Doc's Place: Stuff

I Have No Idea, Either

Sat, 28 Jun 2008 15:43:45 GMT

At some point in this post you will ask yourself, “What is this about and why am I reading it?” I have no idea. I’ve been drawing a blank on most of my usual activities this week, and have even managed to reverse my Circadian cycle such that I am working the night shift that I much preferred when I was working summers in high school and college.

The week started with the deaths of two people I never met, yet felt close to for different reasons. The first was that of George Carlin, known to most people, but who felt to me like a friend because the way our minds synchronized on many topics. The other was a man who only drag racers were likely to have known before the picture of the fireball on the news for a day. Scott Kalitta, age 42, died when his Funny Car exploded while traveling at over 300 mph and then hit the retaining wall at the far end of the strip because the drag chute did not open properly to slow him. He was the son of Connie Kalitta, a man who was my contemporary in racing, though in a much higher and faster class. I can’t even say that I knew him more than to exchange a passing greeting, but there was a personal tie present.

I never met Scott. His death served to remind me that “the next generations” of racers are dying now, and how death was always “a given” possibility when one raced. I was lucky enough never to have had a serious injury, but saw seven people either badly injured or killed at US 30 when a freak accident cut the steering and brakes to a car which then ran into a hot dog stand. The propane tanks at the stand burst and were ignited. It has had me wondering if the good old days were nearly as good as my memories of them.

Drag race slicks

Burning nitro fuel explodes

No chute deploy. End.

How does one make a segue from a topic like this to the apartment complex and the behavior of cats? I don’t know, but I’ve been trying to do just that, to get back into the present, for most of the week. While pondering such life events as how and why I have lived as long as I have, done what I have done, missed doing things I have wanted to do, and arguing with myself about how I got here and where I am going next, I charged the batteries for my camera. Yes, the expensive Olympus C-700 I purchased almost eight years ago with its astounding 2.1 Megapixel resolution and 10X optical zoom. I found that I had a few pictures of cats already in the flash memory, so I proceeded to take another hundred or so.

Thoughts, mostly depressive, have been bouncing around in my head to the point that I haven’t even wanted to blog, and am now doing so more out of a feeling of obligation than for pleasure, as is the usual case. I can afford it, but I don’t even seem able to just go ahead and buy a bookcase. I don’t want to start projects or even go out to buy a USB cable. I believe the pleasure center of my brain went on vacation and didn’t take me along. Oh, well, I’ll add a few pictures and write more when I have something to say.

Peace, Doc

“One cat just leads to another....” - Ernest Hemingway.

Good Bye, My Friend

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 08:35:46 GMT

Counterculture comedian George Carlin, age 71, died of heart failure at 5:55 PM PDT on Sunday. He performed as recently as last weekend in Las Vegas and it was announced last Tuesday that he was to be awarded the 11th annual Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.

From his character as “The Hippy-Dippy Weatherman,” to the “Seven Words You Can’t Say On TV,” to his current cynical take on society and religion, in general, I listened. My feeling about his work came as close to hero worship as I have felt about any living show business celebrity.

May He Rest In Peace, Doc

“I think it's the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.” – George Carlin

“The reason I talk to myself is that I'm the only one whose answers I accept.” - George Carlin

“Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.” - George Carlin

This Is NOT About The Village Of Elburn, IL

Tue, 13 May 2008 04:58:30 GMT

This post is not about the Village of Elburn Illinois. It is not about the Mayor's Blog, not about Building and Zoning, not about the Staff Directory, or even Living in Elburn. Most especially, it is not about the Elburn Police Department which sets up speed ~~traps~~ enforcement zones on IL Route 38 or Route 47.

What is it about, then? It is about my plans for arranging the various antiques, furniture, oriental rugs, book cases and books, pillows, lamps, roll top desks, and other items such that they do not look worse than the piles of boxes and plastic containers that they are now replacing. How does one display an antique Leitz Wetzlar black and brass microscope, a current flat panel TV, assorted wooden model boats, brass candlesticks, a working 1940's radio, three metal U-Needa Biscuit boxes, a small Waterford table lamp, along with a modern 12 foot sofa, drop-leaf coffee table, and monster leather recliner chair and make it "work." Oh, yes. I forgot to mention the antique three-wood oriental triptych style mirror I acquired yesterday.

As a male who is visually oriented and a linear thinker, I would likely try to fit everything against a wall and fill every flat surface with important "stuff." My main concerns would be which floor lamp should be placed next to the recliner, which rug should line up squarely with what other large thing, and now, where to hang the three paneled mirror. I have found out within the past six hours that this is not to be. I have gotten to be quite good friends with the couple downstairs despite the 3:00 a.m. cat crazies during which The Boys chase each other around the apartment at full speed and at top decibel level until they tire of it. I am very thankful that they are animal lovers, and especially that The Boys are on their best behavior and are extremely friendly when these neighbors visit. I believe that it is clear to the cat people, and to the people people, that we all like each other. Bittle even managed to acquire a particularly comfortable flannel shirt during one of their visits.

Now, onward to the part of this experience about which I am both thrilled and a bit frightened. In addition to one spouse being the assistant manager of the apartment complex, one has been a professional interior decorator for a number of years in the past, both for corporations and for individuals. I have been informed that they both have a day off Wednesday and that "we" are going to decorate! I have no belief whatsoever that this will be limited to moving only the microscope or the dealer showroom model of a 1953 Plymouth station wagon. I know both that the result will be wonderful and also that I will be well beyond my usual state of anxiety for the next two days.

