Hey Joe Died

It was me a hundred times over during the course of nearly ten years in the TV news industry. Somewhere on a highway shooting the scene of an accident was where I cut my teeth, or at least learned how to always white balance. When the weather was bad and driver visibility lessened was when I was dispatched the most.

I once did a 11p live shot in the sleet/rain on I-385 at the intersection of I-85. We were stationed at the apex of a blind hill so we could get microwave reception. The on-coming drivers saw nothing until cresting. They would then be blinded by the frezzi on my camera and any extra lights I could set up before deadline. Mix in with the weather and the bright lights the ohhh & ahhh factor of a big TV news van and a reporter. What you get is nothing but a journalists’ nightmare.

To me his name was Hey Joe. That’s what I said every single time I called the assignment desk at Fox Carolina. The response was always the same; a semi-husky and friendly tone of, “Hey Tim, what’s going on? How are ya?”

Joe Loy was one of those embedded Upstate journalists with nearly an entire career covering local news. Like most journalist that work in this market for more than five years, Joe knew everyone…and their phone numbers. He knew how to get from here to there no matter either location. He understood news and he understood Upstate news. There is a difference. He was a very sweet man who always had time for conversation, and he always cared, or at least seemed to care, about the hack pitch du jour.

Joe worked the assignment desk at Fox but would pick up a camera from time to time. He was certainly no stranger to it. While covering the subsequent gawker wreck of a major accident on I-85 in Spartanburg County yesterday, an impatient driver recklessly cut off a van along that stretch of highway. The van driver overcompensated trying to keep his vehicle out of danger. Investigators are uncertain right now if the van hit Joe or if it slammed into the news vehicle and the news vehicle hit Joe.

I wonder if the impatient driver was hurrying home to see his kids. Joe has kids, too. I’m sure the driver learned this information on the 11p news last night. He certainly didn’t stick around scene to find out. When the police find him (or her) and take him to jail, I wonder if his kids will miss their father. I also wonder if this man (or, again, woman) has enough integrity to step up to the plate and turn himself in. I wonder if he even knows it’s his time to bat or did his impatiens leave him blind to everything that happened, everything except that which was in front of him.

Joe died doing that for which his professional life was dedicated. He will be deeply missed.

More about Joe | More about Joe | More about Joe

Take a Cell from W. D. Griffith When Parenting

There isn’t one all-encompassing answer when situations like the recent shooting at Virginia Tech happen. However, prophylactic protection for such random acts of violence begins at home, and it’s the duty of all parents to participate.

The causes of such situations are rooted in many different aspects of life. Mental health is one of them. Mental health is certainly real and an issue in both children and adults. But there are many other factors at work; proper parenting from day one is the most important.

If a child doesn’t feel loved by his parents, it has a dramatic affect on the child. He/she will never have the ability to love. Subsequently, such people will mimic those relationship aspects with their children.

Parenting is also involved in teaching respect for everyone and the opinions of others regardless of race, religion, gender, sexual orientation or body type. Children tease other children, but it can certainly be minimized by teaching what is and what is not proper respect for others.

Active participation in a child’s life by both mother and father is essential. Every child must learn specific roles or traits from a man and a woman. If the child doesn’t receive any one of these numerous characteristics, an instinct jones will cause them to seek until they find. A prime example is that one girl that you knew; you know the one about which I’m speaking. She’s the one who lacked a strong male influence in her life, and probably the one with whom you know a lot better than the other girls in your class.

Children’s thoughts and feelings need to be respected and validated. Telling a child that he/she is wrong without an explanation doesn’t work. Essentially, it’s nothing more than rejection. Positive reinforcement works indefinitely. Negative reinforcement creates a cycle passed on through generations of intolerance.

Proper parenting also involves teaching children how to deal with their problems, no matter the size or circumstance. If you come from a family that sweeps problems and issues under the carpet, your children will again mimic this attribute in their lives unless the cycle is broken. Hear no evil, see no evil, ignore, repeat is not a healthy way to live life and not a healthy thing to teach children.

Respect for diversity is a hot topic right now, and for good reason. It is the golden rule, it’s the second part of the Great Commandment (Mark 12: 29-34), and it’s the proper way to live your life and teach your children how to live their lives.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not throwing stones. I have no right because I’ve made mistakes. I can assure you that I will make more. However, recognition of those mistakes, learning from them and breaking the cycle of intolerance must be the cornerstone for building the next great generation.

Idiots Have Their Places In The Newsroom

A career telling the story of others’, as you might expect, brings you in contact with thousands of people over the years. As such, it doesn’t take long to figure out the world is teaming with idiots.

Becoming jaded is, in part, a resultant defense mechanism of the profession. You simply have to become hardened to horrible things that happen to good people as well as seeing good people do horrible things. Having a front-row seat to the world in which you live isn’t always as good as it sounds. Tragedy happens. I’ve seen it; women get raped, children die horribly by accident and purposefully at the hands of another, and psychos walk into offices and start shooting. I ain’t talkin’ bout no puppy-kitty love-in fest feature story.

The idiots are the part of the profession that keeps us all grounded. They are the ones who distract us after weeks of telling the detailed story of a woman who straps her children in the car and drowns them. They are the ones who give us stories to tell while having a tall frosty, and they also help us dissipate any journalist-on-journalist flap that happens daily (“Just jazz it up a bit with some nats.”)

There are several variations of idiot, and we love'em all simply because they make us laugh.
_______________________________________________________________________

THE DAILY IDIOT: This is the most common. He’s the one who calls the newsroom on a daily basis to either talk or complain about something. Most of the time this person is lonely and wants to talk to someone.

One South-Carolina hot August day my buddy receives this call.

“Newsroom.”
“Yeah, uh….is this the newsroom?”
“Yes sir, how can I help you?” (side note: it’s 5:30 p.m.)
“I see you guys doing stories on how to keep cool. Well, I just got out of the shower and had a towel wrapped around me but didn’t have anything else on. I walked past my fan, and that blew right up my towel. Boy, that sure is keeping me cool. Just wanted to let you guys know.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that along.”
____________________________________________________________________

THE STUPID IDIOT: This person simply doesn’t think before speaking.

