Sailor Jim; Storyteller

Our Milk Wader has left us.

I remember him as a hyperactive kitten, exactly the wrong type of critter to try and smuggle into married quarters on campus, but Dian and I had been catless for a little over a year and we badly needed feline guidance.  We found a little black kitten that looked like it’d been wading through a small pool of milk; his belly, ruff, and all four paws were snowy white.  He also had a little white triangle on his face, with the base under his chin and the point halfway up his nose.

His name, he informed us, was “Wades through milk to defeat enemies,” but he was willing to answer to “Wade.”

He was the first cat I knew that made a habit of crossing his front legs every time he laid down, as if going for a cool look.  In his adulthood, he was judgemental, aloof, and  slightly disgusted by the actions of his fellow cats.  Dian liked to say that he just had a very good grasp of self, of who and what he was.  I’d always reply, “Yeah … Lord and Master of all he surveys.”

He was with us for eleven wonderful years.  We were very lucky to have this little strange person in our lives and we will miss him very much.

My great-grandfather, despite being a fairly traditional fella, once mentioned that he was all for women getting the vote.  As he put it, “It’ll serve them right for wanting to get involved in that silliness!”

To a certain degree, I feel much the same about gay marriages.  It’s not that I’m anti-gay or even anti-gay marriage, it’s just that I (with as many divorces as I have) cannot for the life of me imagine someone getting all upset over not being able to marry his or her partner.  It’s a little like bitching about the fact that the airlines no longer serve actual meals on flight of less than so many hours … I mean, we’re talking about airline food, fer pity sake!

That having been said, I was delighted to read that my old home state of California pulled it’s collective head out of it’s legal ass and overturned that silly same-sex marriage ban.  If gays want so badly to get tied to the marriage/annulment/divorce wheel, then, in the words of my great-grandfather,  “It’ll serve them right for wanting to get involved in that silliness!”

I’ve also read a few blogs where some dim-witted boob is whining that “gay marriages will destroy the sanctity of real marriages!”  When I find them, I always ask them exactly why that is?  I mean, Dian and I are married.  We were married in both a civil ceremony and in a church service.  We’ve been married for a whole lotta years.

So how is a couple of gay people getting married going to do anything to my marriage?  What, are the newly married gay couple going to turn up on my doorstep demanding a four-way?  (And, if so, are they men or women?  I ask for purely informational purposes and not because I might be tempted to talk Dian into anything.)

Now it’s a matter of my fellow Californians being smart enough to resist the moronic blandishment of the various idiotic groups that will try to make a same-sex marriage ban a part of the state Constitution.  C’mon, people, make an old sailor proud and let people be people … after all, that’s the California way, isn’t it?

Got a question for y’all.

Since it’s so damn expensive at the vets, I was going to buy our flea meds on-line.  Dian and I like Revolution and were checking out various websites to find the best deal.  Well, we found Pet Shed, where it cost quite a bit less than the other sites … and didn’t require a prescription.

This stuck me as odd, since all the rest of the website said that it did need a prescription, so I called the Pet Shed 800 number and confirmed that, yup, no prescription needed.  If I bought it, they’d send it.

Huh … so I checked the Better Business Bureau on Pet Shed and a couple of other agencies and it seems to check out.  Then I double checked the location of Pet Shed and discovered that it’s an Australian company.  A little extra checking showed that the reason they didn’t need the prescription is because, in Australia, Revolution doesn’t require a vet’s prescription to buy.  I checked their disclaimer and found the following:

Pet Shed is an Australian business. Unless otherwise indicated all products supplied by Pet Shed are registered with the Australian Pesticides and Veterinary Medicines Authority (APVMA) and are available for purchase in Australia without prescription. Further details can be obtained on http://services.apvma.gov.au/PubcrisWebClient/welcome.do.

Regulatory requirements differ between countries. The products supplied by Pet Shed may not be approved for sale in your country by the relevant regulatory authorities or may not be approved for sale in their Australian packaging. While the products supplied by Pet Shed may be supplied in Australia without prescription, a prescription may be required in your country. For example, in the USA, some of the products supplied by Pet Shed may not have received the approval for sale of the FDA, EPA and/or other regulatory bodies. Some products may require a prescription from a vet.

Pet Shed recommends that you check with the regulatory authorities in your country and/or your vet if you have any queries and to ensure that it is legal for you to purchase our products.

Okay, all the other websites wanted prescriptions, so I assume that a prescription is needed in America … but what the hell does that mean when all is said and done?  Their operator said that they didn’t need a prescription to send it, so I assume that they’ll send it without one, but … well, how the crap does that work?  Is it held by the postal authorities or what?

