Reagan, and Pikachu

Here's a little something I drew while I was at the in-laws. They have a book with portraits of presidents and their birthplaces, homes, and sometimes their death places. The picture of Reagan was in black-and-white, but I remember him on television with all that make-up on.

(I fixed the mouth, a bit.)
--gh

Brandon Bird Paintings

I think I have finally found a mentor. Check out the paintings by Brandon Bird, purely a genius.

I challenge you to view many of his selected paintings, and comment on your favorite. For me, it is this gem:


It is titled Elysium. In case you are not of the classical nature, I believe this is what the ancient greeks called Heaven. Indeed...

--gh

Attack of the 100-foot Baby

This started as a pencil drawing that I worked on during the retirement reception of the university provost. In fact, when I scanned the sketch you could see most of the reverse side that bled through the cheap paper the program was written on. For those of you with photoshop abilities, you can find the horrible, horrible words to a song that we sang. I was once asked to help write that song, maybe I should have pitched in.

Today we walked to the A&G restaurant for lunch. The kids will be out of school mid-day tomorrow, so it was one of the only times we could do something like that. After lunch, I asked Amy if we could walk around the courthouse square to listen to the Christmas music blarin' out of the court house loudspeakers. On the way back home, we ended up walking by the funeral home where Bobby Jo Stinnet's service was being held. I hadn't realize that the funeral was in Maryville. There were reporters, cameras, six huge media trucks and satellite dishes all over Market street. Walking around all of this equipment wasn't easy, they were everywhere. A real media circus, the whole world is watching footage 6 blocks from my home. Terrible, terrible story.

Since I was walking down a street, by my church, and in my town, I found it pretty easy to just walk behind the equipment and ignore the whole scene. I did feel more like a jerk for driving 5-6 miles out of my way the previous week, though. Still not quite sure why I did that. I guess I am writing that here to keep me honest.

--gh

Black Line Fish goes back to the suburbs?

The other day I was following a car with some ribbonish stickers on the back and I realized that I have no idea where people get those things. I haven't really been looking for them, but if they are as ubiquitous at the highway makes them appear, then they should be equally available in some store that I shop in.

I have always thought about what sort of automobile adornment I could ever dress my vehicle with. I am a big fan of "MY MIDDLE SCHOOLER CAN KICK YOUR HONOR STUDENT'S ASS!" (Yeah, sorry, language.) I remember seeing the "HONK IF YOU HATE BUMPER STICKERS" and getting a kick out of that. That was in 1982 or something. ...speaking of 1982, the convention center in Washington D.C. was recently demolished. The news reporter was calling it the "old" convention center, and I guess everyone is glad to see it go. Man, I remember when that sucker was brand new! Twenty-two years is hardly old for a building. (I remember thinking it was so modern looking. It had an electronic sign out front!)

So, my thoughts of me driving around with a suitable bumper sticker made me think of a ribbon that says "Support Stuff." That's really all we need. Who cares if that guy supports wildlife, and this dude supports the NRA, while another supports Jesus, or Darwin, or Walter Mondale... does it really have an impact on anyone else? I was all set to vote for George Bush, but on the way to the mall I saw a bumper sticker for John Kerry and that fixed me...

So, this is what I spent my last 3 1/2 hours on. You will have to click on the image to fully read the sticker:

I don't really wear shirts that say stuff, either. I don't go out of my way to not do so, that is contrarian non-conformatism that I don't care to conform to. But, I did think that I could wear a shirt that says "I'm THAT guy!". It doesn't really mean anything, unless you think I am the type of guy that wears a tee-shirt to a concert with the name of the band actually playing in the concert. (Yeah, that is a Jeremy Piven joke.)

--gh

ACME License Maker

This webtool is awesome. ABSOLUTELY AWESOME. It is called the ACME License Maker, and it is used to create fake personalized license plates.

I am using it for a picture I am drawing. Too bad they don't have an ACME GRAVESTONE MAKER!

--gh

unofficial puppet master

LOL, I was the 16th person to visit this page: unofficial puppet master.

The first web page that I ever saw was www.lego.com, that was in 1992 or 1993...

--gh

Flogging

Okay, I think I coined a term when I was writing in the comments of someone else's blog. Some times we find ourselves "blogging" in the comment section of another blog. I told the Captain (Crappy Pants) [language] that this is fake blogging, or flogging.

I'ma flog in m's blog, if'a he's got something new.

--gh

Overheard conversations

I overheard a conversation this week, it was incredible. I took notes (really! they're in my lap) so I can try to reconstruct it for you. The scene is older people at church. Woman is early sixties, Man is not yet fifty:

WOMAN: I was at another church last weekend 

       in Kansas City and the children did

       not sing as well as these children do.





MAN:   Do you think our children practice more?



WOMAN: No, I think it was because they seemed

       to be shouting.  Not singing, just shouting.



MAN:   Oh, I see.  ...was it that type of

       contemporary music?  You know, what's 

       that called again?



WOMAN: You mean rap?



MAN:   Yeah, rap.  Was it rap?



WOMAN: No, it was just shouting.

Then it got better. Old Man (mid-seventies) starts complaining about the Beatles invasion FORTY YEARS AGO! He said "If I had thought of that yeah, yeah, yeah music I'd be the millionaire now."

Of course, none of their statements really made sense. Rap really is not that hard to describe, and it has nothing to do with "She Loves You." Seven-year-olds are more culturally advanced about modern music than these folks.

So, whenever I hear some rap, I will call it "that contemporary music, what is it again?" Time to play some late nineties MC Ren...

--gh

Skidmore

Now this is the kind of art that I would love to create some day:

Skidmore is in the news again. I decided to extend Terra's morning road trip and see what a media circus looks like. There were five huge news trucks with satellite dishes pointed to locations thousands of miles above the equator.

Man, what is it with Skidmore? For such a small town, it sure has its share of problems.

I remember the first time I drove through Skidmore. We were on our way to the Squaw Creek wildlife refuge (near Mound City). I have never heard of the book or movie of the events of 1981. It just seemed to be a small town 12 miles SE of Maryville. But as we drove through the streets, I got the creepiest feeling. People were in their yards, raking leaves or doing other fall yard work. They would stop what they were doing and stare into the car. Usually when you watch a car pass by, you glance at the vehicle, and maybe the people inside. But this was different. These people were were actually making eye contact with me, making me feel very uncomfortable. I know that some small towns distrust outsiders, but I have never felt this creeped out driving through a town on a state highway with a population of a couple of hundred people.

A few weeks ago, while driving around at night with my daughter, I told her a brief rendition of what I knew about McElroy and Skidmore. Apparently, I was telling this story too much like a ghost story, and it really freaked her out. She did not want to drive around the country that evening.

So, as this amber alert and media circus focus on Skidmore, I am waiting to see when the major news networks will casually bring up the decades-old story. Skidmore needs to produce the first astronaut to Mars or something to exorcise these media demons.

I should mention that as I drove through the small town this morning (feeling like a creep for media hunting), I got the weirdest feeling again. Of the 70-80 homes in this town, I only saw three that were decorated with lights for Christmas. (One was unusually decorated, as if making up for the rest of the town.)

The good news is that CNN and FoxNews describe Skidmore as being 45 miles from St. Joseph, rather than 12 miles from Maryville.

I hold no contempt for Skidmore. I don't blame them for being so tight-lipped and suspicious of any outsiders.

--gh

Francis!

This sketch is based on a photograph that was taken some months back. All the students love Francis. Comment if you know Francis!

(Yes, I spelled his name correctly.)
--gh

A tad more like Coolio Claus...

I thought I would post one of my lesser works, or ...er mistakes. I really wanted to paint a Snoop Claus. This looks nothing like Snoop... sorry.


Finals week!

--gh

The Beauty That Makes Me the Beast

Skin so fair, like the belly of a fish

a voice that transfixes my heart

your contenance, bestowed by a smirk

Betty, you are all that I think about

Ms. Rubble, I can't get you out of my mind

but ther remains a stumbling block

you are married to an unsophisticated ogre

a nincompoop, a Philestine, a cretin

You flippantly play with my heart

you've tossed my feelings on the ground

I am unrequited, morose, saturnine

and you have left me no choice

I am

     turning the

            channel



                           *click*

I wrote this on October 8, 2003. I think I was in a meeting or something. It was accompanied by a sketch. But I decided to update the artwork... (I am less of a poet than an artist.)

--gh

Is this a good thing or a bad thing?

I haven't looked at my credit report in a year or so. From what this little item suggests, I have excellent credit. I also understand why I get so many offers each week trying to get me to have more credit.



I wonder how many credit card offers you get if your score is in the low 400s. Sadly, I bet those people still get them, but for ridiculous terms that border on usury.

