Well, it's official. We have a new home in Denver, Colorado (Aurora to be exact). The closing took place yesterday at the sales office of the condominium complex.
I finally had a chance to meet the broker who represented the seller. He was so typically "Denver"...tall, thin, good-looking, with tassels on his shoes. Men in Denver like tassels on their shoes. I'm surprised that the accelerator pedals on their Saabs and Audis don't have special little clips just to keep their tassels from flopping around while they drive.
The stack of documents to be signed was an inch thick, but I was so exhausted both mentally and physically that I would have signed anything just to get out of there. It was just as if I had been in a car dealer's showroom all day long and had now been ushered into the finance manager's office. Pinstripe? Sure, I'll take it. Scotchguard? You bet. Extended warranty? Absolutely gotta have that. Protective undercoating? Where do I sign?
After I got about half way through the stack and had carefully read the note and deed of trust, I just completely stopped listening to their explanations of what I was signing. What difference did it make at this point? I just wanted out of there. For all I know, I just signed a document promising to have half of my paycheck automatically deducted and sent to fund a government program in Sweden to study the long term effects of cleaning one's belly button too often.
I got an email from Paul last night. He is hauling a big trailer full of what belongings we still have across the country and had stopped to spend the night in Macon, Georgia. I feel terrible for not being able to help him with this journey. I did so want to stop in Kansas to see the world's largest ball of twine. I guess I'll just have to leave that on my list of the top 100 places to see before I die.
Today, my job is to fill the house with various miscellaneous items that we no longer own. I had planned to get a Colorado driver's license today, but they have no offices that are open on Saturdays. It's probably better this way. I don't own any shoes with tassels and I'm sure I will need some in order to prove to the DMV that I am a resident of Colorado.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Tropical Storm Fay Update II
After nearly 24 hours, the power is back on. Now to pack the house for next week's move.
Wish us luck over the next day or two. The east side of the storm is now approaching. Sigh.
Wish us luck over the next day or two. The east side of the storm is now approaching. Sigh.
Tropical Storm Fay Update
David's sister-in-law has been kind enough to let me spend the afternoon at her house. She has power. We do not.
As Fay blew through west Florida yesterday. Debris began falling from trees. Even some large limbs are down. The power lines here are all suspended in air. As I tried to work yesterday, the power kept going on an off. After the 3rd or 4th time, I decided I was no longer going to be able to work. My computer struggled to keep rebooting itself. Finally around 4pm, the we heard a loud buzz and a "pop". Dave immediately said, "That's a keeper."
He was right. We have not had power since then. A call to the power company only results in a recording that basically says, "We know, we know." There is no ETA for when power will be restored.
So, the bottom line is that we are all unable to access email and our telephone/internet service is out as well. We have a generator that is keeping the fridge running, as well as a few small appliances.
We are all fine, though none of us have had much sleep in this heat and humidity. Though we do not have access to phone/internet services, our cell phones are all working. If you need us, please call the cell number that you have. They have not changed since we were in Las Vegas.
As Fay blew through west Florida yesterday. Debris began falling from trees. Even some large limbs are down. The power lines here are all suspended in air. As I tried to work yesterday, the power kept going on an off. After the 3rd or 4th time, I decided I was no longer going to be able to work. My computer struggled to keep rebooting itself. Finally around 4pm, the we heard a loud buzz and a "pop". Dave immediately said, "That's a keeper."
He was right. We have not had power since then. A call to the power company only results in a recording that basically says, "We know, we know." There is no ETA for when power will be restored.
So, the bottom line is that we are all unable to access email and our telephone/internet service is out as well. We have a generator that is keeping the fridge running, as well as a few small appliances.
We are all fine, though none of us have had much sleep in this heat and humidity. Though we do not have access to phone/internet services, our cell phones are all working. If you need us, please call the cell number that you have. They have not changed since we were in Las Vegas.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Eye Of The Storm
Well, as Fay peters out, so has the commotion surrounding the condo deal. The seller and I have come to a new agreement based on a lower price. The papers aren't signed yet, but they soon will be. The closing has been rescheduled for August 29th.
I'm off to Denver on the 28th, condo or no condo. I'll live in a shoebox if I have to, but I'll never come back to this rusty, backwater, banjo-playing, racist, bug-infested, fried-food eating, Jesus-freak place if I can help it. Well, maybe to change planes.
I'll send you all our new address and phone number as soon as I have it. In the meantime, our cell numbers will stay the same.
Wish us luck! I imagine it's going to get pretty stormy again before this is all said and done.
I'm off to Denver on the 28th, condo or no condo. I'll live in a shoebox if I have to, but I'll never come back to this rusty, backwater, banjo-playing, racist, bug-infested, fried-food eating, Jesus-freak place if I can help it. Well, maybe to change planes.
I'll send you all our new address and phone number as soon as I have it. In the meantime, our cell numbers will stay the same.
Wish us luck! I imagine it's going to get pretty stormy again before this is all said and done.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Serenity Now!
Today, I have just returned from meeting the buyer of my car to turn over the title. We all know why that took so long, so I won't go there.
In the meantime, the appraisal has been done on the condo. (It took nine days to get the appraisal back - a process which usually take three, but that's another topic.) Wells Fargo required the appraised value to be a certain dollar figure as a condition of loan approval. The appraisal came in $7,500 lower than the amount Wells Fargo required.
Today, the builder's agent is supposed to go back to the builder to see if they will lower their price. I see no reason why they wouldn't, as we all know this is a tough market. I doubt there are dozens of buyers all queued up and ready to buy this condo, if I back out. But if they don't want to lower the price, the deal is off. If they decide they will lower the price, then I'm supposed to be on a flight from Tampa to Denver on Wednesday, to close this loan.
Did I mention that there is a hurricane headed for Tampa that should arrive on Wednesday?
In the meantime, the appraisal has been done on the condo. (It took nine days to get the appraisal back - a process which usually take three, but that's another topic.) Wells Fargo required the appraised value to be a certain dollar figure as a condition of loan approval. The appraisal came in $7,500 lower than the amount Wells Fargo required.
Today, the builder's agent is supposed to go back to the builder to see if they will lower their price. I see no reason why they wouldn't, as we all know this is a tough market. I doubt there are dozens of buyers all queued up and ready to buy this condo, if I back out. But if they don't want to lower the price, the deal is off. If they decide they will lower the price, then I'm supposed to be on a flight from Tampa to Denver on Wednesday, to close this loan.
Did I mention that there is a hurricane headed for Tampa that should arrive on Wednesday?
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Electronic Age Is A Myth
Well, as you know, I sold my car. In order to satisfy the fine folks at Wells Fargo, they require a copy of the transferred title. It's not good enough just to show that the car has been paid off. They are idiots.
I drove to Orlando last Friday morning to meet the buyer at his bank. He had a cashier's check issued, we signed the bill of sale. I took the check. He took the car. Done, right? Wrong.
The next step was to pay off the car loan. On Friday, I sent the cashier's check to my credit union which happens to be in Minnesota. After a Monday morning phone call, they found the overnight package and credited my account - for $5,000. They held the rest of the funds for five business days. (I hate the term "business days". Why don't they just say seven days?) Can anyone tell me what the point of a cashier's check is, if the bank is going to hold it for a week? Have any of you ever had a check that you wrote clear your bank less than a day or two after it was deposited? I didn't think so.