Peace, Doc

"What you have become is the price you paid to get what you used to want." - Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960

It Finally Looks Like An Apartment

Sat, 10 May 2008 09:53:24 GMT

It should. I've had over six months to make it that way. I believe that I am much better at planning how things should be done than actually doing them. I've been slowly working away at all the sorting, pitching, donating, giving away, and repressing "stuff" that I only accomplished minimal things. "Ah, that (insert odd thing here) should be in the (insert semi-appropriate room here.)" And I'd take it there, usually bringing something from room number two back to room number one, if appropriate. The piles were very slowly receding in the living room and the dining area, but I felt no real pressure to rush. I thought that about a year seemed to be a reasonable goal to set for myself.

That was until I received the notice from the apartment complex management that "the inspection" was to occur Thursday at 10:30 a.m. I quickly started carrying more than one thing from room to room in my wanderings. When that didn't seem to be working quickly enough I tried armloads, with possible multiple destinations. "Stuff" was no longer being sorted neatly into appropriately sized boxes and compulsively labeled as to the exact contents. By Tuesday I was feeling more than a hint of anxiety that I might be requested to go away, even though my rent checks had been willingly accepted up to that point. By very early Wednesday morning I realized that going into warp drive would be necessary. I remained in that state for 32 hours straight and, other than a few minor incidents (knee going out of joint repeatedly, disc and back ailments hurting more by the hour, frightening the cats with my flurry of activity, carting boxes to the dumpster at 2:00 a.m., etc.) made excellent use of my time. Four rooms/areas looked just as they were supposed to, did not smell of cat activities, had the furniture and area rugs arranged, and there was only one room, the door to which could not be opened. Yes, I used the correct words, could not, not should not. I believe that the vacuum cleaner tipped over against it when I was ~~hiding~~ storing it appropriately. Thankfully, no cats were trapped or harmed in the process. I even had almost 10 minutes to shower before the manager and the maintenance man arrived. I was fearful that I might have to answer the door in my underpants, but I was rewarded for my frantic efforts by being able to finish dressing.

When ~~the Gestapo~~ my guests arrived, I was ever so helpful, relating that I had already changed one of the sensor batteries about three weeks ago, offering a chair to stand on rather than have the maintenance man leave to get a ladder, and easily relating to the male sorts of things. I had to resort to a bit more trickery and misdirection with the manager, however. As I could not allow certain closet or room doors to be opened, I offered her Stinky (in one of his most loveable poses) to be petted, showed her the corner that had the collection of my grandfather's medical bag, contents, black and brass antique microscope, my newly framed picture of my mother, and anything else I could think of. I even gave her an open hanging file rack for the complex office. I not only passed, using this "treachery and deceit" approach, but was complimented on how nice things looked. Truthfully, it actually does look pretty good and will look even better now that I have seen the possibilities of moving a few things around to delimit the living room and leave the largest wall in the entire apartment free to decorate as I wish.

I do so hope that the unsettling sound of "stuff" settling in the room behind the door which cannot be opened will stop soon. For the nonce, I have taken enough medication for my back pain that I probably do not yet fully realize the enormity of the tasks awaiting me behind "that door."

Peace, Doc

Happy Mothers' Day to all out there in blogland to whom that wish is appropriate.

Musings Of A Cynical Psychologist

Sun, 04 May 2008 11:37:18 GMT

Well, the post about reality really got a diversity of comments, opinions, and observations. I saw philosophy, psychology, theology, spirituality, teleology, cosmology, dreams, alternate and/or coexisting realities, truth, the unattainable Platonic ideal, single entity dictatorship (some call that being a Republican) and mob-rule (others call that democracy or being a Democrat,) commenting simultaneously on each other's spaces being spoooooky, a belief that what is, is, and a wonderfully cryptic comment about cheese. This is very clearly a topic that I will follow up with further posts. Although the comments are all related to reality, they take such differing perspectives that I'm not at all certain that I posed the question correctly. Just to take that piece of rose quartz as an example, is it real even if nobody anywhere is consciously perceiving it? Does "something" have to be perceived by a conscious intelligence to be real or a part of reality? If it has no sentience, is it real to itself or to another aspect of reality?

This is a slightly strange question, but if Puzzle drops by again,would she please tell me how many syllables there are in Oberammergauralpenkrauterdelikatessenfruhstuckskase, which, as coincidence would have it, is a type of German cheese. If it isn't 17, is there another word that means the same thing that does have 17 syllables? Many of you will immediately recognize my secret reason for asking that question, but I won't tell others, just so they might drop back to find out the answer.

It's a good thing that these are musings. I don't have to stay on topic and that's getting a little difficult at 5:15 a.m. I also have the excuse of becoming a bit looser in my thoughts with sleepiness as I age.

In the previous post, I used an example of breaking a Waterford crystal bowl. It was being used as my cats' water bowl. Pampered. I went out to my local "everything-store" yesterday evening and found a glue specifically formulated for mending glass. The makers claim that when it cures properly, one cannot see the break lines and that the repaired object can be cleaned in a dishwasher (not that I have one here.) I approve of that for two reasons. I really like the bowl and, being lead crystal, it broke very cleanly which should make it much easier to repair. Even though it loses its resale value, its beauty will continue to exist, in my reality, and that will please me when I look at it. Secondly, Bittle and Stinky were pissed off at me for putting their water in an ordinary cat bowl.

With another hop and a skip along the space-time continuum, I will warn "No Name" to knock off the "If you have bought (WoW) gold from others before ... " spamming that you have been doing all over my site, I will attempt to do bad things to you. I have been successful in doing these bad things to others in the past. "Nuff said.

