Laziness pt. 14

As I know the world is always wondering about such things, here's the current desktop picture on my computer at work. It captures Dustin Hoffman and Carl Bernstein discussing being Jewish whilst Bob Woodward and Bob Redford think about being handsome men. A pity the movie (All The President's Men) is such a self-congratulatory snoozefest. Watch Dick instead. Will Ferrell and Bruce McCullough are probably closer to the truth anyway.

Sort of like Kohoutek

For a technically savvy family, we're not exactly on the cutting edge of things. We know all about the latest gadgets/gizmos; we choose not to purchase them until they're outdated, which makes perfect sense. If it hadn't been for the England trip back in the fall I probably would still be an ipod luddite. Getting one never really crossed my mind. I had a little mp3 player for running and that was sufficient. For everything else, I wondered why I would want to take a decent chunk of my record collection around constantly when I could just carry a couple of cds. Again, perfect sense.

But then we started becoming world travellers again and the near constant silence between my father, brother and me on said trip seemed too daunting. As I said at the time, we're not big talkers and after 300 years together have things down pretty much down to winks, nods and grunts. A sample conversation: One of us: "What do you want to do now?" Another one of us: "Dunno." The other one: _shrug_. And repeat. Thus I entered the ipod world and marched confidently into the technology of 2006. In late 2008.

Which brings me to yesterday wherein I purchased an ipod shuffle. To commemorate I did a ceremonial 5 miles yesterday with my old mp3 player containing its same songs that I'd long grown sick of. After a final swing through some Deep Purple and Fountains of Wayne, I retired the MP3 from running duty. Enjoy your retirement old friend. Coupled with color tv and a microwave, I'm pretty sure that brings my tech status to sometime in 2007.

Not to be outdone, my Dad, for reasons best known to himself, entered the Blackberry fray. I realize for most modern folk, this is hardly a newsflash but considering up until a year or so ago, he rarely kept his cell phone on, this is a titanic shift. Maybe he was jealous of all those youngsters with their cool shoes walking around with those snazzy holders on their belts. Don't know, but now he's got a whole new assortment of bells and whistles he'll never use.

I've never really known him to be mowing the woods (yes, he does this though is otherwise seemingly sane) and have the sudden urge to know, say, Pedro Martinez's stats from his previous start. An understandable urge. However, having never experienced this particular strand of helplessness I suppose I can't really fathom the severity this entails. I'm probably in the minority, however. But praise Jeebus, should that urge strike him now, he can find out such facts and so much more without having to leave his beloved tractor. And people think modern life is rubbish.

Because he's gone from zero to sixty with this latest craze, he's a work in progress on the Blackberry. But he's on his own. Andy is busy with final preparations for Baby Ziegler (still unnamed) and doesn't have the time to show him exactly how to use the device. I simply can't be bothered because I am a bastard--not literally, of course. And since my Dad never knows when the mood/opportunity will strike to learn all about those amazing features of his new toy, he carries all manner of wires, plugs, discs and general crap relating to said Blackberry in a Wal-Mart bag with him. I believe that falls under the realm of defeating the purpose. But again, I'm a bastard.

In the midst of all this Blackberry madness, my Dad has also discovered that bane of grammarians everywhere, texting. One might ask why would a non-talkative 68-year old dude possibly need another medium to not communicate with his two non-talker sons? What could he possibly not need to say electronically that he can't not say to us in person? Beats me. Perhaps he feels we'll take his texting privileges if he doesn't use it. If we did I really don't know what he would have to complain about. He'd still have his 8-track player and some Ferrante and Teicher albums to keep him company.

For whatever reason, though, since then I've gotten far more updates on his mundanities than usual. 16-year old girls the world over would be proud as he informs me such details as I'm leaving the doctor's office. I got the Tahoe unstuck from the mud. Ooh, I just passed a brick house. OMG. God help us if he ever discovers Twitter.

Will you be my friend on Facebook?