After more phone calls, I was able to get them to make an exception and release the funds. Now to pay off the finance company. So I called them and asked how to do this. "Just send us a cashier's check and we'll credit your account about five business days after we receive it.", they said. So, let's see. I get my bank to turn around and issue a cashier's check made out to the finance company. They mail it to me from Minnesota. That's three days. Then, I overnight the check to the finance company. That's another day. The finance company credits my account a week after they get the check. That's seven more days. Eleven more days to get the loan paid off? That's not working for me and I once again begin to work my way up the chain of employees, only this time at the finance company.
At last the finance company suggests that I wire the funds to them. They state that they will credit my account 24 hours after the wire arrives. "Great!", I say. Consider it done. I took down all of the wire information and contacted my bank to do the wire. "I'm sorry", my bank says, "but we don't have an authorization form to do wires on your behalf on file here at the bank. You'll have to send us that." UGH!! Okay, fine, email me the form. The form arrives. I sign it and run it down to the post office to send it back via overnight mail, where I wait behind the three post office losers I've already told you about.
The next day I call my bank. "Do you have the authorization form?", I ask. "Yes, we have it", they reply. Finally, now we can do the wire. The wire is done and my bank informs me that the finance company will have the funds in 2-4 hours. I wait 24 hours, just to be sure.
The next day, I call the finance company to see if they have the wire. "Oh, that takes about 72 hours for us to update your account." My face contorts and my fists instantly clench. "No. Unacceptable. Put me through to a supervisor." The supervisor gives me the same spiel, but I insist that a human being get on the phone right now, find my wire, and update my account. The supervisor promises to call me back the same day. No call comes.
The next day, the supervisor calls. "We have your wire and we have credited your account", she says. "Wonderful! When can I have the title?", I ask. "I'll transfer you to someone in the title department, please hold.", she replies.
The title department answers and I again ask when I can have my title. "Well, let's see. Your title is electronic and can be printed at your state DMV. All we have to do is just release the lien and you will be all set.", the agent tells me. "Awesome! Make it so, Number One!", I say. "Oh that will take about five business days.", she says.
Son of a bitch!
I drove to Orlando last Friday morning to meet the buyer at his bank. He had a cashier's check issued, we signed the bill of sale. I took the check. He took the car. Done, right? Wrong.
The next step was to pay off the car loan. On Friday, I sent the cashier's check to my credit union which happens to be in Minnesota. After a Monday morning phone call, they found the overnight package and credited my account - for $5,000. They held the rest of the funds for five business days. (I hate the term "business days". Why don't they just say seven days?) Can anyone tell me what the point of a cashier's check is, if the bank is going to hold it for a week? Have any of you ever had a check that you wrote clear your bank less than a day or two after it was deposited? I didn't think so.
After more phone calls, I was able to get them to make an exception and release the funds. Now to pay off the finance company. So I called them and asked how to do this. "Just send us a cashier's check and we'll credit your account about five business days after we receive it.", they said. So, let's see. I get my bank to turn around and issue a cashier's check made out to the finance company. They mail it to me from Minnesota. That's three days. Then, I overnight the check to the finance company. That's another day. The finance company credits my account a week after they get the check. That's seven more days. Eleven more days to get the loan paid off? That's not working for me and I once again begin to work my way up the chain of employees, only this time at the finance company.
At last the finance company suggests that I wire the funds to them. They state that they will credit my account 24 hours after the wire arrives. "Great!", I say. Consider it done. I took down all of the wire information and contacted my bank to do the wire. "I'm sorry", my bank says, "but we don't have an authorization form to do wires on your behalf on file here at the bank. You'll have to send us that." UGH!! Okay, fine, email me the form. The form arrives. I sign it and run it down to the post office to send it back via overnight mail, where I wait behind the three post office losers I've already told you about.
The next day I call my bank. "Do you have the authorization form?", I ask. "Yes, we have it", they reply. Finally, now we can do the wire. The wire is done and my bank informs me that the finance company will have the funds in 2-4 hours. I wait 24 hours, just to be sure.
The next day, I call the finance company to see if they have the wire. "Oh, that takes about 72 hours for us to update your account." My face contorts and my fists instantly clench. "No. Unacceptable. Put me through to a supervisor." The supervisor gives me the same spiel, but I insist that a human being get on the phone right now, find my wire, and update my account. The supervisor promises to call me back the same day. No call comes.
The next day, the supervisor calls. "We have your wire and we have credited your account", she says. "Wonderful! When can I have the title?", I ask. "I'll transfer you to someone in the title department, please hold.", she replies.
The title department answers and I again ask when I can have my title. "Well, let's see. Your title is electronic and can be printed at your state DMV. All we have to do is just release the lien and you will be all set.", the agent tells me. "Awesome! Make it so, Number One!", I say. "Oh that will take about five business days.", she says.
Son of a bitch!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Going Postal
I was at the post office today waiting impatiently to mail an overnight letter before the deadline for pickup. In front of me were three customers and only one mail clerk was available.
The first customer had a huge box full of little packages that each needed to be sent separately via certified mail. Heavy sigh. Okay, no problem. I was dealing with it. One. Two. Three. Four...
The next customer was a 20-something shaved head tattooed guy who wanted to buy a box, but couldn't find the right size on the shelves. He asked the clerk if she had any small boxes. She went to the back to see. She called out, asking him if he wanted a small box to ship videos in. He replied (and I quote), "I want the small one that's just like the bigger ones, only smaller." Five. Six. Seven....
The third customer, obviously a retiree, was a lady who had driven to the post office to find out if her letter needed one stamp or two. (I wonder how much gas she used driving to the post office to avoid wasting a stamp.) Eight. Nine. Ten... Then, after mailing her letter, the lady began to walk away. Ahhhhhh - my turn.
Oh crap, she's not done. The woman suddenly remembered that she needed stamps. But, she didn't want just any stamps. "Do you have any stamps with flowers on them?" "No, but I have Sinatra stamps and these other ones." "Ooh, these are cute!" "What else do you have?"
ARRGH!
The first customer had a huge box full of little packages that each needed to be sent separately via certified mail. Heavy sigh. Okay, no problem. I was dealing with it. One. Two. Three. Four...
The next customer was a 20-something shaved head tattooed guy who wanted to buy a box, but couldn't find the right size on the shelves. He asked the clerk if she had any small boxes. She went to the back to see. She called out, asking him if he wanted a small box to ship videos in. He replied (and I quote), "I want the small one that's just like the bigger ones, only smaller." Five. Six. Seven....
The third customer, obviously a retiree, was a lady who had driven to the post office to find out if her letter needed one stamp or two. (I wonder how much gas she used driving to the post office to avoid wasting a stamp.) Eight. Nine. Ten... Then, after mailing her letter, the lady began to walk away. Ahhhhhh - my turn.
Oh crap, she's not done. The woman suddenly remembered that she needed stamps. But, she didn't want just any stamps. "Do you have any stamps with flowers on them?" "No, but I have Sinatra stamps and these other ones." "Ooh, these are cute!" "What else do you have?"
ARRGH!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sold!
Well, it looks like I have cleared the next hurdle toward buying the new home in Colorado. I sold my beloved “Cybil” - my 2006 Honda Civic SI. (I called her Cybil because she had two very distinct personalities on the road, depending on how hard I rode the accelerator.) Now, I’ll be sharing “Helga”, Paul’s Honda Pilot. Helga is a strong beasty broad with wide child-birthing hips. She in no way makes me appear young and thin to other drivers like Cybil did. Well, so much for those traffic light flirtations.
For those of you who might be buying a home in the near future, you might want to go and get your colonoscopy photographs now. Lenders these days are so strict that they’ll likely want to look up your ass.