“Hey, what newspaper is this going to be in,” he asks the photojournalist who is shouldering a 35-pound Betacam, schlepping a 15-pound metal tripod, and wearing the photog equivalent of Batman’s Bat Belt.

For those not in-the-know, a huge Betacam with mentioned accessories looks nothing like a standard 35mm still camera.
_____________________________________________________________________

“Channel 4”
“Yeah,….uh, is this Channel 4?”
“Yes sir, how can I help you?”
“Hey, does my kid have school today,” the caller asks the wet journalist who picked up the newsroom phone after coming in from his 5 a.m. snow-coverage liveshots.

Silently the journalist waits for more information. Silence…..silence……silence……nothing except the caller saying, “Uh, hello.”

“I’m not sure,” says the journalist.
“My kid’s school said that channel Foe would tell us if we had school or not.”
“What is my name,” asks the journalist.
“How should I know your name,” says the increasingly frustrated caller.
“How should I know if your kid has school if you don’t tell me which school he attends.”

Again back to those not in the business. This happens 1000 time every single time we have a threat of snow.
_____________________________________________________________________

For Part II of the Idiots Have Their Place In The Newsroom series, we’ll explore several more types of idiots who help keep the newsroom running smoothly.

On a completely different note, I’ve noticed through my blog tracking stats (which tracks IP addresses, by the way) that someone is googling my last name and “Greenville Hospital System” in an attempt to find my blog? STOP IT!

Study: U.S. Population Finds Insensitive and Thoughtless Slurs Thoughtless and Insensitive

Yes, I too am jumping on the blogarazzi free-speech wheel of contemporary racial linguistics.

What the hell is going on? Why isn’t the media focusing on the actual issue at hand, the patently racist remark by Imus producer, Bernard McGuirk? His comment that refers to the Rutgers University women’s basketball team as “jigaboos” is by far more offensive and true as defining of a racial slur compared with the thoughtless and insensitive comment by Imus.

Ho, in case you don’t understand, is a gender slur aimed at half of the world population. Jigaboo is racial slur aimed at the entire black culture of the United States.

So there, the line is drawn. On which side do you stand? Are you accepting of ho and not accepting of jigaboo? Is there a difference?

The mass market, in general, would say that there is a difference. Call any woman a ho and you might get a verbal lashing, maybe a slap. Call a man of the black community a jigaboo and the odds are that you’re about to get an ass whoopin’.

[Chorus] Hooooooooo (Ho) / Youza Hoooooo (Ho) / Youza Hoooooo (Ho) / I said that youza hooooo (Ho) - [Repeat 1x] ~Ludacris

[Chorus] I can't believe that she's real... (it was a ho-down) / The way she makes me feel... (another ho-down) / If you knew what I knew... (it was a ho-down) / You would be down in there too... (another ho-down) ~Nappy Roots with The Barkays/Skinny

Why aren’t these people being boycotted, fired, or at least suspended for two weeks? Where are Al and Jesse, and why aren’t they banging on the doors of the company presidents? These types of lyrics are incredibly more damaging than anything Imus said, true? What the hell is going on, I say again. Should efforts not be put where they are most effective?

Look, I’m all about teaching and acting cultural harmony. Honestly, I am. And as a matter of fact, I will not tolerate it within any situation over which I have at least some control. But I’m not going to form a skirmish line outside the neighbor of the intolerant bastard who made the comment.

McGuirk is the idiot. He’s the one who should be fired.

Does Imus deserve a two-week suspension for the ho comment? Sure, that’s fine. Taking into account the context of his radio program, my comment is actually more along the line of “whatever”.

I do have a piece of advice for any of those people who are not on the Rutgers basketball team but are yet still offended by the Imus comment. I suggest that you boycott everything NBC, CBS and General Electric. Go ahead, show’em who’s the boss. You may even want to call the advertisers and complain.

However, I believe that once you realize how such a boycott would take away some of your creature comforts, I bet that you might see a slight tip in the scale of your moral judgment.

Flippin' Cool

I'm not going to be one to post with content of other blogs, but I couldn't let this one pass by because the photos were just so darn cool. The information comes from Danger Room - Wired News
The F-22 stealth jet may be about as useful for fighting insurgents as a snowboard in Baghdad. The plane may cost nearly $120 million a pop, making it one of the most expensive fighters of all time. But hot damn, does that thing look bad ass when it's going transonic.

Those are clouds forming around the jet, by the way. The plane's near-supersonic speed changes the temperature and pressure of the air around it, causing ambient moisture to condense. Clouds naturally follow.

Pictures on the left: Richard Vogel, AP/Yahoo News. High five: L787. Two more pics on the right, one courtesy from the Air Force (via Op For),
the other from the AP...

Has The Moon Exploded?

Growing wiser is a perk of growing older until you realize that reality sometimes sucks.

I think reality is the problem that I’m facing, but I don’t know how to further define my issues. I don’t feel good, but my cold and my fractured/sprained ankle are only physical aspects of present maladies. Being a wise and insightful physician of life, I’m diagnosing myself with flu-like symptoms of the soul.

Something is missing is the phrase that keeps ruminating through my person, which is basically a sign of depression. I don’t think depression is what it is. I started digging deeper yesterday into what it is, exactly, that seems to be missing. I found that my former life is missing, or I miss my former life, which ever it may be.

One aspect is the physical part. I’m a bit broken at present. I have a cold that is greatly exacerbated by Spring allergy season. My ankle is horribly sprained, slightly fractured, and I now hobble like the elder who wears his waist at his chest. My hair is thinning, graying, and certainly receding. I have a small patch of strange-colored skin on the side of my head, which makes me automatically think I have skin cancer. And my shirts and pants seem to be shrinking. I blame the shrinking on the washer and dryer versus poor diet and lack of exercise. Some might call that a hitch in my wisdom.

