Personal Musings category archive

. . . seems to be all the news today.

I remember Speed Racer.

Left me cold. I much preferred Super Car and Lancelot Link.

And, of course, Bugs Bunny.

Remember, it wasn’t the Supremes who sang, “Won’t Get Fooled Again“:

About 12 Indiana nuns were turned away Tuesday from a polling place by a fellow bride of Christ because they didn’t have state or federal identification bearing a photograph.

Sister Julie McGuire said she was forced to turn away her fellow sisters at Saint Mary’s Convent in South Bend, across the street from the University of Notre Dame, because they had been told earlier that they would need such an ID to vote.

The nuns, all in their 80s or 90s, didn’t get one but came to the precinct anyway.

“One came down this morning, and she was 98, and she said, ‘I don’t want to go do that,'” Sister McGuire said. Some showed up with outdated passports. None of them drives.

They weren’t given provisional ballots because it would be impossible to get them to a motor vehicle branch and back in the 10-day time frame allotted by the law, Sister McGuire said. “You have to remember that some of these ladies don’t walk well. They’re in wheelchairs or on walkers or electric carts.”

Of course, the question is, “Why are the Republicans afraid of nuns’ voting?” (Follow the link before you comment, oh ye two or three who choose to comment.)

DDay has more.

Or something like that.

Duncan wonders why the Secretary of the Treasury believes that getting rid of the penny would be politically impossible.

I have a theory.

Does anyone seriously believe that, if the penny disappeared, prices would be rounded to the nearest nickel?

Noooooooooooooooo, Inflation Breath.

Our Wonderful American Business Community(tm) would, without doubt, round everything up.

Remember, this is the same Wonderful American Business Community(tm) that thought Liar’s Loans were a wonderful idea.

Nothing I can say can express the depth of stupidity in this.

Anyone who thinks Playboy is pr0n has either never read Playboy or never seen real pr0n.

Or is one warped nutcase.

(Personally, I’m voting for the latter.)

But ASZ is not lost for words and deals with it neatly.

What’s 18 1/2 minutes compared to months’ worth of emails?

The White House chief information officer, Theresa Payton, said in a sworn declaration that the White House has identified more than 400 computer backup tapes from March through September of 2003 but that the earliest recorded file was dated May 23 of that year.

That period was one of the most crucial of the Bush presidency. The United States launched the invasion of Iraq on March 20, 2003, and President Bush declared the end of major combat operations on May 1.

Payton and other officials said that older e-mails could still be contained on the tapes because of the way the files are dated.

The administration also said it is still searching computer archives for e-mails that have been filed in the wrong “digital drawer.” In addition, Payton and other officials have said that any e-mails missing from the White House archiving system might still be available on disaster recovery tapes.

Now, I’m not a big one for conspiracy theories. I go by the conspiracy theory version of Occam’s Razor:

Never attribute to conspiracy what can be explained by stupidity.

But, honest to Pete, it’s hard to believe that even this bunch of incompetent ideologues could be that stupid.

I had to go up to church, about 3/4 mile from here, to phony up my treasurer’s report for tonight’s meeting (which went on 45 minutes longer than it needed to, but I’ll put it down to team-building).

I think I’m getting the hang of this derailleur thing. When I got home and looked, I was actually in the gear I thought I was in.

I dropped more at Dunbar’s on accessories–lock, pump, gloves (for comfort), cork tape (the tape on this 30+ year old bike was falling off), tire levers–than the bike cost.

I found a tire pressure gauge that reads up to 150 psi (the bike tires inflate to 90 psi) at the hardware store. I suspect, though I did not check, that I saved several bucks just because it came from a hardware store rather than a bike shop.

(It’s like boats. Anything with the word “marine” in the name automatically costs 40% more than an equivalent product that lacks the word “marine.” I once watch a guy in a Boats-R-US Store–now West Marine–pitch a bitch at the defenseless clerk because the special mop he was buying for cleaning his hull cost more than a squeeze mop from Safeway. Never mind that this special mop had a telescoping anodized aluminum shaft to resist corrosion and, oh, did I mention? a locking telescoping feature for reaching those hard to reach places. Duh!)