So, next we’ll order the appraisal and see if the property is “worth” what the builder says it is. No worries there – if it comes in low, we’ll renegotiate the sales price, or scrap the deal. If it comes in high, then I’ll buy it at the already agreed upon price. There is also a mound of paperwork yet to be signed, all even before we get to the closing table.
If the next couple of weeks go smoothly, my last day in Florida will be August 21. I will fly to Colorado to sign the paperwork, and stay there until Paul arrives, working from a desk at my father's house. Paul will bring the few belongings that we moved to Florida with, by driving Helga yet again across the country. Road trip anyone?
For those of you who might be buying a home in the near future, you might want to go and get your colonoscopy photographs now. Lenders these days are so strict that they’ll likely want to look up your ass.
So, next we’ll order the appraisal and see if the property is “worth” what the builder says it is. No worries there – if it comes in low, we’ll renegotiate the sales price, or scrap the deal. If it comes in high, then I’ll buy it at the already agreed upon price. There is also a mound of paperwork yet to be signed, all even before we get to the closing table.
If the next couple of weeks go smoothly, my last day in Florida will be August 21. I will fly to Colorado to sign the paperwork, and stay there until Paul arrives, working from a desk at my father's house. Paul will bring the few belongings that we moved to Florida with, by driving Helga yet again across the country. Road trip anyone?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Last Word
Why do some people need to have the last word in every conversation? Most of you know that I work at home and that my office is actually in Minnesota. Many of my conversations happen over the company's instant message system. If you don’t use instant messaging, this is basically where you hear “ding”, and a little box pops up with someone’s usually trivial and meaningless interruption. You then type something back in the box, and so it goes, turning what should be a 60-second phone conversation into a long series of drivel and keyboard smiley faces ;).
Instant messaging was intended to be used for very quick conversations, but instead, I work with people who are just too lazy to pick up the phone to have a real conversation. It’s okay, because I don’t really want to talk to most of them anyway.
One of the people I work with insists on having the last word in every instant message conversation. It goes something like this – “Ding! (her) How much time would it take for you to rewrite the Bible in Portuguese?” “Dong! (me) About three days.” “Ding! Okay. Thanks.” “Dong! Send me the documented work request.” “Ding! Okay, will do!” “Ding! Thanks again.” “Ding! Have a nice day! (smiley face).” "Ding! See you later!"
“Dong! Shut the hell up and go away already.”
Instant messaging was intended to be used for very quick conversations, but instead, I work with people who are just too lazy to pick up the phone to have a real conversation. It’s okay, because I don’t really want to talk to most of them anyway.
One of the people I work with insists on having the last word in every instant message conversation. It goes something like this – “Ding! (her) How much time would it take for you to rewrite the Bible in Portuguese?” “Dong! (me) About three days.” “Ding! Okay. Thanks.” “Dong! Send me the documented work request.” “Ding! Okay, will do!” “Ding! Thanks again.” “Ding! Have a nice day! (smiley face).” "Ding! See you later!"
“Dong! Shut the hell up and go away already.”
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Buddy, Can You Spare $17,200?
As the clock struck 7:00 pm here in the rust belt of the east coast last night, sales agents, and loan originators began to come out of the woodwork. Wells Fargo had approved my loan. Everyone gave each other firm, welt-raising pats on the back. You could practically hear the champagne corks popping in the background at the condo sales office. Then the email came.
The loan originator emailed the terms of the loan approval with a list of contingencies as long as my arm – one of them being a requirement to sell my car and relieve myself of those payments prior to closing. Not only that, but Wells Fargo has also required that I not “add to funds” for this transaction, which means that I cannot sell the car for less than the loan payoff, and write a check for the difference.
Now, truth be told, I don’t need the car. The condo sits in the middle of snow country for which Paul’s SUV is already well equipped to transport us. Not only that, but the condo only has a 1-car garage and happens to sit within a few hundred steps of Denver’s light rail system. Transportation options abound.
The problem is that I am supposed to close on this loan by August 22. Wells Fargo requires proof of the car loan payoff and title transfer to the new owner before it will come to closing with a check. So this means that I really have to complete the sale by August 15. So between today, July 22, and August 15, I am supposed to magically produce a car buyer from my nether regions, without assisting them in any way by lowering the price below the payoff value.
Does this still sound like a loan approval to you? Anyone want to buy a car?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Mortgage Meltdown
Some of you know that I have put in an offer to purchase a condominium in Denver. Before I made the offer, I had my broker’s assistant sit down with the loan originator to look over my credit reports, FICO scores, income, debts and bank balances to see if should go forward. The originator, a branch manager for Wells Fargo in Colorado, said it should be no problem.
So, based on this recommendation, I plunked down $2,000 of earnest money and made an offer. The builder accepted the offer and the ball began to roll. Now, almost six weeks later, I still have no answer from Wells Fargo as to whether I am approved or denied. In the meantime, I am literally sick to my stomach, sleepless most nights, and fed up beyond belief. I have given them every possible piece of documentation, save the photos from last summer’s uneventful colonoscopy. But hey, if they want those, they can have those too.
Bottom line is that I don’t feel like the deal is going to go through, and frankly at this point, I don’t really care anymore. There are plenty of other places to live. I hope to hear something this week, but I’m not optimistic about what the news will be.
So, if the deal falls through, should we go to Denver anyway, as planned? Or should we go back to Las Vegas where we feel most at home? What do you guys think?
Friday, July 18, 2008
What Are Your Favorite Travel Tips?
You all know that I love traveling. I read guide books the way other people read romance novels. I don't know why, but I'm just fascinated by visiting other places. If you asked me to join you on a trip, I'd be there.
Yesterday, Dave gave me an early birthday present of a small book of travel tips. Some of them were ho hum, some were a little out there, but some were ingenious. (As an aside, Dave had no gift wrapping paper to use, so he wrapped the book in newspaper. If only he hadn't used the obituary section!)
It got me thinking about a few travel tips that I have picked up on my own and I thought I'd share them with you.
1) If you like to send postcards like I do, print a sheet of address labels to take with you. You won't need to spend any time transcribing every one's address onto the cards. Now you have the extra time to really write a personal note and still send lots of cards.
2) Speaking of postcards, bring a few from your home. On every trip, I meet a local who has been particularly kind. Sometimes it's a bartender. Sometimes it's an innkeeper. When we were in Germany, we had a very long conversation at a bar with a local guy who then insisted on giving us a walking tour of Koln with a few stops at other local bars. Use the postcards to write a thank you note and include your contact information. Who knows? You may return years later to find your postcard still on the wall behind the bar. And the person who receives it will learn something about where you come from, even if it's only one picture of your city.
3) Bring a pocket compass. I can't tell you how many times I've wandered through winding streets surrounded by buildings only to get lost. Usually I know that my hotel is, let's say, along the river. And I usually know that the river is somewhere to my west. If I could just find the river, I could find my way back to the hotel. Seems like an obvious tip, but how many times have you ever seen anyone use a compass? You'll be so glad you had that baby in your pocket the next time you find yourself lost in a foreign city.
4) Bring a flash drive with a password-protected spreadsheet on it. Put your passport number, your confirmation numbers, your credit card numbers and their customer service phone numbers....everything you can think of that you might need if you lose something. I had my wallet stolen in Spain and I can't tell you how hard it was to contact the credit card companies without that information. If you should need the information, any hotel or internet cafe should be able to help you use your flash drive.
So what travel tips do you have to share? For those of you who are not aware, you can click on the "comments" link below this post to leave a comment for everyone to read.
Happy travels!