While out shopping, I also bought a cartridge of labeling tape such that I can now place little signs on the neater and smaller pile of boxes that will at least allude to what might be in them. While I was at it, I also bought four of those hard plastic and fuzzy stuff "carpet protectors." I don't really need to protect this carpet, as Astro-Turf would be a step up from the carpeting which came with the apartment. I need to raise the bed about 1/4 inch because the plastic bin on rollers I bought about a week ago to roll under the bed, is brought to a halt by a part of the bed's frame, leaving just enough sticking out that I have already tired of stubbing my left great toe upon it. That is the same appendage I dropped a trophy on earlier in the moving process, and I don't believe it has forgiven me yet.

As a final note of explanation, I have received over 40 requests to become Friends with visitors in a very short time and haven't acted on most of them. In the past, I have had some serious problems with people who were then "friends" by links, were involving me in a game in which I did not wish to participate, or who were unknown to me. A few months ago I did two posts about the issue of what I felt being Friends on Spaces meant, and that it differed from MySpace, Face Book, and other specifically social groups. The first was About Friends, Messages, And Why I May Appear To Be A Cantankerous Old Poop. The post immediately following that one was Old Poop Rant: Part II. The short form is that I believe the great majority of you are fine people, but I have had to require that we at least exchange comments or messages a couple of times before I will agree to be friends, and I must be able to see your blog entries and your space.

Peace, Doc

“To rove about, musing, that is to say loitering, is, for a philosopher, a good way of spending time” -Victor Hugo

Doc Assembles A Chair (Successfully)

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:50:52 GMT

Quite some time before moving into this apartment, I bought an office desk chair with all the adjustable positions possible. I never took it out of the box until this week, however, because it would have remained essentially unused and in danger in an infrequently utilized home office. It would most certainly have acted as a cat magnet, as I learned from past experience with a leather task chair. That chair ended up with "fringe" hanging down from all sides of the seat due to The Boys adopting it as a scratching post. That bit of furniture was one of the few things that I had little difficulty in deciding whether or not to move with me.

I have finally gotten around to setting up the second bedroom as an office, hobby, and computer room, so it was time to remove the various chair pieces from the box and assemble it. I was initially careful to select one with a fiberglass underside and back, with most other surfaces exposed to felines covered in rubberized plastic. This was a wise choice as The Boys have already had their way with the back of a small, cloth upholstered recliner in the same room. I will soon take an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach and get or make them a scratching post.

When the carton was opened, I found a few more parts than I thought could possibly fit into a box of that size. They were also heavier than I remembered. Probably because someone else moved that particular box. Somewhat daunted by the seeming complexity of the project, I read the instructions. Yes, a male who read the instructions before attempting to put the thing together. After seeing the exploded view, it seemed simple enough, so I began. The (single page) manual stated that the required construction tool was a Phillips screwdriver. It went together almost too easily. One roller caster put up a token resistance, but all the other parts cooperated.

Then came the moment of truth - actually sitting in it and adjusting the various controls. Amazingly, they all worked, and the armrest height, which is important to me because I tend to list to list to port and get my back out of position, clicked into a comfortable position, higher than that on the starboard side. The other four controls worked perfectly and I believe I have finally found a really satisfactory desk chair.

Only two things worry me (aside from The Boys scratching the upholstery.) I believe I lost a washer and I never found a use for the screwdriver.

Peace, Doc

"Nothing builds self-esteem and self-confidence like accomplishment.” - Thomas Carlyle

Why On Earth Did I Ever Move That?

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 17:59:42 GMT

I knew when I moved that I was moving many things for which I had no need or even a desire to keep, but moved them anyway. For some of those things, there were good reasons. I moved many boxes of files that contained both (now) useless memos, forms, managerial materials, and the like from Elgin State Hospital, and mixed among them, occasional papers that contained bits of patient information that I am responsible for keeping confidential and private. This all requires looking over most pages to make sure a bit of Protected Health Information (PHI) is not somewhere on it. I found that, mixed among the blue memos from higher administration (which I had a personal policy of ignoring until I got a third one on the same topic,) are sign-in sheets for therapy groups, minutes of staff meetings which contain a patient's name or diagnosis, and even daily unit population reports containing PHI, length of stay, number of beds over capacity and the like.

Paper has become much less of a problem over the past year or two, as I have been saving "paperwork" as .pdf files and backing them up to an external drive or to CD/DVD disk. But I still have a cedar chest, a mobile hanging file frame, several boxes and a few file cabinet drawers full of material to be sorted and recycled, some of it after confetti shredding.

At first, when I was packing, similar things went into the same box, and would be easily located in the same place. This was logical and they were moved first. The unanticipated result was that when the "Oh my God I'm never going to get all this stuff moved" realization set in, very dissimilar and unrelated objects were simply stuffed into boxes and taped closed. If you give that a moment's thought, where would you expect the organized things to be, relative to the disorganized containers? Right, on the first try! Under them! This has been discouraging in that I have had to sort unrelated things and take them, one or two at a time, to where the will remain. On the reverse side of that coin, however, is the prize of knowing that when I finally reach the bottom layer of a pile of boxes, I will find one where the contents were packed logically and will go to the same place.

Other circumstances were simply not anticipated. I moved a TV/VHS tape player combo which was old, but in good working order. Then I bought a HD LCD TV. As I do not have a separate VHS player, I "must" keep the TV and the two dozen or so of my favorite VHS recordings that I culled from hundreds before the move, until I can transfer them to DVDs compatible with the new TV. Loosely related to this is the fact that I now have five remotes and require a 12 year old child to combine the functions of all into one.