We have been recycling.

No, we’re not green freaks.

It started with newspaper and gradually expanded to everything else.

Delaware makes it easy. You can either pay money and have the state pick it up (Urk!) or just drop it off at a recycling center. There’s one about two miles north of here, right on the way to DL, another one about two miles south of me right on the way to I-495 (my favored way around the city), and one in the state park just over there behind my back fence right on the way to the main street of the east coast.

So, from time to time, I just toss the junk in the back of the truck and leave 15 minutes early to wherever I’m going.

And now, except for batteries, corrugated paper, waste oil, and plastic grocery bags, you don’t even have to separate.

Yesterday, the local rag had a good article about what can–and cannot be–recycled. If you even dabble in recycling, it can be interesting reading. For example:

I had thought packages with food on them couldn’t be recycled. Not long ago, I told her, I’d thrown out an empty flour bag.

Just shake it out, she said, and put it with the rest of the paper.

Bottom line: A bit of residue is all right. Goo is not.

I thought I’d get her on the soup and milk boxes. Aren’t they foil-lined? “Just paper,” she reassured me.

But even experts don’t know what to do with everything.

Birtel picked up a noodle bag and turned it over, looking for clues, then shrugged. “It’s not marked. I can’t tell.”

Birtel’s rule of thumb: If the plastic is pliable – like bread bags and veggie bags – it can go in the storefront bins for recycling plastic check-out bags, which aren’t accepted for curbside recycling.

If it crinkles or crunches, it’s probably not recyclable.

Anything that’s mixed materials in one package – foil and paper, say – can’t be recycled.

(Now, I have heard reports of supermarkets throwing away plastic grocery bags left in the “storefront bins” when their recycling company hasn’t picked them up in time, though a quick Google didn’t turn any of them up, so I’m happier dropping mine off with the state.)

Oh, yeah, about those plastic grocery bags. I like to bag my own groceries with paper, when the grocery store has paper in stock. It’s awfully irritating when the clerks bag them in plastic bags. I get 20 items. I come home with 18 plastic bags.

With paper bags and little bit of that spatial recognition stuff us guys are supposed to be good at, I get 20 items, I come out with two, maybe three bags, depending on how many big things I bought. What the heck do they teach the staff about bagging anyway?

Furrfu.

Oh, yeah, and a paper grocery bag is just the right size for a weeks worth of Inkys.

H/T to Linda for catching the article.

The “gas tax holiday” being shilled by Hillary Clinton and John McCain is more McCrap from empty suits.

You know about empty suits: Look good in meetings. Write nice memos. Never met a decision for which they didn’t maintain “plausible deniability.” From Robert Reich:

I’m not saying HRC is George Bush. And I’m not suggesting economists have all the answers. But when economists tell a president or a presidential candidate that his or her idea is dumb – and when all respectable economists around America agree that it’s a dumb idea – it’s probably wise for the president or presidential candidate to listen. When the president or candidate doesn’t, and proudly defends the policy by saying she’s “not going to put my lot in with economists,” we’ve got a problem, folks.

Even though the summer gas tax holiday is pure hokum, it polls well, which is why HRC and John McCain are pushing it. That Barack Obama is not in favor of it despite its positive polling numbers speaks volumes about the kind of president he’ll be – and the kind of president we’d otherwise get from McCain and HRC.

Haven’t we had enough of politicians who reject facts in favor of short-term poll-driven politics?

(Aside: Probably not. Fantasy trumps thought. That’s how we got Bush in the first place. Oh, yeah, there was that little sell-out by the Supremes, but that’s all sludge through the filtration field by now.)

TPM:

Down at Ridgaways Getty just down the street:

Brings back memories of happier times.

Nixon.

Oh, my, Bush even makes Nixon look good.

I just used algebra for the seventh time since I graduated high school.

My 40th HS reunion is in August.