As the EPJ presently has about half of Mexico working on site, my declaration of Rancho Relaxo pool/spa & salad bar being complete and open for bidness may have been a bit premature. Nevertheless, like the still under construction Death Star in Jedi, it is still fully functional and ready to destroy small planets. Or fun. So...below a couple of pictures. Rancho Relaxo meet Earth. Earth meet Rancho Relaxo. Gate that keeps out the riff-raff leading to cement made from the sands of the Sahara up steps to authentic old-timey rocking chairs stolen from Cracker Barrel.

A couple of notes: 1)The EPJ was eager for Earth to know the door on the smokehouse (she's quite the cured meat fan) is being painted to match her umbrella. Presumably she means red and not striped. Personally, I'd prefer a striped door because that would be sassy. 2)Assume the garden hose is the very one used to fill 'er up. They keep it nearby as a second line of defense should the gate fail to do its job. 3)The EPJ thought this the best picture to show off the pool so please ignore the fact there's a table in the middle of the frame blocking, erm, the pool.

Met a man on a train near Santa Fe

The answer to the question that I know has been on everyone's mind is, no. I am not going to the secretary's luncheon today. Mainly because I'm not a secretary. Even if I was have no desire to sit at a hen party explaining for the umpteenth time that I don't eat "adult" food (I really don't care how divine that broccoli salad might be) or feign appreciation of my goodie bag from Mary Kay. Still, the EPJ asked if I was going because "she'd let me go if I wanted to." I concentrated real hard and asked her if she could read my mind.

As for the EPJ, it will be with some interest to some to know that the Rancho Relaxo pool/spa is finally complete. They installed the salad bar last week and I believe the whole shooting match is officially open for bidness. Which is not to say it's being used; that would be ridiculous. I'm pretty sure the waters have yet to be disturbed. It looks nice though. So should the urge to hop in for a few laps strike during lunch, she can now give in. I'm pretty sure that was the only reason for building the thing anyway. Oh yeah, Rancho Relaxo also has fountains that shoot water in pretty patriotic colors. I've no idea if the red, white and blue was extra or if the builders threw that in because they love the USA. I consider this another victory in the war on terror.

My pinkeye or allergy or whatever was previously figured has turned out to be a staph infection. Of my eye. In a touching display of empathy, Marisol told me she'd never heard of getting one in the eye. My family has a knack for the unique. Lucky us. So now I'm dropping eye drops every waking hour (literally) until I go back to the doctor tomorrow.

My coworkers, pillars of support all, apparently believe a staph infection to be a death sentence. "Oh, golly." "I'm so sorry." "That's serious. Are you all right with it?" "Shouldn't you stay away from us?" I'm getting by thanks; I managed to talk myself down from the roof of my doctor's one story office.

Regarding this death sentence, I'm pretty sure it's not since I figure the doctor would have at least closed the door for such a prognosis. But he only went to med school and has practiced for decades; my co-workers do watch Oprah and read women's magazines so I guess that counts for something. You go, girl.

Update: One of the groundskeepers managed to discover water on the courthouse property with his trusty lawnmower. Pretty sure he didn't mean to, but oh what a majestic gusher he's created.

45 minutes later that sucker is still going. It seems as if no one can quite figure out where the off button is. I've volunteered the EPJ services to go sit on it until a better solution can be discovered.

Sick again

I wish the title was merely a Zep reference and what follows a dissection of said song. Alas, it's not. That would probably be pretty boring anyway but it would be a whole lot more fun than what's going right now. Started with some sort of eye infection on Friday and spent the entire weekend moaning about it. Not sure if it's pinkeye (wasn't aware that was still around) or allergy or what but my eye looks even worse than usual. Not to mention I can't really stare at a computer screen for too long. Some may lament this fact. Others less so. Regardless, this might be a good time to reflect on the wonder of water. Regular posting to resume when humanly possible, i.e. later this week.