After an hour of trying to find what it all meant, I finally said “screw it” and went through all the check out procedure at the website, convinced that I’d found myself a good deal here (I really don’t want to take all four cats in for prescriptions, if only due to the cost) and that the reason they were able to sell for a cheaper price is because of not needing a prescription.  Hell, most non-prescription drugs cost less than prescription drugs, right?  And if they didn’t ask for a prescription, I’d just buy the stuff and to hell with it.  However, I chickened out at the last second, before authorizing payment.

Okay, here’s the question for all the critter people out there:  1. Have any of you ever dealt with Pet Shed?  2. Have any of you ever bought from overseas companies and discovered that, after you’d okay’d payment, they couldn’t deliver without an hitherto unmentioned prescription?  3.  Do any of you have any idea what any of this prescription needed/no prescription needed bs means?

A republican (naturally) has put forth a strange little bit of legislation called, as I understand it, the “Military Honor and Decency Act” and, among other things, it’s aimed at getting porno out of military exchanges. This is a link to the Military.Com story and this is a link to the actual bill and this is a link to this yahoo’s official congressional website, so you can get an idea about the guy’s overall mind set. (Incidentally, I love the fact that his Four Way Test has “Is it Moral/Right” ahead of “Is it Constitutional” … says volumes about the guy.)

Here’s a short excerpt from the story:

U.S. Rep. Paul Broun, R-Ga., has introduced legislation that would close a loophole in the current law that allows the sale of some sexually explicit material on military bases by lowering the threshold required to deem material “sexually explicit.”

A Department of Defense committee that reviews materials sold on bases ruled last year that magazines such as Playboy and Penthouse are not pornographic. But Broun’s Military Honor and Decency Act includes language that could make those magazines eligible for the ban.

And a few paragraphs later:

Broun, a Marine veteran, told Newsweek recently that the magazines sold in military exchanges are partly responsible for a rise in sexual assaults in the military and other problems. “Allowing the sale of pornography on military bases has harmed military men and women by: escalating the number of violent, sexual crimes; feeding a base addiction; eroding the family as the primary building block of society; and denigrating the moral standing of our troops both here and abroad,” Broun says on his Web site.

Hey! It’s the old “smut = rape” chestnut! Wild how conservatives keep pulling that one up during election years, isn’t it? Oh, just for the recond, here’s a link to the guy’s reelection website. By the way, please note that on his reelection website, his Four Way Test starts with Constitutionality and not morality … no sense in pissing off the few liberal republicans in the state, huh?)

And magazines are only the pointy end of the fid on this one, shipmates. If you check out the wording of the bill, you’ll notice that it could be used to censor any media that’s supplied by the military. Here’s the pertinent bit:

“(1) The term `sexually explicit material’ means–

(A) an audio recording, a film or video recording, or a print publication with visual depictions, produced in any medium, the principal theme of which depicts or describes nudity or sexual or excretory activities in a lascivious way; or”

At the moment, most military bases provide web access and basic cable for barracks … see where this is going? Anybody think that the morality police are going to stop with dirty magazines in the exchanges?

For those of you considering a career in the military, please take heed to this odd little fact: Whereas anyone who tried to pull this kind of censorship on the American people, as a whole, would be shot down in flames and his name become a national gag in both Leno’s and Letterman’s monologues, it’s very possible (and actually quite easy) for that same censorship to be mandated for military bases.

That’s right, whereas it would be a grievous crime to prohibit a 7/11’s or corner magazine stand’s right to sell Playboy and Penthouse, it’s quite okay to do so in military exchanges since, as we all know, the men and women in the military are our … well, let’s not beat around the bush here: they are our slaves, right? I mean, our taxes pay their salary, put food on their tables, pay for the bases they live on and the beds they sleep in, so we fucking own them, right? Hey, they’re lucky we give them, like a big happy present from the taxpayers, all their benefits, like tax free on-base shopping, and if they don’t like the fact that we know what’s best for them and are doing our level best to keep them moral (even though we don’t do it for ourselves, heavens no), well, they can just indulge those tacky and immoral appetites off-base so the majority of our superiorly moral military boys and girls don’t have to deal with their nasty … blah, blah, blah.

In short, this asshole Braun (despite having served himself) and other self-serving religious fanatics want to ensure that the men and women who are being sent into the middle east, where we are fighting a terrorist enemy of self-serving religious fanatics, cannot do so while reading the Party Jokes section of Playboy. Defend that Constitution, people, and - one day, after you’ve gotten out of the service - it’ll apply to you again, too!

The only good aspect of any of this is personal to me. I’m happy as hell that this sort of bullshit pisses me off just as much as a civilian as it did when I was still enlisted … means that my anger then wasn’t just selfishness. That’s nice to know.