Physical aside, I know that there is something else. My adventurous spirit and passion for spontaneity and lust for the different are all exhibiting strangely as if the moon no longer had gravitational authority over the tide. The power of my moon is missing.

I miss my friends, those who I used to frequently define as part of my personality. I miss the G-man, who died almost a year ago. I miss Uncle Ted, Otis, GROB and our regular adventures. These people made me laugh, and I don’t seem to laugh any more. I miss spur-of-the-moment escapades. I miss gathering with others without having to have a reason. I miss the inspirational connection and shear force that my moon brought to my life.

I’m not sure why I’m unable to adjust to these changes in my life. I have a good life; I have a wonderful daughter and a great wife. Of course there are marital issues from time to time, but it is a marriage, ya know. These things happen.

I believe in God and the power of prayer. I believe that the Lord will take care of the needs of family and me. I have good job and I’m pretty good at what I do. My household income allows enough money to pay the bills and have some fun. I have great friends, although they are a bit more absent than I would prefer.

I am also a member of a men-only small group at my church. Theses guys, I believe, would do anything they could for me if I were in need, but I’m missing a connection with them. I can’t seem to form a bond like I have with my other friends. I think it’s because I fear their judgment of who I am. It’s my fear of their judgment, mind you. I don’t think it actually has anything to do with them.

As with any parent and husband, my life revolves around the sun. In this case, the sun happens to be the two other women in my life. I’m constantly doing something for one of them, or something to improve our living conditions, or planning something that will make one of them happy. But I feel as if I’m running in place. One project ends, the list of others awaits. One bug killed is no different than the another waiting beyond the shadows for the shoe of death. In between, things break and need immediate action. Eight billion inconsequential decisions need to be eternally made, seemingly by me.

I wouldn’t give up any of it for anything, ever.

Why does it feel like I’m always working a job? Where did the laughter go? Why am I sounding like Otis?

What happened to my moon?

My Left Foot…is broken

I’m nearly 38-year-old and ever have I broken a bone in my body…until now.

A week ago I stepped out of my boy alcove. The alcove is set off of the basement, is smaller than a standard-sized room and came as an after thought when making my screened-in porch. About the size of a jail cell, it’s carpeted, insulated, and is decorated with all of my classic rock albums that I no longer play. It houses my musical instruments, a computer, and a small fridge full of miscellaneous beers, sodas, and ½-full bottles of water. If I could mix in a lifetime supply peanuts, it would be pretty much everything that any man needs to survive.

So I stepped out of the alcove onto the basement floor, about an 18-inch drop. Instead of landing on the bottom of my foot, I landed on my ankle. All of you engineers start doing the math: One man at 265 pounds drops 18 inches at a standard rate onto one ankle. This pretty much equals disaster. I screamed as if someone had shot my testicles with a nail gun. The pain was intense, the worst I’ve ever experienced, and the kind that makes you want to toss chow. I started sweating instantly, and by the time I made it upstairs my shirt was soaked. Such a wonderful way to kick off my five-day vacation.

It took me a week before I made a trip to the doctor, although my wife told me I should go after day three of double-wide, purple foot. The first thing that the nurse said was, “oh, ouch”. Thank you for that expert diagnosis.

Dr. M twisted it, turned it and then had it x-rayed. The funny thing was, it really didn’t hurt that much when walking or during the aforementioned twisting and turning.

I didn’t see anything on the x-ray, but I knew something was amiss when Dr. M said to himself, “hmmm, I think I missed that,” while he stood there staring at the bones. He came over, pinpointed a particular location on my ankle, and as all doctors do so well, pushed while asking if it hurt. “Yeouwouchess”, I said. The sweat glands kicked into overtime instantly.

And then the words came, the words I have avoided throughout years of football, mountain biking, hiking, climbing, boating and all the other things that adrenalin junkies do to keep from being bored. “Yep, you fractured it,” he said.

The worst part is that I get no broken bone trophy. It’s not really bad enough to cast because the bone isn’t out of place, but it’s bad enough to use crutches for a month. I have to keep it wrapped in an Ace, keep it elevated, and ice it. I also have to do all the rehab, but I get no cast. From the first time I saw a friend with a cast during my childhood years, I wanted a broken bone because I wanted a cast that everyone could sign. I though it was so cool. But alas, I have strong bones. I guess it’s from all the milk. So, I get no cast but I get all the crappy stuff like ice, rehab, and crutches.

The photo is my foot 10 days after the injury. It’s still looks icky.

Marijuana Has Ruined My Life. Huh?

…um, oh yeah, now I remember.

The Federal Government has been classifying for a good long time the evil weed as something akin to crack, meth, and heroin.

Poppycock!

Yes, poppycock, I say.

Recreational drug use is not good. Some might modify this statement by clarifying with the word, “never”; others might say, “Extensive use of”. I’m sticking with the evidence that shows most any foreign substance abused over a period of time is probably detrimental to living a longer, healthier life and/or personal attitudes and relationships. I lump other items into my categorical statement, items such as McDonald’s, gasoline, and pornography. Still others include spelunking, under-water welding, and anything that allows your body to move faster than bipedal speed.

I’ll just come right out and admit it. I tried pot, once. I quickly figured out that the leaves get stuck in your teeth, the taste is unappealing, and it really doesn’t do much for you. From that point on I stuck to smoking it.

The Nancy Regan firestorm from the early eighties pounded into my head the detriments of saying yes. I answered in the affirmative despite the facts. I did it in high school, college and after. Through extensive research, my findings show that there are far worse things to abuse that fall within legal limits. Alcohol and tobacco are certainly in that list. Yes, I’ve used both. Legally prescribed painkillers, amphetamines, and anti-anxiety drugs are a far bigger problem than sharing a bowl with the boys on Friday night.

Pull out a piece of paper because you're about to make two lists. The first list is one with the names of people you know with a marijuana addiction, the other a list of people you know with some other addiction.