Again, I logically realize that I do not need the massive amount of information I collected, or the psychophysiological recording equipment I built, for either my thesis or my dissertation. Keeping a single copy of the finished product (which will never be read by anyone, myself included) should be enough. When I discarded some of the statistics and original data tapes, I recalled one of my "top ten worst ever nightmares" in which the "they" in dreams found out that I had never taken an eighth grade history test and made me go back and do everything, from that test forward, over again. Just try to throw away something into which you put so much effort (useless or not) under those circumstances. One's brain hurts quite badly just before the panic attack.

Then, there are things that are taken for which one grossly overestimates the need. There were two unopened 52 piece boxes of Oneida stainless tableware. I was fairly certain I would not have need of 16 place settings and serving implements, so I gave one to Number One Son and took one myself. So far, I have used two sizes of spoons, one fork and one knife. All the rest are neatly arranged in the drawer organizer, still in their little, individual plastic wrappers. It is entirely possible that they will remain in that state for the next five to 10 years.

"Books" were a great problem for me. I love books. Only a few types were easy to discard or recycle. Old encyclopedias, out of date telephone books, moldy tomes and periodicals that didn't survive the "severe dampness" of the basement, children's books, and much of the trash science fiction that I had read when I was 13 (they had actual wormholes in them.) A first edition set of the works of Charles Dickens and a set of works of the great authors of the world went to Firstborn, along with an antique, handmade, glass front bookcase to house them. Many textbooks were so out of date that there was no point in keeping them. Other texts and reference books were so very out of date that they could not possibly be parted with, such as Cooper's Surgical Dictionary, printed in 1832. Finally comes the greatest problem of unread books, classics too worthwhile to dispose of, probably close to 100 binders full of topical articles to be culled, recent or special issue journals, yearbooks, and even a comic book here and there. I dread to think how many may still be in the rented storage space. If I had a garage, I'd have a garage sale.

Coming Attractions:

In the near future, we are going to hold an "Identify The Thing" contest. I will post a series of pictures of objects that remain in the apartment. I may or may not know exactly what any pictured thing is, so this may be of benefit to both reader and author alike.

There will be two or more posts on US30 Dragstrip and Doc's adventures there, the evolution of his 1930 Model A Ford coupe, from street rod to C/Gasser with photos and sound.

Of course there will be more of the occasional brain farts I refer to as haiku, more reminiscences and stories, and as the political scene and laws change there will certainly be rants, and also likely reports on the Internet and software. If my cognitive abilities take an unexpected vacation, there will quite likely be more posts like "Should I Write About Boxes?"

Peace, Doc

"I've known Pack Rats that are literally possessed by their possessions!" - Maria Gracia

The Village of Elburn, and Other Random Thoughts.

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 17:05:55 GMT

Following the previous post with the inclusion of a Google search, I noted with some disappointment that my ranking in Google searches for "The Village of Elburn, IL" has fallen dramatically since my last mention if it. Elburn was once a simple, bucolic, irritating little village located approximately 50 miles west of Chicago, on route 47, which now is rapidly becoming the outermost fairy ring of growth in the greater suburban area. I thought of moving there, rather than to my current residence, prior to selling the house on Deer Run Drive, but Elburn is undergoing a growth spurt, and housing prices have risen ridiculously over the past ten or so years. When considering living there I was falsely but fondly recalling my long gone grad school memories of stopping near Elburn at the intersection of routes 38 and 47 to allow a loose herd of dairy cows to examine me, and of a pheasant that suicided on the windshield of the '69 Camaro while commuting to classes. That was long ago and Elburn has since become modernized to the point that I think of it as Elburn, the village of incompetent dentistry and speed ~~traps~~ enforcement zones. So much for the Village of Elburn. I don't go there anymore.

Living alone as a semi-recluse gives rise to some, shall we say, idiosyncratic thoughts and speculations. For instance, I have wondered if I could attach the little key-ring sized discount cards that stores give out, to The Boys' collars, duct tape a credit card to Bittle, and send them in to the local pet stores to do their own shopping. The merit I see in this arrangement would be that they could no longer legitimately refuse to eat what, up until my last major shopping expedition, had been their favorite foods, and further could not then glare at me with their fussy, "How could you have done this to us" looks.

Another notion that occurred to me is akin to building a boat in the basement. I don't believe that there is any specific rule in this apartment complex against building a car in the living room. This is likely due to the fact that nobody has ever tried it. I am wondering if I could pass off a fiberglass bodied '39 Willys C/Gasser as an art project in progress. I know the floor would hold up under the weight of the project, from previous piles of "stuff" that it withstood. The living room is just large enough, and the picture window is both wide and tall enough to eventually have it removed. Yes, I measured it. It wouldn't have to have an engine, at first. I could just sit in it and make "Vroom! Vroom!" noises for the time being and then drop a crate motor in it later. ... Mmm. I didn't think so either, but it is a pleasant fantasy.

I will likely start a serial rant on future posts about the remote possibility that Google is not being entirely faithful to their own motto, "Don't do evil." Meanwhile, a link to a break.com production of Google Maps is Evil.

Peace, Doc

"It is not easy to describe the present position of legal opinion on advertising and free speech. Only a poet can capture the essence of chaos." - R. H. Coase

Should I Write About Boxes?