Oddly enough, my credit score will probably start going down over the next four years as I pay off the last debts and mortgage. I've heard that people with no mortgage, no car payment, and no credit balance get mad when they see they have a "lower" credit score like 560 or something. (That's a funny thing to get mad at, and shows how financially illiterate people are, even if they have their "act" together.)

When I get there, I'll share it with you. (Er, I'll share my score, not my credit.)

--gh

Can there be another G-Had?

I've been keeping track of links that lead to this blog. Most of them are the random link that Blogger puts at the top of our pages. (Thanks, Blogger, ...I guess.) I've witnessed no "repeat" visitors, so I assume I have no impact on anyone. This is to be expected, since I have not matched the 38 visitors to this page, nearly a year ago... then again, I don't whore out my blog by randomly visiting sites and posting comments. You do get a lot of hits from commenting on a more high profile site. But I don't do that either.

I decided to blog on these links when I recently found someone looking for another G-Had. Well, I found another one, right here. He (?) appears to be a younger assier version of me. Fairly Crass would appreciate that he uses the word "I'ma." (...but he spells it "Imma." I expect M to visit his site and right him of this error.)

Here are some other links that led to this page:

mathew lesko sucks (well, he does. But I really didn't say this)

immodium dose for toddlers (so, someone probably up late at night trying to care for their toddler and diarrhea ends up reading about me staying up at night with my dog's diarrhea)

curriculum vitae de andres manuel lopez obrador (Oh yeah, I'm sure my blog was helpfulf for this search...)

fortuna imperatrix mundi (Looking for serious Carl Orff information? Wrong place.)

hair and calics (You know, I finally fixed my hair situation.)

hair+calics (But someone else hasn't apparently.)

la mesa que mas aplauda (Oh yeah, my own mainstay. Thank you META TAGs! This phrase alone has brought countless visitors from Texas and Mexico to this page.)

jetsons xxx (What the?!)

shaving stick bump fighter (Still shaving like an African American, and it is still working.)

maryville+missouri+blog (This led to some interesting links, but not really a gold mine or anything.)

"You gotta pump?"

I just have to relay a story that just happened. Shortly after 12:30am (yeah, A.M.), I was startled by the door bell. We have one of those old fashioned door bells with the mechanical twist key. Most people that are new to the house do not know how to operate it (or see it at night), so I assumed that the person at the door was a friend (possibly in trouble).

I was shocked to see a young man with a nice winter coat (wasn't that cold out) holding a box. Was he selling something? He seemed, you know, different and stuff.

"You gotta pump?" he says.

"What?" I answer dumbly: "No, I don't want to buy anything."

At this point, I can see the guy is retarded. He is holding an empty box for an inflatable mat, and is trying to borrow a pump to assist in some kind of disabled sleep-over. He is pointing to a mechanical bellow style pump in a picture on the box. The only way I could help him would be with a small air compressor that works only with a car cigarette lighter. I told him I couldn't help, he said "okay" and stumbled off of my porch.

I watched him for a little while, walking up the street, stopping at houses. I felt like following him, because this was truly bizarre. Retarded people, especially well-dressed retarded people don't wander the streets of Maryville at night. What house was he at where walking out past midnight to knock on neighborhood doors seems like a good thing to do.

It was 15 minutes later when I realized that I should probably have called Public Safety. I started to worry about his safety, only after I locked the front door.

--gh

Terra and Buster

I drew this based on a picture that my daughter took. She's the only one in the family with a camera.


I wanted to work on another sketch this evening, I even scanned it to a computer at work. But I forgot to copy the image to my laptop before heading home. It was a picture of a 100-foot baby ravaging the countryside, attacked by planes and tanks. You know, the usual. Since I gave the synopsis now, I will write a story about it when it is posted. I'm still struggling with writing creatively.

--gh

Grover and Jon Jon

Here is a "painting" I made of Grover and Jon Jon... this is an epic TV event. This was based on a picture I found somewhere.

When I was a kid, Sesame Street would put this on at least once or twice a month. They don't really talk about anything, but it is a heartwarming exchange between an adorable kid and someone's hand shoved up a glorified sock.

--gh

Syriously, though

My favorite reason for starting a new blog is "it seems like the thing to do." A friend just started (Syri-ously), and of course I am already hooked because of her insight from working at McDonalds. If she posts for more than a week, she'll probably get a link on my side bar. (And dude, I'm moving Tyler down if he doesn't post soon.)

On a related note, JSAugustine is now blogging at PencilsDownEveryone.

On another related note, I look forward to the creation of another blog from another student trying to finish his geography degree. He will be heading over to Iraq this winter, and will blog about it (hopefully) for part of an independent study project. I think I should help him set the blog thing up before he is activated in January.

--gh

Allen in space

Allen was fortunate enough to traverse space. When he came back, he was always bragging about what it was like to travel at speeds approaching that of light. We all knew that he probably screamed like a little girl the entire time, but, he's the only one who's been to space.

It was hard for him to talk about this experience without appearing to brag. Maybe he meant to brag.

He did say something peculiar. After he returned from his trip through space, he appeared uncomfortable. When we asked him what was wrong, he said "you have no idea how much air stinks unless you've flown through space."

I think that was just another way to brag.

--gh

I don't like Blue Collar TV

I am currently planning a schedule for next fall. It is interesting to work on something over a year away. Some of our conversations actually have years like 2007 or 2008 in them. Trying to comprehend a date in the future like that is like trying to understand, well, something hard and stuff. We'll probably be in rocket cars then...



Extra credit:
What is the inspiration for the artwork above?
Hint: The title is "Want to buy a monkey?"

--gh

Jason's Tree

This little work of art is dedicated to Jason F., former student and Geo-Tech Warrior. Thanks to M's suggestion, it is at a normal resolution for wallpaperin' and stuff, (well, if you click on it, that is).


This tree is in NE Missouri, along HWY 136. If I had to guess, I would say this was in Downing, Missouri. Jason was aghast when he saw the trimming job they did to this tree. Then, about two months later, we were driving by it again and the tree made its first dopey attempt at recovery with a single thin branch. I think I took a picture to capture the moment, or to share with him later. Someday I should share a picture of a gum-smear in the stairwell of the Holiday Inn-Express in Keokuk, Iowa. We named it Sebastian, and it is almost worthy of a road-trip to visit "him." Almost...

--gh

The King and I

Last night I met 'The King,' he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked me straight in the eye and said:

"I'ma tell you just this once, 

you gotta believe in yourself.  

Don't get too down on anything.  

Don't look at any situation as 

a glass that is half full, or 

half empty -- 'cause you don't 

know what's in the glass.  If 

it is a jar of urine, then you 

really don't want it to be too full..."

He went on like this for about an hour. A lot of it dealt with quaint, witty statements about 'his momma' and how cool it was now that 2Pac was with him in Heaven. We shook hands and then he left.

Later, I realized this apperceptive journey was just the result of eating too close to bed-time. Still, if I need to see Elvis again, I know that he is just a few pickles away.

--gh

Sold out, at the crossroads

Earlier I mentioned what it is like to sit on the tailgate of my pickup and watch the dog each morning. M said it best with "the world always looks better when seated on the tailgate of a pickup truck"...

Yesterday morning (Friday), I had just dropped the Boy off at the Middle School and headed out with Terra for the countryside. I love living in a city environment (over 2,000 persons/sq.mi., and my mailbox is on my house!) while being less than a mile from pure ruralness (8 persons/sq.mi., and I don't see many mailboxes). One of our favorite spots is a place I like to call "The Crossroads" because it is where 270th Street (love that E-911) and Hawk intersect, in pure dirt glory. It is 1/2 mile from any gravel, which proved to be problematic.

I had just been there the day before, with no incident. But we had about 24 hours of drizzling rain, on and off. Everywhere seemed dry enough, and I did not notice a problem until I was about 200 yards into the dirt road. (I was singing along to a song from Banda el Recodo, "no me rajo, no me rajo, no me rajo." Then, I "rajo-ed." (Spanish: rajar means "to crack.")

I didn't hit anything, and I stayed on the road. But, I just got bogged down. It was about 6-10" of greasy, slippery mud on a hard pan that seemed even slipperier. I didn't spend too much time trying to get out of there, because it was at the base of a hill in all directions. I did manage to do a slow 180, and "park" it just off the side of the road. There were other tracks going through the area, and I was jealous of 4WD vehicles. I am convinced that I live in an area that justifies four-wheel drive, and not just for snow (which can stick around all winter in NW Missouri -- or not).