Now, search the Internet to find as many news stories as you possibly can that include something like, "Authorities say this person robbed/raped/fought/killed/over dosed/struggled with or ran from police/caused personal injury to himself and others/wrecked the car/...because he was high on marijuana and/or needed money to fuel his marijuana addiction". Now, same search again except use alcohol or prescription drug X or street drug X in place of marijuana.

Did it just get brighter in here?

Marijuana, however, is listed via federal government statutes as well into the red area of things that will KILL, KILL, KILL. As such, the purposely imposed social stigma gives people a false sense of reality as it pertains to use of alcohol and tobacco.

At times, tobacco farmers/manufacturers receive subsidies that support the growth of the tobacco industry. Tow-back-ee can be taxed, ya know. Taxation is the very idea that lead to the ban on marijuana by making it illegal to grow and then making it illegal to sell without a tax stamp. Additional regulations followed to classify the drug as such to impose a ban on all research…in the USA.

According to the AP, a study out of London shows (not necessarily proves) that alcohol and tobacco might actually be more harmful to you than an occasional spliff, or a spliff-a-day for that matter.

New "landmark" research finds that alcohol and tobacco are more dangerous than some illegal drugs like marijuana or Ecstasy and should be classified as such in legal systems, according to a new British study.

In research published Friday in The Lancet magazine, Professor David Nutt of Britain's Bristol University and colleagues proposed a new framework for the classification of harmful substances, based on the actual risks posed to society. Their ranking listed alcohol and tobacco among the top 10 most dangerous substances.

Heroin and cocaine were ranked most dangerous, followed by barbiturates and street methadone. Alcohol was the fifth-most harmful drug and tobacco the ninth most harmful. Cannabis came in 11th, and near the bottom of the list was Ecstasy. --Full article on MSNBC

Here is the deal in case you don't know. Pot makes you, shall I say, slightly lethargic. When high, it often becomes much more fun to play Xbox than work. To this I say that if you can’t motivate yourself to get off the couch after getting high, don’t get f*ckin’ high, dumbass. If you can’t remember to go to the grocery store after you get high, don’t get high before you go.

Don’t give me that crap about marijuana addiction. I was a head with the best of them. Merely wishing that you had a quarter-bag does not classify as a withdraw symptom, so suck it up and go to work. (Side note: Grocery shopping high is never a good idea unless you want to come home with $200 worth of Soft Batch Cookies and Little Debbie snacky cakes.)

So, is pot a gateway drug? I think that it can be. However, I think the frequency and berth of that gate is substantially increased by poor parenting as opposed to a hookah-toting teen. Do I advocate smoking pot? I certainly do not. Do I care if you do? Absolutely not -IF- you’re a responsible adult and you’re not harming/neglecting anyone. Keep in mind that harm to others comes in many forms.

Has smoking pot ruined my life or my career? Well, I woke up this morning. I’m a college grad, and I hold a professional position that I really enjoy. I’m a daddy, a father, a Christian, and trusted friend to numerous others. People tend to seek my advice and respect my opinions. I do, however, tend to lock the keys in my car from time to time. If that’s a life ruined, well, maybe I should just find the code to my keyless entry—if I can just remember where I hid it.

Whatchew Think?

Because of You, Your Opinion Counts

A resident blogger claimed early Monday morning opinions based solely on the thoughts residing throughout his brain. Now, local authorities are in a desperate search for answers and they need your help.

According to the Old Brain thought police, the blogger known as BuckeyeTimmy brazenly broke into the spinal column while on his way to an undisclosed location this morning. They say that he had one blog in his thoughts. Midway through his journey, these thoughts had multiplied. Authorities say that by the time he made his way to Old Brain, more than three ideas were being held captive.

“Yep, I seen’em,” said one bystander whose shriveling form looked as if he’d lived a life in the Pleasure Center. “I was stopped at Old Brain General pickin’ up some hunting equipment and searching for new shelter. All of a sudden I heard this loud rumbling noise. It kinda sounded like a synaptic transfer was in my back yard. Then I saw a big ol’ group of ideas run past me uh screamin’ and uh cryin’. I thought they just needed the loved of another human, which happens a lot down here in Old Brain, ya know. But then there was this guy behind them. I swore he had tiny little balls of different colors comin’ right out of his head.”

Authorities believe two more captives were taken by the time BuckeyeTimmy arrived at Frontal Lobes. This is where they believe he is hold-up. They say that he impulsively barricaded himself behind a rash of judges, linguists, and puzzle masters whose offices are adjacent to Department of Socialization and Spontaneity.

Taking advantage of their exceptional skills in planning and coordination, authorities came up with a plan to entice the confused blogger into submission by offering a complimentary lifetime subscription to cable pay-per-view. According to an anonymous source within the department, authorities were “confident that the result of their meticulous planning would result in the best possible outcome”. After substantial run-throughs, authorities executed the plan, which was promptly thwarted by the blogger’s eccentric actions.

According to one eyewitness, the renegade blogger noticed the nearly unperceivable movements of the police, stood up, and with spear in hand started chanting, “I AM THALAMUS, I CONTROL THE DOPE. I AM THALAMUS, I CONTROL THE DOPE.”

Frighten by these schizophrenic-like actions, authorities broke plan and proceeded to rendezvous point Old Brain General in search of their mommies. This is when one team member produced a ransom note that he found lying on the ground outside the Department of Socialization and Spontaneity. The note read: _______________________________________________________________________________________________
Dear Thought Police,

Although I am thalamus and the controller of the dope, I feel slightly confused. The ideas that I have captive are driving me crazy with useless arguments and infighting. Each wants his or her place, and each wants to be first in line. If you wouldn’t mind, I would greatly appreciate your thoughts (pun intended..teehee…teehee) on which opinion should be written next. Options are:

1) Mr. A Life Ruined by Marijuana - Huh?
2) Mrs. My New Blogging Obsession
3) Mr. Hey, Hey I Wanna Be A Rock Star
4) Ms. I Want Answers
5) Mrs. Logic and Christianity

Help me Old Brain Police. You’re my only hope.