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 00:22:10 GMT

Deciding what to blog about becomes problematic at times, you know. After a few days without posting anything, one comes to a point of uncertainty regarding what would be most appropriate. Should it be about cardboard boxes, the sexual themes in Dr. Strangelove, or even how to convince Firstborn and First Mate to loan me their garage for a couple years. There is only the very loosest of connections among these topics. I am working on two larger post projects, but they are not yet ready for their public debut. There are a number of equally obscure or idiosyncratic topics available. I've lived inside my own head for several days and that always leads to a bit of a disconnect from what is possible or even what is desirable. So. Firstborn doesn't know about the garage thing yet. Spaces Live has "done something" on a Friday again, and I am not certain how much it involves. I suppose, to be safe, I'll stick with cardboard boxes.

I have liked cardboard boxes since I was a child when a large appliance box could easily become a mansion with a door, windows, and if I made a mistake, a skylight. I recall cutting myself once but that had nothing to do with making cardboard houses. I was bisecting a Snickers candy bar. The scar is less visible today amid the wrinkles. Generally, cardboard was a much safer building material than the mill template lumber that I later used in the construction of The Treehouse. At that point I began to use a hammer, nails, and a saw, thus becoming a real danger to myself.

Boxes continued to be a constant in my life, storing comic books, model cars, books, class notes, electronics parts and equipment, thesis and dissertation materials, pictures, memorabilia, and "stuff."

Early in my hospital career I discovered the perfectly sized box. It must be close to the Platonic ideal of a box, the essence of a perfect box, which all earthly boxes may only try to approximate. It is the box in which 10 reams of copy paper are packed. Almost anything I needed to store would fit in these boxes and they even contributed an air of organization by way of all being the same size. They became an obsession and a strong source of positive reinforcement. Any day at work that I got one was a good day. Unfortunately (or fortunately - it was a conflictual sort of reciprocity) the program office manager and secretaries discovered the extent to which I could be manipulated to obtain a copy paper box in mint condition. Deals were struck: "Well, Dr. Murmenflatz asked for one, but you can have it if you'll go over to Central Supplies and pick up the rest of the office supply order." (I was out the door before the sentence was finished.) I had a master key to that office and sank to the depths of treachery and outright "grand theft, box." I became so addicted that I would empty sealed boxes and stack the supply shelves with the paper they contained during off hours. Ah, for the good old days! I can see four of those boxes now, from where I sit. They are far from being in pristine condition, but are still serving faithfully.

When I moved from the house to the apartment, however, I discovered that differently sized boxes might serve my purposes better. Tall, sturdy boxes are good for holding RC sailplane fuselages and wings, upright, in a storage area. Boxes the depth and width, but only half or one-third the height of 10 ream boxes are great for storing occasionally used "stuff" on closet shelves (and if necessary, the 10 ream box can be cut down to fit!)

It was only very recently that I discovered another perfectly sized box. Storage space is at a premium in an apartment, and whenever an out of view place can be found it becomes a major discovery. I just bought a flat panel LCD HDTV. I'm not sure which I like more, the TV or the box it came in. The box fits perfectly under the bed ! In addition, it has sparked a new line of thought. If this is possible with the right sized box, shouldn't it should be possible to utilize still other spaces? Under the sofa, under the recliner chairs, behind the computer desk, under the cheap round table with the blue skirt covering it - no, not there, the Mutant Toilet Bowl Brush lives there. If properly decorated these boxes might even pass as "found art" or be painted the same color, have metallic colored latches painted on, and be "hidden in plain view." If these do not suffice, there is always the option of a box cutter and DUCT TAPE! If you will excuse me, I believe I have a new project to attend to.

Peace, Doc

"When I retire I'm going to spend my evenings by the fireplace going through those boxes. There are things in there that ought to be burned." - Richard M. Nixon

An Oops and a Holiday Wish

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 13:17:34 GMT

The "Oops" was the previous post. I did not indicate the context in which I believed the third wish would be understood. Please read my comment about that post if you are interested. That stated, I will simply go on to a psychologist's holiday greeting. Those of you who may have seen it before, Shush. Don't tell.

ABCDE

FGHIJ

KMNOP

QRSTU

VWXYZ

Peace, Doc

"Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain?" - Wm. Shakespeare

Oddly, I Believe I've Sold The House.

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 01:34:16 GMT

After having been bedeviled for three months by anxiety, fears of a possible sale falling apart, uncertainty whether the details could be worked out so as to be satisfactory to both buyer and seller, and all the other frustrations involved in selling a house "as is," I think it worked. After meeting with the prospective buyer and my attorney for approximately two hours yesterday afternoon, it appears that we have agreed on a price, a timeline, and pretty much everything to be included in the sale. A part of me still doesn't believe that this worked. My attorney flatly stated to me that this was one of the most unusual home sales he has worked on in over 30 years. However, he could see no major reason why it wouldn't work. I could accept an offer much lower than the price of other houses in the neighborhood because it would have cost me much more to make all the repairs and updates necessary to make it desirable to a "normal" buyer, especially in a very slow housing market. This could not be done as I simply did not have enough readily available cash, nor could I borrow enough, to make the house cosmetically acceptable with new siding, windows, flooring and other major kitchen and bathroom updates. Even had I been able to do so, I might not have realized any profit from the work and updates, and quite likely would have lost money in making it saleable. In the current down market, there are simply no guarantees that it would sell at a profit.