Yesterday, Dave gave me an early birthday present of a small book of travel tips. Some of them were ho hum, some were a little out there, but some were ingenious. (As an aside, Dave had no gift wrapping paper to use, so he wrapped the book in newspaper. If only he hadn't used the obituary section!)
It got me thinking about a few travel tips that I have picked up on my own and I thought I'd share them with you.
1) If you like to send postcards like I do, print a sheet of address labels to take with you. You won't need to spend any time transcribing every one's address onto the cards. Now you have the extra time to really write a personal note and still send lots of cards.
2) Speaking of postcards, bring a few from your home. On every trip, I meet a local who has been particularly kind. Sometimes it's a bartender. Sometimes it's an innkeeper. When we were in Germany, we had a very long conversation at a bar with a local guy who then insisted on giving us a walking tour of Koln with a few stops at other local bars. Use the postcards to write a thank you note and include your contact information. Who knows? You may return years later to find your postcard still on the wall behind the bar. And the person who receives it will learn something about where you come from, even if it's only one picture of your city.
3) Bring a pocket compass. I can't tell you how many times I've wandered through winding streets surrounded by buildings only to get lost. Usually I know that my hotel is, let's say, along the river. And I usually know that the river is somewhere to my west. If I could just find the river, I could find my way back to the hotel. Seems like an obvious tip, but how many times have you ever seen anyone use a compass? You'll be so glad you had that baby in your pocket the next time you find yourself lost in a foreign city.
4) Bring a flash drive with a password-protected spreadsheet on it. Put your passport number, your confirmation numbers, your credit card numbers and their customer service phone numbers....everything you can think of that you might need if you lose something. I had my wallet stolen in Spain and I can't tell you how hard it was to contact the credit card companies without that information. If you should need the information, any hotel or internet cafe should be able to help you use your flash drive.
So what travel tips do you have to share? For those of you who are not aware, you can click on the "comments" link below this post to leave a comment for everyone to read.
Happy travels!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
It's A Jungle Out There
As much as I complain about Florida, it is amazing to see the variety of wildlife that is literally outside our front door every day. Since moving here, I have seen owls, eagles, ibis (ibi?), racoons, foxes, skunks, a rat snake (could have lived without that one), alligators (though just one), and turtles. All except the alligator were spotted just by looking out the window.
Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk working when Dave and Paul began to shout that a very large river turtle had come to our yard to lay her eggs. The whole process took only a few minutes. With all the predators around here, I doubt many of the baby turtles will survive, but I'm sure nature knows what it is doing. It's hard to tell from this photo, but this turtle was probably two feet from head to tail and probably weighed about twenty pounds.
Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk working when Dave and Paul began to shout that a very large river turtle had come to our yard to lay her eggs. The whole process took only a few minutes. With all the predators around here, I doubt many of the baby turtles will survive, but I'm sure nature knows what it is doing. It's hard to tell from this photo, but this turtle was probably two feet from head to tail and probably weighed about twenty pounds.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Libery And Justice For All?
Did you know that the United States is one of only 12 countries in the world that legally ban short-term visitors who are HIV-positive from entering the country? Guess which other countries have this ban. Give up?
Armenia, Brunei, Iraq, Libya, Moldova, Oman, Qatar, the Russian Federation, Saudi Arabia, South Korea, and Sudan.
Please take the time to read this article:
Armenia, Brunei, Iraq, Libya, Moldova, Oman, Qatar, the Russian Federation, Saudi Arabia, South Korea, and Sudan.
Please take the time to read this article:
Please use this link to tell your senator that now is the time for the United States to end this disgusting and embarrassing practice:
Sunday, July 13, 2008
What's He Doing Out There?
For those of you who wonder how we've been spending our free time, take a look at these photos. Today, we have finished gutting and remodeling the kitchen. Hopefully, you'll be able to figure out which photos are the "before" photos, and which are the "after". If not, we didn't do a very good job!
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
What Is A Typical Male?
A female friend of mine was dismayed to find her that her female supervisor reacted negatively to her honest opinions about some workplace issues. Her supervisor acted as if she had been personally attacked by my friend, instead of listening to what she was saying and taking it as constructive criticism. My friend went on to say that she wished that in some ways, women would listen less emotionally, especially when it comes to work. My friend wondered if she should refrain from providing her opinions at all, so as not to have her supervisor take her remarks personally. She went on to say that she wished in some ways, women would think more like men when it comes to work.
My opinion was that my friend should continue to offer her opinions where she felt they would make a positive impact, as long as they were not personal remarks. I explained to my friend that I had spent years working predominately for/with women and had trained myself to think carefully before I speak due to their sensitivity. Even with all my efforts, I’ve still brought some of my female co-workers to tears and have more than once been accused of being “condescending”, so try as I might, it is mostly up to the listener to determine how something is meant. I also explained that I had a tendency to take things personally as well, even when they were meant to be taken constructively. My friend then said to me, “Well, you are not a typical male.”
Boy, has this stuck in my craw. (Now watch, my friend will be all apologetic about it, even though I just advised her to stick to her guns. Women, huh?) What is a “typical male?” Am I supposed to be a ruthless, uncaring co-worker who doesn’t care what other people think about what I say? Am I supposed to be some sports-minded oaf who lays about every Sunday wiping my Cheetos-stained hands all over my shirt? Should I be good at building things out of wood?
I got to thinking about the stereotypes we all walk around with and whether I identified with them either as a typical man, or even as a typical gay man. I came to the conclusion that I really can’t be labeled, but maybe I just don’t see the forest for the trees. I thought I’d throw out some examples and let you tell me if you think I am “typical” or not.
I hate shopping. I don’t understand why I would want to wander about touching and looking at things that I don’t need. If I need a pair of blue jeans, I go to a store and buy some. Then, I leave. Typical man you say? Maybe, maybe not.
I understand how to use color, pattern and arrangement. I’m not happy with a living room consisting of a Budweiser clock, a couple of beanbag chairs, and a shelf unit made out of cinder blocks and plywood. One of my friends said of my last home, “It looks like Pottery Barn threw up in here.” So, now I’m a typical gay man?
I hate musicals. I have no idea why these people suddenly break out into song for no apparent reason. When I watch one at home on DVD, I fast-forward through the songs to get on with the story. By the way, I also cannot stand Barbra Streisand or Liza Minnelli. I’d rather drive spikes into my ears than sit through one of their movies, at least without a fast-forward button. Hmmm. This person does not need these people. Just a regular guy reaction?
I also hate just about any movie with car chases or where lots of stuff blows up. I just sit there thinking, “Oh please, can we just get on with it?” Well, that’s not a guy thing – probably a gay thing, right?
I can’t stand watching sports. Someone will move something that will probably resemble some sort of ball. They will put this ball in a hole, over a line, or in some confined area of some sort. Someone will win, someone will lose, and when it is all over, who gives a damn? And what difference does it make if my team wins or your team wins? I’ve got better things to do with my time. As the bumper sticker says, “My area sports team is superior to your area sports team.” That about sums it up for me. Who cares? I still have to go to work on Monday, and in the meantime, there’s three hours of my life that I will never get back. Well, that’s just typical isn’t it?
Please don't talk to me about celebrities. I don't care about Britney, Miley, Paris or Nicole. I also don't care about Brat, Matt, Ben or Mario. I couldn't give two craps who married whom, who went where, who's fat, who's anorexic, who wore what, who's hot or who's not! Is that typical?