All praise he's found the awful truth, Balthazaar

I realize this is all of little interest and even less importance, but it just amused me to flip through the channels the other night and see "Special Report" come up on ESPN's info. Golly, I'd better check this out. Have we lost another sports titan? Is Obama filling out another Final Four bracket? Did a Yankee field a routine fly ball? The reality was of far greater seriousness: the NFL announced its 2009 schedule.

Yowza.

Unfortunately, tax day and pirates and all that other silly bother kept this announcement from getting the coverage it deserved, but thankfully ESPN came through. Giving it the gravitas it deserved, they devoted a two-hour block of programming to the release of the schedule. Again, the release of the football schedule was deemed of such importance that they pre-empted the women's gymnastics quarter finals or some such. I can't imagine anyone without a beer gut and a wardrobe consisting of Brett Favre jerseys spending more than five minutes watching but I guess that's why their the "Worldwide Leader in Sports" and I'm not.

What was contained in this particular Oracle of Delphi? They ran down the schedule game by game and offered up deep commentary along the lines of "what a tough week 3 game that one will be." Do tell. Or that since this coach's job is on the line he'll really be up for that game. So I guess, unlike the rest of us, NFL coaches only care about their job when they fear getting fired. Who knew?

Along with their panel of experts (read: usual gang of idiots), they checked in with various players to see what they thought about, say, that match-up with the Eagles in week 8. Because they're football players and all-around tough guys, they didn't give the answer that I would have given. Namely, here in mid-April I'm pretty much scared shitless about an event that I may or may not be a part of 8 months from now. Instead, polite, if cliched answers were given and brave faces put on and bilge about just playing the game was uttered.

Meanwhile, our experts pored over this data using charts and graphs to extrapolate all manner of deductions. For instance, it will probably be cold in Chicago in November and Chicago Stadium (or whoever they sold the naming rights to) is outdoors so teams will be, uh, playing in the cold. Outdoors. This could have an effect. Could, mind. Not will, or even the less definitive should. Oh no. These men are so superhuman that there is a chance, however slight, that for a brief moment they will be impervious to any/all laws of nature. And you probably thought they just ran fast and hit hard. Tsk.

Furthermore, this particular schedule will be played in a bubble. There's no danger that Team's A star player won't have a season-ending injury the first day of training camp. Or Team B will fire their coach midway through the year. Or defying all laws of physics, Team C just flat out sucks rendering some late-season match-up between two would-be Goliaths with PLAYOFF IMPLICATIONS (those are the big buzzwords in sports analysis, btw. When all else fails, use them to sound all smart and stuff.) a meeting of two actual Davids with sub .500 records playing out the season's string. But I suppose that would just be being negative.

I could be wrong. ESPN could have actual, real insight into the future. In the midst of all the pontificating, ESPN advertised their upcoming "Future Week" promotion. ("The future, Conan?") In a staggering display of cross-promotion gone laughable, it's tied into the release of the new Star Trek flick. I know the first thing that pops into my mind when I think of Trekkies/Trekkers (and I often do) is sports.

True, there was that episode (Andy/Christopher are in a mad dash to provide the title first) where Kirk battled Spock and the other one where Bones lost all his money on the Super Bowl, but for the most part, Trek was fairly free of athletic contests. I'm sure this all made sense in some boardroom in some high rise somewhere, the idea of putting the two, not entirely mutually exclusive groups but pretty darn close, together was genius. At least, now the jocks will know where to find all the geeks to pound that weekend.

I'm not really sure what such a week holds but if any outfit can bend space and time it's certainly the "Worldwide Leader in Sports" Hopefully, the anchorettes will dress in skimpy Barbarella-esque space attire and the anchor dudes will wear space helmets and speak in robotic tones. All will replace whatever annoying catchphrase they use with "Does Not Compute." There will be random footage of Neptune inserted into the hockey highlights and lots of blinking lights, massive computers with tape drives and the occasional white coat wandering around taking readings on a clipboard. For the grand finale they'll launch the entire Sportscenter crew on a five year mission to boldly go where no man has gone before. And they'll never be heard from again.

