He's holding with impunity

It took an awful long time, most of September to be exact, but I was quite jazzed to feel a cool, crisp autumn morning this morning. Over the years, I've determined that this is, in fact, my favorite time of year just because. I suppose it would be manly of me to say autumn is my fave because it's football season. Nothing says machismo like sweaty dudes in skin tight uniforms running into each other and popping each other on the butt after a job well done.

In reality, though, I have no real reason. Feel free to give me a reason in the comment section. But this morning's full blown splendor was a reminder that those god-awful hellish days of hell we call summer are gone until they come back. Which, given my luck, will probably be a couple of days from now.

Speaking of football, Buster has joined up with a local team of ragamuffins for an introduction into that very sport. Having never known him to show interest in any sport that doesn't involve cute creatures and a gun, I was pleasantly surprised. And finding my attempts to discuss the more obscure realms of the early 70s Swedish prog scene with him meeting with indifference, I've been looking for something of mutual interest. Besides iCarly, of course.

Not that I have much experience actually playing football. But I've got a decent enough handle on the formal qualifications and rules: the match is usually played on a field of some description among contestants wearing colorful uniforms with mascots that are usually ferocious animals, insects or rapers/pillagers. UC-Santa Cruz Banana Slugs being a notable exception of outside-the-box mascot thinking. Probably why they suck.

Practice started a few weeks ago; his first game was this past weekend. In the interim, Marisol had been giving me updates on how things were progressing. I was expecting to hear how he stacks up with his teammates or how many tackles he made. Marisol's updates covered these things somewhat. The major point, however, seemed to be the fact that Buster's not a big fan of 'the cup' and can't really understand why he has to bother with it.

Not wishing such trauma for the tyke, I told Marisol it would only take one shot in the business for him to decide his cup as vital his helmet. She then proceeded to tell me how she managed to install it incorrectly, creating much discomfort. It would seem that of the two possible ways for it to go, she guessed wrong. While I enjoy talking with Marisol and am sure there was no doubt an interesting and possibly amusing tale therein, discussion of her 8-year old's nether regions and the protection thereof is something I'll leave to his parents. Sometimes you've just got to take a stand. Cameron taught me that.

So after all the talk of practice and cups fell away, that left nothing left to do besides play an actual game. Being one of the bigger kids out there, they stuck Buster on the line; His instructions being to hold off the fellow directly in front of him until he hears the whistle. This he does well, but is still working on the idea of following the ball. It's good that him and his opponent can batter like rams with neither giving in, but not quite as important when the fella with the ball has already finished his endzone dance.

And in a remarkable attempt to induce an asthma attack, they have him playing both ways, offense and defense. At this level, that means little. Essentially, after four downs or less, he's doing the pushing instead of being pushed. I say less, because the world of mighty mights is feast or famine. Either a play loses 5 yards or scores a touchdown. There is no slow, methodical grinding drive and on every play either the offense or defense simply imposes their will.

(An aside--that's my all-time favorite holler I've ever heard at a football game: "Defense, impose your will." That it was said by a tiny-ish dude of Arabic descent and not, say, Russell Crowe in full battle armor atop a fiery steed made it all the more better. My second all-time fave just happens to be this post's title. We Tech fans are an erudite bunch of fanatics.)

Thus far, Buster's team has been on the receiving end of most of that imposing. Though they managed 19 points in the first game on about 4 plays, they've also gave up the better part of 50 points. Unlike some areas of modern life, on the football field having more means you win. Last night, they only gave up 27 but were held to a goose egg. Progress perhaps, but the cheerleaders didn't even bother to show up. This made that whole "We've Got Spirit" cheer as lopsided as the game, and it is ultimately what I blame the shutout on.

Those looking for the bright side would be pointed towards the fact that Buster's defense stopped an extra point. A few tears aside, no one was injured. Buster's early game cup difficulties were corrected. And Marisol's post-game snacks were a hit. Rah.

Do you wish you had Jeff Goldblum's hair

It's interesting the way events unfold. As previously mentioned, for the past week or so Georgia has more closely resembled the rainy season in Vietnam instead of its usual easing from summer to autumn. After close consultation with the weather radar courtesy of the interwebs, it does appear that most of the heavy rain has fallen, and the flooding has peaked or crested or whatever it is flood waters do when they can rise no more. The sun has even managed to rear its forgotten head most days this week. So good on ya, golden orb of the sky.

Photographic evidence, and common sense, to the contrary, Six Flags continues to insist they will be open this weekend. That's good news for the 40 or 50 customers they'll no doubt have. However, I sort of figure most people in the Atlanta area are more concerned with trying to get rid of that pool in their living room that God just delivered. Going wild on the Mindbender just doesn't seem that important right now. If by chance some locals aren't so distracted, I'd question the parenting prowess of any who would send their child to a dilapidated amusement part, already expecting in its death throes, that just happened to have spent the better part of the week totally submerged. What could possibly go wrong?