I set out with the dog, walking back to town. I was wearing loafers, unfortunately, but the fields adjacent to the road weren't really that muddy. It took about an hour and a half to walk home. The dog absolutely loved it, thinking it was an adventure or something. I was pretty drenched, and muddy, but I actually had a good time. I was pretty sure that I would be missing my 10:00 class. I did get back to the house at 9:07am, and called the office. My student worker was tickled with my story, and I told her to put a note up about the class. I was also filling in for the Colonel today, and I was hoping I could get in by 11:00, but I had to get that truck! Believe it or not, it only took $75 to get it yanked out of there. The tow truck was even slipping around getting to the truck.

I made it home at 9:50, but since the class was already canceled I balanced my checkbook rather than showing up only a few minutes late. I did make the other lecture, and I am not sure if I ever filled in for anyone like that before. I felt like a substitute teacher or something.

Did I tell anyone about my adventure? I told EVERYONE about it. It was actually one of the funnier things that has happened to me in a while, and I enjoyed trecking across farmland trying to get back to civilization so that I could lecture on Political Geography. The whole time I was walking in the muck and mist, I kept thinking about how lucky I am and how awesome this world is.

--gh

100 silent voices chanting: "Please fall!"

Yes, I have fallen in room 2560. Two years ago, I fell while passing out the course evaluation forms at the end of the semester. I had about twenty comments from that semester that said things like: "I sure hope you are okay, that was a nasty fall." Maybe I got some sympathy critiques that semester. If I have a class that is not going so well, I should stage a fall at the end of the semester.

--gh

Smokning

"Smokning," that's right, it isn't a typo., I think an extra "n" fits into nearly any word, making it better. I have a story about smoking.

Okay, I was driving on HWY 50 this morning in Jefferson City. I grew up in a development along RT-50, but 1,200 miles east...

I pulled up next to a glorious woman in an old Toyota Tercel. She was about 450 lbs., had a few chins, and was smoking like a foundry. It was so awesome watching her. Every time she put the cigarette to her mouth, she would draw the smoke in and close her eyes. Maybe I had the pleasure of witnessing the day's first smoke, because she was totally into it. I became jealous of her. She had no idea that I was watching because at that moment, her world was a few grams of tobacco leaves, cut, trimmed, and rolled in paper. Her eyes shut for two seconds, which is an eternity while driving.

I kept looking over at her and wishing I was that woman. Yes, she was glorious.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

I learned on the radio last night that some people are struggling with Post Election Selection Trauma, or PEST, and need counseling. We need another sorry everybody website for those people. Dude, I don't think half the people I voted for were elected, and I'm okay. But apparently, this trauma is real, so, like... sorry and stuff.

--gh

Jiggle the handle...

When the toilet starts running, it is trying to tell you something. Perhaps you should listen to it.



--gh

How is it to be like you?

I have been extraordinarily happy lately. I mean elated, ecstatic, group-home-resident happy. I've been walking around with a big dopey grin on for about two months now. Everything is going right, ...I would say "according to plan," but I don't really have a plan.

After dropping the kids off for school, I usually take the dog out to the country. (She's wearing a sweater now.) I sit on the tailgate of my pickup thinking I could spend the whole day watching her, and then I realize I have to go be with the people. On the way to work I find myself thinking "what an absolutely wonderful day," even when it was raining a few weeks back. (Well, I do like rain.)

The funny thing is that each week is getting even better. Even more obnoxiously happy. I even like everything on the radio. While driving to Jeff City, I listened to Merle Haggard, Jean Sebelius, Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys, Chingy, D12, and Seether. The band standard "Pennsylvania 6-5000" came up on the radio and I almost blew a lung singing that out (as well as "Mood Indigo," "Summertime," and "Blue Moon of Kentucky"). I even considered listening to sports talk-radio, but I don't want to push my happy luck.

--gh

Only Astro has morals

I am watching an episode of "The Jetsons" where they use special glasses to predict racetrack results to win $200,000. I haven't watched this show much lately, but I am saddened at how morally corrupt George and Jane have become. How will they raise Judy and Elroy without basic principles. Get this: they don't even get in trouble -- the gag is that the IRS (Interspace Revenue Service) took most of their ill-gained earnings.

I had to turn the channel when some agents were watching them, it gave me the creeps. ...but Tyler made me turn it back.

I was watching cartoons because Arafat hijacked the news. Well, sort of. Every news channel is broadcasting events after his burial. This guy is truly an enigma. He founded a terrorist group bent on the creation of a Palestinian state at the destruction of Israel. He eventually gains control of the P.L.O. which invents airplane hijacking, but it also is the ONLY voice of the Palestinians that anyone is willing to listen to. He wins the Nobel Peace prize basically for two things: a handshake, and not appearing to call for the death of 5 million people for a few months. For the first time in decades, Israel seems to be run by someone not entirely driven by hatred, and actually proposing the removal of the most outrageous settlements. And Arafat, probably criminally insane for the last 10 years, seems to think that nothing less than the death of every Israeli would be suitable.

So, I guess the world will be interested in seeing who becomes the voice of the Palestinian Authority. Remember that a "Palestinian" is not an ethnic designation, but purely geographic. They are mostly Arabs caught in the wrong area, controlled by Israeli forces in areas gained after provocation. (I don't have a problem with Israel seizing land after the whole region attacked in 1967. But settling "pioneers" into those areas is an inappropriate use of civilians for militaristic purposes. They should have just held the land as a bartering tool to give back after negotiations.) A Palestinian could also be a Christian (lots of them, in fact), and even a Jew, occasionally.

If you are trying to gage my feelings on this issue based on my writing, good luck. I hold no one harmless in this situation. The fact that the Palestinians would knowingly use a person like Arafat as their only voice shows desperation. A desperation that should be acknowledged. (I do think the issuing of a Nobel prize is a travesty, though. Who could ever look at that as reasonable again.)

--gh

Shaving issues

Plain and simple: I forgot how to shave.

I remember when I first started shaving, some time in my fourteenth year. My step-father bought a single-blade razor for me and showed me the basics. It was months before I cut myself, so it must have been an effective lesson. When I was 15, my father mentioned that I should probably learn how to shave, and I told him that I already have been. He seemed dissapointed, like someone had stolen his birthright. But honestly, this shows that he wasn't exactly in touch with those kind of things. He was distracted. He did get the first crack at teaching me how to tie a necktie, but it was only once, and I was about 9 or 10. It didn't stick, and my step-father had to work with me on that. Too bad, because my father ties some of the best neckties that I have ever seen. I'm talking "JCPenny catalog" good.

Over the years, my shaving has gone from single blade, to double, to triple, and I refuse to use those quad-blade shavers. I went from shaving creme to soap to gel. I even tried an electric shaver, but that wasn't cutting it.

I have an absolutely horrid beard. It grows in brown, blonde, red (!), and gray/white. My hair is straight (well, my father once told me it is "kinky") and so is my beard hair. However, it grows very close to the skin, like a wheat field full of grain, but blown over by a strong storm. Also, it grows in all directions. If you wanted to say that my beard has a "grain," then the wood that most resembles it would be that curly maple that guitar makers seek out for high-end Les Pauls. To shave with the grain, I have to memorize the direction depending on which part of the beard I am shaving.

The only thing that would make this worse would be patchiness. My beard looks fairly consistent (except for color and grain). So, I think growing a beard is not in my future. (And as my father says: "the men in our family do not grow beards.")

Because of the closeness of the beard, a real close shave would end up with ingrown hairs, also known as Pseudofolliculitis Barbae (PFB). My neck would always have little bumps of these ingrown hairs which is uncomfortable as well as unsightly. It was a conversation about this that caused my father to say I had kinky hair. Hair that curls back in toward the skin is a problem that many African-Americans have with their beards.

Last week I started to get desparate over this issue. I debated buying another electric shaver, one that won't cut so close. But this would be a $150 purchase with no guarantee of results. I decided to heed my father's mis-guided assertion and look into how an African-American might solve this problem. This meant going to the Wal-Mart on the south side of St. Joseph. You cannot purchase these items in Maryville, or in the north Wal-Mart of St. Joe. (Wal-Mart "south" is also where I can find my Mexican music CDs, not seen elsewhere.)

For a week now, I have been "shaving like an African-American" using the Bump Fighter line of shaving products. Yes, this means I have shaving creme with a picture of an attractive, well-shaven, black man on my bathroom counter. This may confuse some house guests, but so far it has been working out well. I do have to ask why the special shaving gel has to smell like coconuts, though. What's up with that?

The biggest change is probably the razor. It is a single-blade, which keeps me from shaving too close. Also, it has a special blade that keeps the cutting edge slightly above the skin. Shaving too close is definitely part of the problem with me, which is counter to all those commercials that brag about closeness being comfortable.

I also learned not to shave when I first get out of bed. After laying down for several hours, the face is puffier and this is harder to shave. If I wait about 1/2 hour or more, the skin tightens up again, providing a better shaving canvas.