I despise small high-pitched dogs. And it especially makes my skin crawl to see men fawn all over these little rats. Show me a little Yorky-Bichon-Poodle-Pekingese and I’ll show you perfect dropkick. I like real dogs. I like dogs that men like. Well, that’s just a typical man talking, huh?
I can get whites their whitest, cook a lasagna from scratch, pick the perfect wine and arrange a centerpiece. I can also lay a tile floor, change my own oil, and I still think farts are funny. So what is a typical man? Am I a typical man or not? I hope not.
My opinion was that my friend should continue to offer her opinions where she felt they would make a positive impact, as long as they were not personal remarks. I explained to my friend that I had spent years working predominately for/with women and had trained myself to think carefully before I speak due to their sensitivity. Even with all my efforts, I’ve still brought some of my female co-workers to tears and have more than once been accused of being “condescending”, so try as I might, it is mostly up to the listener to determine how something is meant. I also explained that I had a tendency to take things personally as well, even when they were meant to be taken constructively. My friend then said to me, “Well, you are not a typical male.”
Boy, has this stuck in my craw. (Now watch, my friend will be all apologetic about it, even though I just advised her to stick to her guns. Women, huh?) What is a “typical male?” Am I supposed to be a ruthless, uncaring co-worker who doesn’t care what other people think about what I say? Am I supposed to be some sports-minded oaf who lays about every Sunday wiping my Cheetos-stained hands all over my shirt? Should I be good at building things out of wood?
I got to thinking about the stereotypes we all walk around with and whether I identified with them either as a typical man, or even as a typical gay man. I came to the conclusion that I really can’t be labeled, but maybe I just don’t see the forest for the trees. I thought I’d throw out some examples and let you tell me if you think I am “typical” or not.
I hate shopping. I don’t understand why I would want to wander about touching and looking at things that I don’t need. If I need a pair of blue jeans, I go to a store and buy some. Then, I leave. Typical man you say? Maybe, maybe not.
I understand how to use color, pattern and arrangement. I’m not happy with a living room consisting of a Budweiser clock, a couple of beanbag chairs, and a shelf unit made out of cinder blocks and plywood. One of my friends said of my last home, “It looks like Pottery Barn threw up in here.” So, now I’m a typical gay man?
I hate musicals. I have no idea why these people suddenly break out into song for no apparent reason. When I watch one at home on DVD, I fast-forward through the songs to get on with the story. By the way, I also cannot stand Barbra Streisand or Liza Minnelli. I’d rather drive spikes into my ears than sit through one of their movies, at least without a fast-forward button. Hmmm. This person does not need these people. Just a regular guy reaction?
I also hate just about any movie with car chases or where lots of stuff blows up. I just sit there thinking, “Oh please, can we just get on with it?” Well, that’s not a guy thing – probably a gay thing, right?
I can’t stand watching sports. Someone will move something that will probably resemble some sort of ball. They will put this ball in a hole, over a line, or in some confined area of some sort. Someone will win, someone will lose, and when it is all over, who gives a damn? And what difference does it make if my team wins or your team wins? I’ve got better things to do with my time. As the bumper sticker says, “My area sports team is superior to your area sports team.” That about sums it up for me. Who cares? I still have to go to work on Monday, and in the meantime, there’s three hours of my life that I will never get back. Well, that’s just typical isn’t it?
Please don't talk to me about celebrities. I don't care about Britney, Miley, Paris or Nicole. I also don't care about Brat, Matt, Ben or Mario. I couldn't give two craps who married whom, who went where, who's fat, who's anorexic, who wore what, who's hot or who's not! Is that typical?
I despise small high-pitched dogs. And it especially makes my skin crawl to see men fawn all over these little rats. Show me a little Yorky-Bichon-Poodle-Pekingese and I’ll show you perfect dropkick. I like real dogs. I like dogs that men like. Well, that’s just a typical man talking, huh?
I can get whites their whitest, cook a lasagna from scratch, pick the perfect wine and arrange a centerpiece. I can also lay a tile floor, change my own oil, and I still think farts are funny. So what is a typical man? Am I a typical man or not? I hope not.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
T.M.I.
Too much information. We have so overloaded ourselves with information that we are completely unable to exist in the moment.
People have always had a desire for entertainment and escapism. This desire was probably first quenched with storytelling. Storytelling evolved into stage. Stage evolved into screen. The screen came into our homes and became the internet.
As forms of entertainment have evolved, so have forms of communication. The days of messengers traveling from village to village became the printed word, the radio and the telephone, and finally the cell phone, emails, blogs and text messages.
At face value, all of these modern forms of communication serve us invaluably and I’m not suggesting that we regress, but we need to take a serious look at whether all these new forms of communication are useful or whether they have begun to replace our real lives. We also need to understand that we are replacing entertainment with communication. They have become one and the same.
At a recent birthday dinner for my teenaged nephew, he stared wistfully up as he told me how much he’d like to have the latest cell phone with all the fabulous entertainment and communication possibilities at hand. I showed him my cell phone, and used my hands like one of the models on The Price Is Right as I explained how my cell phone both makes calls and receives calls! To say that my nephew was unimpressed is an understatement.
During a recent college math course, I was surrounded by classmates whose phones, set to “silent” mode, vibrated wildly while my professor tried desperately to explain a complicated formula to a completely distracted classroom. Everyone was too busy sending text messages to pay any attention.
During my last visit to The Magic Kingdom, Paul and I were sitting on a bench enjoying the atmosphere and doing some people-watching. A teenaged girl sat next to me and began sending text messages wildly. Her cell phone’s keyboard was undoubtedly overheated, but still she kept on. She was unable to look up even for a moment to take in her surroundings. My curiosity got the best of me. Respectfully I said, “Excuse me. Can you explain something to me? If what you have to say to the other person is terribly important, why don’t you just dial their phone number and speak to them, instead of sending all of these text messages back and forth?” She said, “Hmmm. I never thought about that. I don’t know.” Then her phone began to buzz and she was immediately engrossed in her next text message. She had no more time to talk to me.
I felt sorry for her. She was completely unable to appreciate her surroundings for fear of being unresponsive to what I’m sure what a less than meaningful text message. Some day, whoever she was visiting the park with will look back on that day and say, “Do you remember that day we spent at The Magic Kingdom?” To which she will have to reply, “Not really. Hold on, I’m getting a text.”
So, what’s the answer? For starters, try turning your cell phones and computers off one night per week. Invite a friend or neighbor over to your house on that night for a game or a bite to eat. Have a conversation with them. Remember conversations? They’re even faster than text messages. Also, when you and I are speaking face to face, please don’t hold up your “wait a minute finger” to answer your cell phone. I promise I won’t do it to you either. And lastly, don’t read my blog tomorrow. I know it’s good and all, but there might be something else more important going on right in front of you.
People have always had a desire for entertainment and escapism. This desire was probably first quenched with storytelling. Storytelling evolved into stage. Stage evolved into screen. The screen came into our homes and became the internet.
As forms of entertainment have evolved, so have forms of communication. The days of messengers traveling from village to village became the printed word, the radio and the telephone, and finally the cell phone, emails, blogs and text messages.
At face value, all of these modern forms of communication serve us invaluably and I’m not suggesting that we regress, but we need to take a serious look at whether all these new forms of communication are useful or whether they have begun to replace our real lives. We also need to understand that we are replacing entertainment with communication. They have become one and the same.
At a recent birthday dinner for my teenaged nephew, he stared wistfully up as he told me how much he’d like to have the latest cell phone with all the fabulous entertainment and communication possibilities at hand. I showed him my cell phone, and used my hands like one of the models on The Price Is Right as I explained how my cell phone both makes calls and receives calls! To say that my nephew was unimpressed is an understatement.