I hate ESPN.

Watering plants helps them grow

Because I simply cannot get enough of whatever special goodness it is that Atlanta seems to offer, on Friday evening I made my second of two trips to Sherman's favorite kindling. Ostensibly to see a show by talented, quiet, bearded and flannel-wearing Canadians, Great Lake Swimmers, but mainly just to hang out with my dearest pal MB and her hubby, Reynoso. (I think I named him something else on a previous post but I'm too lazy to dig that out. My sincerest of apologies, Reynoso, who, I should note, is not remotely of Spanish descent.) Marisol sat this one out as she thinks my music is "weird." She's usually right.

While I've come to think quite highly of GLS, this was primarily MB's show. For reasons best known to her, she seems to have a thing for hirsute, flannel-wearing Canadians which should make her an ideal Bachman-Turner Overdrive fan. Thus far she has resisted their particular pull. Perhaps it a weight issue as I'm pretty sure the entire GLS crew's combined weight is somewhat less that of Randy Bachman, alone. Google him. Or don't. Either way, just know Mr. Bachman is as large as his songs are annoying to me, which is to say quite. I'll never speak of him again.

Needless to say, MB had been jazzed about this event for quite some time and even greeted me Friday with a cheery "Happy Great Lake Swimmers Day". To the best of my knowledge there is not actually a holiday so named but I hated to tell her. I'm nice that way and only provide needles for balloons of the deserving.

Since the venue (The EARL) doubles as a restaurant, a couple of her other friends were meeting us there. Since I was the first to arrive, I took my customary spot in the corner of the booth to better observe folks and prevent any sneak attacks. It should come as no surprise, but with my lengthy enemies list, I really don't like to sit with my back to the door. Anyway, the others arrived and that hipster brew of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon, flowed. Never fear, dear reader, I flew the flag for temperance and drank the better part of a gallon of water and had a tab of $0. They did not but that loosened them up to discuss all manner of subjects, none of which are of relevance to this post but were as bawdy as they were entertaining, which is to say quite. Thinking me a more delicate flower than I actually am, MB said half-jokingly she wished she had "earmuffs" for me. Sweet. I responded by flipping off the camera as she took a group photo.

Delicate flower? More like delicate badass.

In the midst of all the reverie, the bad weather began to hit with a couple of tornado warnings even coming across for North Atlanta. Figuring there were enough McMansions and Mercs between me and the godless tornadoes, (not to mention the makings of a sunset) I figured we were okay as we headed into the stage area. No sooner had we gotten in there than the unmistakable sound of rather large hail began hitting the roof. (The EARL is tiny and has a tin roof and this was a quiet show.)

I texted Andy for a weather update and was not reassured: the radar is black (not green, yellow, orange, red or even purple, but black) over East Atlanta. He helpfully added that he'd never seen that before. Great, I'm going to be blown away with 20 strangers, MB and Reynoso before we even get past the opening act. I suppose it really doesn't matter if one is the victim, but if I'm going to die from rock and roll, I'd prefer a more fitting soundtrack. My ears will melt and then my eyes. Perhaps.

There was little danger of spontaneous combustion Friday night, however. We were being lulled to sleep by an opening duo who could have given church mice lessons in silence. On the bright side, we'd be able to hear our impending doom since Mr. and Mrs. Snoozy McSnooze were making no effort to raise above their whispered vocals and oh so gently plucked guitars. I've seen many concerts in my day, some bad/some good, most fairly memorable. However, I have never been to a show in which the weather outside drowned out the performers inside. I'm pretty certain Motorhead has never had this problem.

But the weather lightened and the McSnooze twins mustered up enough energy to amble off the stage before, presumably, collapsing in the corner where they probably still are now. Afterwards, a pleasant enough performer came on and did her thing to a response of more than general indifference. Not too much though. And then MB's night was complete as GLS stormed onto the stage with all the ferocity of a schoolboy on his way to the library, which was fitting. Theirs is not exactly music that lends itself to stadium gestures, smoke and a bitchin light show. That didn't stop the assembled tens from annoyingly snapping pictures throughout the performance.