--gh

"Heavy Metal Alarm Clock" woke me up this morning

As soon as my son saw episode #4 of Viva La Bam's first season, I knew I would some day wake up to the Heavy Metal Alarm Clock. Replace Bam Margera with Tyler, and Phil Margera with me.

Instead of thrash metal, I received a fairly tame dose of Tyler's best shot at "Smoke on the Water." Oh, and it was 6:30am, about 20 minutes before I would have woken up anyhow.

He couldn't do it at 3am, because Amy might not have handled it as well as April did.

--gh

Yak, yak, yak

I just read a scary news report that speculated on the use of cell phones in airplanes.

I am not capable of sleeping in a sitting position unless I have been kept up for 36 hours. I am jealous of the people who do this on flights. Now I have no reason to be jealous because they will be woken up every five minutes by a ring-tone that sounds like a song from Usher.

Can you imagine a three hour flight with someone playfully talking on the phone nonstop? Normally, airline conversations are subdued because people don't really know each other and if they do they are more cognizant of their surroundings. But on a cell phone, only one person is on the plane, and they will talk as if they are not surrounded by strangers in a pressurized tube 30,000 feet up.

--gh

A Very Merry Unauthorized Children's Scientology Pageant

Is there ANY chance that these clams, er... CoS kids will ever turn out okay? This picture is absolutely awesome!



Now some clam is going to call me SP.

--gh

"esta es la eleccion mas importante de nuestras vidas"

The title is a quote from Kerry in Colorado or New Mexico. Complete pandering, but I like the kind of spanish that can be translated by most Americans with at least a year of High-School Spanish. By the way, I don't agree with that statement. This is not the most important election of our lives. That's ludicrous.

I would have liked one or two more weeks before the election, I am probably in the minority there. I just don't want it to end. I guess it did not end right away in 2000, but I found that process distasteful. I also had a hard time deciding because I liked both Kerry and Bush. It was not a hold my nose and vote situation, they are both winners in my book. (I sound like a kindergarten teacher.)

I am very optimisitic about the direction of our country. A long friend told me that she voted for some republicans, probably for the first time in her life. I have another friend who seemed to vote for some democrats for the first time. They acted like they reached an epiphany when they realized that they didn't have to vote straight ticket. I love the Midwest.

Me? I voted for 9 democrats and 6 republicans. If you take out the unchallenged seats, it was 5/5, half and half. As long anticipated, I did not write in Sharpton's name. There was only two slots on my ballot that I actually worried about who won. This was my U.S. representative in congress, and the state Attorney General. Other than that, I will be satisfied with the outcome however it turns out.

Go democracy! I love the Electoral College system!

--gh

Personality Disorder Test

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Low
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	Low
Antisocial:	Moderate
Borderline:	Low
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	Low
Avoidant:	Low
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Low
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

World of Meters

Credit goes to J.S. Augustine for the identification of the World of Meters! As a geographer, I like this kind of data/information. In fact, I like this page so much I will make it a permanent link on this page, so that I can check it more often.

It said that so far, the United States has spent $3.94 billion on perfume. About once a month, I spend $2.96 +tax at Wal-Mart for a cheap spray cologne called "Cool Mist" or something. I guess I might be slightly out of norm in this area.

--gh

Boohbah...

I have seen the threat to the Teletubbies, and it is the Boohbah. Fear the Boohbah. What is this show about? I'm not sure, actually, I just discovered it. But we have another troupe of glandularly-challenged fuzzy and brightly colored creatures that respond to colors and rainbows and sign-wave-like sounds.

According to the creators, this show is superior because it:

"It is intended to foster a style of active 

viewing in which the things that children learn 

from viewing are not determined primarily by the 

content of the program, but rather by the ways 

that young viewers ... engage with the program."

In other words, "we're just making this up, and toddlers are too stupid to know otherwise."

Every thirty seconds some kid chants "Boombahhhhhhhh...", is it annoying? For me it isn't. I can watch ANYTHING. And Boombah is proof.

Maybe it is too late, but this game took me three tries!

Duh!

--gh

Resume Templates

So I am writing up a resume for a grant our department is applying for. It's weird that I have to write a resume, because with tenure you would think that wouldn't come up again. But, I get it.

Usually in academia, we write a curriculum vitae which is a fancy way of saying "the more pages I fill up, the more I rule the world from my Ivory Tower!"

But, this process needs an actual resume, the short kind, like the kind normal people would want to read. Five years ago, if you started typing a resume, you were accosted by a paperclip that said something like "Dude, looks like you're-a writin' a resume" and then starts helping out. Where did that little imbecile go? I needed him!

So, I went to Microsoft's Office Templates to search for a template that fit. The one that suited me best was for Butcher/Meat Retail.

Somehow, that seems fitting.

No, not really. But I don't have the kind of career that moves around. In higher education instructional positions, moving around too much is actually a negative. That is something that administrators and faculty who cannot cope does.

My resume has to describe all of the innovative stuffs that I have done here, which looks fairly decent when you put it all together.

--gh

Spam prose

Until my university gets their act together, I am stuck with over 70 SPAM each day. Man it is annoying. One of the IT guys told me that the solution was a $35k upgrade, and was shot down. Insane. But there is testing going on now and maybe it will get better by the end of the year.

Until then, my salvation is SpamBayes. It does a great job at catching just about anything. The Spammers out there are constantly trying to outsmart filters. Last summer, it was deliberate mispelling. (e.g. fixt hoam lone 5.3%). Knowing that this looked stupid, they then went to skipping letters or adding spaces (e.g. fix d home lo an, 5 .3%). Then at least you might think your computer is stupid. A few months ago the state-of-the-art was random words at the bottom of the email, which looked really weird. Today I found a spam message with random words, but written in white! Like someone wouldn't wonder what all the blank space was...

The words create an almost-poetry, which I thought I would share. I don't make it a habit of posting other people's work like poems, song lyrics, essays, but "Hebert" and the other financial wizards at Nokika.com did not put a copyright on this work. To complete the effect, you will need to highlight the text below.

 "fosterite a gooseberry via barb, 

not eqjwgs gould a of with an not qntylpgv

on or got for comic court backdrop curfew 

guarantor are gruesome a with on 

deviant sacral out mill it our munich firebreak 

a no legislature poseur enhance are dante 

leslie usaf escalate beribbon indefinite 

indeterminacy? for compose in felix oiffp

out it on transmission bhutan vclyxuntk

our to not me preference itscrimea our ucxaob

hessian are of permeable Neffie 

seminarian hockey us you a knuckle 

on mineralogy. navel, out dinah kiva, 

lloyd ldukkgj"

--gh

Newest Acquisition

I broke one of my rules today. I do not really care for garage sales (but I love pawn shops) and I don't stop on the street to rummage through garbage. This is difficult for two reasons: 1)garbage shopping runs in my family, and 90% of my LPs came from the garbage cans of Fairfax County, VA. 2)I drive a pickup truck.

However, I also have a strong urge not to accumulate needless items. But today, I could not resist the sign that said "FREE" attached to this jewel:



Does it work? Oh yeah.

(If you are curious about the wadded up tissues, you are witnessing a parenting event. One of the kids sopped up orange juice with paper towels and then discarded them on the floor. Only one kid drinks orange juice, and it is the same one that is also most likely to clean up. But obviously 90% is not really good enough for this job. Am I making a show of my parenting here? lol)

--gh

Port Foam

I didn't want to stay up late this evening, but I think I am forced to. I think we fed the dog a little too rich this weekend. A few hours ago, I let her out into the yard to do what I hoped would be the last of her business for the evening. It's cheap, but effective right before nighty-night.

From the yard I could see her making her famous grimace. This means that she is either about to yak-up, or make foam pour out of her hiney. The gaseous sounds eminating from the yard made it clear that the dog had diarrhea. I hate that, but I bet she hates it more.

I waited for one more "round" before I retrieved an Immodium tablet, broke it in half, and gave it to her. That stuff is usually effective. So far, it seems to be working. Funny how under this affliction you can go and go and go, and then after one small dose it all goes away. When I take it, I feel kind of dehydrated the next day, but that seems to be the only side effect. I don't know all of the dog's side effects, but I think Terra just likes to not be pitched forward in a patch of grass in the front yard foaming her port to oblivion.

So far, so good.

--gh

umop apisdn is upside down upside down...

A few weeks ago I was in a restaurant in Jefferson City. I have eaten there several times, alone. Man, I hate eating in a restaurant by myself. This is a Denny's, or Perkins, or Country Kitchen or something, and at 7:30 pm is nearly empty. I don't really know how waitressing works, but it really annoys me that you get clumped together. I don't mind that they try to close sections down, but the hostess sat me right next to this normal looking young family with 2-3 kids. Frankly speaking, it might have been my family 10 years ago. The whole time I am walking in, this 4-year-old starts giving me the eye, and I am getting pissed off. Why do they have to stare like that? Of course, the hostess puts me right behind their booth, and this little nightmare is eyeballing me the whole time.