I say that this is odd because it started as one of those serendipitous series of coincidences that I could never possibly have planned. It occurred because of the $.25 plastic washer on the water feed line to an upstairs bathroom breaking and damaging several rooms, which required an insurance claim to be made for repairs. The general contractor, after assessing the required repairs, chanced to ask if I was interested in selling the house. When I said, "Yes," he said he would spread the word and see if anyone was interested. Skipping about three paragraphs of explanation, here, someone was interested, and it was with him that I met yesterday. This may well have been as much of an unexpected opportunity for him as it was for me. The prospective buyer needs time to make all the arrangements on his end. This is actually good for me, because I was willing to lower my asking price slightly to delay the closing date to have enough time to sell, pack, recycle, donate, store, and so on, the vast majority of my "stuff."

I suppose that there is not an absolute guarantee of everything going well, but neither of us nor my attorney seem to anticipate any major problems. We left the meeting smiling. I'm just suspicious enough to consider the possibility that two people smiling, after a long meeting with an attorney, may mean that one of them doesn't understand what just happened. That would usually be me.

I shall now proceed to "behave as if" everything will go as planned. That should be enough to keep me out of trouble for the next couple of months. I have enlisted the aid of Firstborn to help me know what a normal, rational person could expect to sell, for how much, which of my prized possessions are worthless, and what she might be willing to store in their garage on a temporary basis. I finally had to tell her that I wasn't really going to move into her basement, as she was beginning to sound truly worried and was quite frank about this arrangement not being good for her marriage. The basement is under the first floor bedrooms, after all. I was satisfied by having finally accomplished my goal of getting her to admit she had heard my previous comments, could no longer ignore them, and was "concerned." An even larger sigh of relief occurred when I told her that I would never ask to stay more than a day or two while other arrangements were worked out. She then regained her normal Firstborn poise (and managerial authority) and ordered me to make a list of four major tasks I would accomplish by a week from Saturday and to do them. She will meet with me at that time for my performance review. (Can you fire a father?)

If there is anyone out there that needs a sailplane launching winch, two slightly used automatic electric letter folding machines, numerous trophies with which to impress your friends, a huge number of colorful and fascinating but relatively useless bits of surplus, or possibly even a working Commodore 64 with many extras, please keep me in mind. Or a metal ribbony thing that holds a candle and can be stuck in the ground? Or any of 10 filing cabinets? Or.....

Peace, Doc

"People do very creative things to get money, ... like selling or mortgaging their house." - Sean Tipton

Absolutely Useless Stuff

Thu, 15 Mar 2007 04:14:38 GMT

I haven't posted for a while as I have not wished to give the small mongrels which are nipping at my heels any more content to parody and, sometimes, it is simply best to say nothing. I do not plan to go away. I may not make a great deal of sense or post on any important issues for a while, but at least you'll know I'm here.

The names of eight Microsoft mail servers for bCentral web hosting (now hosted by Concentric) are:

freddie
io
monty
nudel
onyx
sparky
squeaky
sylvia

Peace, Doc

"I know there are people who do not love their fellow man, and I hate people like that." - Tom Lehrer

Tagged by S. Lizard!

Fri, 08 Dec 2006 17:45:11 GMT

I begin this by stating that Ms. Lizard has seen fit to tag me, requiring that I reveal six weird things about myself. Being the epitome of propriety that I am, I will likely have some difficulty in this endeavor. The difficulty is more likely to arise from filtering out the unpublishable than from straining to find examples of my oddities.

I am bothered by seemingly insignificant things. For instance, that the number "1" that begins this paragraph will not change to Tahoma Bold 10 point type regardless of what I try to do to change it. Other examples include a requirement that peanut butter on crackers must include two crackers (open faced is unacceptable,) a sense of uneasiness when my "stuff" isn't where it "should" be, and a recognition and respect for neatness and cleanliness while failing miserably at both, even when I'm trying. Finally, the fact that I went back and changed the numbering to bullets to alleviate the tension it was arousing.
When I drink or eat something cold, it must be very cold. A glass of milk will have ice cubes in it. Ice cream must be almost impossible to get out of the carton without heating the scoop with hot water. Pudding, applesauce, canned pears, and the like must be close to the freezing point to be palatable. Malts or milkshakes should require a spoon, not a straw.
I am extremely difficult to buy a gift for. I could only accept clothing that Annie bought for me. Even though I didn't necessarily like it, I was always complimented on it by someone. They knew I didn't buy it for myself. I have too restricted a view of what I should wear but can easily tell when another person is dressed fashionably. Anything else must be written down with complete specs and where to obtain it/them to even come close to what I wanted. People long ago gave up and simply started giving me gift cards to stores they knew I frequented. Almost any kind of food is a safe choice, however.
I have a tendency to customize things to make them mine. This computer, for instance, has been renamed from "My Computer" to "Leonard," and when email arrives into Outlook, it has been modified to "moo" from a .wav file rather than making the typical Microsoft "ploink" noise. There are other sounds it makes also, but they really shouldn't be specified in polite company. The marquee screensaver scrolls, in orange letters on a black background, "Back slowly away from the computer and nobody will get hurt!" I will modify something as simple as a lawn rake by putting pipe insulating foam on the handle where I grip it to make it more comfortable to use. Duct tape modifies most anything.
I can wiggle either ear one at a time (the right is easier,) cross my eyes such that I'm always looking at you with the same eye while the other looks elsewhere, and can independently wiggle the youngest toe on either foot. I do not do these things in front of my clients. Learning such as this may have contributed to my not graduating "any kind of laude" from undergraduate school. But I remember the part about Sumerian Beehive Tombs, for some reason.
I have always had good relationships with animals. I can only remember being bitten ~~four~~ ~~five~~ ~~six~~ ~~seven~~ ~~eight~~ nine times. Twice by Airedales and twice by Chihuahuas. And once by a farm dog that bit me on the butt when I was riding past on a motor scooter. And the time I had to punt a psychotic little mongrel across the den that Annie's Ex sent with the kids one weekend. And the garter snake that bit me on the thumb when I was six and wouldn't let go. And the red-winged blackbird that attacked me while I was trying to retrieve a model airplane. And Bill the squirrel that bit the young hand that was feeding him. Oh never mind. This isn't going at all the way I had planned it.

