TERROR ALERT LEVEL:

January 2007
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— 2006 —

December 2006

November 2006

Octember 2006

August 2006

Same guy, different krep...
Father Knows
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Read on YOUR terms...

Read on THEIR terms...

Stuff for your ears...

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All commentary Copyright Stonestead.com, 2007. No part may be reproduced without permission. All statements within are the express view of the author and not necessarily those of his employeer, his clergy, his spouse, his friends or even himself.

So, what did you do last weekend? I only ask because I installed a new outlet, put up 2 curtain rods, washed, ironed and hung 4 curtain panels, took down our Christmas tree on my own, (no small task that), moved the furniture back into the void and vacuumed pine needles and cat hair where they had been freshly exposed. That, plus all my usual duties as a co-attendant to the three young locusts. So I was a little busy.

Of course, I also did at least two other things of note - one of which I've already shared with one particular reader and will publish here the absolute second I've acquired a necessary resource, (you'll understand at the time) - but the second of my "brave accomplishments" I'll share with you now...

On Sunday, a representative from a local Pregnancy Resource Center (or some such) made a presentation during the church service. Given it was during the service and IN church, and since we're Baptists and not episcopalians, I was pretty sure which side of the abortion debate they came down on. So after he'd given his presentation/pitch, he'd said that they're not just here to solicit financial donations, but were hoping to recruit some foot soldiers, (my term). So if you could work in their store, gather donations, counsel pregnant women, edit a newsletter, do some light accounting...

It was there that a light went off in my head -- Counsel Pregnant Women! I could, ...no. Wait. What was that other thing? Oh, right. I'm an aspiring writer! I could edit their newsletter! Of course that could mean writing the whole thing if nobody else steps into the gap - including interviews of those women who feel they've been helped by the services they were offered, (by the resource center, that is).

So here I am: rocketing towards 41 years of age, (same age as the Superbowl, in case you have trouble keeping track at home), a full-time, professional IT geek, an otherwise fully-involved Father of 3 kids 5 and younger, an active husband, (and what a shame that I should have to use that phrase), a home-repair KING, the proprietor of an active website, local Fatherhood blogger, published author of a semi-regular examination of Theology, and what do I need the most? Well, sleep, natch.

Followed by some quiet time, time to watch a movie that I want to watch, a meal of my choice, a nap here and there, a morning to sleep in, and then somewhere far down the list would be "another writing gig."

But I suspect that this is what it will take. And whatever that means is what it means and I will soon find that out, I guess. But I'm actually looking forward to this opportunity. I've come to KNOW that every day I look into the very face of the abortion debate and if I were more diligent about posting new kid pictures, (forgot to list that in my tasks above), you would have the same certainty. Binky Boy is a living miracle: there's no reason that the case file shouldn't read, "aborted 4 month old fetus due to a questionable paternity."

But Thank GOD that section is rather thicker than that sentence. And I hope to share that with as many people as I possibly can...

A MOMENT OF SELF-DELUSION...

Given the fact that my office has blocked access to my Fatherhood blog, I'm guessing that other places with the same brain-dead, automated software may have done so as well. This of course makes me the Nation's Greatest Victim and I'm preparing a legal filing as well as a scathing press release wherein I name john F'ing kerry and the supporters of the fairness doctrine as my persecutors. I expect to receive millions and millions of dollars in settlement - in which case you'll never hear from me again.

So we all win!!

At any rate, if you're one of those I don't already know about that cannot access the yourhub krep, let me know. I think I have a workaround. And if you're of my same agency and would like to waste another 3 minutes of your day on stuff I have to say about parenting, let me know that, too. It'll mean extra work for me, but hey -- what else do I have to do?

Well. I've been told that I'm spending too much time on one subject at the expense of another. Such is the life of an overworked and underpaid pseudo-blogger: the inability to please - somehow - roughly 80% of your audience on any given day. I credit the lack of sleep. And time.

And talent...

But I've heard the cries and some of you want more family stories and less political hackism. Fine. But it's also true that some of you want to be coated in oatmeal and soak in a hot tub with an Anjelica Huston look-alike. Or so I've heard. Word travels fast on the internets.

OK. So what's going on around here? Well, lots of sleep but by all the wrong people. The tiny humans around here - who are always bounding with unbridled amounts of energy - are taking the time out to sleep from 2 to 3 hours every afternoon. Meanwhile, those of us who have to lug around the larger frames are so sleep-deprived that we're leaving perfectly good groceries in the back seats of our cars and putting sour cream in the pantry instead of the fridge. It's a wonder that humans have survived this long, frankly...

And this is before I mention that "M" is now officially in therapy. We were holding off because there seemed to be little presenting itself that was in need of attention, but all that changed in the hours leading up to Christmas. Suddenly, during "bath night," she told Mommy that she was afraid of the police coming and that they would take her and D-Man away because it happened before and she's really afraid it would happen again and would we please take her in for therapy?

OK - that last part was unspoken but it was there all the same. So we harnessed our Resources of Varying Competence, (it's the Most Polite way I can describe the experience), and sent "M" to "play therapy" last Friday. The Doc immediately noted behavior indicative of an attachment issue of which we were already aware, and promised several years of personally-lucrative therapy to follow.

I'm sorry. Is my cynicism showing? Well, only if you've taken note of the "varying competence" comment I made earlier.

But on a similar note, we've just learned that Binky Boy has another ear infection and D-Man is suffering from tonsillitis. It's a glimpse of both the future and the past. And we're sure to get through both of them. I have little doubt of that...

So I caught about half of the "2057" show on The Discovery Channel. The premise is that this is a collection of current, scientific knowledge, a view of geopolitical trends and rough guesses about where we go from here in the next 50 years - disguised as thin drama and Socratic Method. Kinda...

But it couldn't have been more flawed. Oh sure it was interesting to learn that there are collections of ice at the bottom of the ocean that have methane as a major component - and therefore will burn more steadily than an Ohio lake - and to see that technology is rapidly converging at a point that will allow one's morning commute to include a trip into the outer atmosphere, but after that they were really, really weak on the particulars. For example: they pointed out that the methane ice was difficult to retrieve because the remotely controled, deep submergence robots they use for the purpose couldn't hold onto the fragments as they surfaced because the increase in temperature melted the ice. If I have to take the time to suggest that they develop a deep sea collection system that contains the ice at its native temperature and pressure - OR create an earthbound system that recreates the circumstances under which the ice develops - well then they're vastly overpaying their staff.