Fine, I think to myself. I will just sit with my back toward them and ignore them. Big mistake. If I sat facing their table, I could have given a few mean looks and most likely she would have stopped. However, with my back toward them, I could hear absolutely everything going on at their table. I ordered a coke and just started to simmer. I heard them moving silverware around. I heard the father talking to the kids in a way that was so annoying it made me want to take his fork and drive it through his face deviating his septum forcing him to snore for the rest of his life like a V8 running on 5 cylinders. (He sounded like he was showing off the fact that he was a parent talking to his kids. I can't really describe it, but some people have a way of making their family a public performance.)

On the other hand, they were not doing anything wrong at all. I was just ticked off about being seated so near them. I looked across the room and saw a guy sitting by himself eating a salad. Where was his surrogate family? Why did he have it so easy? I got so mad I got up and walked out. I don't even remember if they had brought the drink, but I didn't care. I ended up at a German restaurant in a whole room by myself eating schnitzels and several manner of sauerkraut.

A day later I was on my way home and tried to eat at a restaurant called Steak and Shake in Columbia, MO. This time the waitress was the one seating me, and sticks me next to all of these smoking customers with ashtrays all over my table. It was like eating in the Dark Ages or something. Amazing how living in a city with all smoke-free restaurants makes you so intolerant of a little pollution. I just was not in the mood for it. I used to put up with that, and now I am turning into my old man. Either that, or this particular trip put me in a foul mood. I told the waitress that I didn't smoke and didn't feel like eating around it. On my way out the door I heard her pleading with me that she could find another table.

So, walking out twice in two days. I was thinking that I turned a new chapter in my life, an assey one. But, I recovered once I got back to the 'ville.

--gh

Reviewing and "The Unburnable Flag"

About 2-3 years ago, a friend of mine told me that in addition to writing movie reviews, he was very proud of his Amazon.com reviews. The eclecticness of his reviews (movie reviews included) has always amused me. Tony reviews Al Gore's Earth in Balance in 2002! Then there is the Star Wars Sketchbook and Sounds from Star Trek reviews. So, I decided to write my own reviews.

Of course, I am not as interested in being helpful as Tony is. As you can see, Tony reviews dozens of items. Of course, most of his interest lies in material that is left of political center. (He describes himself as a proud liberal Democrat.) His movie reviews are even funnier. He rates everything from independent small distribution movies to foreign films to ill-fated blockbusters (like Wild, Wild, West! lol).

I don't have the patience to write movie reviews, but looking at Tony's work, I should reconsider.

I first met Tony in Bushnell Hall at Mary Washington College. (It is now called the University of Mary Washington. It might be the only state-funded institution of higher education named specifically after a woman, George's mom.) I could write a chapter in a book about this guy, he was so much fun, unless he was drinking. Golly, I hope he gave that up (sorry about the language). In 1988, the presidential issue of the time was flag burning. So, Tony took an American flag and immersed it into a milk jug full of water. He titled this work of art "The Unburnable Flag." It was genius because it still desecrated a flag while permanently keeping it from burning. I am not sure if he had any other good ideas that year, but who cares, that was better than anything Robert Maplethorpe produced. If only we had a picture.

A long time after that, possibly months, one of my roommates was with Tony and they were probably drinking up a storm. In Warren's drunken glory, he purchased "The Unburnable Flag" for $7.00! I thought this was amusing, and this meant that we were able to house this piece of art in our dorm room. I know much time had passed because the water was pink from the red ink coming off the flag. (Should have taken a professional picture!)

Apparently, Tony grew to resent this purchase. When he sobered up, he realized that he did not have "The Unburnable Flag" and was really sore at Warren. Warren would not give in, a deal was a deal. However, several weeks after, in another drinking binge, they got into it again and Warren gave it back. That I am aware of, Tony never gave the $7 back.

--gh

Mexico readership

Earlier this summer, I wrote that visitors from Mexico make up 0.90% of total viewers of this blog. I tried to make a commitment to keeping that percentage, and perhaps build on it. It helps that I discuss some of my favorite songs from Durango, (okay, some is Tejano).

Since the percentage has remained the same (thank you "Mesa que mas aplauda"), I need to come up with another angle. I could post portions of letras (lyrics) of songs that I like. I have not resorted to pasting the entire lyrics of a song on this blog, yet. Partially because I don't think people are nearly as interested in what I am interested in, partially because my editorial duty is to show the snippet of the lyric that interests me the most, and partially because I don't understand the copyright issue involved.

Perhaps discussing Mexican politics will help attract a couple of Mexican lurkers each month. For the first time in recent history, a sizeable percentage (2-5%, probably) of Americans can name the President of Mexico's name. It helps that Vincente Fox sounds cool. While this blog tries to maintain a politically neutral climate, it is hard to not notice that Fox was not very helpful (or even sympathetic) to the United States after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. Fox's comments directly after the event were about as lukewarm as Saddam Hussein's "yes, yes, this is a terrible loss of life and a tragedy -- I feel for the Americans" type of speech. Personally, I think Fox tried to use the situation to push an agenda about U.S.-Mexico border relations. My thought in mid-September 2001 was that Hussein was more a friend of the U.S. than Fox. (Maybe we invaded the wrong country. That was a joke.)

It is a family joke that I am related to Vincente Fox. My step-father's sister-in-law is like his second-cousin once- or twice-removed or something. My Aunt Ruby told my parents that a few of her cousins went to the inauguration in 2000. So, I should have a more soft spot for Fox. I listen to his comments about 3-times a week on the spanish-speaking news on the radio, so perhaps I am. I can tell that he is trying, and his presidency represents a massive change in Mexican politics. And his name is easy for Americans to remember.

In July 2006, Mexico will have presidential elections, and I am already getting excited. The mayor of Mexico City (Obrador) is a contender. Let's do a web search on his full name... ah, thank you The Economist: "Andrés Manuel López Obrador." So, I should really refer to him as Mr. López Obrador (thank you 9th-grade Spanish). By the way, the Economist article that I found his name on states that he has distributed 2.2 million comic books showing him fighting dark forces. (The federal government has charged that the mayor of the D.F. has used public works on an area of private land - a small charge in the historically corrupt land of embezzlement and drug-financing.) I WANT THAT COMIC BOOK!

I will close this entry by showing my full ignorance of Mexican Presidential History. How many Mexican Presidents can I name? Here goes:

General de Santa Anna (full name, thanks Google: Antonio López de Santa Anna Pérez de Lebrón). Any American should be familiar with this name due to a clash at the Alamo. He had already been president by this time.

Benito JuárezThis is THE Mexican president. If you know any historical figure in Mexican history, it should be Juárez. His background is indigenous peasant.

Ernesto Zedillo (full name, thanks again Google: Ernesto Zedillo Ponce de León). This is the last of the PRI presidents, and I might know his name because it is recent and is when I started paying more attention.

Vicente Fox Quesada is the current president, so duh.


Pretty pathetic considering Mexico is our neighbor, and one of our largest trading partners. I can name all of the Prime Ministers of Canada since Pierre Trudeau (2nd term - 1980). That is probably more than a Canadienne should expect from a 'Merkin. (Still don't know if that nickname, 'merkin, is a sleight or not.) I like to use the québécois "Canadienne" since it sounds more like a hockey team.

I bet the average academic from Mexico can name more than 3-4 American presidents. Hopefully, this exhibition of my ingnorance will get my Mexican percentage above 1%. I will end with an awesome quote from Benito Juárez:

"El respeto al derecho ajeno es la paz"

(translation: "Respect for the rights of other is peace.")

--gh

P.S. I use Window's CharMap to get the extra accented á's and é's, I hope I don't offend anyone if I have the accents going the wrong way. At least I tried.

Sarah Elizabeth Mocko

If you are wondering who Sarah is, (currently listed in my links), then your guess is as good as mine. I came across this page last Spring, but I have no idea why. I do not know who they are, or why they think it is smart to have clues to their locale and possibly real names on the 'net. I feel like I am stalking this family just by visiting her page.

So, I visit her page once or twice a month.

The site is not a formal blog, but it is organized in reverse order like a blog. My favorite is the "NEW" image that I remember using in 1993 when I was writing my first web pages. (Everything back then said either "NEW" or "UNDER CONSTRUCTION.")

I appreciate the narrative first-person technique that the author has chosen. It is almost as if Sarah is writing this herself! Does Sarah even know that unknown lurkers are satisfying their prurient interest in visiting this site? ...reminds me of that movie, "The Truman Show."