Oh, by the way, here’s a list of the bill’s co-sponsors, just in case anyone would like to find out if his or her congressman is into this sort of silliness, or if anyone wants to be sure they have all the bubble gum trading cards or whatever:

Rep Akin, W. Todd [MO-2]
Rep Bartlett, Roscoe G. [MD-6]
Rep Bishop, Rob [UT-1]
Rep Chabot, Steve [OH-1]
Rep Forbes, J. Randy [VA-4]
Rep Fortenberry, Jeff [NE-1]
Rep Goode, Virgil H., Jr. [VA-5]
Rep King, Steve [IA-5]
Rep Musgrave, Marilyn N. [CO-4]
Rep Pence, Mike [IN-6]
Rep Pitts, Joseph R. [PA-16]
Rep Roskam, Peter J. [IL-6]
Rep Sali, Bill [ID-1]
Rep Shays, Christopher [CT-4]
Rep Smith, Christopher H. [NJ-4]
Rep Souder, Mark E. [IN-3]
Rep Wittman, Robert J. [VA-1]

The up side of being mostly retired since November is that, both because I’m lazy and to save the budget, I let my hair and beard grow out.  I ended up with the beginnings of a nice ponytail and a beard that, were it not for the fact that I trim it regularly, would look like I was trying to eat a poodle.

It’s actually kinda odd, shipmates.  Y’see, I’ve only really known two hairstyles in my adult life:  a military cut and a ponytail.  Whenever I don’t need to get haircuts, I just sorta fall into the other as a sort of default mode.  The odd part is that long hair makes me look much older!

Wierd, huh?  When I was younger, young guys had long hair and older men had short.  Now most of the young guys I see have shorter hair and the old hippies are the ones with the ponytails … so the longer my hair grows, the more the general population treats me like their grandfather.

Well, that damn post office interview changed all that!  I realized that I needed to trim the beard way back and get a hair cut, so I dug out my trimmers and beard scissors … and then asked Dian if she’d like to do the honors.  (She’s always expressed a desire to trim my beard, but I’ve always been leery of letting her do so … no real reason, really.)

Dian grinned like a little girl, giggled like a little girl, and stuck her tongue out between her teeth in concentration like a little girl while working on my mustache.

Unfortunately, she also cut like a little girl.  Shipmates, she surely butchered the job right from the beginning.  Y’see, she wanted to trim my ‘tashe to get it off of my upper lip, but tried to use the scissors longways to get the best line, instead of working just with the tip.  A rookie mistake.  My mustache ended up looking like something from an old English army poster … or maybe from an old French porn movie.

I reclaimed the scissors and tried to effect a little damage control, but it was too far gone.  So we experimented with mustacheless beards.  Dian used the electric trimmer to clean off my upper lip, but left the edges alone.  It looked a bit like a goatee with attitude, crawling up the sides of my lips and flowing back into my sideburns.  We both rather liked the look, but deemed it a bit much for an interview.  We trimmed it down to a chin curtain, but it really didn’t suit me.  Then to a petit goatee.  Then to a soul patch.

Then my face was simply covered with stubble.

That afternoon, I headed down to a local barber shop and, after watching the two barbers work on various customers, picked the one I thought could do a good job and, when he was free, let him trim a few pounds off of me.  When he was done, I wasn’t wearing a military cut … quite.

The morning of the interview, I shaved after my shower and my bare face was once again revealed to the world.  (And all for an interview over a job that sucked … sometimes there just ain’t no justice in the world.)

It’s been a couple of days since the interview and the general consensus of the folks I see on a day to day basis is that, sans beard and with short hair, I look to be around 35, which is somewhat gratifing, truth to tell.  The various scars and blemishes that my beard covered seem to be mostly faded, which is also nice to know, but discovering how much younger I can look is downright scary.  Now the question is:  Will this new found fountain of youth keep me from growing back my beard?

To which the answer is a resounding:  Hell no!  Especially since I’ve spent quite a bit of time since loosing all that protective fur sneezing and then woke up this morning with a nasty head cold.  Oh, I’ll keep it trimmed back to my summer preference of a well groomed goatee and mustache, but my chin is going back to wearing a fur coat as soon as possible!

Nice to be able to duck a bullet without having to actually duck.

Y’see, if they’d offered me the job, I might have actually taken it.  I mean, sure, the math on the money sucked and sucked bad, but it was a stepping stone gig, one that - in time - might have led to bigger things with the post office.  Besides, it was only one day out of the week and whenever the regular driver was sick and whenever she took leave … call it a possible average of around eight times a month.

Hell, I can do any crappy job if it’s only a maximum of twice a week … which actually pretty much describes my entire sex life with my last wife, y’know.