During a recent college math course, I was surrounded by classmates whose phones, set to “silent” mode, vibrated wildly while my professor tried desperately to explain a complicated formula to a completely distracted classroom. Everyone was too busy sending text messages to pay any attention.
During my last visit to The Magic Kingdom, Paul and I were sitting on a bench enjoying the atmosphere and doing some people-watching. A teenaged girl sat next to me and began sending text messages wildly. Her cell phone’s keyboard was undoubtedly overheated, but still she kept on. She was unable to look up even for a moment to take in her surroundings. My curiosity got the best of me. Respectfully I said, “Excuse me. Can you explain something to me? If what you have to say to the other person is terribly important, why don’t you just dial their phone number and speak to them, instead of sending all of these text messages back and forth?” She said, “Hmmm. I never thought about that. I don’t know.” Then her phone began to buzz and she was immediately engrossed in her next text message. She had no more time to talk to me.
I felt sorry for her. She was completely unable to appreciate her surroundings for fear of being unresponsive to what I’m sure what a less than meaningful text message. Some day, whoever she was visiting the park with will look back on that day and say, “Do you remember that day we spent at The Magic Kingdom?” To which she will have to reply, “Not really. Hold on, I’m getting a text.”
So, what’s the answer? For starters, try turning your cell phones and computers off one night per week. Invite a friend or neighbor over to your house on that night for a game or a bite to eat. Have a conversation with them. Remember conversations? They’re even faster than text messages. Also, when you and I are speaking face to face, please don’t hold up your “wait a minute finger” to answer your cell phone. I promise I won’t do it to you either. And lastly, don’t read my blog tomorrow. I know it’s good and all, but there might be something else more important going on right in front of you.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Gift For A Nation
Jesse Helms died today. President Bush was quoted as saying that America has lost a "great patriot."
I began to think about the word patriot. Patriot is a word with a simple definition. It means one who loves his country. But how can one be a patriot, without believing in what a country stands for?
Even before there was a Constitution, or a Bill of Rights, there was the Declaration of Independence. This document explains clearly what the United States stands for. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal ..." All of us, every last one, has the right to be treated equally and fairly under the laws of our country.
Was Jesse Helms a patriot? I have lifted this passage from the comments posted today by a reader of the New York Times. I trust the dates and quotes are correct.
Over the years Helms has declared homosexuality “degenerate,” and homosexuals “weak, morally sick wretches.” (Newsweek, 12/5/94) In a tirade highlighting his routine opposition to AIDS research funding, Helms lashed out at the Kennedy-Hatch AIDS bill in 1988: “There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy.” (States News Service, 5/17/88)
Helms remonstrated ten female members of the House of Representatives to “act like ladies” when they interrupted a Senate Foreign Relations Committee hearing to demand support of a U.N. treaty against gender discrimination, and subsequently had them removed from the hearing by Capitol police. (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 10/28/99)
And the man ABC News now describes as a “conservative icon” in 1993 sang “Dixie” in an elevator to Carol Moseley-Braun, the first African-American woman elected to the Senate, bragging, “I’m going to make her cry. I’m going to sing Dixie until she cries.” (Chicago Sun-Times, 8/5/93)
More recently, when a caller to CNN’s Larry King Live show praised guest Jesse Helms for “everything you’ve done to help keep down the niggers,” Helms’ response was to salute the camera and say, “Well, thank you, I think.” (Wilmington Star-News, 9/16/95)
Jesse Helms was no patriot. He was an embarassment to our country and I'm glad he's gone. May he find as much eternal peace in death as he provided to minorities and seekers of equal rights while he was alive.
Today, on this Independence Day we have once again been liberated. This time from a mean spirited, intolerant bigot named Jesse Helms.
I began to think about the word patriot. Patriot is a word with a simple definition. It means one who loves his country. But how can one be a patriot, without believing in what a country stands for?
Even before there was a Constitution, or a Bill of Rights, there was the Declaration of Independence. This document explains clearly what the United States stands for. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal ..." All of us, every last one, has the right to be treated equally and fairly under the laws of our country.
Was Jesse Helms a patriot? I have lifted this passage from the comments posted today by a reader of the New York Times. I trust the dates and quotes are correct.
Over the years Helms has declared homosexuality “degenerate,” and homosexuals “weak, morally sick wretches.” (Newsweek, 12/5/94) In a tirade highlighting his routine opposition to AIDS research funding, Helms lashed out at the Kennedy-Hatch AIDS bill in 1988: “There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy.” (States News Service, 5/17/88)
Helms remonstrated ten female members of the House of Representatives to “act like ladies” when they interrupted a Senate Foreign Relations Committee hearing to demand support of a U.N. treaty against gender discrimination, and subsequently had them removed from the hearing by Capitol police. (St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 10/28/99)
And the man ABC News now describes as a “conservative icon” in 1993 sang “Dixie” in an elevator to Carol Moseley-Braun, the first African-American woman elected to the Senate, bragging, “I’m going to make her cry. I’m going to sing Dixie until she cries.” (Chicago Sun-Times, 8/5/93)
More recently, when a caller to CNN’s Larry King Live show praised guest Jesse Helms for “everything you’ve done to help keep down the niggers,” Helms’ response was to salute the camera and say, “Well, thank you, I think.” (Wilmington Star-News, 9/16/95)
Jesse Helms was no patriot. He was an embarassment to our country and I'm glad he's gone. May he find as much eternal peace in death as he provided to minorities and seekers of equal rights while he was alive.
Today, on this Independence Day we have once again been liberated. This time from a mean spirited, intolerant bigot named Jesse Helms.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Mom Really Does Know Best
A couple of months ago, my friend Dave and I decided to go to Disney World for the evening. As usual, vendors were selling all sorts of things that light up in the dark. On previous trips to Disney, I had mentioned how I had always wanted one of those light-up necklaces as a child, but my mother would never allow me to have one.
When I was a kid, amusement park vendors sold two things - balloons during the day, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces at night. Money was tight for my family. If we were lucky enough to get to go an amusement park in the first place, that was good enough. There was no way we were to expect any sort of money to be spent frivolously on silly disposable objects like glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Of course as a child, I really had no concept of the value of a dollar. I just knew that I saw other kids with these things and wished I could have one too. But Mom always held her ground. It wasn't going to happen.
While sitting on a bench at Disney, taking a break, Dave wandered off without saying anything. He returned shortly with a grand necklace that lit up and flashed in several colors! I was thrilled as every color of the rainbow danced around my neck in synchronized patterns! It only took me 40 years to get one! Proudly, I displayed my necklace as we wandered the park. The jealousy I could feel coming from the other children was palpable.
One hour later, my necklace quit working.
I set out to find another vendor and was pleased to find out that they were happy to exchange it for a new one. Again, I felt like a celebrity and was happy that all the other children were once again envious.
But it was not to last. I noticed that one of the lights on my new necklace was not working. So I waited in line again at the vendor’s cart to get another new one. Now with my third necklace flashing brilliantly I was once again satisfied.
Not more than an hour after my final exchange, Dave and I rode Space Mountain. During the ride the thing flew off my shoulders straight up into the air and disappeared into dark depths of the ride, never to be seen again.
To hell with it. Mom was right. Things don't bring people happiness. Thanks Mom.