Likewise the contradiction inherent in the "space elevator" they presented: it's an interesting and compelling idea - a small, self-contained, pressurized shell equipped with an on board motor that would climb a top-weighted shaft (thus using the earth's rotation to keep it erect), rooted on an off shore platform located in a meteorologically quiet region of the Pacific. Pretty cool. But even better was the idea that the capsule would sit on top of a large solar panel.

Which would of course mean that the capsule would press the solar panel against the ground thereby assuring vertical movement of less than a micro-millimeter, right? Well, not quite. Beneath the solar panels would sit high-power lasers which would point towards the solar cells and send them unimaginable amounts of power -- in light form. The motor(s) would run and the thing would climb its tower towards the colonies of space. Brilliant!

Of course, my problem with the show came where they misunderestimated the effects of the geopolitical realm. It's where the pointy-heads always fall short, just as the policy wonks always discount the widgets and gadgets. It's what they do - ignore each other.

In the show they present a likely scenario -- The U.S. and China as the sole Superpowers -- balanced against a contingency that goes against EVERYthing they're trying to propose and actually DO within the show! They use all this speculative technology to guess at how grand our lives will be and how we'll have flying cars, (like THAT'S never been promised before!), and work in space, (ditto!), and how robot wives will be cheap and effective, (lifted from The Simpsons), yet present the main source of conflict between the Superpowers as an issue over the rarity of oil.

It's the flaw of the age: yesterday's problem as a vexation to tomorrow's technology. Besides, how long have "the experts" been predicting an end to our natural crude? Shouldn't we all be on horseback rather than predicting riding lasers into space as a way of life?

Fraggin' experts...

And no, the question has nothing to do with Playdude Magazine. (Quick note to the geeks out there: pay attention to the URI of that anchor. Citebite is schweeeeet...). We now join our regularly scheduled quiz, already in progress.

...right? I mean, when I ask you to think about a "texan" it's a pretty safe bet you're thinking a drawl, a fur coat over cowboy boots and the general belief that the world would be a better place if the rest of the states would just cede to texas. A "californian?" Tofu-eating bleach-blondes who would have a hard time finding california on a map. OF california. A new yorker? Pushy, rude and brusque people who hail cabs with a single finger. And NOT the one used by the rest of the world...

But Coloradans don't really have a stereotype. Of course our state does - namely that of a frozen landscape for 357 days each year, (which doesn't seem so far off at the moment), but its inhabitants seem to avoid being pigeonholed. This may be simply because the other states don't ever take the time to consider those of us who would chose to live in such an environment, but it may also be due to our vast - and God forbid I say it outloud - diversity we experience in this state:

From the grizzled ranchers of the plains to the snow-bunnies of the peaks, the intense Indian presence in the southern areas to the granola wearing, birkenstock-eating, high-as-a-kite-what's-a-kite?, life long hippie students of boulder, it would seem that we defy a standard characterization. Until today. Today, I realized that I WAS the Colorado stereotype...

As luck would have it, I was working at home today during the reasonably high temperatures. And by "reasonably high" I mean it got all the way into the 50's up here but it may as well have been the 90's, so long has the sun been hiding itself from us. So how did I spend my lunch hour? By going out to chip away at the 14 inches(!) of ice that had accumulated at a certain point on my deck. Specifically, a point below the gutter overflow, (which explains the obnoxious depth), but above the subterranean walkway that leads to The Stonestead's lower ingress, (which explains the lethal length of the icicles hanging overhead).

I was roughly half-way into the task when I realized that I had become the perfect stereotype of a Coloradoan: I was out on my deck at midday, chipping away at a mass of ice with a rusted shovel while wearing steel-toed boots, Broncos warm-up pants and no shirt. Aside from me being involved, it's the picture-perfect ideal of a Coloradoan. So find another model and put it on the flag already.

It's even made all the more perfect by the fact that I think I got a slight sunburn on my back and shoulders in just those 20 minutes - - while I had to resort to swinging my 12 pound maul in order to break up the ice block. Let's hope they don't forget that detail when re-crafting the State Flag...

A BRIEF EXPLANATION...

I have given myself several obligations that surround this "craft" of writing. I have done such in the hope that I might improve my skill in navigating those waters. In the larger hope of maybe one day collecting a paycheck for putting seemingly random letters down upon an empty screen.

But then again, we all have our dreams...

The "Internet Explosion," no matter how far away from the blast zone certain entities seem to be, is finally starting to spread in a meaningful way; and for my personal, greedy purposes I'll define that to mean that newspapers are just now beginning to realize that there are talented writers among the general public that are NOT YET on the paper's payroll. So another business model is called for...

Namely, one in which the newspapers seemingly open their input valves while entertaining an online presence, open to all who wish to submit. It's the perfect balance of appearance, outreach and legal dominance, all rolled into a single, weekly gathering in soy ink on recycled, widely-distributed news sheet.

Which is to say that if I continue to print my online parenting column on this site, nobody would ever read it there. My numbers would plummet and I would never again make it into the print edition. Which would be a true tragedy...

...to my ego.

Judge me as you will.

J.O.T.W...

Have you ever wondered why foreigners have trouble with the English Language?

Let's face it
English is a stupid language.
There is no egg in the eggplant
No ham in the hamburger
And neither pine nor apple in the pineapple.
English muffins were not invented in England
French fries were not invented in France.

We sometimes take English for granted
But if we examine its paradoxes we find that
Quicksand takes you down slowly
Boxing rings are square
And a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

If writers write, how come fingers don't fing?
If the plural of tooth is teeth
Shouldn't the plural of phone booth be phone beeth
If the teacher taught,
Why didn't the preacher praught.

If a vegetarian eats vegetables
What the heck does a humanitarian eat!?
Why do people recite at a play
Yet play at a recital?
Park on driveways and
Drive on parkways

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy
Of a language where a house can burn up as
It burns down
And in which you fill in a form
By filling it out
And a bell is only heard once it goes!

English was invented by people, not computers
And it reflects the creativity of the human race
(Which of course isn't a race at all)

That is why
When the stars are out they are visible
But when the lights are out they are invisible
And why it is that when I wind up my watch
It starts
But when I wind up this observation,
It ends.