Seriously, though, what would be the worse that could happen?  I do a bad job and they fire me?  Hell, I’d be no worse off than I am right now, so the bottom line is that I could have gone in to do a crappy job for a guaranteed once and a possible twice a week, made myself some chump change, maybe picked up a funny story or two, and maybe positioned myself for a better job down the road.

I’ve been in worse situations, y’know.

On the other hand, I will officially admit that I’m incredibly relieved that their first choice took the job.  I might have been in worse situations, but why the hell should I willingly walk into any bad situation?  The money was too light to make any difference in my current budget, so it wasn’t an issue, and I really don’t need to get away from Dian once a week … so why bother?  The only possible good that would have come of it might have been more weird stuff to write about and, in all honesty, it might have been as boring as a presidential debate.  I mean, we’re talking about a rural mail delivery where I’d almost never actually meet any of the people, just stuff mail in their boxes and drive on.

No, I’m well out of it.  I’ll still put in for any regular post office positions that come my way, but I’ll leave the relief work to others more suited.

Well, that was … actually, it was somewhat scary, in a really cute sort of way.

We were watching Finding Nemo (”Mine.”  I’ll never hear seagulls in the same way again.) when our eldest cat, Wade, reminded us that it was Friday.  Friday is catnip day for Wade and, if we forget, he always reminds up in a small, subtle way.  Like meowing in an high pitched and annoying way until we put the catnip down.

Wade was getting his nip on when our little ex-feral yard kitten, Tiger, meowed at the door.  (He’s taken to spending a few hours a night with us.  I think he’s campaigning for sleep over privileges, which Dian is considering.)  I automatically opened the door for Tiger, not even thinking about the catnip, and went back to watching the movie.  (I like the fact that Nemo and his father were reunited, but - let’s face it - was there ever any question it would happen?  I mean, it’s a Disney movie, right?  Like what were the chances that Nemo would end up dead?  So, no, while I liked the fact that Nemo and his daddy got back together, I was happier that Dori found someone to be with.  Damn near made me cry.)

I don’t know what made me look over, but I quickly stopped the dvd and pointed Dian in the right direction.

Tiger was break dancing in the catnip!

Seriously!  He was literally spinning on his shoulders, his hind legs in the air, and rolling while he did so.  He’d leap to his feet, then do a face plant in the nip and try for a head spin, then flop onto his back, all four stubby legs in the air and wiggling.  Then he suddenly dug in his claws and, laying on his side, ran in a circle on the carpet.  Looked for all the world like Curly from the Stooges, y’know.

Wade was standing a little bit off, looking totally disgusted at his adopted grandchild’s antics.   Wade is currently on top of the bookcase, settled in and doing his best to ignore the little drugged hellion, while Dian and I franticly surf the web, looking for any information on catnip o.d.s.  Tiger is about as stoned as any cat I’ve ever seen … and I knew a guy who used to put his tomcat in a paper bag and blow weed smoke into it until the cat was whacked.  (He claimed it was the only way he could get the cat to eat the cat food he could afford, but - since the tom would start on the trash as soon as he was done with the kibbles - I sorta doubted this.)  He wants to play with anyone and anything … but is sorta reverting to his feral ways.  In short, he plays HARD!

Ah … this is interesting.

Tiger has discovered, for the first time, Dian’s full length mirror.  I think he’ll be okay now.  He seems to be having a long discussion with “the kitty in the window,” so he’ll come down soon.

(I gotta buy a digital video camera one of these days, if only to share these moments.)

Great movie.  Robert Downey Jr. is great, Paltrow is great, even Jeff Bridges is great.

Great effects, great cgi, great use of humor.

Really a great movie.

Go see it.

(Okay, let’s see anyone bitch about spoilers with this one!!)

Had my interview for that postal position … yike!

Okay, first off, it’s only a relief position.  I would be working only one day a week, whenever the regular person couldn’t make it (calls in sick, car breaks down, whatever), and whenever the regular person takes time off (holidays, for instance).

Second, the route is 112 friggin’ miles long, with over 350 boxes.  Each box currently has two addresses, since they only recently instituted the new 911 addresses and the addressees have a grace year when they’ll receive mail both to the 911 address and the old street address, so that’s over 700 addresses to memorize.

Third, it’s a 9 hour job … one that will probably take around 12 hours to do.  Y’see, they only pay for the amount of hours it should take to do the route and this route was recently checked by the postal powers.  It’s listed as 2 hours to case (sort) the mail and 6 to 7 to deliver it.  So I’ll be doing it once a week, which means I’m not going to have much opportunity to memorize the damn addresses all that quickly, so it’ll take longer to sort the damn mail, and I’m not going to have all that much chance to get used to the route, so it’ll take me longer to deliver it, too!  But I’ll only get paid for 9 hours, tops.