Peace, Doc

He wrapped himself in quotations- as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of Emperors.
- Rudyard Kipling

Dreams of Falling

Fri, 22 Sep 2006 00:38:05 GMT

To all my readers (both of you) I feel I should let you know that, one way or another, I will be back to regular posting soon. I have emailed Mr. Donnelly a proposal and am awaiting a reply. As a show of good faith on my part, I am removing the sidebar column about him. What happens next is pretty much up to him.

It has gotten quite cold in the Chicago area rather abruptly. It dropped to 38° F before the official beginning of autumn. The temperature should still average in the mid 70s. I could tell it was cold as I was awakened in the morning by almost rolling out of bed onto the floor. As I regained some semblance of conscious thought, I found out why. I had two heat-seeking cats lying so close to me that I was being pushed closer and closer to the edge of the bed. If I moved while asleep, ever so slightly, they moved in closer, acting as wedges and moving me slowly but surely closer to the edge. And to think that shrinks interpret dreams of falling.

Peace, Doc

Night Thoughts

Sun, 06 Aug 2006 02:24:24 GMT

Well, now. I guess I haven’t written in a while. I appreciate all your advice and comments (with two notable exceptions) from the last post. But I let them stand because I believe the writer has the right to comment. Free speech is a “thing” with me, so to do other would be acting against my own principles.

For a number of reasons I have been even crankier than is my usual wont over the past few weeks. They really are too numerous and mostly too insignificant in the overall workings of the world to expound upon. Two or three really hurt. So you get another haiku.

Night thoughts creeping in

Of the grave and gone and dead

Dream clouds gathering

Peace, Doc

Before The Dental Appointment

Fri, 09 Jun 2006 11:11:48 GMT

I am beginning to write this at about 3:30 a.m. The appointment for half my teeth to leave their home of 60 years is five hours away. I have had a tooth or two pulled in the past and I do not remember it being nearly as bad as I had feared. The pulling did not bother me and the pain, as I recall, went away within a day or two. Now, however, I feel I am sailing into uncharted waters. What about removing 13 in one session? Is it possible to survive on a diet of applesauce, Pepsi, and butterscotch pudding? For how long? How long can I leave yogurt in the car? When may I switch to baby food? I wonder when any sound I make will be recognizable as speech rather than “murfenfuf gungle?” I have arranged with Number One Son, my Significant-Other-In-Law, Firstborn, and First Mate to save me if they get a totally incomprehensible phone call.

I certainly hope the dentist removes the teeth from my lower jaw first. If he does the uppers, I will not be able to do my demented chipmunk imitation. Moreover, what about the Tooth Fairy? Does she still come around these days? Do I get to keep my teeth? Would a chainsaw I want, to remove the fence, fit under the pillow? Is that too much to ask? Perhaps the gold crowns might be worth something, possibly as a trade in. It was suggested that I could get a ring made of them.

I believe this is a mixture of free association and “what if-ing.” It is actually close to what I was thinking between action scenes in an old Clint Eastwood movie, a chat with two very sympathetic people in Australia, and the cats chasing each other through the room at frequent intervals. I will tell you later if I lived.

Peace, Doc

Rather Than Sleeping

Sun, 21 May 2006 10:05:39 GMT

This post is not likely to remain coherent, so I will simply present it as my thoughts on a very early Sunday morning when the Pilates, tricky insurance, and Co-Eds Gone Wild ads take over the TV and I don’t feel like sleeping. Think of it as a form of “non-sequiterian” mumbling (it is so a word – I just made it up.)

Thank you for your concern for my approaching dental pain. That is not exactly what I was referring to, however. The real pain will strike somewhere near my wallet with a good chance of spreading to my left buttock. I have done all the bargaining I can and have elected to have the dentist do the extractions in his office with a local anesthetic rather than run up the costs more with an oral surgeon and hospital costs. I believe I can sit relatively still for two 2.5 hour sessions. He has promised enough anesthetic that I will not feel it and I have returned the promise not to bite or gum him in anger or pain. I made no such agreement about the bill, however.

The new little furry person was initially quite scrawny but is now gaining weight at an alarming rate. He appears to have been someone’s pet who escaped or was abandoned because he loves people, especially if they are opening cans of Fancy Feast. He can run from the far opposite, downstairs end of the house in about three seconds when he hears a can being opened. I have also noted that he has more varied tastes than I would have expected. I have a long-standing habit of offering the little people a taste of whatever I am eating at the moment if they show any interest whatever. I have learned that he likes vanilla yogurt, fruit on the bottom yogurt, butterscotch pudding, canned corned beef, bits of stews or soups, and most surprisingly to me, applesauce. He and Bittle can sound as if they are the most ferocious antagonists in the world, but I take that far less seriously when I can find no wounds whatever and then observe them sleeping “spoon fashion,” on the bed with one of Bittle’s arms over Squeaker. The only real disagreement seems to be who gets to eat first. I try to make peace in that situation by putting part of the canned food in a dish for Squeaker and then immediately feeding Bittle the same food separately.