Kind Regards,
God of Thunder and Rock-n-Ro-a-ollll (Formerly known as Thalamus the Dope Controller)
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Authorities have again surrounded the sense-of-self deprived blogger and are waiting for your comments.

Mr. Semi-Fixit

Home ownership has its advantages: This is my house! Gooney Goo Goo! And that, my friends, is where it stops.

I can’t blame it all on Mother Nature and the process of aging. After all, I did use my money (sorry, P…our money) to buy the house. It was our choice. We also decided to live in a historic district, a term that implies upscale, antique, and character. Implications and true meaning are two different subjects. The term, historic district, gets its roots from real estate marketing. After all, it would be difficult to sell a home if you described it as “really f*cking old”.

“This home right here is a gem. It’s a really f*cking old house in a really f*cking old neighborhood. The plumbing is really f*cking old as is the electrical wiring. The neighbors are really f*cking old and their really f*cking old dog craps in your yard when he escapes from their really f*cking old fence.”

Tip to college freshmen majoring in marketing: Really f*cking old = bad description.

Never the less, this is my house~! Gooney Goo Goo!

There is, however, one more advantage to owning a really f*cking old house. You get to join the League of Persons with Less than Adequate Superpowers. (grob/ted 2006) My true identity comes to life only in times of professional work, marriage and fatherhood. On the weekends I become (dunt taa-daa-daa) Mr. Semi-Fixit.

I have the ability to fix anything to the point of barely running. I can build anything that stands solidly non-square and cover it with enough trim as to not notice. I can rewire without grounding and have the ability to repair plumbing while leaving only a few minor leaks.

No, I cannot fly, but my Super Tool Belt is a Home Depot of paintable caulking, quarter round and latex paint. I can hammer where I should screw and shim to the point of immobile. Brute force is the underlying might of my super powers.

So think of me, my greater-ability fixit friends, when you are laboring through the details of proper measurements and square corners. I have already finished my project and moved on to the next one in my really f*cking old house.

Where Man, Is Law

<--Man Law Music. Please Play While Reading The Church of the Golden Teapot was what I might consider a big hit, which means that someone other than me read it. I fully intend to follow up on the subject some time in the near future. But for now, my virgin blogger fingers simply can’t help but leech a clique – MAN LAW. Being a man, a husband and a father, I believe that I have met all criteria that allow me the right to make man law.

Man Law # 74 – Done and Done
There are two types: those that IM for a fact-based purpose and those that chat. Sometimes the former turns toward the latter. Rarely does the latter turn former. In either case, one party usually, for whatever reason, wants to quit chatting before the other.

Man Law #74 allows a man to simply type DONE (all caps) without worry or fear that the other man will take personally. This will eliminate the Gotta-run, Have-meeting excuses and will also cut down on man lying to man. This rule only applies when one man is chatting with another man. Don’t try it with a woman. They don’t understand man law. At recognition of said ending statement, no further IM will be typed until the beginning of the next conversation. The next conversation must be at least 15 minutes into the future. There is an exception for emergencies.

Man Law #87 – The Left Lane
This law enhances the standard driving practice of the left lane being the faster lane. In order to show male driving superiority, all men must recognize and follow the mantra of the left lane being not simply another lane, but a lane made for faster drivers.

Title 1) Should one man come from behind another (in a car, gaywad), the one moving slower must submit to the one moving faster.

Title 2) Unless you are passing, you must remain in the right-hand lane.

Title 3) Flashing of lights is not permitted if you are coming from behind another man. Please reference parenthetical statement in Title 1.

There is a motion on the table. Do I have a second?

(Editor note: Blogger claims the right to use the term, gaywad, as a non-defamatory remark based on friendships with the gays)

The Church of the Golden Teapot

What is it about God that frightens non-Christian people?

WAIT….Before I go any further, I’m going to predict that my brothers and sisters in Christ are going to smile and appreciate this post. My non-Christian friends are going to think I’ve completely been brainwashed and have gone over the edge. Whatever—to both groups. I write to think, and not to spark opinion of others. (But go ahead and comment. That’s the most amusing part of blogging, ya know.)

“Why did [God] let Hitler kill all the Jews? He sounds like a big co*k to me.”

“He lets ONLY those who believe in him be saved? What happens to the other people in the world? Sounds like an a**hole.”

These are two of many such comments that came from the lips of one of my close friends. Another referred to my belief in my Savior as no different than someone worshiping a small golden teapot that revolves around Mars. You can't see this teapot. You just have to have faith that it's there, and that it will "fix" that which is broken or needed. The Church of the Golden Teapot quickly became the new name of said religion.

Now, some people might get upset at such comments, possibly even a few in the bar area of the restaurant in which we were sitting as evident by one of GROBs subdivision neighbors (or some similar relationship) commenting on the acoustic level of his rant. As for me, I respect his agnostic opinion. He has every right to question anything he wishes, but I’m certainly not going to tackle the Hitler question—or anything similar. Why won’t I? It’s simple; I have no idea.

Lets get one thing straight; I’m not one to spout scripture or give reason to seemingly unanswerable questions. I did, however, offer to explain how God works in my life and how my faith has helped my family and me get back on track. I could have given the It’s-God’s-will answer, but that would have been akin to me kicking him squa in da nuts, mmmkay.

And there is another thing. I consider GROB a great friend. He stuck beside me through some hard times in my life, and I pray for him during the hard times in his. He is also one of the funniest MFers I’ve ever known. Our differing beliefs will never deter me from our friendship.

Circling back to the question at hand, GROB is one to investigate and/or challenge everything; it’s in the nature of both our souls. But he chooses to judge the Christian belief versus investigating it. As he once told me, his attitude regarding Christianity is based on a childhood question he asked of his pastor. At age 10, he asked what becomes of non-Christians when they die. The pastor’s response made him turn away from the church and shun any further teaching of the Word of God.