Fourth, I’ll be using my own truck and paying for my own gas.  Which means, since I’ll have to slide across the seat to reach the mail boxes, I’ll be using Dian’s truck, since mine is a stick … ouchie.

Finally, if I take this job, I’m suppose to be ready to leap into action during the five days that I don’t work, too.

Add that to the fact that it has no benefits whatsoever, doesn’t count for logevity if one ever happens to get in with a regular post office gig, and that I’d be behind two other relief drivers for any position that opens up (this particular post office has three rural routes and a relief driver for each of the other two drivers), makes the lone benefit of $18.00 an hour pretty small.

Luckily, the postmaster there really seems to what to hire someone much younger (despite having the last two young drivers quit for better jobs, both within months of being hired) and/or who lives closer (they’d have to wait around 30 minutes for me to drive in if I’m needed), so there’s not much chance she’ll call and offer me the gig.  Which means that I won’t have to decide whether or not the insanity of the job is worth getting around $150 a day.

What’s as tall as a two-story house, as wide as two school buses, side by side, full of strange gases, has oddly violent tatoos, and is floating - unattended, mind you - over the California deserts?

That’s right … it’s a pig!

Read the story … I’ll wait here for you to come back.

Done?  Okay, so there’s this bloody huge floating pig drifting across a California desert, right?

I have this mental image of a small commune, a left over place from the sixties, where several oddly aging hippies are living out their gentle lives with organic veggies, some tubers, occasional fruit, and a small, discreet patch of weed that is regularly harvested.

Several are sitting out in the dark, enjoying the latest harvest and grooving on some mellow tunes, just waiting for the sunrise.

And, over the horizon, comes a giant floating pig, gleaming in the morning light, with the image of a giant Uncle Sam wielding two bloody cleavers.

I cannot express how much happiness and joy this particular image, as well as the images of the next few minutes, fills me.  Let your mind play around with the principles (stoned old hippies, mellow music, quiet early desert morning, and giant floating tattooed pig) and see if a grin doesn’t find its way to your lips.

It’s moments like this that make life worth giggling over, shipmates!

Ah, spring is in the air, the dew is on the leaf, the clouds are in the sky, and my father-in-law’s riding lawnmower is a piece of shit!

It’s a Murray!  Hoo-rah!

It doesn’t run!  Hoo-rah!

Murray went bankrupt several years ago!  Hoo-rah!

I gotta fix it!  Ah-shit!

Okay, so it’s a riding lawn mower from a company that went belly-up.  SFW!  That’s why the Internet is such a dynamite research tool, isn’t it?  I can download a User’s Manual and Parts Guide no matter when the damn thing was made or what company made it, right?  Just Google Murray and - HEY PRESTO! - a website!

Kewl!   They even have specific button for User’s Manuals!

Click the button and … model number?!

Crap.

Okay, go outside and find model number, write down bloody huge model number, come inside and type in bloody huge model number.

Crap.

Okay, go outside and check model number, discover that I wrote down the bloody huge model number incorrectly, write it down correctly, double check to make sure I have the right number, come inside and type in the correct bloody huge model number.

WTF?

There are no models matching the model number you supplied. Please make another selection.

Please be advised:
–Murray products older than 2003 model year are no longer supported. This includes any paper or electronic manuals.
–Murray parts older than 1996 are no longer supported. This includes any paper or electronic parts lists.
–Active Outdoor Products (such as go-karts, sleds, mini-bikes, etc.) are no longer supported.

Um … “Sweetheart?  When did your dad buy his mower?”

“What?”

“I asked you when your father bought his riding mower, love.”

“Oh.  Gee, I guess it was back sometime between 2000 and 2002 … why are you tearing at your hair, dear?”

I explained the problem and she told me that it wasn’t really a problem.  “Mom and dad keep every User’s Guide and Owner’s Manual they get, Jim.  I’ll run up to the house and see if they know where this one is.”

Five minutes and I have an antique User’s Guide.  Kewl!

Ten minutes and I have a dead battery, blown fuse, and - maybe - a clogged fuel line.  Plus, the mower housing is fubar’d and has to be dropped, the blades sharpened and balanced, and the housing reattached, and then leveled.

Right … first, get the silly thing started.  Old battery won’t hold a charge, so buy a new battery when I buy a new fuse and fuel line filter.  New battery in and attached, new fuse plugged in, new fuel filter in and … crap.  Fuel line is old and cracked and when I removed the old filter, the line split.  Any slack in the other side of the line?  Yes?  Kewl!  Cut off bad section, attach fuel filter, replace clips, and done.