But in the middle of all this rain, the big story around here was that the local barbecue pit burned. To the world outside, I realize this sounds trivial. Yes, the messiah is busy ridding the world of nuclear weapons, hatred and general uncoolness, and your beloved correspondent is moaning about not getting to eat roasted swine flesh. Fair enough, but out in the hinterlands, losing a local business has far more real-life impact. The only way my little burg is going to be struck down by a nuke, targeted by terrorists or invaded by the Ruskies (Red Dawn to the contrary) is if some crackpot somewhere goes horribly off course. Where I'm going to eat lunch on Thursday, on the other hand, is about as real as realpolitik can get.

As a result, there's been much handwringing and gnashing of teeth the past week as we all try to figure out just what to do for lunch. One of the many advantages of the modern world is the restaurant. I've no interest in sitting in a field/stand/pond for hours on end hoping that my next meal hops/flies/swims my way. Apologies to the Nuge, but the extent of hunting and gathering I prefer to do for most meals is hunting the menu for and gathering my tray with.

I realize that in olden times I would have probably been among the first to succumb to starvation, but the upside is that I'd have been so thin, the others wouldn't have bothered eating me. Oh, sure those rugged frontiersmen could fell a buffalo at 300 yards, but polio could stop them dead in the tracks. Today, we've got Ted's Montana Grill serving bison burgers and polio is all but eradicated. Who's laughing now, pioneers?

And even the barbecue pit has a happy ending. Since the lunch rush had just ended, the fire was quickly discovered and brought under control that the building was not destroyed. More importantly, no one was injured. And some slaughterhouse gave a few pigs a last-minute commute.

Of course, that also meant that some slaughterhouse workers lost their jobs and probably the trucking company lost some business. Maybe there is something to the Chaos Theory after all. I just hope there's not another butterfly flapping away on the other side of the world for a few weeks.

Laziness pt. 19

As most have heard by now, most of Atlanta is currently underwater. Thankfully, my little corner of the world is not. Instead, we've only gotten about 7" of rain since last Thursday. Some folks may recognize this picture as the the big hill on the Scream Machine at Six Flags Over Georgia. Wow. They claim they'll be open this weekend. Um, yeah.

Put whatever you want here

Being that Marisol is a highly influential member of the local media (entire population: 4), she sometimes gets in to events that us mere mortals wouldn't. Snazzy soirees with really beautiful people doing really beautiful things and the like. Most of the time, however, she just goes to events that the average person doesn't want to read about in the paper, let alone actually attend. Often she attends these sorts of things stag, a lone reporter braving the fierce world of rotary club meetings and secretary luncheons.

Every now and then, though, she'll decide that it's okay to be seen with me and bring me along. Usually she doesn't even request I not embarrass her which is awfully sweet. As most know, two of my hobbies are telling inappropriate jokes in mixed company and starting fights with random strangers for no reason. A high-class function offers a golden opportunity to do both. Why else would they hold them? Certainly not because polite society really cares who the Rosicrucian of the year is. Which is a shame considering the joy they bring driving those funny little cars in parades. Or maybe that's the shriners. Whatever.

Anyway, last night found us sitting at a table at the annual Soil/Water Conservation banquet. Now this probably sounds like the snoozefest to end all snoozefest. Au contraire. I suspect Jack Bauer himself would have found the evening's festivities too intense and requested the powers that be take things down a notch.

Actually...that's not true.

The dinner was just as one would figure. Plenty of very nice and very decent people sitting down and breaking bread together. A nice meal. Free in fact, but since I generally avoid the foods most normal people eat, I mainly ate bread and picked the bananas out of my banana pudding. Our meal was interrupted by the occasional award. But these all seemed to be controversy free so I'll presume the recipient is a no doubt deserving super person. Then we enjoyed a speech on bio fuels. Yes, bio fuels. They said it's the future but they never offered if there bio-fueled future involved jet packs. It had better or I think I'll pass.

More or less the one thought that never left my mind was that this was the perfect moment for a dude engulfed in flames to just come running through. Maybe to show how bio-fuels can burn a man just like good ol' fashioned gasoline. Or for the matter, show how bio-fuel can be set aflame but never burn. I'm guessing that would guarantee the business of the entire world of popular music. A blazing Axl Rose marching around the stage singing Welcome to the Jungle? That would take badassness to another level. Heck, Axl might even would be cool again.

The possibilities are endless, I suppose. Lord knows I had plenty of time to think about all the wonders that will await as soon as we surrender to our bio-fuel overlords. But I did keep a close eye on the door for a man on fire. Alas, no such dude ever showed. Probably because it was raining.