Some day, Sarah E. Mocko is going to have to take over the page herself. Maybe we can watch her grow up, take ballet lessons, go through that 1980s fashion faze of trampy/torn-up clothing (I just know that will be coming back in style in the next decade -- all stupid things are repeated.)

Here is an excerpt, 20 years from now:

May 2024

I am getting my Bachelors degree in Textile and Fashion Merchandising at Towson State! Wheee!

Did I stay up too late last night? Sarah has bags under her eyes!

I like triple-sec!
June 2024

I'm still looking for a job! Maybe I should have majored in Finance.

I'm late! :) I need to have a talk with Trevor, or Gary, or Josh, or...

For now, I will move back in with the folks. Look at Mommy's smile as she moves my boxes back into the garage.
July 2024

I got a job! Well, it is temporary, I am a Wal-World associate.

Why did I major in fashion merchandising two years before the Supreme Commander ordered poly-carbon-unisuits for the world?!!!


Rock on, Sarah. Shine on YOU, you crazy diamond...
--gh

* * * * * DEBATE UPDATE * * * * *
Bush just referred to the Internet as "the internets." (Maybe he is speaking L337, and it actually is spelled "IN73RN37Z".) I am now commited to refer to the Internet as "the internets" until:
1. it catches on, and few even remember where this odd nickname came from in 5 years
2. *I* look like the only idiot (well, one of two, at least) saying it
3. people stop getting why I am saying it, and I look as silly as our President saying it

GUIT-tar Fingerins'

Mark was complaining about fitting three fingers in the second fret to play an A chord. It might be easier to play it by barre-ing the chord with the index or middle finger. If I want to hear the high E string ring out, then I would play this with my middle finger, because it can bend up to hear the open E. However, if I wanted to play a riff with the G on the lowest string, then I don't care about high notes, and would use my index finger to play the A chord.

Here's an example of something that I would only play with my index and middle finger. Every place that you see the second fret (in tabla-chure if ya kain't reed musik), I use my first finger, barred across a few strings. The middle finger does the G (and C-natural at the end).



To complete the sound, I would probably mute the strings a little with my right palm near the bridge. Props to Notepad 2005 from Finale for the composition tool...

--gh

Disturbing message

So this is the email message that my wife sent me:

"Hey Harsh,



Cindy is fine but got bit by another student today, 

the nurse doesn't think it broke the skin but it 

may bruise and we should watch it closely. The other 

student has been suspended."

Now if we were talking about preschool or something, then this really wouldn't be too shocking. But my daughter is in the seventh grade! Come on!

Oh yeah, Harsh and other varients is one of my nicknames.
--gh

Environmental Issues

I am writing from the orthodontist's office while my son is having stuff glued to his teeth. It's nice that they keep a wireless network with open access. The orthodontist is hilarious -- because he is abrupt and short with his staff. I would say that the work environment here is tense as a result of his temper that seems to be just below simmering. Last month I thought the staff were going to mutiny. If they think that I can't see their rolling eyes, quick comments to each other, and the orthodontist's terseness, then they are fooling themselves. Still, this staff and doctor is one of the best in the area, so I am not worried about the aesthetics of pleasant (and usually fake smiles and comments) that you usually get from such practitioners. It is definitely more real than most, so I guess I get a kick out of it.

They were playing Grateful Dead music when Tyler first sat down. When they were administering a topical numbing agent, the speakers were blasting: "Driving that train, high on cocaine!"

This visit reminds me of a trip I took with a colleague to Jefferson City in late August. Basically, we gave a presentation on geographic information systems and homeland security. But what impressed us was the poor attitude of the agency that we were delivering this at. The staff were so demoralized and snipping at each other right in front of us. On the way home, we talked about how glad we were to not work in such an environment. Where I work, we support each other, and would never talk another professor down, especially in front of students. I guess I am lucky to have the job that I have, and to work at where I work.

--gh

Update

In a previous comment, I may have over-stated my Gay-O-Meter rating. I recently took the quiz again, and here is my score:

The analysis said that this makes me a "well-adjusted heterosexual" or something.
--gh

Guitars

I don't write about guitars enough. After about 25 years, I think I am finally getting comfortable with this instrument. So, I thought I would mindlessly write about guitar things.

Unless I was joking, I never referred to this instrument as an axe. Never understood that. Even in High School, my guitar-mate and I never said axe.

My acoustic is a Martin, and my electric is a Les Paul. You think that would be enough, but a guitarist is like a trumpet-player. We are always desiring that one more instrument that fills this unique niche.

Shall I dare say that two more would suit me just fine? I am in desperate need of a classical/nylon string guitar. I lost my last one on a cold winter day in Idaho, really should not have moved it around. It basically came apart. I loved that guitar. Tonight I played a Fender (don't laugh) that was absolutely awesome. I am not a classical purist, and this guitar was incredible. It had a narrower neck, like a steel-string acoustic, and actually had a radius fretboard. A plus was the active pickup configuration.

Oddly enough, my other guitar desire is a Fender electric. I keep going back to trying out Telecasters. Stratocasters seem to be too complicated for me. I guess I like two pickups, and a three-way switch. I don't mean to be a bigot about this, but it must be American made. I've tried the Mexican and Asian versions, and they just don't cut it. In fact, it's hard to find a Telecaster that has the fit and finish that I am accustomed to (my Les Paul is a Custom). I feel like a fancy-boy, but I need fret-ends that are dressed so that I don't feel them when I play.

Basically, a well-built Gibson reminds me of whisky that is tempered by pouring it through charcoal for refinement and smoothness. On the other hand, some of these Fenders remind me of moonshine or Everclear. Sure, they both get the job done, so it is more a matter of taste. Well, I want my Everclear mixed with some grape Koolaid (the college version of Purple Jesus). I think that means the model I am looking for is the American Deluxe or maybe a custom version or something. This might take a while.

The main reason why I started this post was to discuss one of the most perfect guitar solos, which is found in Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2. Have you heard this lately? I was driving along South Walnut (I still don't know if my street is a ST, or AVE, or what??!!!) and it occurred to me how organic Gilmour's playing is in this song. The entire song has that constant chord progression which is just one step from the seventies, and then he breaks into this solo. There are times that you can hear how he is picking, and even hitting the pickups. It is by no means sloppy (like much of Page's work, IMO) but if that solo was recorded now they would say "Perfect! Now let's edit out all those glitches."

Sorry for the rip on Jimmy Page above. When VH1 declared them the #1 rock and roll band of all time (or something) I concurred. Led Zeppelin is awesome. And Page's rhythm work is astounding. They just should have had another guitar player for lead. (Don't flame me, or cry foul. Most of their songs had rhythm and lead parts anyhow.) Who should their lead player have been? Probably Jeff Beck another Yardbird.

I want to go play guitar right now. See ya,

--gh

Ungual relations

I am writing again because an essay on pinworm infestation is probably not the lead blog I want on my page for too long. I also wanted to write about my fingernails, which can harbor the eggs of various pests...

For much of my life, biting my fingernails has always been a poor habit. I did this from age 2-3 on. People describe this as a nervous habit, and I think I can attest to that assertion. There was a time when I naturally quit biting my nails, and it was one of the most stress free times in my life. It was after I graduated from college. I was getting married, moving to Idaho, and beginning graduate school.

I noticed that I stopped biting my nails one week after graduation, when I was visiting Moscow, ID. For the first time in my life, I had to get to a drugstore and buy a nail clipper. It was kind of fun actually trimming, clipping, and filing my nails, like a real adult.

Two months later, we were 3,000 miles from where anyone knew us, our car broke down, and classes were set to begin shortly. I picked up my habit again.

I wonder how many minutes could be calculated with my fingers in my mouth over the last couple of decades. It is astounding that I contracted pinworms only twice.

About 15 months ago, I stopped biting my nails for the second time. What is significant about this time period? I was granted tenure and promoted to the next rank (Associate). Earlier I wrote about last year being one of the most over-worked of my life (only my 2nd-to-last-year of PhD was worse). However, having that sensation in the back of my conscious that says "you are fine, you cannot even lose your job!" really brings serenity into the mix.

Thirty-plus years of nail-biting has left me with some seriously deformed nails, but I think they are slowly looking more normal. But that 1-2 millimeter of white at the ends shows that I am much more sane than I used to be. Every once in a while I see the finger-stubs of a nail-biter, and I am amazed at how subtle this nervous response is. I never made a conscious decision to quit, I just quit...

If you are similarly afflicted, I guess you can check out StopBitingNails.com where they appear to be selling a cream. Maybe it puts a bad taste on the nail, making you more aware of your oral-ungual predilections. My mother tried this when I was in 2-3 apparently. She would put bitter stuff on my nails, and I kept biting them. Then she tried the hot sauce, and apparently I would be tearing up, but feverishly biting away. She told me the only thing that worked was taping tongue depressors across my elbows so that I couldn't bend my arms. Sort of the human equivalent of that dog-cone deal.