Finally, I apologize if I actually frightened anyone with my rants about privacy. However, if you did not already know it, you should. I gather information about people, with their informed consent, every time I see a client so I am naturally interested in the subject. The current furor about telephone numbers is so simplistic as to be laughable. It is much like distracting another from seeing something by saying, “Look! Your shoe is untied!” Before the political squabble over who would head the CIA and whether gathering information on telephone calls is legal or not, it was the NSA’s stated intent to develop the largest database in the world. That has not been mentioned lately. That frightens me.

To see what is in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle.

- George Orwell

Peace, Doc

Privacy

Fri, 12 May 2006 02:13:19 GMT

With only the note that the NSA has stated one of its missions is to build the largest database in the world, I reproduce the following:

“SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/national/1152AP_NSA_Phone_Records_Quotes.html

Thursday, May 11, 2006 · Last updated 4:35 p.m. PT

Quotes about the NSA collecting data

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

Reaction to reports that the National Security Agency has been secretly collecting ordinary Americans' telephone records:

"Are you telling me that tens of millions of Americans are involved with al-Qaida? These are tens of millions of Americans who are not suspected of anything. ... Where does it stop?” - Sen. Patrick Leahy of Vermont, ranking Democrat on the Senate Judiciary Committee.

---

"I remain convinced that the program authorized by the president is lawful and absolutely necessary to protect this nation from future attacks.” - Senate Intelligence Committee Chairman Pat Roberts, R-Kan., on the NSA surveillance program in general.

---

It's "fair to say that what was in the newspaper this morning is not content collection. ... Nonetheless, I happen to believe we're on our way to a major constitutional confrontation on Fourth Amendment guarantees of unreasonable search and seizure.” - Sen. Dianne Feinstein, D-Calif., a member of the Judiciary Committee.

---

"Every time sensitive intelligence is leaked, it hurts our ability to defeat this enemy.” - President Bush.

----

"That the government may be secretly collecting, and using data mining to analyze, the phone records of millions of law-abiding Americans, as reported in the press today, is a frightening prospect. ... It is time for the administration to come clean with Congress and the American people.” - Sen. Russ Feingold, D-Wis., a member of the Judiciary Committee.

---

"I'm not sure what they're gathering there, but the privacy thing to me is absolutely important to our democratic society.” - Rep. John Murtha, D-Pa.

---

"I am concerned about what I read with regard to NSA databases of phone calls.” - House Majority Leader John Boehner, R-Ohio.

---

"I have long been concerned about the NSA's domestic spying program and today's media reports only reinforce that concern. I also laud Denver-based Qwest Communications for its decision not to share private information with the NSA.” - Sen. Ken Salazar, D-Colo.

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"Enough is enough. It is long overdue for this Congress to end the days of roll-over and rubber stamp and finally assert its power on behalf of the American people to advise and consent before General Hayden becomes (CIA) Director Hayden.” - Sen. John Kerry, D-Mass., in a speech at American University.

---

"Our customers expect, deserve, and receive nothing less than our fullest commitment to their privacy. We also have an obligation to assist law enforcement and other government agencies responsible for protecting the public welfare, whether it be an individual or the security interests of the entire nation.” - statement from AT&T Corp.

---

"We have not provided any information we would need a subpoena for.” - BellSouth Corp. spokesman Jeff Battcher.

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"We have been in full compliance with the law and we are committed to our customers' privacy.” - Verizon Communications Inc. spokesman Bob Varettoni.

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"What has happened in the last 24 hours raises questions in my mind about (Hayden's) credibility for the job. He is the architect of the program. He comes to the intelligence committee, says how concerned he is about privacy. .... This is not what the public thought this program was all about.” - Sen. Ron Wyden, D-Ore.

---

"While I support aggressively tracking al-Qaida, the administration needs to answer some tough questions about the protection of our civil liberties.” - said Ohio Rep. Deborah Pryce, chairwoman of the House Republican Caucus.

---

"If these allegations are true and the activities were being conducted under General Hayden while he was in charge of NSA then the administration should withdraw his nomination to be director of the CIA until Congress has full answers about the nature, reach, and legal basis of this program.” - said Rep. David Obey, D-Wis.”

Peace, Doc

Quotations

Mon, 03 Apr 2006 00:47:17 GMT

I am posting just a few quotes to reveal that the great thinkers (and the not so great) had their finer moments.

"Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened."

- Sir Winston Churchill

"Sure there are dishonest men in local government. But there are dishonest men in national government too."

- Richard M. Nixon

"I sent the club a wire stating, PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT ME AS A MEMBER."

- Groucho Marx

"Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water."

- WC Fields

"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."

- Yogi Berra

"I believe that a scientist looking at nonscientific problems is just as dumb as the next guy."

- Richard Feynman

"I have yet to see any problem, however complicated, which, when looked at in the right way, did not become still more complicated."

- Poul Anderson

"Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their common sense."

- Gertrude Stein

"Man is the best computer ... and the only one that can be mass produced with unskilled labor.” - Werner Von Braun

"If only we'd stop trying to be happy we could have a pretty good time."

- Edith Wharton

"Illusion is the first of all pleasures."

- Oscar Wilde

"I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to facts."

- Mark Twain

"We have reached an important point when the end begins to come into view."

- William Childs Westmoreland

Peace, Doc

Inaugural Blog Entry!

Sat, 19 Mar 2005 12:27:30 GMT

Hello out there,

I'll figure out something worth saying to the world in the next year or so.

Peace,

Doc