Okay, let’s see if I can get the silly thing to turn over.

Nope.

Okay, let’s prime the engine and see if it’ll turn over then.  Open air filter … yuck!

Okay, clean air filter and prime engine.  Replace air filter and see if it’ll turn over.

Third try gets a hesitant result.

Tenth try gets a couple of minutes worth of running.

Fifteen try is the charm and the motor is purring like a cat dying of consumption.  Fine enough, I can always tune the engine up later.  First, I’ll take it for a quick run around the lawn and see how bad the mowing housing is out of alignment, while letting the engine work out a little rust.  Down to the other side of the field and back and why is there smoke coming from under the seat?

Turn off mower, hop off seat, tilt seat forward, and watch as the brand new battery’s terminals finish melting into little puddles of lead.  WTF?  Twenty minutes - and two fairly substantial shocks - later, I discover that the battery terminals came into contact with an edge of the seat, creating an arc which melted the terminals and most of the insulation off of the positive wire.  The edge in question, according to the User’s Guide, used to have a plastic cover along it (to prevent the battery terminals from arcing, one assumes).  Doesn’t now, of course, but it’s nice to know that it used to, huh?

Kewl.  Battery is sill under warranty, so maybe Wal-Mart will pony up for a new one.  In the meantime, I’ll drop the mowing housing and get all that out of the way (the right hand blade was cutting at around three inches height, while the left one was kicking up dirt).

I’ll let you all know how it goes after the next round of fixes.

Okay, before I write this, let me set a few items straight:  I didn’t sleep the night before the Rural Carrier Associate test.  Not because I was particularly nervious, mind, but because I just had a bad night … in part due to nerve, admittedly, but mostly due to nightmares and such.  Okay, got that?  No sleep the night before.

Which is why, when I wrote down my address on the test, I got it wrong.   My post office box is 402, but I - somehow - ended up mistakenly marking down 204 on the test.  (Yeah, yeah, I know; the irony is damn near crippling, huh?)  Now, all things being equal, I suppose that a reasonable point could be made for this being an automatic disqualification for a postal position.

Or maybe not … you see, today I received a largish envelope with my test scores and my first Call-In Notice.  I’ll interview for a position on the first of May (and the fact that Sailor Jim is interviewing for a post office job on MayDay is also a bit ironic, yes) over in Newton.  The point is that the envelope containing the score (92.7, without my veterans preference points being included), the Call-In Notice, and the employment application paperwork was, indeed, addressed to PO Box 204.

The fact that it ended up in PO Box 402 sorta indicates that my little goof wasn’t all that bad and that I might fit right in with the rest of the guys.

Oh well, time to shave this massive beard, get a haircut, and dig out the nice clothes again.  It’s a part-time gig to begin with, but - at $17.98 an hour - that’s cool with me.

I can’t do this justice, so just read the story.

With God as my witness, I really cannot think of anything to add to this.

Y’know, this guy might be the best writer I’ve ever read, perhaps even better than RAH.

Back when I was younger (so much younger than today), there was a television show called Spenser: For Hire. It starred a toned down Robert Urich in the title role, but I mostly watched every week because it co-starred the absolutely splendid Avery Brooks as Spenser’s sidekick, Hawk. (A role that he did to such perfection, by the way, that they ended up giving him his own spin-off, A Man Called Hawk … which lasted about as long as any series that starred a positive male black role model did back then.)

Spenser: For Hire was based on the excellent Spenser series of books by Robert B. Parker, a series that - frankly - puts the television show to shame. (Although I’ll always hear Avery Brooks honey drawled, “Spen-sah,” whenever I read any story with Hawk in it.) I started reading his Spenser’s when I came back to the farm, which led me to his other series (of which I especially like his Jesse Stone series … which I understand USA is butchering with Tom Seleck playing the title role), and I’m still combing libraries and book stores for some of the older stuff.

His Spenser novels may just be some of the best writing I’ve ever read. One of the problems with a series is that it might become predictable, with the same basic scenes in each book and the hero always doing the same shit all the time. This is what kills series or causes writers to try and change their established characters/constantly invent new characters … which often kills series, too.

Parker’s core characters are constant and consistent … but, despite knowing how the books will pretty much resolve, his ability at dialog and clarity of writing make them delightful reads, just too damn good to pass up. His chapters are generally just a few pages long (between three and five pages), his descriptive style minimalistic, but rich in texture, and his dialog is incredible. Each character has his or her own voice, uses catch phrases without getting hackneyed, and - despite covering quite a few ethnic stereotypes - never seems to fall into any stereotype pitfalls of any type. His people are real people, regardless of their sexual preference, profession, gender, or ethnic background.