Why is he (or others) afraid to go to church, listen, learn, and then form an opinion using adult rational? I want to know what it is that frightens non-believers out of the slightest consideration of attending anything with the word church as even a small descriptor of event XXXXX?

Just because you attend church doesn’t make you a Christian. It’s not that simple. The people from my church pressure no one to change/invent their faith, ever. The leaders of my church are educators of Christianity. They are Christians, too. It’s kinda like FOX; they teach and let you decide. There is no pressure from the congregation to “change your evil ways”. They are good people who love, and teach, and support. If you choose not to listen, fine. If you choose to argue a point, fine. There will be no judgment. And you’re still welcome to come to our services, meetings, family events, groups, trips, BBQs, or whatever. There is no “C” tattooed on anyone. No one questions why YOU are here. They’re just glad you could come, and then they will invite you back. I simply don’t understand from where all the fear comes.

The photo above is something that I made the day after GROB and I had our discussion. I did it to illustrate just how wrong I believe GROB’s opinion to be…And before you comment on how hypocritical I am because you believe that I am judging someone, try to remember that there is a difference between respecting an opinion and believing that it's misguided.

~Click the photo to make it bigger. It's certainly worth it.~

Multimedia, Charter Communications, and the Planet of the Apes

I spent a huge portion of my weekend attempting to turn my home into a multimedia environment the likes of which might be seen at Disney World.

It took me about a half-day to realize that I don’t have the uber billions that Mickey and friends enjoy. What I do have, however, are two LCD TVs, one with a digital tuner and one without. I have two computers that, for all geek intents and purposes, are slighty dated, and one stand-by computer worthy of nothing more than surfing the net...at most. I also have another 13" LCD monitor for which I paid vast sums of money three years ago.

The goals are few but complicated. I want to be able to store and control in one main location all media—photos, movies, wireless, audio, and net access. A hub, if you will. I also want to be able to:

1) Control all of it from any location (any station)
2) Stream movie and audio playback from the main hub.
3) Utilize each station as a TV and a computer
4) Use each station as a DVR to record HD or SD programming

I pretty much have it all figured out, except for the recording of HD programming. This is because 1) I’m cheap and don’t want to give the cable company any more money for renting of their damn boxes. (I have one box and I know that I can make it all work with that box) and 2) Purchasing the right digital video card for my computer is a bit complicated to get exactly what I need.

Issue two would be easily solved if issue one didn’t exist. It’s technical, so I won’t get into it. But when it comes right down to it, it’s the principle of the thing. I despise Charter Communications and their nickel-and-dime strategy to rape you of anything that they can. $5 a month for digital access and $3 a month for digital service – my ass! What the heck is that? $7 a month for HD service, $3 a month for HD access, $10 a month for an HD box, and $4 a month for any extra digital (not HD) boxes. HD boxes would be another $7 a month…or something like that. I think you know what I’m saying.

So my goal is to beat them at their own game, legally. Doing it illegally really isn’t a challenge to me any longer and that’s not who I want to be. Stealing, although risky, is simple, cheap and efficient. Doing it legally is a whole other battle. It’s much more expensive, probably more expensive than renting the equipment from Charter, at least in the short run. And the short run is rule in the world of technology. But again, it’s the principle, and the challenge. Besides that, I’ll own my equipment versus giving my money to Satan incarnate.

When I told my wife about it, she balked. It’s probably because she wants a flat LCD in the bedroom, and that’s all she wants. It makes no difference to her if I can play a movie on the TV upstairs when in all reality it’s playing on the computer downstairs. She just wants it to work every time without pushing eight buttons, turning three knobs, and adjusting this RCA input so that it fits into that coax outlet.

And I tend to agree, which is yet another reason why it’s taking such a long time and so much research. I’m making it so that all you have to do is click here to see photos, click here to see movies, click here to listen to music or click here to watch TV. (Sounds remarkably like a Charter Communications HD box, eh).

BUT IT WILL BE BETTER THAN CHARTER. BETTER I SAY. BETTER
(I’m feeling slightly mad-scientist-ish right now.)

Better because I’ll make it work myself and won’t have to pay nickel and dime fees.

So here is the kicker. The whole reason that I put myself on this rampage of technology research and store hopping from Circuit City, to Best Buy, to Comp USA and back is simple, some might say foolish. But not to me.

My daughter wanted to watch a DVD on Saturday. Neither of my cheap DVD players work on my cheap and arcane TV. However, I had the movie downstairs on my computer hard drive as a backup. But she wanted to watch it in the bedroom. I got frustrated because I couldn’t give her what she wanted, and because I couldn’t make my POS DVD player work.

GET YOUR CHEAP LASER OFF MY DISK, YOU DAMN DIRTY DVD PLAYER

Muuaahhhh. I will win.

Death of a Rittmanite

My dad died yesterday. Well, he died yesterday plus 27 years. I’ve spent the last 27 years of my life without a father, which, one would believe, has had a great deal of influence over who I am today.

Saturday, March 1, 1980, 7:30 p.m. at the Cleveland Clinic. I was at home with granny. We were watching the Muppets during that time, Paul Williams, I think. I was 10-years-old. Tiny, my dad, was 40.

Rewind approx. 10 months.

I was sitting in the upstairs hallway of our house. Bedroom doors were closed because I was throwing with the mustered strength of a mighty 10-year-old a bouncy ball that you get in the vending machine. The doors were closed so I could see how many times I could get the ball to ricochet before hitting the carpet. Dad was taking a bath. We didn’t have a shower, ya know. Mom came upstairs as my father said, “JC come look at this lump”. Why did I hear that? Why is this so vivid a memory when my normal brain function often balks at remembering to comb my hair?

Blur…blur….random memory of dad in the hospital…blur…blur…memory of the Cleveland Clinic smelling funny, but they had an ice cream machine in the cafeteria…blur..blur…dad at home, unable to eat, and getting sick while trying. He cried.