Honestly, I'm sure they're swell guys (and a gal) but, MB crushes aside, not exactly what one would call lookers. And even if they had been, their stagnancy onstage would tend to negate the need for multiple pictures. Or so I would think. The guitarist is looking at the singer. Now he's looking at the drummer. The drummer looked back at the guitarist. Holy shit. I think I just wet myself.

All this is no reflection on the band, their music or the show itself. On the contrary, it was all rather enjoyable. Quality music, performed by quality folk for quality folk. True, MB didn't get the goosebumps on her ankles she was hoping for (beats me). And much to my disappointment I didn't meet anyone named Gord, but so it goes. They can't all be Motorhead.

Today's bridge lesson

And just like that, we're back into spring around here after a brief Indian Winter on Monday/Tuesday. Growing up I used to think Indian Summer (one of my absolute favorite evocations, btw) referred to a cool day in autumn. Amazing how I got that definition entirely backwards. But then, I got a lot of things backwards as a child. Today, I'm much more forward-thinking. For example, the preceding sentences have no relevance to anything following.

So yes, we (Buster, Marisol & I) took in Zoo Atlanta on Tuesday. As this was a trip that had been planned for a few weeks and on the only spare day I could muster on Buster's week off, the weather, annoying though it could have been, was of little consequence to actual plans. A sunny day with temperatures in the 70s would have been preferable, however. On the bright side, I didn't have to worry about standing in line for 20 minutes to get an ice cream.

Growing up, the zoo nor it's more annoying cousin, the circus, were terribly high on my family's list of funtime activities. It's not that we hated animals, the numerous cats we unwittingly brought into the world would certainly suggest otherwise, but Andy always wanted to go to sporting events and I to Disney World. Anything else was a waste of time and money. And probably still is. In fact, I can only remember one such trip to Zoo Atlanta, or Grant Park Zoo as it was known then. I've no idea why or when they changed the name but imagine it had something to do with some moneybags getting all huffy over something that had nothing much to do with anything on his death bed. That's usually how these changes go.

Presumably, the big draw back then was that stalwart of Atlanta culture (read in that what you will), Willie B, gorilla par excellence. I'm sure we saw him that day as it was an exit requirement but I really do not remember much about it. I presume he remained seated in a corner awaiting a callback from American Tourister that never came. Except for when he was flinging poo at us gawkers for relying on cliches, of course.

But Willie B ascended to the great cage in the sky a few years ago and aside from a remarkably life-like monument, which Buster promptly climbed upon for no reason other than to stick his fingers up Mr. B's ample nose, there was little reminder of him at Zoo Atlanta yesterday. I suppose the week of mourning and gnashing of teeth was all he got. Apparently, Willie B Jr. does reside in the zoo's confines though due to the weather we were unable to see him or any of his relatives. In that regard with the weather, we were quiet fortunate. Aside from various members of the chimp,monkey and orangutan family as well as the tiger/leopards, all animals were out and about. Nevertheless, our admission was half-price so I warmed myself with the though I was sticking to the animal captors and had somehow beat the system. As a rapidly-approaching middle-aged, middle-class, white man I have to take revolution anyway I can get it.

These days the big draw at the zoo are the pandas of which we saw three, including the recently born Mei Lan. True to form, the adults pandas did little more than sit, eat bamboo and look cute. Apparently Mei Lan hasn't mastered the first two; she merely looked cute. A cuteness which was separated from me by a protective glass. This was just as well as I'm pretty sure being mauled by a panda wouldn't be all that pleasant.