Hang in there

The other day as the EPJ and I were getting ready to close up shop, the phone rang. Not much of a phone fan to begin with, calling as I'm walking out the door is virtually guarantees no answer. I know it's very popular for automated answering services to repeat the mantra about "Your call being very important to us. Please stay on the line." Of course, "your call" is not important to them. Otherwise, you'd be greeted by a friendly human voice instead of Mr. Roboto. That's how you know the EPJ and I really do care, that personal touch.

However, I often dream of automation--even my dreams are geeky-- just for those instances when someone would call our office at 4:59 and hear the "please stay on the line" part. I can imagine some dude sitting on a couch, throwing various things at his wife/kids, repeating, "I'll give them 5 more minutes," for the next 15 hours. This particular thought has lighten many of my darkest moments.

Until we take that technological leap, folks who call so close to quitting time are taking their lives into their own hands. So to speak. I figure that in the extremely unlikely event the caller is someone I'd actually want to talk to, he/she has my cell and our recreational plans/discussion of the weather can be handled outside of company time. Should the call be regarding business, well, I suppose that's what one gets for daring to call at the end of the day. A surefire way to be trampled is to get between the EPJ, me and the door at 5 o'clock. Strangely, there's no mad dash to get here in the mornings.

For reasons best known to her, on this particular day the EPJ actually answered that last call. Just as well; it happened to be her husband on the other end, who although I've not given him a snazzy pseudonym, is a decent enough fellow. At precisely the same time, Maureen from across the hall burst in to tell us the building was on fire or the town had exploded or something. I didn't really care and wasn't paying much attention. It was dangerously close to 5:01 pm, and my car wasn't going to drive itself home.

But somewhere in all the confusion, Maureen overheard the EPJ say she "dropped them off." While this statement would have seemed to be of no interest to anyone other than Mr. EPJ, Maureen was rather intrigued.

Maureen: "Dropped what off, where?"

Me: "A bag of kittens at the bridge."

Please understand I did not think this a particularly witty quip nor one that would have even the slightest ring of truth. Quite simply, it just popped in there. Much like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Had I workshopped the line for hours on end and arrived at the most awesome comeback in the history of awesome comebacks, I couldn't have gotten a more perfect response.

Maureen: "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!? Oh, no!!! How could you do that?"

The EPJ was still on the phone and had not the slightest idea what she had done. She looked on clueless.

Apparently, I sold this line incredibly well. Likewise, Maureen obviously thinks the EPJ is pretty all-around awful person even though they've been friends for years. In fact, the EPJ is a pretty all-around decent person, but I always enjoy confirming one's worst fears. Plus, I try to encourage irrational conclusions at every opportunity.

So...yes.

The EPJ's day job as an upholder of law, justice and the American way is merely cover for her true passion: feline-icide. It's a well-known fact that in America's seedy cat underbelly, the EPJ is more feared than a Chinese restaurant. It's the grandmotherly types one really has to watch out for, I guess. My cats certainly don't like her.

But because I like to promote harmony and brotherhood, or sisterhood in this case, I quickly assured Maureen I was only joking. The EPJ, no friend of the most adorable of God's creatures, but not, you know, psycho, hadn't dropped any cats off any bridge. Certainly not within the last 50 years anyway. A moment of relief was had by all. Then we all went out and kicked a dog.

Randomness pt. 2

Work, government holidays and other stuff have made for a rather busy past week for yours truly. Nothing too bad, but enough that I've not posted for a week. I'm sure that others, say POTUS, would argue they've had even less time for this sort of thing of late than me. But pissing matches don't really suit me. And it probably would be in my best interest not to enter into one with someone who could remove all traces of my existence with the snap of his finger. Apparently, he has a very powerful snap. But if I were going to get into such a contest with him over something, it probably wouldn't be over who is the bigger time-waster. Nevertheless, I'm going to stay in training.

To wit:

1.) A lady called this morning and wasting no time with formalities or particulars asked me the phone number for Statesboro. Not Statesboro police department. Not Statesboro bait & tackle. Just "what the number for Statesboro." Maybe they have a phone in the town square to take random calls; I wouldn't know since I've been to Statesboro, which is about 2 hours away from here, exactly once in my life. Nevertheless, because I'm the helpful sort, I suggested she call 411 and just ask for Statesboro. Undeterred, she then asked when her brother was to be released from jail. In a town about an hour from here. In another county. That I'm pretty sure doesn't have a jail. I then decided she terribly confused. Or drunk.