When I was a kid, amusement park vendors sold two things - balloons during the day, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces at night. Money was tight for my family. If we were lucky enough to get to go an amusement park in the first place, that was good enough. There was no way we were to expect any sort of money to be spent frivolously on silly disposable objects like glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Of course as a child, I really had no concept of the value of a dollar. I just knew that I saw other kids with these things and wished I could have one too. But Mom always held her ground. It wasn't going to happen.
While sitting on a bench at Disney, taking a break, Dave wandered off without saying anything. He returned shortly with a grand necklace that lit up and flashed in several colors! I was thrilled as every color of the rainbow danced around my neck in synchronized patterns! It only took me 40 years to get one! Proudly, I displayed my necklace as we wandered the park. The jealousy I could feel coming from the other children was palpable.
One hour later, my necklace quit working.
I set out to find another vendor and was pleased to find out that they were happy to exchange it for a new one. Again, I felt like a celebrity and was happy that all the other children were once again envious.
But it was not to last. I noticed that one of the lights on my new necklace was not working. So I waited in line again at the vendor’s cart to get another new one. Now with my third necklace flashing brilliantly I was once again satisfied.
Not more than an hour after my final exchange, Dave and I rode Space Mountain. During the ride the thing flew off my shoulders straight up into the air and disappeared into dark depths of the ride, never to be seen again.
To hell with it. Mom was right. Things don't bring people happiness. Thanks Mom.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Who Will Speak For Me?
A few weeks ago, I visited a local bar just two blocks from home. It was only my second visit to this bar as I'm understandably nervous about sitting in a bar whose parking lot is full of pickup trucks and motorcycles. This is just asking for trouble.
I was surprised to have struck up several good conversations with strangers. I'm usually shy to the point of avoiding social situations, but I had met some nice people and I was actually beginning to feel comfortable.
A man about my age sat down with his wife and we all began talking. I usually break the ice by telling people that I am from Las Vegas and asking where they are from. Everyone seems to have a Vegas story and those who don't are still fascinated to learn that the citizens of Las Vegas don't all work in hotels.
The conversation was getting lively and the man began to tell me that although he and his wife had lived all over the United States, they had recently resettled here in Florida where it turns out he had grown up.
I asked him what it was like to grow up here, as I had only ever lived in large cities. He began to recount tales of childhood memories, spending time with his friends romping in the woods and swimming in the rivers. He went on to say that one of his fondest memories was catching turtles with the other boys down at the river that runs through town. I asked him why they would want to catch turtles, thinking he and his friends might keep them for pets. He said, "Oh, we would sell 'em to the Niggers. They liked to eat 'em."
I was scared and angry and flabbergasted all at the same time. I wanted to say, "Really, what did the fags eat?" But I decided that I had better back slowly away, excuse myself and leave, rather than to start something I would not be able to finish. I haven't been back.
Now I wish I hadn't been too scared to say something. Next time, I will.
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.
-Martin Niemoller
I was surprised to have struck up several good conversations with strangers. I'm usually shy to the point of avoiding social situations, but I had met some nice people and I was actually beginning to feel comfortable.
A man about my age sat down with his wife and we all began talking. I usually break the ice by telling people that I am from Las Vegas and asking where they are from. Everyone seems to have a Vegas story and those who don't are still fascinated to learn that the citizens of Las Vegas don't all work in hotels.
The conversation was getting lively and the man began to tell me that although he and his wife had lived all over the United States, they had recently resettled here in Florida where it turns out he had grown up.
I asked him what it was like to grow up here, as I had only ever lived in large cities. He began to recount tales of childhood memories, spending time with his friends romping in the woods and swimming in the rivers. He went on to say that one of his fondest memories was catching turtles with the other boys down at the river that runs through town. I asked him why they would want to catch turtles, thinking he and his friends might keep them for pets. He said, "Oh, we would sell 'em to the Niggers. They liked to eat 'em."
I was scared and angry and flabbergasted all at the same time. I wanted to say, "Really, what did the fags eat?" But I decided that I had better back slowly away, excuse myself and leave, rather than to start something I would not be able to finish. I haven't been back.
Now I wish I hadn't been too scared to say something. Next time, I will.
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.
-Martin Niemoller
Lord, Give Me A Sign
This morning, I drove past one of the plethora of local "First" Baptist Churches in the area. (How could they all the be the first?) They had a very enticing sign out front that read "Free Vacation Bible School". Yeah, because when I think "vacation", I immediately think "bible school". "What do you think dear, Paris, Honolulu, or bible school for vacation this year?" Well, at least it was free.
Another sign I recently saw was posted on the outside of the local V.F.W. It read, "Sunday Alligator Parmesan". 'Nuff said about that.
I have to go now. I'm late for my banjo lesson.
Another sign I recently saw was posted on the outside of the local V.F.W. It read, "Sunday Alligator Parmesan". 'Nuff said about that.
I have to go now. I'm late for my banjo lesson.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Middle Age Sets In
This month I will be 41 years old and I feel every bit of it. The older I get, the harder it becomes to surround myself with friends that are even older than I am to make me feel young, although some of you will still do nicely. Come to think of it, there aren’t too many people I can stand next to that will make me look thinner. But that’s a story for another blog.
Last year, I was on vacation with some extended family members. As we rode along together in a rented minivan, my teenaged cousin turned to me and fixed her mouth to tell me that I was “old”.
On a recent morning walk, a little neighborhood child of about five years in age was eager to tattle on his friend who had just run off. He waved me down wildly to get my attention as I could hear nothing over my ipod. (I refuse to capitalize “ipod”). When I removed the earbuds, he repeated himself, pointing toward his little friend that was dashing away, “That little boy called you an old, fat man.”
When did I become “old”? For me, it first became apparent when I caught myself humming along to the piped in music at the grocery store. They were playing the muzak version of Madonna’s La Isla Bonita. Next came the day that I realized most doctors and police officers were at least ten years younger than me. Aren’t these people supposed to be older than me?
Over the last year, something occurred to me that I had never thought of before. The senior citizens that I am surrounded by were all young once. Isn’t that crazy? I mean, of course nobody is born wearing Velcro shoes and a blue perm, but it just didn’t occur to me that these people had once been the same ones whose music was too loud. They were the same people embracing new technology while their parents were still sitting in front of the radio to get the evening news.
Well, for those of you who are still lucky enough to be younger than I am, listen up kiddies. The next time you think about making fun of some “old” person who just doesn’t get it, think again. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. You are just the next in a long line of future out-of-shape middle-aged losers whose children will make fun of you for still listening to Blink 182 or Li'l what's-his-name, or whoever it is you like to listen to. So, show old people some respect, because you almost are one!
For those of you that are older than me, would you please get the hell off the road with your Mercury Grand Marquis and your mobility scooter? And get a debit card for God’s sake! Writing checks is so “yesterday”. I don’t have all day, you old farts. Geez, old people just don’t get it do they?
Last year, I was on vacation with some extended family members. As we rode along together in a rented minivan, my teenaged cousin turned to me and fixed her mouth to tell me that I was “old”.
On a recent morning walk, a little neighborhood child of about five years in age was eager to tattle on his friend who had just run off. He waved me down wildly to get my attention as I could hear nothing over my ipod. (I refuse to capitalize “ipod”). When I removed the earbuds, he repeated himself, pointing toward his little friend that was dashing away, “That little boy called you an old, fat man.”
When did I become “old”? For me, it first became apparent when I caught myself humming along to the piped in music at the grocery store. They were playing the muzak version of Madonna’s La Isla Bonita. Next came the day that I realized most doctors and police officers were at least ten years younger than me. Aren’t these people supposed to be older than me?