I guess life in the wild prepares these animals for more or less anything. They generally seem unfazed by the actions of us gawkers. Pictures are met with the same indifference that greets hollers for their attention. Buster did his best to get each and every animal we saw to notice him. These attempts were all met with the animal equivalence of a shrug: a blank stare. Which is not to say these animals didn't try their best to perform as expected. The lone rhino made laps around some imagined obstacle for no particular reason. The giraffes looked tall and the lions looked fierce. The elephant even dropped a deuce right in front of us. Needless to say this was the highlight of Buster's day.

It warms my heart to know that he'll not remember our zoo trip because he saw all his favorite animals. Or got an awesome t-shirt. Or even because it snowed. No, what he'll remember is that he wished aloud the elephant would go to the bathroom for us. The heavens parted and so did Jumbo's cheeks. The 1500 lbs beast stuck his rather hairy, rather ample ass in our face and let plop. Outstanding.

Sometimes God smiles.

Laziness pt. 13

Buster, Marisol and I went to Zoo Atlanta today. He is on spring break. It is April 7. It snowed. At the zoo. In Georgia. All day. Clearly, we are all living on borrowed time. Assuming we're still here, normal posting should resume in a day or two. In the meantime, Buster and future Panda Express mascot, Mei Lan, march cheerfully on towards doomsday. Cheers.

A stack of paper in search of a paperweight

At the outset let it be noted that I would normally be working as I take my job uber-seriously, (as we all do up here of course) but the EPJ has been on me all morning about updating things on here. Each burst of frantic typing from my corner has been met with the same query from the EPJ's corner.

"Germs, are you blogging?"

"No, I am working. Quite diligently, I might add, on important county business," is my always immediate and unchanging reply.

"Well, let me know when you are blogging so I can read the update," is her always immediate and unchanging reply.

"I'll get right on it, chief." Note: I don't really call her chief but probably should because things always go more smoothly when I reference Get Smart.

So because I'd really hate for the EPJ not to know what's going on in her very own backyard that she herself has observed, herein is my account having not seen her yard since before the heavy equipment was delivered: it is a mess of biblical proportions.

As of this morning it finally has stopped raining but the ground is little more than a sludgy mix of grass, dirt and water. It will probably be that way for some time so she can accept it and move on to another matter of cosmic insignificance or she can moan about her pure, dumb luck. Thus far, guess which one she's chosen.

Starving children in Ethiopia know just how she feels to be ticked at the weather. Of course, the irony is that they don't get any rain at all. But there's always the chance that Madonna will pop into one of their villages and whisk one of them away to a life of unlimited food, clothing and nannies. Alas, I'm pretty sure the EPJ has virtually no chance of being Madge's latest fashion accessory; it's boring small-town domesticity for her from here on out. So I guess it all balances out.

In unrelated, but no less fascinating, EPJ news, I was giving her the rundown of mine and Christopher's latest game of Scrabble courtesy of Facebook. She asked who was winning and I said, per usual, me. Eh, Christopher? But mentioned that neither of us was having that great of a game and getting bogged down with crap letters leading to crap words leading to crap scores. The one bright spot I somewhat embarrassingly added was that I played the "O" word for a whopping 31 points. (For the non-Scrabblephiles, 31 points is a decent, if not amazing play) Figuring that would be enough detail and we could quickly move on to other things, I was almost immediately disappointed.

EPJ: "The O word? What's that, oval?" Now, if she was me, I'd give her points for being clever. Alas, she's not and well...she's just not. I keed.

Me: (incredulous and leading) "Yes, oval. I was too polite to say oval and therefore referred to it as 'the 'O' word. No, the big O. And not Oscar Robinson. The O word. You know the word I mean. I know how you love Oprah." My eyes roll back in my head.

EPJ: (excitedly) "Oh, Oprah. Yeah."

Me: (annoyed) "No, not the word Oprah." I begin dialing up Maureen. My eyes roll back further.

EPJ: (totally perplexed) "Octopus."

Me: (ignoring the EPJ, talking to Maureen) "You know what the big "O" is right? The "O" word."

Maureen: "Uh, no. You mean like a bad word?"