2.) Walking to get Marisol's morning libation (Gatorade fruit punch), I observed a gent pick up a still-smoldering ciggie from a newspaper dispenser. Figuring why waste a good smoke, he walked off, puffing away. His enthusiasm was as contagious as his cough. I understand from reliable sources that the pull of nicotine is rather strong. I know all too well that some bastards somewhere--govt., big tobacco, Hollywood--have just about priced the common folk out of the habit altogether. This leaves only club-hopping, trust fund hipsters and old, rich people with nothing much to live for anyway as the remaining customers for cancer-sticks. I guess those caught somewhere in between, like this dude, have to be thankful for the castoffs of strangers.

3.) Last year at halftime of the Ga Tech-Jacksonville State game, the Jacksonville State band did a sort of bizarre tribute to Mother Russia. Giving the dancers hammer and sickle flags to boogaloo with, the band played the works of various Russian composers and told of the Oktober Revolution in the only way fitting: song. They left out all the mass killings and such though. Reaction in the stands was pretty evenly divided between confusion and anger. This was, after all, a football game in the south, not Cal-Berkeley. I'm sure I would have had a similar reaction had I not been at the concession stand getting a hot dog. Though I suspect my reaction would have been tinged with laughter upon hearing numerous upstanding, God-fearing men yell out, "What the hell is this commie shit?"

Afterwards, the commie band director in question offered one of the more amusing non-apologies I've heard, saying essentially, "It's not my fault you uncultured rubes can't appreciate high culture like we Alabamans can. But hey, whatever, sorry." Tech fans, I do believe we just got served.

Making no such mistake this year, the Jacksonville State band marched triumphantly back into halftime with a patriotic display that even Sam the All-American Eagle from the The Muppets would have found over the top. Nothing but red, white and blue, old glory and nothing more left wing than a few selection from Mr. John Phillip Sousa. It all seemed to be that most American of symbols: the middle finger. All right you boors, you want patriotism then, by gum, here it is. Enjoy the perty dancing girls as you choke on this; we're going back to Alabama.

Who knew football could be so boorish?

Everyone's gone to the movies

I mentioned a few months back that our local do-gooder organization (which, much to their dismay, has me for its president) was just starting to think about getting on the road to maybe deciding on helping out on the potential renovation of our long-since-shuttered local movie house. Since then several strides have been made on that front, namely that the entire front exterior has been renovated and all the neon replaced.

Since I walk by the theater every day, I've been able to track the construction process the past few months. I'd gotten used to seeing workers coming and going as the cobwebs were gradually cleaned away from the entrance and the dirty, chipping red and lime green paint became a fresh shade of white and red. Once I saw the new doors go up I determined this project was actually happening and some day we just might see the old show look better than ever. When the workers quit showing up, I deduced that an unveiling couldn't be too far off. Logic being a good friend of mine that rarely lets me down.

On Monday night, not too far off got a whole lost closer. The locals brought out lawn chairs and sat on the street in front of the show for the grand unveiling of all this progress. I figured the turnout would be pretty good since the theater holds a special place in the hearts of so many around here. And, truthfully, there ain't a whole lot going on around here on a Monday night at the end of August.

Actually, there's not ever a whole lot going on around here, but I guess that's why people like it. Or at least drink to numb the pain. Anyway, even I was surprised at just how many folks showed up. I didn't recall advertising free beer and strippers, but apparently somebody did. Certainly all these people wouldn't have come just to see a theater lighting, but it seems they did.

As this was a theater lighting, it only made sense to have popcorn and cokes for to the assembled throng. Since the concession stand and the entire interior work hasn't even been started, we brought in a popcorn machine and a couple of of coolers of cokes. This necessitated the need for brave souls to man this particular fort. Using questionable logic, the powers that be figured that if anybody knew how to prepare popcorn it would be the one person who finds the very concept of popcorn thoroughly disgusting, i.e. me.

Therefore, that's where my two cohorts and I spent most of the night, handing out bags to whoever wanted one. This seemed to be everyone who wasn't me. Who knew not liking popcorn was such a revolutionary stance? I figured since the popcorn was free no one would complain if it was awful or attack the chefs. No one did. A riot would have sort of violated the spirit of the occasion anyway.

After a few, brief, well-meaning speeches that I'm guessing no one paid much attention to, the big moment arrived. The switch was thrown. Since I'd been assigned to concessions, I was afraid that I wouldn't get to see the lights actually come on. But, as luck would have it, I was out in the crowd doling out popcorn at that very moment.

For someone with my general demeanor, it's probably not a stretch to say there haven't been too many moments in my life I would describe as breathtaking. This was one. As the neon kicked on, townsfolk got to see a sight they most certainly never expected to see again. There was an collective gasp from the crowd that was quickly followed by a round of applause and then silence as we took the moment in. Though the moment quickly passed, it really did seem like some Norman Rockwell painting come to life. A nice evening to say the least. I suppose having to touch all that popcorn wasn't all that bad either.