Blur…blur…back at the Cleveland Clinic, dad had a pretty cool roommate who talked to me…blur...Dad choking in his hospital room because an O2 tube got twisted in his throat. I was so scared and ran from the room to hide….Blur…different day at the CC, being lead into a waiting area by a family friend…

"Timmy, your daddy is going to die today."

I cried.

I went to see him for the last time. I’m told that he was pretty much unresponsive until I walked in. When I crawled beside him he took off his O2 mask. He told me how much he loved me. “We will meet again. At some other time, in some other place.”

I told him I loved him, kissed him, and was taken out of the ICU.

He died that night.

Blur…food…blur…people….blur….food and people and food and people….funeral home….visitation...so many people...funeral and cemetery...big black car, uncle reaching in through the window to hug mom, my brother and me…blur..

The rest of my life without my father.

It makes me cry, even now. I loved him so much.

Look to the Cookie

My daughter floored me yesterday with a tale of pre-school discrimination, rendering me speechless for at least a solid minute.

Rew began our conversation with a question as we walked to the car. “Ya know what Dolly said today that got her in trouble?” By the way, Dolly is a real person and Rew’s best friend, not cotton puff held together with stitching. “She told Little Ms. B that she couldn’t play with us because her skin was brown.”

The statement literally stopped me in my tracks.

My mind began to race for words, kinda like the time when GROB’s daughter found that funny-shaped vibrating thing on the floor while she was helping dismantle mommy’s and daddy’s bed. However, I knew almost instantly that the “It’s a special screw driver for the bed” excuse wouldn’t work. I’m quick that way, ya know.

This was hard-core real life. The right words, correct delivery relating to her world, and proper praise for not participating were extremely important. I first had to determine if her participation in the circumstance was, in fact, exempt. I’m confident it was.

After thinking about it for a while, I’m willing to bet that this was more the type of discrimination that children do to the fat kid, or the kid with glasses, or the kid who is kinda stinky. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying that it probably wasn’t rooted in racial prejudice. There is a difference, but not much.

The obligatory discussion about green skin, red noses and/or purple toes ensued at length. A child’s definition of discrimination was invented, and praise for non-participation included the words, “how proud I am of you” and cost me one piece of bubble gum and a sucker.

At bedtime we prayed. In addition to thankful blessings, we asked God to help all people understand that discrimination is unacceptable.

I held Rew’s sippy-cup of milk, the one with the green top, in my hand as I tucked her in. After which, she asked me for one last drink. I rocked the cup back and forth in my hand as if it was speaking.

Then I said in one of my best character voices, “No Reilly you can’t have a drink of me. I have a green top and you don’t. Only people with green tops can drink from me…”

She held up one finger as such when making a statement and interrupted my last effort of the day.

“Uh, daddy. Daddy! Sippy-cups aren’t people and they can’t talk.”

Lesson of the day learned. Adult insight as to the comprehension level of a 4-year-old also learned.

Thorn in my Blog

I get an email from Popeye today telling me to write more blogs.

“Get with it dude! I am now checking your page every day. NEW BLOGS????”

What Popeye doesn’t understand is that I write for a living. Okay, maybe not every single day, all day long, but I write a lot. Currently, I’m bussin’ my hump to get this magazine written and proofed by deadline. I’ve been working on it for nearly five days, non-stop, all day long.

The worst part is, I hate this magazine; the design is completely dated and the content is, to me, so very boring. But alas, I’m in now position at the moment to go changin’. It will change, I promise you this, but not at the present moment. I’m so glad this isn’t the only thing that keeps me occupied at work.

Anyway, back to Popeye. He’s a smart man, ya know, and works in a very honorable profession. He’s an educator, a motivator, a coach, and a daddy, too. He even got himself one of them there masters degrees. But my lord, shut the hell up, Popeye.

Popeye and I grew up together, and we share a lot of the same memories. This is great for our friendship but detrimental to my blogging. Even though I attempt to keep the characters in my tales anonymous, there is enough information to peg exactly who I am, at least if you have half a wit about your brain.

Within hours of releasing Worlds Beyond Rittman to Popeye, I see comments that allude to, and actually pinpoint, some events that occurred during my adventures that I would rather not mention.

But I don’t blame Popeye. The blog is new to him, and probably to most of my friends within my former stomp.

I have faith that sooner or later blog curtsey will make that synaptic connection in his head and I’ll no longer have to worry about the extraneous details that I omit from certain stories poppeyeing up in the comment section.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have much to hide. But like most people, including Popeye, there are certain aspects of life that should be left to memory versus posted for the world to see.

Now, getting this point across to him is another matter.

How to do it? Hmmmm…..

I Geek – I Believe

I think it might have started in 6th grade Exploratory. My first choice was A/V training. Yes, I was one of those people, although I was closeted for most of my tween-teen years. I simply couldn’t help it. I loved film and slide projectors, audio equipment, and most anything else with lots of buttons and knobs that elicited an emotional response when something mechanical was pushed, twisted, flipped or depressed.

I always loved Atari 64—which still works perfectly, arcades, calculators, and anything related to that cool new device—the PC. We had one, an Apple of course—circa 1982, in my middle school. It seems though that I wasn’t smart enough to make the cut. The Apple was only for those with grades higher than mine.

In college I started as an undeclared (not a specific field of study) business major, switched to engineering, and then switched to a geek major—photography and cinema. These were the years when I learned how to work the Apple IIe. A guy in my dorm had one, and it was soooo cool.

Years later Gates unleashed Windows 95. My girlfriend had a computer that was running Windows for Workgroups. I purchased the new OS and my addiction grew rapidly.

Now that I’m a grown man with a family and more responsibility than I ever thought I would have, I’m still a geek. The three computers, two video cameras, numerous still cameras, an Xbox, and enough software to choke a torrent might testify to the fact. There is also the aforementioned Atari 64 and a pre-Atari gaming consol sold by Sears. It works, too. It’s color and includes Pinball I & II, Pinpaddle I & II, Breakaway, Breakout and a few other things. And I swear that I’m going to get my 1986ish Playboy Pinball machine up and running again sometime in the near future.