(The previous was gleefully and admittedly stolen from ahajokes.com. But only up to the header. Everything else is - sadly - the sole intellectual property of this site's proprietor. And have a great, warming, weekend. Just don't try to alter the ice damn on your roof, for reasons I'll share later...)

You've seen the bumper sticker that goes, "of all the things I've lost I miss my mind the most," right? Well, it certainly doesn't apply to me. Losing my mind - indeed, it's on on-going process - has been a great deal of fun. Probably even more so for those around me who are able to witness the spectacle. No, for me, I miss my keys the most. They just evaporated sometime Monday night. Or maybe it was Tuesday. All I know is that I had them Monday night when I drove The Wif's car down the driveway to make sure she'd be able to get out on Tuesday -- and then when I went to leave for work on Wednesday morning, they were gone.

And the reason I so miss them is because it forces me to experience things like this...

As the clock was ticking down on the time for me to fly out of the house so as to make it to the office on time, I was missing my keys. Looked everywhere, I did; both high AND low. Nothing. With time down to the wire - and it being trash day on top of everything else - I grabbed a stray house key and asked The Wif to give me her key to The Death Star. I knew I would have to be the one to remove it, lest she break a ceremonial nail, but I was surprised to see that the key to my truck was smeared with red fingernail polish, (or old dried blood but the smart money's on nail polish).

This confused me. I knew she had done it to mark which key was to which vehicle, because they are similar, but it was utterly unnecessary; the keys are already marked differently. HER key to HER vee-hickle has the company oval on it. MY key to MY truck has the company oval on it. HER key to MY truck has on it, (aside from the masque of the red death), the word PATS in large block letters. Similarly, MY key to HER car has the same PATS marking. It's a beautiful system: if I have my keys and am driving my truck, I look for the oval. If I'm in her car with my keys, I let PATS drive! And she can do the same.

So I shot her a look. The look that says, "purple monkey dishwasher," just so she'd get the message...

"I did that before our trip to Nashville" came the puzzling reply. Once again, I gave her the PMD look. "Remember? We were planning on taking your truck to Nashville? So I marked the key to your truck."

Yes. Yes, of course. Because a system that has so far worked perfectly in Colorado is going to -- what? Cause the earth to be sent into the sun once it's implemented in Nashville? Is there some mysterious force in the Tennessee region that removes logos from keys? More importantly, is it impossible to go through two - TWO! - keys in order to find one that works in the vehicle at hand? I mean, it's not like she's a school janitor carrying around enough keys to change the earth's gravitational force or something.

Man. I have GOT to find those keys...

KID STUFF...

(NOTE: This section is also today's/yesterday's Fatherhood blog at yourhub.com. I'm duplicating efforts just this once - probably - in an effort to buy some time to figure out what I'm going to do about my department suddenly blocking access to that site. Not just my blog, but the entire site, in case you're wondering. And no, I haven't yet taken it personally.)

It's amazing what kids pick up just from listening to their parent's' conversations. But what's funny is the parts they add on their own...

The other night at dinner, The Wif was telling me about one of her co-workers. She's also a Mother of 3 - albeit a much older set of 3 than we - and I was hearing about how little help she gets from her husband around the house and concerning the children's needs. Normally, I'd feel a little upset about these guys giving Fathers a bad name, but since I'm generally pretty eager to help out where I can around here, he's making me look good! Thanks, man!

At any rate, The Wif is telling me that during a recent weekend this Mother announced that she would be doing nothing - NOTHING - on Saturday. She was not going to do laundry. She had no intention of cooking a meal or cleaning a dish. She would neither iron nor vacuum. Instead, her only goal for the entire day was to luxuriate in her jetted tub.

A tub which, one should note, had been installed some time ago and she had not yet had a chance to use.

The Wif went on to say that her friend and co-worker had indeed carried through on her promise. All day she did nothing but cater to her own needs and desires. She got up on her own schedule, ate what she wanted to when she wanted to and spent more than 10 minutes soaking in her fancy tub.

It was at this point in the story that "M" interrupted to ask - in all earnest - "Is that how she died?!?"

There are a couple of different ways to view her response; either she has a very active - but rather morbid - sense of imagination, or our, (and specifically MY), lessons against the vice of being lazy have finally started to take root. Of course at the time, all we could do is laugh...

Uggh. I'm pretty well spent. Even though we've finally experiencing some sunlight aroud here, I'm feeling spoiled by it all. As if we'll never see snowfall again before October - unless that freak storm hits in mid-March. But that'll be nothing -- unless April passes without a snowstorm which we all know it won't...

In all my love of snow, much of the beauty factor of it has long gone. The trees are green but that should come as no surprise since that's pretty much their job. As for me, my main goal now is to find a way to reduce the ice damn on my roof to a manageable level. Namely that of, "One less than three feet in height.

Catch you tomorrow. I hope to have more to say...

Well, this is it. This is what my life is going to look like for the next whatever and just until it changes again. Actually, it's pretty cool - even knowing that things are bound to change again and maybe real soon. But only in the micro sense. Hopefully...

The Wif started back at work last week. And for all the time I've spent mocking her extra - seemingly unrecognized - effort at getting the job done at all costs to herself, it is here that we see the payoff. (Guess I was wrong. Again. Fortunately, it's familiar territory for me.) She has spent the last decade making herself indispensible to her office, (please forgive my spelling - I'm at a different machine without spellcheck for reasons I have yet to whine about), and so when she told them she wasn't going to return to work so that she might be with our children during their formative years, they stumbled all over themselves to cut a deal with her for her return. She was allowed to write her own ticket.

Quite literally.

And last tuesday she started living the dream, meaning that she returned to work - part time - and the kids now go to day care on Tuesday and Thursday, with Wednesdays thrown in on a schedule that would bore you to tears, if you're not already there. The thing is, I work at home on Tuesdays and Thursdays, (and now - thanks to the world's only sensible boss - on days when I would otherwise have to take leave. Like, let's say, when there's 5 feet of snow/ice in your driveway and you get most of another foot of snow on top of it), and have for some time now.

Last summer it was a rare and honest privilege to work at our dining room table. As of August, I've been taking my 'top downstairs and working from the couch as the thundering herds ran overhead. As of last week, I can... well, I really don't know what to do with myself. The house is quiet - except for the snoring of the dogs - and it's all familiar but somehow foreign.

I miss the kids but love the quiet. I want them here with me but know that I've got a job to do. I'm glad for their time with others of their own age but am sorry for the fact that they have to leave the house to get there.

