pass.
Matt: "(unintelligible mumbling ) .. Matt speaking"
Me: "I was calling about the white Hyundai?"
Matt: "Oh yeah, got that right here. Okay Mr. XXXXXX......."

Let's stop here for a minute. As soon as you here them change to formal tense of the english vernacular then you have that uncanny sixth sense that your wallet is about to be lighten by an exponential equation.

Matt: "We noticed your car had 130,000 miles on it and were wondering if you had your 120,000 mile tune up yet?"
Me: "Uh .... thanks, but not today."
Matt: "We also noticed that your car had a slight oil leak. We can check that further for you?"
Me: "Uh.... no thanks."
Matt: "Your back shoes are fully worn, and we are not sure that we will be able to machine the rotors , so we recommend new rotors for your vehicle. I don't have them in stock but can get them in and installed today.
Me: "Would it be possible to turn the rotors and see if they are still good?"
Matt: "It is doubtful that it would work. We don't recommend it."

A philisophical discussion on the merits of new vs. turned rotors ensues here. With a price difference of about $300 between the two I take a fairly hard stand on this.

Me: "Let's just try to turn the rotors and see what happens."
Matt: "Oh Mr. XXXXX, we will call you when we have more."

Two more hours, no phone call..... So I take the initiative...

Phone rings:
Matt: "(unintelligible mumbling ) .. Matt speaking, hold please"
Again listening to some R&B station. Eight minutes pass.
Matt: "(unintelligible mumbling ) .. Matt speaking"
Me: "This is Mr. XXXXXX. I was calling about the status of the white Hyundai?"
Matt: "Yeah, it is complete and ready to go. But we did notice that......"

Every two years ....

It's that time again. Every two years in the US a new House of Representatives in the Congress (plus 1/3 of the Senate seats) is elected. This giant political free-for-all brings out the best in the two party system, as now in modern politics it is deemed acceptable to have your party hacks run TV ads that do their best to put your opponent in a US Army tank smoking a big fattie with Dukakis and Willie Horton.

The actual election is eight weeks away, but traditionally in America the campaign ads come fast and furious after the Labor Day three day weekend. Some clever word play and voiceovers go into these ads. A good case in point is the Ohio Senate race between Mike DeWine (Republican) and Sherrod Brown (Democrat). DeWine's camp has run a series of ads showing Mr. Brown making a speach with a senior citizen with a face like a bulldog staring intently from behind him, and when they perform the "fade to black and white" that they love to do as the voiceover makes an overly dramatic point, they manage to keep the perma-grumpy audience member in the frame, all the while running and stating "Brown let us down" with a seriously sad tone.

Entertaining for now, but ask me in about six weeks time and I think you will find that I will be borderline pyschotic by that time.....

Another winner ad is one run by Republican Geoff Davis of Kentucky. A very large soldier in standard issue camo states that when they were deploying to Iraq that they would not be supplied with the Armored Humvees that thought they were receiving. He made a call to Geoff and Mr. Davis got them the equipment they needed. Which is all well and good, but is there a congressman out there somewhere from ... lets say Missouri... who is being barraged by calls from his deployed National Guard units because their Armored Humvee's were taken away in the middle of the night??? Did Geoff Davis actually hijack the Armored Humvee's himself?

All I know is that if my brother sayes he doesn't have enough armor on his vehicle, I'm calling Geoff. ...

Once every twenty year bumper sticker

About an hour ago I was driving home from the library. I had raced there after work as I had a book soon to be overdue, and did not want to have the library police banging on my door over the weekend to attempt their various literary torture devices on me to entice my revelation of the locale of said contraband. Upon my successful adventure to the local branch I found myself in the presence of greatness during my return journey. Thinking back, it was in 1988 that this event last occurred in my life, thus I felt it very important to write about it while it was still freshly bouncing around in my cranal cavity.

Yes, for the first time since the Reagan presidency I saw a bumper sticker that made me laugh out loud. Just for reference, I am not a sheltered person who thinks President Bush is a hedge on the east side of the White House, however it has been far and few between moments I have seen an adage on the back of a vehicle that struck me as just plain funny.

The last time I saw one was on the Long Beach freeway approaching Long Beach, CA. while going to perform an audit for my employer at the time. Traffic was extremely heavy as it was around 9:00 am, well heck, doesn't matter what time it is in southern California.. traffic is always heavy. While negoiating my way toward my destination I spotted a large Ford Bronco baring down from behind me. Unlike O.J.'s Bronco, this one was painted in a "camo" pattern and the driver was large, with no discernible neck and a shiny bald head (not that common in 1989.) As he cut off a car to my right and swung past my miniscule Toyota Tercel I noticed his license plate cover had a simple saying listed across it.

"WOMEN DRIVERS : NO SURVIVORS"

As he faded from my view blasting through traffic ahead of me I was left with a laugh and a visual that has stuck with me to this day.