(Link fixed)

How would you feel if, every morning, you woke up to find a pair of deadbeats waiting to move into the house that you built with your own beaks?

You can watch a short movie of the chickadees being annoying here and one of the sapsuckers here (not great, but the best I can do with my digital still camera which takes movies just as an afterthought). We have observed that the sapsuckers never leave their nest unattended. One will return before the other leaves.

Here’s me laying in wait on the roof.

(Aside: It has been reliably reported that chickadees support John McCain.

Here’s a picture of the bike I bought yesterday. I spend today trying to learn how to shift the derailleur and actually ended up adjusting the front shifter:

(Would you believe the grass was cut just four days ago?)

Last night, Second Son was driving girlfriend’s car (with permission–it’s easier on gas than his truck) home from “the Spot.” (“The Spot” is located in the same building as the Urban Bike Project–it’s a collection of art galleries for local artists, as well as a venue for local bands.)

The car got rocked. That is, someone threw a rock at it. Not 500 feet from the local State Police Barracks in the middle of a generally much more than okay area. He immediately turned left into the Barracks and reported the crime.

It’s clear to see from the pattern of the break that the rock hit on the lower left corner where the glass curves from the side to the back. According to Second Son, the cop said, “Well, it hit at the worst possible place.”

Fortunately, no one, not even the back seat passenger, was hurt. But there were shards of glass everywhere–in the back seat, on the rear shelf, under the front seats, even in the map pocket of the right rear door.

Meanwhile, the car doesn’t do (rear) windows any more:

The neighbor lent us his shop vac to suck up the glass, but there’s still bits and pieces in the driveway. No foreign objects and no exit wounds were found in the vehicle, supporting the theory that it was a rock and not a bullet.

I’m going to keep parking on the street, thank you. And the boat doesn’t move until the glass is gone.

We’ve had far too much excitement around here lately.

(Aside: I included the campaign sign in the picture just for Opie.)

Here are a couple of pictures:

We have noticed that a couple of other local boids don’t seem to like their new neighbors. They hang out just above the nest and harass them.

Probably because they are different.

I think the harassers are the chickadees, but I didn’t get a really good look. Intensive research (five seconds on Google) yielded nothing.

I’ll try to get some pictures of that the next time I’m on the roof (I had to come down because the camera died).

Addendum, Later That Same Afternoon:

Apparently, chickadees, also known as “Black-cap Titmice” (Titmouses?) like to squat in woodpecker holes (emphasis added and this dude needs to attend my writing course–he makes Dickens seem concise):

Hardy, smart, restless, industrious, and frugal, the Black-cap Titmouse ranges through the forest during the summer, and retiring to its more secluded parts, as if to ensure a greater degree of quiet, it usually breeds there. Numerous eggs produce a numerous progeny, and as soon as the first brood has been reared, the young range hither and thither in a body, searching for food, while their parents, intent on forming another family, remain concealed and almost silent, laying their eggs in the hole deserted by some small Woodpecker, or forming one for themselves. As it has been my fortune to witness a pair at this work, I will here state what occurred, notwithstanding the opinion of those who inform us that the bill of a Titmouse is “not shaped for digging.” While seated one morning under a crab-apple tree (very hard wood, reader), I saw two Black-cap Titmice fluttering about in great concern, as if anxious to see me depart. By their manners indeed I was induced to believe that their nest was near, and, anxious to observe their proceedings, I removed to the distance of about twenty paces. The birds now became silent, alighted on the apple-tree, gradually moved towards the base of one of its large branches, and one of them disappeared in what I then supposed to be the hole of some small Woodpecker; but I saw it presently on the edge, with a small chip in its bill, and again cautiously approached the tree. When three or four yards off I distinctly heard the peckings or taps of the industrious worker within, and saw it come to the mouth of the hole and return many times in succession in the course of half an hour, after which I got up and examined the mansion. The hole was about three inches deep, and dug obliquely downward from the aperture, which was just large enough to admit the bird. I had observed both sexes at this labour, and left the spot perfectly satisfied as to their power of boring a nest for themselves.