Ah well. It's probably good practice for my future, right?

I'M NOT PREPARED FOR A LONG RANT ON THIS ONE...

...But I've got to mention it all the same. Yesterday was an interesting one, news-wise. There was this story - which is probably a first for me to mention a fashion-related item here on this site, quickly followed by another first, mentioned here. Now there's a theme, but not likely the one you'd take away from reading both stories.

(And can I just take a moment to mention my immense pride at BOTH of these stories being firsts on this website? Even given the content and the vast need I feel for a shower, I rest easier tonight knowing that this is new ground we're covering. Thank you.)

So. What's the theme? Equine-related anthropomorphism? I should think not. Rather, I've noticed the continuation of something that was taught me forced into my brain from an early age: we humans? Just animals, us. Thumbs? Pure luck. Higher reasoning? Well, we're just a half-step ahead of the dolphin. Language? Hell, even gorillas can be taught to sign - and who among us can speak cat? A moral code? Well what's THAT got to do with it?

In short, the secular left has long spent their time in trying to convince mankind that we're simply animals in the end, and it was blind, random chance that gifted us with the ability to create fireworks, the internal combustion engine, the Internet, (sorry - that was al gore), the ability to craft and appreciate music, make sense of the random scratching of various shapes, (the alphabet), (BTW - has anyone ever heard of a "beta-bet?"), and there but for the grace of... nature goes a marmot instead of a Chris or a Dave or a Paul or a Steve or a Roger or a ...

What I've linked to in this post is but a small part - incomplete would be overstating the obvious - of mankind's war against mankind. The self-destructive nature of the argument goes against everything taught by the secular left about 'survival of the fittest,' but it can most likely be explained away by the great sense of guilt they experience for having come from the line of the best survivors.

So what's the point? Well, by making a "documentary" about a "man" who felt drawn to have sex with a horse, the act is automatically legitimized. Unless the film is titled, "The Life of A Deviant Moron," which of course it was not. And in normalizing "man's" desire to have sex with animals, we've chosen to smooth out the curve which rates every other behavior among the human-to-human spectrum.

The act of trying to normalize man-beast sex then becomes secondary and even outside of the range of consideration. But the shell which houses all human-on-human activity has suddenly taken on gigantic proportions in relation. Just so you know where they're coming from.

Which actually makes the fashion story I linked to the more egregious of the two. After all, the bestiality story talked in terms of relations between two distinct species and they actually focused on the differences between them. The fashion thing was an attempt to blur the lines between us and the equines.

Which - in a way - reversed the verb. Making it much, much the worse...

It's been some time since I bared my soul to my readers, so please allow me to jump at this chance to do so once more. Because I have something to confess. Three things, actually...

(Truth be told and given a confessional and a priest of my choosing who would never, ever know anything at all about me beyond what I whispered to him the confines of that environment, I'd tell him exactly as much as you would. Which is roughly equal to what I'm about to tell you anyway, so the whole thing is moot.)

Confession #1: I actually find myself enjoying the fact that - on those rare days I have to go into the office - there's now sunlight to be had as I'm leaving the building.

Confession #2: I now find myself looking forward to those late spring and late fall days that we have 'round these parts: cool nights and warm days with nary a trace of snow.

Which brings us to...

Confession #3: I am sick to death of all the snow...

I suppose a great number of things are at the root of this new, surprising approach to frozen precipitation in my life, but most likely the greatest cause is to be found in the three small bodies who call this place home. Or it's my projection of my own feelings into their thoughts. Either way, we've had enough.

I mean, just think about it; 2 feet here and 2 feet there and temperatures that are colder than a witch's... ... attitude and the occasional extra 9 inches of snow when you've only been told to look for one-third of that, not to mention ice in the driveway so thick that you could skate on it - as most of the family already have - and absolutely NO PLACE whatsoever to put it all even if you were to imagine you'd be able to move the stuff in a meaningful fashion.

It's THAT kind of thing that I'm tired of. Postcard-pretty tree frosting and just enough so that I can tick off my fellow drivers by blowing the leftovers off my truck and onto theirs in traffic is still wicked cool, tho'.

HOW THE HOME WORKS...

Well, my new stove is still sitting at the bottom of my stairs - at the top of my driveway - strapped to my dolly and covered by a vinyl grill cover, held in place - appropriately enough - by a bag of ice melt. It is the most accurate metaphor for my life that I can imagine...

Even so, Saturday saw the arrival of the bill for the installation of the gas line that will eventually (June 28^th) fuel said stove and to my surprise, it came in at $275.

Mind you, that's $25 more than the stove itself cost me but I was perfectly OK with it -- even given the fact that parts only accounted for $32 of the total. After all, if I were buying parts they'd still be sitting in the Home Despot bag in some unnamed corner of the basement. As with most things of this nature, I was buying expertise, not parts. Especially in the sense that I wanted heat, hot water and hoped the house WOULDN'T explode after he'd done his work.

So, I guess in the sense that the home is still standing, it was all worth it. And this summer, for just about $600 total, I'll finally be able to say that I have the stove of my dreams in my home.

Of course, with my luck, the place will be on the market by then...

First off, I apologize for the craptacular content you've all been subjected to here lately. It would seem that I've been lured by the siren song towards even the slightest possibility of it being a genuine manifestation of my lifelong dream. But I've now realized that we'll get there - IF we're meant to get there - when we're supposed to. And that there still exists a Hell of a lot of work on my part so that, "the frame fits."

(That's not vague, it's a new catch-phrase, just waiting to catch on...)

Which is to say that I've been busy giving baths, reading stories, moving furniture, monitoring monitors, cleaning dishes or just trying to find time to catch a nap. But I think I have a solution...

Of course, you'll be the judge of such things and I'd love to have your feedback as I roll out this new idea. We'll see if it works and if I'm afforded a decent amount of sleep and family time and time to write for my other two obligations as we go, but I think this is going to be a decent answer.

But I've been wrong before...

J.O.T.W...

In the days of the Wild West, a pioneer happened upon an old Indian. As they got to talking and getting to know each other, the Indian says that his wife's name is "Three horses." This becomes a point of interest to the pioneer...

"3 horses? So, was that her dowry -- 3 horses?" he asks

"No. Just 3 horses" the Indian replies.

"Well," the pioneer continues, "meaning that she is worth the work that 3 horses can perform?"

"No. Just 3 horses" comes the now familiar reply.