And today I saw another "Kodak" moment saying attached to a car. This time in a long line of traffic returning home from the library. I was about to pull faces at the older model white Jeep Cherokee ahead of me as it was testings the limits of first gear. The driver had that John Kerry "save the Whales" look about him, and I never really got a good look at his co-pilot. But attached to the tailgate of his aged vehicle was a very small white bumper sticker with black lettering stating:

"I poke badgers with spoons"

The Story of "Obleo"

Today’s topic is Guido. Guido joined the household in November of 1999. The previous month Melody’s cat, Kitty, had passed away after 14 years of terrorizing furniture and fixture alike with his declawed front paws. After a short period of mourning Melody announced she was ready to get another pet. Thus, on Saturday November 20 with our granddaughter Hannah in tow we headed to 3949 Colerain Ave, the location of the Hamilton county SPCA.

The shelter itself is pretty much devoted to dogs, as it had a large area of kennels for unwanted or abused pooches in the main building with families able to walk to and fro between the dog pens and evaluate which potential pet would make little Suzie or Johnny happiest. In some cases I noted they brought along little Suzie and/or Johnny, which only meant that had a much higher percentage chance of coming home with a puppy.

In the front section where the barking noise was concentrated through the kennel entrance was a series of small cages holding the numerous cats that were on display at the shelter. There was an inordinate amount of black cats on display, but we were told that they don’t put them up for adoption for the month before or two weeks after Halloween, thus the numbers had swelled for the ensuing period of time.

One cage was on it’s own away from the other neatly stacked cat cages. It was a larger cage across the room set on a pedestal type structure and within contained a very vocal and large tiger colored cat. What sold me was when Hannah stuck her hand in the cage the cat contained nearly broke it when he rubbed up against her so hard. Melody and Hannah looked at the other cats in the Hollywood Squares section of enclosures, but my heart was really set on this Fat Albert of cats in its own special cage, mainly because it was too fat to fit in any of the other cages. After a short period and debate, we decided that the large tiger cat would be our choice for a pet and we proceeded to take it out of the cage and up to the counter, not unlike checking out at a supermarket, only no barcode.

The lady behind the counter smiled, and said that the cat had been brought to the pound as it’s owner had gotten married and their spouse was allergic to the cat. Also, his name was “Obleo”. We smiled at this, paid our money, and in short order marched out the front door with the fattest cat in the joint and every other family staring at us as if “Obleo” was related to John Merrick. The car ride was interesting with “Obleo” sitting on the back seat next to Hannah with his butt facing forward and his head burrowing into the back of the seat like a starving mole digging for grubs, accompanied by the occasional loud disgruntled “meow”.

Needless to say that “Obleo” is now known as Guido, he still could stand to lose a little weight, and he is a valued member of the household to this day.

The daily drive

This one was written in October 2005 after a particularly difficult drive to work:

While my friend JD and his posse terrorize the wild critters of eastern Ontario on their annual nature hike, the rest of us are stuck in the real world, specifically in regard to today's topic... bad drivers. Now I'm not talking about the large SUV's being steered aggressively down the freeway by Billybob or his drinkin' buddy Beaucifous attempting to recreate the prior day's events at a large oval track somewhere in the southeastern United States, or the blue haired geriatric mistiming the weekly trek to the grocery store for restocking Ensure and Depends to accidental co-inside with the morning rush hour and creating the equivalent of a rolling road block in the fast lane.

No... and not to be politically incorrect... but you have seen this one in your travels. It is a she, probably between the age of 48-58, with a profile and haircut not unlike that of Fred Gwynne on a good day, a Benson & Hedges Ultra Cool Menthol 100 light dangling from her mouth, driving a 1987 beige rusted Plymouth mini-van with a "beep if you love Jesus" bumper sticker on the offset rear bumper. And here is the key to recognizing this breed... 1) they will always have both elbows on the steering wheel while driving and 2) you would probably have to set off a small thermonuclear device within a short distance to actually break the trance they appear to be in while driving. Also, whenever they approach a truck (lorry for you English types) , which they invariably do, they will do the following:

1. Tailgate it for at least 2 - 4 miles before realizing they are nearly attached to it's fender.
2. Proceed to overtake the offensive vehicle when at least 5 other vehicles are bearing down on them, making them all brake profusely to avoid creating the same incident that Billybob was working on in the last paragraph.
3. Realize the size differential between them and the large commercial vehicle they are attempting to overtake... and for reasons that defy logic... instead of stepping on the pedal on the right that increases velocity and would separate her from the offensive transporter, she goes into what I call the "truck-passing twilight zone" and simply begins to believe that time stands still and brings a cloak of invincibility as she passes by the over sized vehicle at a pace that Abe Zapruder could jog along side.

Okay.... I'm done... needless to say my commute this morning was not the best I've ever had....