If any of you are currently in a reading quagmire (favorite author died or retired, favorite authors take a couple years between books, or just getting burnt out on any one writer’s work), I cannot recommend Parker’s books strongly enough. (Guy has almost replaced my old holy trinity of Heinlein, Roberson, and Chandler … he’s that good!)

As Sweeny Todd put it, at last my hand is complete, again!

All the bandages are off and I can type with style and glee once more.  My mottled mitt dances across the keys like Fred and Ginger lives in every digit, putting my thoughts into type and typing my thoughts into … um … put.  (What?)  Make that “Placing my thoughts into type and typing my thoughts into place!”  Much better!

I’ve been catching up with all the thoughts I’ve been having on that yet untitled story I’ve been working on over in lj.  Thus far, I’ve been publishing it for my friends (and those of you who are not listed on my friends list at lj … well, a sailor has to have some privacy, doesn’t he?) , but - as soon as I’m finished and happy with it … and it’s been rejected by all the various publishers (you know … my usual) - I’ll publish it on my website for all to read and comment.

It’s an odd little story, about a real asshole who has an accident, gains some really astonishing abilities, and becomes an intelligence agent.  He divorces his wife of decades, gets a trophy girlfriend, makes a lot of money, starts living a great lifestyle, and then loses it all when his abilities fade, leaving him slightly worse off than before it all started.  Sort of Flowers for Algernon, but with a jerk in the staring role, one who never stops being a jerk.  I still haven’t come up with a working title for it, but it’ll come.

Since shedding my bandages, I’ve also been catching up with my work around the place, alternating between mowing and cleaning up old crap.  Dian and I have made several runs to the dump so far and I have a fully loaded truck just waiting for tomorrow.  My father-in-law’s chickens have benefited from the mowing, in that I use a bag and dump the clippings in the chicken yard.  They happily attack each new pile, searching for tender bits of greenery or terrified bugs to wolf down.

Screw giant ants, lizards, or apes … the real terror would be a giant chicken!

As long as Dian and I have been heading over to the hospital on base for my hand, we made appointments for physicals.  I’ve already had the lab work and x-rays done, and I’ll be going through the rest of it in a week or so.  (I also had a EKG done and the doc checked it out when I went in last … announced that I must have the heart of an eighteen year old.  I might have to go on the run again if he tells the police.)

While Dian’s been going through her eye infection (which is doing much, much better; thank you for everyone who sent an e-mail inquiring), I’ve become the designated driver for her folk’s trips to the hospital and shopping … which they really don’t like.

Listen, I drove in Regan’s first presidential inauguration!  Not in the actually procession, okay, but I was the assigned driver to the head of the inaugural balls and had to take all the special military training.  Basically, they taught all of us how to be limo drivers, so that we could best convey our charges from point a to point b without them knowing that they were even moving!  I was very good at it!

My in-law’s, however, prefer my wife’s driving.  Dian’s told me it has nothing to do with the actual driving, per se … it’s just that they’re used to her style.

Regardless, I still intend to sulk as soon as Dian takes over the driving chores again!

We’re taking Tiger, our little ex-feral farm cat, into the vet this week for his first check-up and to schedule a balls-ectomy for him.  After the unkindest cut of all, he’ll live with us until he’s healed up and meowing in a normal fashion again.  If it was up to me, I’d leave his lights intact and let him be a tom, but Dian and her mother both want to curb feral kitten births, so snip-snip.  (Which is a pity, since a female cat has been cruising the property, yowling for a little attention.  Our cats, having become harem guards years ago, get a little edgy and Tiger, who is yet a kitten, can’t quite seem to figure out what she’s talking about.  It’ll be a real “d’oh” moment for him in the future, huh?)

More later.

So the monthly board meeting for PDPC has ended and the usual smoozing is going on when one of our cats starts to puke.

All three of them were on the bed, asleep: Timmy was at one end, laying on his side and facing out, Phil was in the middle, in a sphinx position, and Wade was at the other end, laying on is side and facing out. They were all laying head to tail and sound asleep when Wade suddenly got up and barfed … all over Phil’s butt and tail.

Phil was magnificent. His eyes popped open instantly when he was puked on, but all he did was to turn his head and stare at Wade. I jumped up and, laughing, got Wade off the bed and onto a cheap throw rug, where he threw up a bit more.

Phil just laid there for a few moments, then - with a calm and dignity that I envy - stood up and walked over to the door, puke dripping off his flanks. He stood still while I toweled him off, then walked outside and laid back down in a nice patch of sun. Wade, okay by then, went out and sorta bumped him with his shoulder, like a embarrassed apology.

Phil rolled onto his side and went back to sleep.