But the pioneer won't give up that easily. "Is her name a reflection of how much she can accomplish--"

"NO!" The Indian interrupts. "THREE HORSES: Nag, Nag, Nag!"

Have a good weekend. And if - like us - you're suffering the effects of global warming, remember to bundle up.

I was allowed to attend a baby shower last Sunday. Yes, yes. Let the speculation as to which color of skirt I wore begin...

As men, we're branded in a certain direction so far as "showers" are concerned. Our thoughts are mostly that they should be steamy and private, (like our dreams), even in a communal gym-type setting and unless we've recently sweet-talked a couple of stewardesses or nursing students and are ready to forfeit half our belongings, our wives should be roughly aware of our showering schedule.

And in all fairness, they return the favor by scheduling their "showers" around fairly predictable events, so you know they're coming: weddings, births, Baptismisms and the like. They have their events and they do tend to celebrate them.

It makes one wonder why men don't have showers in that sense. After all, if you've bought a 1963 Corvette chassis, THAT should be a cause for a shower! One couple could bring a spring set, another a set of head gaskets -- a carb rebuild kit, thick 14 inch wheels, rich red leather, carbide-honed steel offset wrench set, a mirror adhesive kit...

But of course, that's not what a shower is for. (Have I said that already? If so, let's move on...)

When you're a young man, the thought of a shower is just about as foreign as you can get. It's a celebration of a completely natural phenomenon as much as anything else could be, but within a rather unnatural setting. Namely that of a man playing a game for which he has not yet bought a ticket.

Unless he has. Then it's a whole new kettle of fish...

---

Sometimes, I share a common bond with the rest of you. Namely, I'd like just three or four minutes alone in a room with myself in order to beat me senseless with any number of torture devices. And as hard as it is to belive, I'd actually be harder on myself than any of you would be...

When I wrote of my gigantic mistake yesterday, I had actually intended to reference at least TWO huge mistakes I'd made surrounding the same instance. Instead, you got the end-of-the-day reference, namely because it was freshest on my mind and back muscles. But here's the earlier - and perhaps larger - mistake I made last weekend...

I had cut open the ceiling with my circular saw. I encountered a problem but overcame that with my third effort and realized that I'd told the contractor an inadvertent lie: my gas line was NOT 3/4 inch but now that I saw it in real life, I realized it was a full inch in diameter. I of course called to let them know. And left a message. Grand thing, this technology. I really, really hope it catches on. I'd hate to see it die a premature death or something...

And my message was basically one of, "well, having now opened the ceiling where the pipes are and need to go I now see that instead of 3/4 inch it would appear to be a one-inch feed line. Further, the supply line is an additional 2 feet away from where I thought it was when I gave you the number of feet upon which you based your estimate. But it really doesn't matter, because I really need this done, so I'm just calling to make sure that everyone's properly equipped and ready to go."

So I basically told a plumber that I, "really need this done" and that I know the job is more complicated - and therefore much more expensive - than I first imagined. It's like telling a carpet cleaner you live in a phone booth only to have him show up in Buckingham Palace.

The salivation is natural and expected...

POOR, OLD, JIMMUH...

Poor, poor Ol' Jimmuh. Sure he was the first American President to be born in a hospital and one of a rare few with such public notice for his out-of-office deeds, but he's also one who won the nobel prize by default, (Question me and I'll bury you on this one, so bring it on - I need a topic for Thursday anyway), and caused 14 people to resign from their rather lush positions on his rather meaningless - but probably overpaid - board of councilors at the carter center. I mean - what could their daily duties look like anyway?

Seriously. Jimmuh is a great man when he's holding a hammer. But once he sets that hammer down there should be someone on the payroll who is assigned to fall into step right behind him, pick that hammer up and deliver, oh - I don't know - 30 or 40 "gentle" taps to the back of carter's skull or just enough so that he quits writing books, "monitoring" elections or "lecturing" Americans on the way they should go... according to this particular Presidental failure.

After all, he's proven that he's outlived his power just in doing so...

I made a mistake recently. Which is to say that I really, REALLY screwed things up over the weekend. How much so? Just think, "Hey guys! They've left us a large, wooden horse! Wasn't that nice of 'em -- help me get it inside, huh?" and you'll have some idea...

If you know what this is then you may realize that it is currently the 5^th most beautiful thing to be found at The Stonestead. Following a four-way tie for first place and LONG before I appear on the list, (I'm no dummy), I should add. And it's new as of about 2:00 PM yesterday, and -- AND, I didn't pay a dime for it.

I believe someone we all know recently coined the phrase, "perfection awaiting butter." It's time to unwrap the stick...

Well, not quite. Yes, I now have the gas line in position for my new (to me) range and everything seems to be up to code, (like I'd know), and we're just waiting on the physical presence of the range itself before we 'spread the bread,' thanks to the honest efforts of a local heating tech. He's a nice guy who was more than willing to overlook the mess in the basement, (after all, going from one room for people and three rooms for stuff to the exact opposite arangement is bound to leave piles of stuff), and work under the strange circumstances our home provides. But then again, I was to write the check for his morning so it's not like he was doing some huge gift of charity, right?

But THERE. You can see the gas line that I now have access to. BEAUTIFUL, right? One step closer just as we're a dozen steps further away. Because I'll be darned if I'll be able to get the new (to me) range up the stairs on my own. Reinforcements are needed and I know it to be true because I've tested the other condition. And slipped on the stairs.

Fortunately, I wasn't all that far up and the slip wasn't all that bad - and so I didn't get to test my theory of jumping on the stove as it rolled down the stairs and just enjoy the ride - but I gave up all the same. For it is the hallmark of wisdom to recognize your limits and not transverse them regularly.

I'm sorry - did I say "wisdom?" I might have meant "Middle age..."

I've mentally written and re-written this thing about 400 times in the past couple of days and I'll be danged if I can create something that doesn't sound as if I'm disparaging the memory of Martin Luther King, Jr. Whether this is due to my inability at this craft or the shifting ways of our times where if someone says, "but..." in reference to a person of color they're automatically and instantly labeled a racist is somewhat difficult to say. My opinion leans a certain direction...

I guess part of the difficulty is the question about what makes a man great? Is it service to his family? Serving the truth or even God? Perhaps if there were some meter somewhere that accepted all input, averaged it out and displayed that person's greatness along a scale of 1 to 10, this would be easier. (Of course, in America today it would factor in audience participation via votes from cell phones - $1.50 per call - and would thus be virtually worthless.) But there is no such meter and the job is none the easier...