H/T to Linda for finding this.

From Delaware Liberal:

This is what conservatism is all about: the worship of the wealthy; the rest of it is just smoke and mirrors.

When you look beyond the smoke and mirrors to the actual behavior, well, there it is.

Words can lie. Behavior does not.

(Aside: No, Chris, not your kind of bike.)

A refurbished Fuji Sports 10, ca. 1975.

Second Son has been doing some volunteer work at the Wilmington Urban Bike Project. A week or so ago, he bought himself a nice refurbished bicycle for $30.

I’ve always liked to cycle. Heck, when I was growing up, when I wasn’t on a tractor, I was likely on my trusty Western Auto 24″ one speed with a coaster brake. My Huffy three-speed gave up the ghost several years ago, and, frankly, I’m getting old enough so that I need more than three speeds (you don’t realize how steep that little hill is until you try to bicycle up it).

So, today, we went down the the Urban Bike Project; we donated his old bicycle from when he was a little kid and I bought the Fuji for $75.00.

The Urban Bike Project has an interesting approach. It does not exist to sell bikes to the general public and you could walk by it without knowing it was there; normally, you have to volunteer to get a bike, but I had an in with Second Son. And I would just as soon give my money to them as to Target, let alone some high-priced exclusive bike store for people who wear colors so loud a hippy would never have worn them and pants with funny padding when they cycle (yeah, I know the padding is practical, but it still looks funny).

The Project lets neighborhood kids (they are not located in a great neighborhood, but neither is it the worst neighborhood in town) work on the donated bikes, teaching the kids how to maintain bicycles as they go. After a kid has worked enough hours–five, I think, something the kid can accomplish in a day–he or she can pick out a bike from a selection the Project reserves for that purpose.

Second Son tells me that one of the problems they face is that, often, after a kid earns his “free” bicycle, the kid will turn around a couple three days later and find his bike has been ripped off. Indeed, as I wheeled the bike out, one of the adult leaders suggested that I write my name, address, and phone number on a slip of paper and drop it down the seat tube.

(I don’t expect a bike to disappear in this neighborhood, but I may drop my business card in there–maybe it will lead to a gig.)

Monday, I will hie me down to Dunbar’s about a mile hence and pick up some basic maintenance stuff (patch kit, tire irons, spare tube, spoke wrench–I have vise grips, WD-40, a Swiss Army knife, and duct tape; if it can’t be fixed with vise grips, WD-40, a Swiss Army knife, and duct tape, it can’t be fixed). The surest way to prevent a flat tire is to be ready for one.

Tomorrow, I have to pump up the tires (90 psi) and see if they hold air and go to some parking lot somewhere and learn how to ride this thing. I’ve never shifted gears on a derailleur before . . . .

So, I’m on the way to the bank this morning and someone passes me (at a reasonable speed) in a bright, shiny, new black Lamborghini.

I want that car.

The closest I’ll ever get to it is probably a used Fiat.

(According to the Car Talk guys, Fiat stands for “Fix it already, Tony.”)

Is not dead. Check out this story from Mithras.

No. Not that kind.

This kind.

We’ve been hearing a tap-tap-tapping rap-rap-rapping on a tree.

Two yellow-bellied sapsuckers (as opposed to yellow bloodsuckers) have taken up residence in a tree right next to the back porch.

I’ve been noticing white flakes near the base of the tree. I was thinking they were some kind of petal from a spring flower, until, today, I got off my anatomy and actually walked outside to look at them.

They were flakes of wood.

I followed the trail of wood flakes upwards along the tree trunk until I spotted the hole in the side of the tree. Even as we speak, the pair are busy working on an addition to hold their brood.

I found a diagram of a woodpecker nest here. Looks like they have their work cut out for them before their three bedroom split is ready for full occupancy.

I’ll try to get some pictures, but it might be a few days and ladders will certainly be involved. I’m thinking that, if I get on the porch roof, I should be close enough to get some decent shots without scaring my new neighbors.