My eyes roll further back still. I think I see my brain stem. Hello, brain.

The EPJ is still occasionally shouting out random words that begin with O. Octagon, oasis, oligarchy, obsequious, etc. (Who am I kidding? No one would believe she would shout out oasis.) At this point, I began cursing the makers of Scrabble for ever leading me down such a road and why was I so pulled by the promise of a mere 31 points. And why, oh why, did I even bring it up? Can't I turn back time just this once? I decide forget it, I'm going home, I quit, I'm moving to Ethiopia, when suddenly Maureen announces she's got it. Lo and behold, so does the EPJ. Hallelujah. But before I can throw my hand up and say, "Yes, that one. I was embarrassed to play it. No need to say it. Hence the past 30 minutes. I hate my life." The EPJ lets fly.

EPJ: (confident and unashamedly) "Oh, orgasm. (pause then helpfully adds) I would have put an s on the end."

I crawl under my desk because I am a male and that is what we do when we hear such words. I also begin to shiver and see plaid. Maureen not to be outdone and apparently thinking there's going to be a prize offers her final answer.

Maureen: (somewhat disappointed) "I thought you meant orgy."

These are the people I work with. We are the guardians of the public teat. God bless us everyone.

Mr. Gorshin, your table is ready

I'd like to think that you, dear reader, read these posts over and over. Like some grad student poring over the endless minutia found in Joyce or Proust, I imagine regular readers searching and analyzing content for all manner of cryptic references and hidden clues. The excitement of unearthing a verbal treasure replaced by the sadness of knowing that, like the onion, there are still more layers to go.

I suspect the reality is much more sobering. Most of the world doesn't know I exist and the ones who do read my ramblings are quite content with having lost only a few moments of valuable time rather than pondering over obscure details for subsequent minutes. Thus I share the burden of ol' Jimmy and Marcel. If not the talent.

All of this is an extremely pretentious tongue-in-cheek way of saying that I made an error that needs correcting. Yesterday in posting on the Knox, I reckoned that Star Wars was the first flick I saw at age 2 1/2 in 1977. Part of that statement may well be true. I did see Star Wars at the Knox. It was 1977. Unfortunately, I seemed to forget that I was, in fact, born in 1973 and not 1974 thus making me 3 1/2. So yes, I can remember what was possibly the first movie I saw and where I saw it some 30+ years ago but the high hurdle of basic math was a little too much. Apologies but thanks to Andy for pointing my age out to me. He can remember precisely when I was born because from then on his world crumbled as I rose to power.

An aside. It's good to know that it took me three paragraphs to say what could have been accomplished in one sentence. Luckily, Blogger pays me by the word. Moving on...

It is with great sadness that I must relay that construction on the Rancho Relaxo pool has been temporarily halted due to weather. We've gotten roughly 17" of rain here in the past week and aside from a brief peak on Sunday (the Lord's day of rest, you know) there's been no sun. Perhaps I should have taken those Earth Hour instructions more seriously. Anyway, the EPJ reported that she now has a giant mud hole in her yard. I'm not sure whether she was expecting her new Mexican friends to kindly pull a tarp over the site before heading home for the day or maybe they would do some of their voodoo to stop the rain. Regardless, she's arrived at the scientific breakthrough that dirt + hole + water = heap em big mess. Optimist that I am, I told her to be of good cheer, most of her neighbors still don't hate her and at least her house hasn't slid into the hole. Yet.

So the ribbon cutting has been pushed back. *Sigh* I'm not sure to when but a safe bet it will be sometime between now and the end of the world. I know it won't be after the end of the world because not even the Almighty is a match for the determined EPJ. She simply won't let God carry out His apocalypse until she gets to belly flop into her fruit of others labor. Therefore, in the best interest of humanity I must hope that work is never completed.

A slight update: There is a slightly different picture below now. A better shot with both doors in place as well a more close-up view of some of the neon. FWIW, the doors are on backwards and will stay that way. Don't ask.