So what is a "Great Man" and how does one find one, much less describe one? Having accomplished notable and favorable ("great") things for the community and the nation should certainly come close to the mark of being a great man, but it seems to me that there's something more to it. After all, if you remove the single word 'favorable' from the previous sentence Adolf hitler would qualify. This suggests that there is quantity of goodness or morality present in being a great man.

But as we now know, MLK was a plagarist and a womanizer; not exactly laudable characteristics. And as the old saying goes, "if his own wife can't trust him, why should I?" But let's turn that one around. As in, "If his own wife can forgive him, why shouldn't I?" Puts a whole new spin on things, no? And if his wife can forgive him, AND he accomplishes a great deal of good in the meantime? Well who am I to judge him?

Instead, I'm in a way judging us - the American people. And I'm doing so two simple questions: would Dr. King's deeds have been diminished in any way if he were still alive today? And, would today be Martin Luther King Day had he not been killed?

As some things go, we still have a long way ahead of us. Racism may be one of them, but only in recognizing the progress we've made can we move any further. Where there is no starting line there is no advancement and we've gone a long way from "content of our character" to college-entrance quotas.

All of it backwards...

This past week ushered in a new milestone for us; it was our first-ever -- and hopefully last-ever, though I have suspicions to the contrary -- State review of our case as foster parents. (I should note that my suspicion of another such review is not in any way related to our current circumstance but instead has to do with my anticipation of a future placement. Stay tuned.) But the thing is, I spoke with the out-going social worker just the Thursday previous and asked for the phone number to call into so that we might be involved. She assured me that - and she almost used the exact phrase - we're not to call them, they'd call us.

But the time of the meeting came and went and my phone remained silent. We'd even secured the children in a location where they'd have to really work to hear the speaker phone'd converstion. Still, nothing. We finally decided to get back on schedule and move onto lunch and naps and had prepared the food when my phone phinally rang. It was them.

Finally...

It was the kid's' new/SLASH/old social worker who was in the middle of the review and decided to call us in order to ask us to provide her with the medical records we had on "M." The thing is, we don't have ANY records on either of the older children and - in fact - The Wif has been working earnestly with various assorted gubermint and psuedo-gubermint officials in order to secure such documentation. So far, without any luck whatsoever. But she has diligently passed this information on to the county.

So. If these people are calling US for medical records that we've previously asked them to secure, does it mean that they haven't been working towards the goal of gathering said medical records?

OF COURSE!!! THAT'S WHAT IT MEANS!! Nobody has been paying attention to Nothing at No time! At least up to this point. And why would they? I mean, what does it really matter in the long run of things?

Well, it represents a problem to the children - NATCH - and their ability to move on and get the remainder of their lives underway, but who's responsible for that?

Oh, yeah. THEM!!!

And I'm one who's used to the bureaucracy, but you'd best not get me started here...

J.O.T.W...

A blonde went to Las Vegas. She had been in the casino for about an hour, and realized she was thirsty. So she went to the pop machine in the hall. She put $1.00 in an a Pespi came out, she put another $1.00 in and another Pespi came out, she put one last $1.00 in and another Pespi came out.

A man saw her, and he said: "What are you doing?"

The blonde said: "Duh!! Winning!!!"

As the most recent storms rolled in one after the other and feet upon feet of snow continued to fall on land I consider to be my own, I awoke one morning to realize that I'd bear a burden that would set me apart - and shame me - in a certain, unique way:

I was the only man in America and perhaps in all the world who was faced with the unique situation of having to dig out HIS FRAGGIN' SHOVEL in all the accumulated snow. Oh sure, many faced hardship during this trying period and there are far more tragic or trying tales of woe out there, but there isn't a single one more pathetic than mine. That of having to locate one's very tool of survival without the benefit of, well, the very tool of survival.

It's all very humiliating and awfully telling of how I tend to run things around here, so of course I decide to share the whole thing with the entire world by writing of it on the interwebs. It's how I do things, I suppose: expose the awful truth, drive through the land of contrition and then make absolutely no changes whatsoever.

Sure it sucks, but at least there's a system in place! I also have to admit to never even starting our snowblower - given to us free of charge - because it would not only require some up-front work but also 2.18 minutes of startup duty in, say June or July just to make sure things were still firing as they should be, should they be needed a few months later.

Of course it's a measure of my lameness, but what else would you use - a dipstick?

The moving of our bedroom has actually turned out - aside from the strife the boys create for each other and therefore for us - to be a pretty good thing. We have more room side-to-side than we did in the other room and I can actually get into the first drawer of my underdresser. A drawer I'd packed with things I don't really need in the understanding that I'd never again get into it - but am able to now - and still find I don't really need those things. But I can get to half of them now! Who needs an Avalanche T-shirt?!? Cuz I got 'em at the ready!!

The other thing I've noticed is that our move created a Great Unrest among the spiders who live here; their webs were disturbed and broken, their homes destroyed and they were just displaced in general. I'm sure they're re-settle in short order - for we have vast amounts of space available to spiders but completely unusable to humans - but for now, they seem to be ticked off. In fact, on Monday I walked into the downstairs bathroom to find at least 6 of the creatures collected on the ceiling.

I had - it would seem - walked in on either a meeting or a protest. Either way, the Arachnid-American community around here is up in arms.

And that's a LOT of arms...

Ha Ha! I'm so glad at this opportunity to so genuinely crack myself up. Please allow me a moment to re-aspirate...

...

Ha... ha ... HA HA...

...h..a....

OK. That's better. No, seriously; my living state has once again survived a serious upheaval only to return to a state that I laughingly call "familiar" but which I know is temporary. In the sense that I'm certain to be carrying large, clumsy burdens up or down stairs/ladders in the very near future. To whit:

The Wif was insistent on moving our bedroom downstairs. I deployed my ever-faithful and somewhat-reliable (time wise) family and we solved the problem. All of our furniture is now on the ground floor of The Stonestead. I have in the meantime moved the DVD/VCR shelves downstairs, (where there is no DVD player, as only my life would have it), cleared and carried up a bookcase to house the children's videos at an altitude they cannot reach - because they have not yet mastered the media chain I've established, although the boys are really, really close.