I run a duel-boot Mac Pro Intel at work with one 23” monitor and one 22” monitor. I also have an IBM ThinkPad laptop, which I take home every night because I simply don’t have enough computers in home already. My Dell Axim PDA is my personal secretary, and I would feel naked if my portable 20GB hard drive wasn’t within reach at all times. One second-generation 15GB iPod and one 30GB video iPod round out the collection.

Why?

I kinda blame it on my ADHD, and I kinda blame it on the high that I get from fixing someone’s computer, the compliments I get when I take a great photo, and the emotions I see in others after producing a video. But I think that I might be zeroing in on the real reason.

I’m a firm believer in the Word of God, and that he sent his Son to die for our sins—not that I don’t have questions, but I guess that’s why it’s called faith.

Theses skills that I have, are they my spiritual gift?

It’s An Amalgam

“Hey. Hey big man. You like music?” These were the first words I heard this morning aside from the standard good bye and I love you from my sleeping wife.

So how are you supposed to respond to someone asking such a question; a question asked from a distance while I stood filling my tank.

“No, I don’t like music. And while you’re asking, I don’t like ice cream, Ansel Adams, or Braveheart, either.”

Gas pump handle clicky thing in place, I walked toward him. I had to if I wanted my standard breakfast of a Nutty Bar and Diet Dew that I get every time I fill my tank before work.

“Check it out, Big Man, this stuff is hot,” said Mr. Wake-n-Bake Breath while holding one new CD and another without a case.

“What kind of music is it,” I asked.
“Country.”
“Not my gig dude, sorry.”
“What about this one, Big Man. What do you like? Heavy Metal? Soft Rock? This is a mixture,” he says while hold the disc to my face and showing me the picture on the case.

Maybe big men inherently look less intelligent; who knows. But some how my BMSS (Big Man Spidey Sense) managed to tingle. It could have been the combo description of musical genera, or maybe it was the CD case photo showing one man holding an acoustic guitar. Regardless, I was not going to open my car and listen as he suggested.

His pitch continued after I paid for my Little Debbie snacky cake and walked back to my car. “I’ll make you a deal, big man.”

“Dude, I’m an ATM man. I have no cash. And plain and simply, I’m just not a big fan of the heavy metal, soft rock amalgam. If it ain’t Deep Purple, then I don’t want it”

“Alright big man, but you’re missing out,” he said as he hopped from his paper-box perch in search of the next sale. “This stuff is hot.”

Bye, Bye Anna – My Time Alone Will Miss You

Maybe it was the whole graduation thing and the lack of my attendance at hers that lead my college girlfriend to break up with me. Or I guess it could have been my relentless harsh diatribe spewed to her roommates while reviewing a weekend spent with TB’s friends. It doesn’t really matter; the end result was the same.

But it was TB who purchased as a present for my birthday a subscription to Playboy. The year was 1992, the same year that Anna Nicole became POY.

I instantly fell in lust with her curves. I nurtured that relationship on numerous occasions during a time when my roommate, Popeye, was called out of reserve to serve the Commonwealth of Kentucky during Desert Storm. We were at war, ya know. And I must have thought that the enemy was hiding in my 501s.

I’ll never forget the come-hither look of my POY lounging in the tub and covered with bubbles. I was hooked for years; through the muumuu-like, big pink dress years and the horrid B-movies, she was my Marilyn.

As for TB, going out to dinner with her parents after her college graduation just didn’t appeal to me at the time. Maybe I should have called instead of standing them up. And I didn’t know she was in the other room during my diatribe.
She broke up with me for the guy to whom I subleased Popeye’s room. She married him.

Confusion: Defining Rittman and Beyond

Rittman, as in Rittman, Ohio, was at one time the center of the universe—at least for me. I never wanted to leave my beloved city of 7000ish where Indians football ruled, the dividing line between the hill and those who lived below rested at Grandview park, and churches outnumbered the bars by only a few. It’s a strange little place.

Had this town surrounded by rectangular patches of feed-grade crops been an actual breathing entity with conscience thought and a daily routine, it would certainly have an hour a week booked at the relaxing seat of a qualified counselor. This, I believe, is the root of all issues when things go bad for the Rittmanites.

Ya see, Rittman is suffering from gender confusion.

Until the problem is resolved, bad juju abounds.The City of Rittman, as it’s known, isn’t reallllllly a city. Wiki proclaims, “a city is an urban area that is differentiated from a town, village, or hamlet by size, population density, importance or legal status”.

I guess this really falls on the definition of what or is.

It isn’t really urban, or urbane for that matter. Population density is pretty much right out the window. The importance of existence was great at one time. But now that I’ve had some time past the gates, as defined by field of corn XXX lying in all outskirt points of the compass, the importance subsided a bit.

As for status, legal or otherwise, I know Rittman has been on Cleveland TV News at least twice that I can remember; once involved Popeye parent's bar, the Sleepy Owl, a rifle, and someone barricading himself in the attic. I think it was 1988, and the rifle was a .22 gage...or something like that.

The schools are defined as an exempted village. The only exemptions I’ve ever seen are during the times of local and state funding. “The Rittman School District claims its solemn right of exemption to all funding. Why should we pay higher taxes when our kids aren’t getting the education they need.”

Ergo—back to the comfy cuckoo chair.

Don’t get me wrong; I love Rittman. I relish my experiences from childhood, and I would never trade my teen adventures with JL, MB, VM, TB, DM, GK, RC, JS, DC, KE, SB and all the rest. (I had to get a RMS Smoke Signal reference in there).

All I’m saying it that before Rittman can move past any undermining juju, it simply must make a decision as to which of the defining ors best fit. I vote for hamlet.

Henceforth, I go to Worlds Beyond Rittman. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure to visit. I always do.