Okay, so I’m reading this story about how a 13-year old German kid catches NASA in a pretty embarrassing goof and the first thought that goes through my mind is, “Hah!  Gotta tease the Marine about this one!”

Then something in the back of my brain says, “Waitadamnminute here …” and I re-read the story.

“Nico Marquardt used telescopic findings from the Institute of Astrophysics in Potsdam (AIP) to calculate that there was a 1 in 450 chance that the Apophis asteroid will collide with Earth, the Potsdamer Neuerster Nachrichten reported.

“NASA had previously estimated the chances at only 1 in 45,000 but told its sister organisation, the European Space Agency (ESA), that the young whizzkid had got it right.”

Ummm … wait … what?!?  A 1 in 450 chance that the fucking Earth is gonna get smacked with an asteroid!?  Oh … wait … naw, has to be talking about some little bitty …

“Both NASA and Marquardt agree that if the asteroid does collide with earth, it will create a ball of iron and iridium 320 metres (1049 feet) wide and weighing 200 billion tonnes, which will crash into the Atlantic Ocean.”

… tiny, weeny … 200 FUCKING TONNES?!?!

“The shockwaves from that would create huge tsunami waves, destroying both coastlines and inland areas, whilst creating a thick cloud of dust that would darken the skies indefinitely.”

WHAT THE FUCK!!??  A 1 IN 450 CHANCE THAT THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN AND THE FUCKING STORY IS REPORTING IT LIKE A BLOODY “80 PERCENT CHANCE OF OVERNIGHT RAIN” SORT OF THING??!!

“The 13-year old made his discovery as part of a regional science competition for which he submitted a project entitled: ‘Apophis — The Killer Astroid.’ ”

JESUS Q. CHRIST!  I’M SO FRIGGIN’ GLAD HE GOT A GOOD SCIENCE PROJECT OUT OF IT … NOT A TOTAL LOSS THEN, HUH?! WE’RE TALKING ABOUT A FUCKING PLANET KILLER AND … oh.

It doesn’t come around again until April 13 2029?  Not for another 21 years, then?

Oh.

Sorry … carry on with what you were doing.  Sorry to make a fuss.

So Dian’s opthomologist, after he prescribes her meds for her infection, tells me that we should hold off hugging and kissing until the infection is cleared up.

Puzzled, I ask him why, since - as near as my slight medical training recalls - her eyeballs have no real connection to her lips … and why no hugging, anyway?

So he explains that her infection is contagious … if she were to rub her eye, then rub her lip, then kiss me … and I were to then rub my lip after the kiss … and then rub my eye, why, I’d have the infection, too!

I stared at him for a moment, then assured him that if Dian rubbed her eye and then rubbed her lip, I really wouldn’t feel much like kissing her, so none of this was going to be a problem.

(And then started searching his walls to see what creepy ass college he graduated from … euwwww!)

Right, so go down to a Burger King and buy an order of onion rings.

Then sweet talk the counter dip to give you a packet of their sweet and sour dip (the one ya suppose to use with the chicken nuggets).

Okay?

Dip the onion rings and see if that ain’t a really great taste!

Weird, huh?

Okay, so I’m standing there nude and looking for a towel.  I’d taken a shower a few minutes earlier and, although I’d dried off in the bathroom, I wanted to finishing toweling off with a fresh towel.  Specifically, I wanted to dry my crotch sufficiently to use a little powder (a must in the summer time).

After spending a few minutes searching for a fresh towel and not finding one, my eye happened onto a can of compressed air.  Y’know, the stuff one uses to clean the dust out of a computer?

(Okay, I see a few of you already cringing in anticipation, so I’ll move this right along.)

My thought process (if I might grace it with that exaggerated label) was fairly obvious at this point.  Damp crotch … no towel … can of compressed air … *ding* Heeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy!

So I picked it up, pointed it at my genitals, and hit the trigger.

So here we have a new Sailor Jim Safety Fact:  If one simply must use compressed air to dry one’s crotch, (which, in all honesty, one shouldn’t) one really should do one’s best to hold the can right side up when using it!  It seems that, although turning the can upside down is much easier and very natural with pointing it at one’s junk, it also results in the liquid propellant being released in a rather charming looking white cloud of tetrafluoroethane … which is, of course, a haloalkane refrigerant.

I understand the folks down at the emergency ward are beginning to make wagers as soon as I walk through the doors, nowadays.

Actually, this whoopsy didn’t required any trip in … thank God.  Dian carefully watched for any signs of frostbite, while doing her level best to stop laughing, and finally the pain faded.  After a bit, she announced that my scrotum was apparently unharmed and we both let out a relieved sigh.

Okay, I let out a relieved sigh and she let out an exasperated giggle … but she meant it in a relieved way!