The basement is a mess, but it's a different sort of mess: the large pieces of furniture are out of the way and are now deployed as we originally intended them to be in the kid's rooms, but other stuff has found it's way into that space. We'll be months in the sorting out now, because the important, kid-related stuff has been taken care of.

So I'm at least living within familiar ground, and that is - in the largest sense - that I don't matter. Now, I'm not trying to slag on The Wif in the least, but I recognize that I have become the very most important member of the family and have at the same time become the least important member of the family: I matter to the rest of the house insofar as I'm able to earn an income, but the warm bodies within the Home I've created regard me with a mild disregard so far as money is concerned.

At least so far as the "money thing" is concerned. Aside from the creation of wealth I actively participate in, I'm well received within these walls; D-Man runs to me at my return, "M" calls out her own nickname (not understanding the concept of her younger brother sharing a presence with me), and Binky Boy wears out either his knees or his feet - depending on his mood - to get to me. I hug them all, only to realize...

Here are three small bodies who are dependent upon my every action. If I lie, THEY are the one's who will feel it. If I cheat someone, there are three kids who are liable to pay for my sin. If I'm overly lazy and decide to leave myself to the mercy of the great flood or the great storm, I'm leaving myself open to the possibility of being stranded and alone during a time of injury.

And that's not even considering Mommy's state of affairs...

Yikes. It's not bad enough that I realize I've made a mistake in yesterday's title, it really comes home to roost when I find that I made nearly EVERY. POSSIBLE. TYPO. known to man. But that was then, and this is an entirely NEW possibility of screwing things up in the face of public ridicule.

So let's start with what I've been living through lately...

On Friday, I ventured out to test the waters of our latest accumulation; I was able to drive The Wif's car down the driveway and back up again without trouble. We then loaded up the kids with the intent of taking them to "school" and my truck to the shop. In the meantime The Wif and I would procure groceries and then head home in order to put things in the proper order so that we might be the hosts that everyone imagines us to be.

But it was not to be; the snow had clogged our driveway and even managed to stick BOTH of our vehicles firmly in the snow - not to be moved short of Herculean effort (care to guess on who's part?) and until the next day.

The next day being Saturday, when I received a call from a plow I'd contacted a week earlier. He was finally free and after some elaborations as to where we park our cars, he showed up and rid a solid path to our home of the snow. He could have easily charged us double of what he settled on, and I probably gave that fact away when I giggled like a schoolgirl and eagerly scratched out a check for the $150 he asked for.

But we're free. For now...

We had dinner here the other night - as we do most nights - and The Wif initiated a conversation centered around a friend of hers who had been adopted and wished to relay her sto
MOMMA!?! What's ''Dopted' mean, Mommy?"

Well, that's a question I was born to ask and now have the answer. Unless Mommy feels obligated to fill in. And she does so...

"Well, 'adopted' means that sometimes there are parents out there who can't or won't take care of their kids and then the children go and live with new parents who are bet"

"Just Like Me!", "M" screams out at the dinner table.

Yes. Just like her. Strange to see her take such pride in the process, but if that's who she is, that's who we'll learn to be.

More Later...

OK. I HAVE to post this tonight because there's nothing more tiresome than reading a post about the Christmas Most Recently Past on Arbor Day. And as if anyone would know when Arbor Day is, (Augtembril 52^nd, for those of you wondering), I'd still rather get this in print before it's too late...

This Christmas morning saw me opening a gift from The Wif, (she was, in fact, the only one who gave me any material gift this year, which was a complete blessing because I then had only one person to thank/blame), which turned out to be a T-Shirt. A blue T-shirt. But across the face of the shirt was a popularized cultural image of 3 men on camels passing by a darkened village at night. And of course it held the prerequisite star in what would be understood as the Eastern Sky. And so the scene was set.

Beneath the imprint were the words, "Jesus is the reason for the season" in some sort of fancy script. I was curious and my face must've reflected that, because before I could ask The Wif said, "It just sounded like you."

I took a couple of seconds to consider it all and decided that this was a good thing: you mean I'm the one in the local area who actually remembers what we're celebrating this morning? Shouldn't I be paid more if that's the case?

Sorry - just slipped in, that one did...

OK. I can take that and even though it's something of a surprise considering the source of the gift/comment, I can even take it as a sign of recognition. Thank you all.

But earlier, when we were shopping for gifts to the children from us, I took a slight blow to the head. We were looking for things for "M" and as usual we were on different pages. Then, at one point, The Wif said to me, "I know what she'd like but I'm not sure you'd agree [to buy them]." "What," I asked?

"Clothes and a stroller for her doll" came the answer.

I feel perfectly free in telling you that THIS is not what I expected to hear as a controversial shopping list. The "bratz whore-@-home bikini line electrolysis and flexibility stimulator" might be an issue of contention, (actually, there would be no question or debate on that one), but a stroller and doll clothes? What have I done to give The Wif the impression that these things would be a problem? How do I fix it?

...

The other cold, hard realization that hit me was when I congratulated "M" on her fine behavior the night of the Christmas Eve Pageant Rehearsal. She had done a fine job of sitting (MOSTLY) still when it was required of her and was absolutely adorable when it came time for her to sing. She approached the stage in line with her classmates and turned on cue and was the most clear voice to come through the mics. She knew her lyrics and belted them out. It was a grand performance by any standard.

And I told her so that night as she was going to bed. I put my arm around her and told her that I was proud of her and what she was able to accomplish that night. She paid attention, she followed direction, she was where she was supposed to be WHEN she was supposed to be there and I freely told her how proud I was of what she'd done.

"Mommy! I made Daddy happy!"

There's something here that's too painful to approach. And something that bodes of great potential in a very, very limited scope. Either way, it's more than I want to deal with right at the moment...

J.O.T.W...

From David Letterman's 1994 list of New Year's Resolutions. As timely today as they were then...

10. Breakfast, lunch and dinner: Cheese-filled weenies

9. Raise financial backing for my one man ice show -- Davecapades

8. Turn in Uzi for shiny new bicycle

7. Tape all the NFL games on CBS

6. Return camera number 3 to NBC

5. Stop laughing every time I say "The Fox Network"

4. Have applause sign installed in my bedroom

3. To always remain loyal to this fine Network -- unless another network comes up with some more money

2. Learn to teeterboard nude

1. Four words: Mrs. Kathie Lee Letterman

Uggh. Try - JUSt FRAGGIN' TRY TO GUESS HOW TODAY WENT!! I TRIPLE-DOG DARE YOU!!