The tongue-depressor story helps pinpoint the date as well, because a tongue depressor wouldn't even work on a five year old or larger child. I cannot help but notice that what was going on in my life when I first started biting my nails -- my parents divorced. Man, I have issues. (Maybe I just had issues, perhaps I am on some kind of road to recovery.

--gh

ENTEROBIUS VERMICULARIS (My Friends)

Okay, eventually it was going to come up that I had worms. Pinworms. If you don't know what pinworms are, then you are in for a treat.

Basically, pinworms can be transmitted by fingers contaminated by anything from bed linens to toilet seats. Microscopic eggs may get transferred to the grubby fingers of dirty little kids like me who probably did not wash their hands enough and had their fingers in their mouths more than they should.

To finalize your formal education, the eggs make their way through the intestinal track until, well, you can probably guess what happens next. After a trip to Florida, when I was about 6 or 7, I noticed something peculiar in the toilet. Basically, it looks like your stool has happy dancing threads in it. Since a pinworm is only 1/2 inch long, each event exhibits hundreds of these creatures. As you might imagine, I told my mother immediately. After a dose of medicine, this all cleared up just fine. If I remember correctly, my brother and sister had to go on the medicine, just in case. I think you just take the medicine once or twice.

But my pinworm story does not end there. When I was about 9-10 I had another bout of worms. This time, I thought I could enjoy my "friends" a little bit more. Since only one dose of medicine kills them off, I guess I didn't think it was too much of a deal. Besides, I was a little ashamed that I had degenerated in my filthy ways again. I knew that this time I would get yelled out (which was true, by both parents -- a rarely achieved feat in a broken home). So, for a few days, I actually looked forward to using the toilet and enjoyed with an almost cinematic glory the spectacle of threads be-bopping around in the toilet bowl.

Then the itching began. You see, this is how the pinworms transfer, I itch, pick up eggs, and contaminate just about anything that I touch. You can probably imagine where the itching takes place. It was unbearable, and the medicine worked as usual. I shed a tear looking over the threads that were moving no more for me.

Every now and then I reminisce, and once or twice a year I actually have to look twice. But it has been a few decades since my last contamination. The funny thing is, I almost long to revisit my friends, even just for a little while.

--gh

Da Neighborhood

So it's 11:30pm, and what does PBSKids think is an appropriate show for this hour? Well, I am watching Mister Rogers' Neighborhood!



(I need to send an email to the program coordinator of this channel and tell them that they should have old-school pbs shows at night, like Electric Company, or ancient Sesame Street episodes -- Jon-Jon and Grover come to mind).

Tonight, Chef Brokett came by Mr. Roger's house and was moping around because he did not win a cake baking contest. This guy is always so melancholy. He has this limp and a scowl-y face, but also seems so sad.



I did not start watching Mr. Rogers until I was in the 7th grade. I would watch it when I got home from school each day, and became addicted. When I get to heaven, I want to spend some time with Fred Rogers.

--gh

The debates

So the debates were on this evening. I watched the first two minutes and realized that watching people hawking gems on QVC would be more interesting. And of course I had to catch some Comedy Central (Reno 911). I never felt like it was my duty to watch these debates, anyhow. I caught the last 2 minutes as well, so basically what I saw was John Kerry thanking Jim Lehrer and Florida for hosting the debates in the beginning, and then John Kerry thanking Jim Lehrer and Florida at the end. So, based on my information and exposure, Kerry clearly won.

Of course, you cannot "win" a debate like this, but a "winner" can be declared by who had the most poise, didn't stumble, and didn't confuse the names of Ossama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein. (Okay, while watching American Chopper, I did scroll back to the debates to catch BOTH candidates confuse these names.) What's the difference between a chimp and a mule? Apparently nothing. But with less than 6 and 1/2 minutes of debate viewing, I really cannot comment further.

So, I might as well discuss how things have been going lately. Basically, everything is awesome. My weekly and daily pace are nothing compared to last year. I actually have time to enjoy coffee in the morning, drive the kids to the middle school, let the dog run in the countryside, and then shower for work. I have been home before 6pm every day, sometimes much earlier. Last year I was honestly working over 80 hours every week. For ten months, I spent much of my Saturdays and Sundays at work. (Maybe it wasn't smart starting an online graduate program without a computer or net connection at home.)

Yesterday was a fun day because I had completed everything by noon that was urgent, which left me the rest of the day to work on what was important. (I learned today that leadership is discerning the difference between what is urgent and what is important.) I was writing memos and letters, and even had one notorized, so I really felt like a big shot.

Speaking of big shot, I went to a meeting today that was created for leadership development. I was sure that all of the department chairs would be there, as well as 7-8 other faculty. I had very low expectations of this event. However, I was surprised that I was one of only three faculty members, and there was about a dozen people, 1/2 of which are cabinet members (and technically not being "developed"). So, basically, I was culled from the crowd into a group of 5-6 folkses. Okay, they have my attention. I am a developable leader...

I have always enjoyed my job, but this year things have been exceptional. The good news is that I have been feeling more creative lately. I actually starting composing a fl/gu duet. It's lame and all, but it sure is fun.

As I write, I am watching COPS. I could comment on what I am seeing, but I bet you can just imagine it.

--gh

Music connections?

The Music Lab-- Index is the kind of research that I like to participate in! Funny how Fairly Crass wrote about doing research on this exact same concept! (MA, time to do your PhD at Columbia! They probably need GIS anyhow.)
--gh

Update: After listening to about ten songs, and rating them, I don't see where this research is going. The music has that "I cannot even get noticed by an independent record label" sound to it. (Think mp3.com, cerca 1997-8.)

Oh, and Rock and Pork and Beans Can seems to be up and running again! (now that's an update!)

What flash is for

Click here for an interesting interactive flash presentation. (Hold your cursur there long enough and see his funny reaction.)

Better yet, here are the instructions from Rock-and-Pork-and-Beans-Can.

"Wait for the web page to load and then pass 

your mouse over the image a few times. Finally, 

leave the mouse over the nose of the image and 

take your hands off the mouse. This website won 

first prize in the Phillips Digital Arts Festival."

I wish he would blog again soon enough, I need to hear about more freakish dreams. Hey Rock-(andporkandbeanscan), how did the hurricane go? Blog for all of your three readers!

--gh

I R sux (denouement)

Wow, just writing the word "denouement" for the title brings back memories of high school! I remember my 9th-grade English teacher pronouncing this "Duh-NOW-ment" and it took two years for Ms. Johnson to fix that error in my junior year! (I love the thought of me pronouncing this word incorrectly for 18 months or so.) So, how did I end up with a 2.55 GPA? A lot of this has to do with my senior year, in all its glory below:

It is 1985, Mike and the Mechanics are singing "All I need is a miracle" and I am beginning my senior year. My arm is not broken (10th grade) and I am not in psychological counseling (11th grade,). I did have a debilitating situation growing, though, which was work. Although my summer jobs between 1984 and 1994 consisted of back-breaking labor and construction jobs, I worked during that school year in the kitchen of a nursing home. I am willing to bet that 99% of those people are dead now. I guess that happens.

It seemed like I had this job for a long time, but it might be a stretch to say it lasted more than 16 months. I was being encouraged at home to start saving money for college, because I would probably not be able to get any loans. (A year later my step-father confessed that he was unwilling to fill out the financial information for guardians on a federal loan application because it was too personal. I guess to ease the guilt, or to keep me from going to my father's side of the family, I was loaned $10,000 for college over 4 years.) So, I found myself in my senior year working over 20 hours each week. No problem, I was able to maintain my C grades with a very modest attempt at homework.

The encouragement grew for working to earn more money, and to be honest the nursing home wanted more out of us anyhow. I went from working every night and half a Saturday to every night and the whole day on Saturday and Sunday. By the middle of the year, my workload was up to 40 hours a week. (They technically kept me at 38-39 hours to prevent full-time status.) I wasn't the only one, either. Dave, my good friend since the 5th grade and his (our) friend, Susan, started to see our hours creep up over 30. I was starting to miss sleep and was getting resentful of school for inhibiting my work schedule. (I took a lot of pride in cleaning dishes and mopping floors.)

In November 1985 I was granted early acceptance to Mary Washington College. Technically, this is a moderate-to-selective school, and I was an average performer who did NOTHING extra in high school. How did I get in? Well, as the ONLY publicly-funded institution specifically named for a female (George Washington's mother), MWC needed some Y-chromosome. That's right, not only was *I* the co-ed at this traditionally female institution, I was also a product of affirmative action. If I was a female with a 2.55 GPA and a 21 ACT score (SAT equivalence), I would never have graced the Georgian architecture of that campus.