Over the last year, something occurred to me that I had never thought of before. The senior citizens that I am surrounded by were all young once. Isn’t that crazy? I mean, of course nobody is born wearing Velcro shoes and a blue perm, but it just didn’t occur to me that these people had once been the same ones whose music was too loud. They were the same people embracing new technology while their parents were still sitting in front of the radio to get the evening news.
Well, for those of you who are still lucky enough to be younger than I am, listen up kiddies. The next time you think about making fun of some “old” person who just doesn’t get it, think again. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. You are just the next in a long line of future out-of-shape middle-aged losers whose children will make fun of you for still listening to Blink 182 or Li'l what's-his-name, or whoever it is you like to listen to. So, show old people some respect, because you almost are one!
For those of you that are older than me, would you please get the hell off the road with your Mercury Grand Marquis and your mobility scooter? And get a debit card for God’s sake! Writing checks is so “yesterday”. I don’t have all day, you old farts. Geez, old people just don’t get it do they?
Monday, June 30, 2008
Pray At The Pump
Last week, our local paper featured an article about a group of Christians who all decided to gather around a gas pump, join hands, and pray for lower prices.
This is just wrong in so many ways that I don't know where to begin.
Personally, I consider myself to be agnostic. I believe in the possibility of the existence of God, but I feel that I need some evidence. But let’s put that aside. Let's assume that there is an omnipotent being dressed all in white, with a long beard and a booming voice, somewhere out there running the universe. Okay, but is God a cosmic ATM? A magic genie that grants wishes? If I close my eyes and click my heels and just believe, will gas prices come down? Lets pray in one hand and crap in the other and see which one fills up faster. C’mon folks.
And why did the local paper feel that this was a newsworthy story? We are all aware that gas prices are high and we are all aware that the Baptists run amok in this part of the country. One need only to read a few bumpers on some of the enormous gas-guzzling vinyl-topped cars around here to see that.
While we’re at it, what do these religious bumper stickers mean anyway? Think about it, what do they really mean? Isn’t the point of religion to find a personal and deep meaning about our existence on this planet? Isn’t the point of religion to dedicate yourself to becoming a loving person who realizes that we are not individually the be-all and end-all of our existence? Is the back of one’s car really the appropriate place to express such deeply held beliefs?
I wonder if any of these bumper sticker people ever had another driver come up to them and say, “Gosh, I had really lost my way in life, but now that I’ve read your bumper sticker, I’ve been found. Thank you for putting that shiny fish on the back of your car, otherwise I’d have spent my whole life as a heathen.”
I think these bumper stickers really mean, “I’m better than you.” Here’s a bumper sticker on my imaginary car. Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.
Well, this blog is one more thing I’ll have to burn in hell for. You'd better pray for me.
This is just wrong in so many ways that I don't know where to begin.
Personally, I consider myself to be agnostic. I believe in the possibility of the existence of God, but I feel that I need some evidence. But let’s put that aside. Let's assume that there is an omnipotent being dressed all in white, with a long beard and a booming voice, somewhere out there running the universe. Okay, but is God a cosmic ATM? A magic genie that grants wishes? If I close my eyes and click my heels and just believe, will gas prices come down? Lets pray in one hand and crap in the other and see which one fills up faster. C’mon folks.
And why did the local paper feel that this was a newsworthy story? We are all aware that gas prices are high and we are all aware that the Baptists run amok in this part of the country. One need only to read a few bumpers on some of the enormous gas-guzzling vinyl-topped cars around here to see that.
While we’re at it, what do these religious bumper stickers mean anyway? Think about it, what do they really mean? Isn’t the point of religion to find a personal and deep meaning about our existence on this planet? Isn’t the point of religion to dedicate yourself to becoming a loving person who realizes that we are not individually the be-all and end-all of our existence? Is the back of one’s car really the appropriate place to express such deeply held beliefs?
I wonder if any of these bumper sticker people ever had another driver come up to them and say, “Gosh, I had really lost my way in life, but now that I’ve read your bumper sticker, I’ve been found. Thank you for putting that shiny fish on the back of your car, otherwise I’d have spent my whole life as a heathen.”
I think these bumper stickers really mean, “I’m better than you.” Here’s a bumper sticker on my imaginary car. Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.
Well, this blog is one more thing I’ll have to burn in hell for. You'd better pray for me.
About My Blog
"Hot Boiled Peanuts", you say? What has that got to do with anything? Well, for the last nine months, I have been living in Florida - and not just Florida, but rural Florida. I moved here after a 12-year stint as a resident of Las Vegas, not exactly a center of culture, but a city nonetheless. Now, I live in the middle of nowhere. My friend Dave, who owns the house I live in, often jokes that our zip code is "EIEIO". Only, it's not really that funny.
Hot boiled peanuts are a roadside delicacy here in the middle of Bumblebug, Florida. They are the best way that I could think of to represent the way people here live. But they also represent a twist on things, a different way of looking at things. These southern delicacies are advertised outside gas stations and at roadside stands on every rural road in the area. They are a soupy mess that people slurp up with joy. I can think of few foods that I would find more disgusting that a soupy stew of mushy peanuts. No other phrase that I can think of, better sums up my feelings about the place I live in. So, if you are a Florida fan, you'd probably better move on. You won't like what you read here.
And one more word of warning. This is a place for me to share details and thoughts of my life with friends and family. I am a gay man. I have a partner, Paul, of 15 years whom I love very much. I do not intend to discuss my daily life without including him. If this offends you, I would recommend that you read no further.
So, why am I starting this blog? There are several reasons. First, it's a good way to stay in touch with family and friends. I don't expect that many strangers will stop in to read my blog, but they are welcome. Second, you just can't make this stuff up. I have stories (some say hilarious stories) to share and I want them recorded somewhere. Last, I have been told by several people that they believe I should write for a living. I disagree with them and I do not see myself as any sort of a "Hemingway". Having said that, it's quite possible that some of my friends and family would like to hear my stories and share my triumphs and challenges. Those that don't are free to go back to growing tomatoes, or reading their bibles, or whatever other folks do in their spare time.
For the rest of you who are still reading, I hope you'll come back and join me often. I'd love to hear from you.
Hot boiled peanuts are a roadside delicacy here in the middle of Bumblebug, Florida. They are the best way that I could think of to represent the way people here live. But they also represent a twist on things, a different way of looking at things. These southern delicacies are advertised outside gas stations and at roadside stands on every rural road in the area. They are a soupy mess that people slurp up with joy. I can think of few foods that I would find more disgusting that a soupy stew of mushy peanuts. No other phrase that I can think of, better sums up my feelings about the place I live in. So, if you are a Florida fan, you'd probably better move on. You won't like what you read here.
And one more word of warning. This is a place for me to share details and thoughts of my life with friends and family. I am a gay man. I have a partner, Paul, of 15 years whom I love very much. I do not intend to discuss my daily life without including him. If this offends you, I would recommend that you read no further.
So, why am I starting this blog? There are several reasons. First, it's a good way to stay in touch with family and friends. I don't expect that many strangers will stop in to read my blog, but they are welcome. Second, you just can't make this stuff up. I have stories (some say hilarious stories) to share and I want them recorded somewhere. Last, I have been told by several people that they believe I should write for a living. I disagree with them and I do not see myself as any sort of a "Hemingway". Having said that, it's quite possible that some of my friends and family would like to hear my stories and share my triumphs and challenges. Those that don't are free to go back to growing tomatoes, or reading their bibles, or whatever other folks do in their spare time.
For the rest of you who are still reading, I hope you'll come back and join me often. I'd love to hear from you.
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