It was after my college acceptance that my workload increased, and my grades slipped. My A for that year came from a Creative Writing, where I wrote a one-act play about a normal-to-exceptional kid being raised by his 60-70 IQ parents. Trigonometry was a mistake, I should never have been in there (I had enough math credits to graduate without it, obviously.) I should have taken Typing II, or baby-sitting, but I already wrote about my vo-tech aversion.

This was the first year that I hated English. Mrs. Hollingshead really was faxing her effort in beginning in January. We started Macbeth, and never really ended it. After reading it through, in class no less, for about 5 weeks, the videos started. We saw the Roman Polanski version, which I believe was his first work after the murder of his wife by the Charles Manson girls. We saw a black-and-white TV version from the 1960s. And my favorite was the version with no set, no stage, no props, and no costumes. Just shades of purple and stuff. My memory tells me that it was uninterrupted (filmed straight through) and that there were only a handful of actors. Mrs. Hollingshead told us that we would only watch a bit of it, to focus on the language and not be distracted by sets and costumes. (As if Shakespeare didn't use sets and costumes!) We ended up watching the whole thing. My friend, JSA, joked that we would be watching the sign-language version next. (If he had a different English teacher, then we were in the midst of a conspiracy. They decided not to teach us anymore.)

Hah, I just noticed I had an A in computer science. It was programming in BASIC, and I had already taught myself that language at home with our 8086 XT-clone. If only I had spent that time on mastering Latin. (I made the mistake of choosing Latin in college as my 4-semester language requirement, and failed it again one year later!) Latin and Physics were impossible without doing the homework, which was evidenced by my performance in those classes.

Business Law was a waste of time, except for the field-trip to the county jail. Mrs. Busby didn't teach us business, or law, but a weakened form of government. I honestly don't know why I didn't get a C in that class, but I never went back to get the full grade details after I got that grade (I think 3rd quarter was a B). I somehow felt that I crossed her in some way (I worked with her youngest son, a dufus, at the nursing home).

You could also notice that I had two absences that year. These were the only two my entire high school tenure. One of them wasn't even legitimate. I was on that field-trip at the county jail, watching a court-case involving an uncle as sexual predator to a 6-year-old girl. Her testimony was amazing. For some reason, the prosecutor asked for a public trial, possibly to embarrass the defendant into a plea. He put up a fuss when 20 high school students walked into the court room and sat down. The judge told him that it was public and we were more than welcome to stay as long as we weren't disruptive. We were captivated, and embarrassed, and paralyzed. I wish I could get up and leave, but I couldn't. So we watched this case unfold, listening to the descriptions of this guy spending too much time tucking his niece in at night. His nickname was "Uncle Big Time" and that was how he was referred to by the victim, and the lawyers. 15 years later, I sat in that same court room and watched my brother defend a guy who assaulted a woman.

By fourth quarter, I knew that I wouldn't have perfect attendance. I didn't think it was fair because I really wasn't absent that day. I bitterly complained to all of my friends about it. The second absence was due to hearing tests in Washington D.C. I was back by the end of the day, but I did not try to straighten my record out. I would have one real absence, and let it be done with that. My sister, who graduate 4-years earlier, DID have perfect attendance on her record. This was important to her for some reason, even though she probably missed a couple of days each year. She had friends go to home room for her and say "here" during roll call. Now it's all just funny.

In July, 1986, I received a letter from H. Conrad Warlick, Dean of Students at Mary Washington College. He said that my acceptance to MWC was being suspended, until I reply with an explanation of my horrid academic performance. I remember writing a letter about things being hard, and having to work so much. I promised that I would not work while in college (I kept that promise). I even think I mentioned my fractured relationship with my father. I feel bad about that, he didn't have anything to do with my performance in high school, good or bad. A week later, the college responded that my acceptance was provisional, and that I was on academic probation my first semester. I had to meet with Mr. Warlick a few times, and my freshman year (1st semester, that is) was actually decent.

I started to gain more control of my life through college, which I see now is pretty normal. If I had to choose which 4-years to re-live, I would choose college over high school because high school is really a waste of time. I also could have made some drastic personal changes in college that would have lasting impacts to this day. Nothing that I could do in high school could possibly change who I am today, however. Absolutely nothing.

High School was just a distraction in my life. ...but it seems like I can remember all of it...

--gh

I R Sucked, ritornelle

I shared my H.S. transcript with my Freshman Seminar class on Tuesday. They seemed amused, and I hope I got through to them that high school was definitely over, and they are now writing a new chapter in their lives. Afterward, I had the transcript sitting on my desk and one of my colleagues asked to look at it. (Jeff was valedictorian of his graduating class.) It was funny because I was in the main office area and you could hear him laughing in my office. It sounded like his sides were going to split. A student in the office asked "what is he laughing at" and it was even funnier when I had to reply "my high school transcript." I think the student only half believed me... So, here's the 11th grade:


I liked my English teacher that year, she was new, and young, and tried to relate to us by not trying to relate to us. You might also note that I withdrew from a chemistry class to enter another chemistry class. This was about mid september, so literally 20 years ago. I was in a so-called "advanced" chemistry class, but not gifted (the school wisened up on that). I had trouble with the work, since I made no effort in homework, etc. I had began my first job (sales, at a variety department store called BEST) and began working more and more hours. The only thing I remember doing with this money was buying a Les Paul Custom...

Anyhow, my first chemistry test came up, and I was totally unprepared. For some reason, I had a blue crayon with me and I decided to write the test out in crayon - to throw the teacher off. I decided I would write deep and disturbing comments all over the front and back of the test, and began having fun by not caring. (This was the beginning of that attitude, I guess.) To make a long story short, this landed me in the counselor's office. The teacher was worried that I was suicidal or something, and the guidance counselor kept asking me if everything was okay at home. (It wasn't, but that is another book.) Since her colleague was my father's girlfriend, she probably knew more than I wanted her to know, and possibly not from the fairest perspective, either. In the end, she moved me out of the smart class, and into the class with some good friends of mine! One of them grew to be my closest high school friend. The other was a girlfriend for about 1 1/2 months. Good times. And as you can see, without studying any more, I was able to get a C.

I followed my brother in the language of Latin. I don't know if I should forgive him for this, but he seemed to enjoy it so much. I wanted to have something in common with him, because I spent the previous part of my life searching out activities that he had no interest in. (That is why I picked up the guitar.) He had moved out of the house, and I guess I wanted something to talk about with him. If I did any homework (at home) that year, it was for this class. I don't even remember Algebra 2, except that I was the only non-redneck kid in the class. The girls in the class were still wearing turquoise and silver with feathered hair.

The Architectural Drawing class was a highlight of that year. I got a B in the class because I had secret passages in my raised-ranch split-foyer home. And I put a urinal in the master bath. And, I had a spiral staircase from a door in the master suite down to the garage. Mr. Alkazin had no patience for wise guys like me. I did take the skills seriously, though. These skills allowed me to master pen-and-ink cartographic methods in college. Of course, with computer technology, it is a lost art form... I guess I still wanted to be an architect like George Costanza did.

This was my third straight year in high school with no absences. Not sure what was going on, because I hated school so much. But you could not get away from campus. (They had this guy that dropped out of the Washington Redskins that would chase after kids that walked away from the school. I never attempted it, except for once. But that was senior year, and we went to Chuck E. Cheese.)

I never wore shorts to school. My step-father's influence being that men don't wear shorts. I never wore a tee-shirt, either. I still only wear tee-shirts to work in. Most days, I wore jeans, or cordoroy, and wore one of those button-down oxford shirts from JC Penny.

I wish I had pictures to share with you, but I lost my yearbooks, and my family hasn't shared any pictures of me. I have about 8 pictures of me from age 0 through high school. It's like some kind of mind-control game with my parents. My mother showed me some photo albums about a year ago, for eleven minutes. That was the second time in 25 years that I had seen those. My father made a video of pictures of my sister nearly 12 years ago, and followed up that project with my brother's photos about 8 years ago. And, like the youngest-child curse, the enthusiasm for completing that work ran out.

Hey JSA, if you are reading this, and you happen to run across some high school pics, scan a few for me.

By the way, I should give credit to the title of this "chapter" of my blog ("I are sucked"). It comes from a videomentary that hooked up a half-dozen New York students with the same amount of Baghdad kids. One of the more outspoken Iraqis commented on his love of metal music only, and that the "Backstreet Boys are sucked." Oh, his other haunting comment was "There are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq." This was 2 weeks before the U.S.-led invasion. His name is Walid, and the show is called Bridge to Baghdad. To view the first episode, go here and click on the 2nd or 3rd "click here" or something.