OK. That was rude and wrong; I shouldn't be yelling at you. Now, what's for dinner...?

...

Wednesday, January 3^rd. My first day of the New Year back in the office. It was going to be my first day in the office no matter what, but the 2^nd was supposed to be my first work day of the New Year - where I would report from my basement office - but Gerald Ford had other plans for my Tuesday and the building's flags...

So I roll into the office lot only to find that there has been so much snow collected that we've lost roughly 20% of our parking spaces due to snow storage. (The very best part of all this is that the union rep's space is buried under about 5 feet of snow. Talk about your poetic justice!) I am forced to dock The Death Star in an open two spaces outside of my familiar stomping ground and then stomp the ground necessary to carry my carcass into the building. It's slow going, but not slow enough...

One second I'm strutting across the lot and in the next millisecond I've not only fallen to my arse but have - as near as I can tell - concussed myself in so doing. My left side is either in pain or numb or soon-to-be-swollen and I'm anticipating the opportunity to search my body for the bruises caused by both the fall and the impact of the briefcase I was carrying.

This should be fun. But so far it really hasn't been...

And later, when I went back to my truck to procure lunch, I noticed that most of the ice was gone and it certainly wasn't via man-made causes. No pok-marks were visible on what remained of the ice...

So I have to fill out paperwork - for such is the gubermint way - yet not a single person exists who can point me towards the correct forms. (And for the record: I know of the "pink page" because I used to process them as they flowed in from Job Corps Centers and contained all sorts of interesting and unexplained - or lesser explained - injuries.)

But for now? I'll limp...

Uugh. I know things around here have been rather dreck-tackular lately and I hereby officially apologize for that and I'd like to take a stab at excusing it away explaining the cause: My Wif Life.

That is all...

No, of course that's not all. Many of you have already received the Christmas card, my lame attempt at christmas Letter humor and the invite to the upcoming shindig. Well, it's the shindig in question that's been driving all manner of change around this place. I've been dancing around it for a while now and those of you with the key to the fourth wall have already solved the mystery, so please indulge me while I (hopefully) enlighten the others...

Our home plays host to a sometimes large post-Christmas blowout, the preparations for which EACH and EVERY year grates on my nerves and shortens my life; The Wif goes nuts planning the menu, the layout of ALL of our known furniture in Just The Right alignment, shops until my knees buckle from Spontaneous Collateral Sympathetic Exhaustion and just in general makes my life a whiter shade of Hell. THERE'S A TASK! THERE'S A DEADLINE! THINGS MUST BE DONE! and so on.

But this year? Well, if Dante had imagined an eleventh level of Hell, this would be the fourteenth. The kid's' toys MUST be removed from the living room. "M" MUST have her own bedroom. The desk set she bought for the kids MUST be deployed from their landing zone (in the lower level). AND the new stove MUST be installed AND working. Plus, given the fact that our driveway is only currently passable by a Sherman Tank or Greater, I've got to find an available plow in our area.

And ALL - not some - of these MUST be accomplished by Friday. Because the party's Saturday and we have to have time to prepare and deploy the food. It's what I've grown to call an "event-driven" panic. And you're free to imagine how much she loves that term.

All the same, the house will be clean, the boys will have their own room - although it will not be festooned in officially licensed Thomas The Tank Engine krep just yet - and "M" will have her own room. Although it will probably not be contained within shades of pink and orange, as she requires, just yet. As for the stove, well, that's anyone's guess; I'd like to think that it'll be at the ready sometime this week, but that also depends on the condition of the driveway. Can we find someone to plow before the plumber arrives? And which will charge us more for the rush job we put on the other?

Or something like that. I really can't keep track any more...

All I do know is that I have to resist the urge to walk through the door that, until just this Sunday, was the storage place of my boxer shorts. But if I DO make that mistake, I'll know it immediately.

The boy's' screaming will be a dead giveaway...

ANOTHER SOMETHING I'VE MESSED UP...

OK - it was late and I'm fully ready to lean on all of the excuses I've laid out in the above post and many, many more. Still, I should've gotten that right. After all, I was explained the technical details in a way that made them really easy to understand and I feel as if I finally landed on a reasonable decision; something that made the whole thing so much more a pleasure if only because of the simplicity afforded by said knowledge.

I completely bolluxed the website of my new, daily, online, hopefully-published "Fatherhood" blog. I gave you the URI that was specific to the first entry rather than one that would be somewhat more useful in finding the day's current entry.

HA HA! Boy is my face red!!

And this is the point where I recognize that nearly none of you know what I'm talking about and even fewer of you care and only ONE of you have already noticed this, (contact me and tell me which category you fall into! It'll be like a big game of BINGO where everyone wins!), and I'll just quietly correct my mistake:

The new site is actually "based" at:
http://denver.yourhub.com/~Fatherknows. Click it to go there, (separate winder), to read that tripe, to grade it a "one" and to leave the comment, "Any dishwasher makes better rounds."

Seriously. And please. I'm trying to generate a catch-phrase AND a Wiki entry. This could be my chance...

This could well be the post that spells the doom for all of The Stonestead, if only because things are finally starting to both come together and fall apart all at the same time...

The snow has reached record levels, and yet we continue to face the challenge and are able to negotiate The Death Star up and down the lengths of our driveway so as to safely procure milk and other staples so that we might reasonably support life within these four walls. It's a challenge, but I dare you to point to something that isn't. As such, I have here to announce that the boys have their own room just as "M" has her own room.

In a developing story, "Daddy" has relinquished ownership of at least 2 rooms to this point and is looking forward to the day when he can either: successfully claim to have filled all the space of his new storage shed, (yet to be delivered), or find a reasonable excuse for sleeping in the driver's seat of his truck.

Which is to say that I - along with several over-sized male members of my family - spent at least one day of the weekend past moving furniture up or down our stairs. Fortunately or unfortunately, gravity was with us as we manipulated adult-sized furniture downstairs and against us as we negotiated smaller-sized fixtures to the higher levels. I suppose it would have been easier should it have gone the other way, but not necessarily...

But as it stands now I'm facing a morning where all of my clothes are pretty much where I'd want them to be while The wif's are spread throughout the home. And even though a reasonable person would conclude that that was her plan for them, those of us who live with her know otherwise.

Somehow...

ALL THINGS NEW...

Well, that's not just insane, that's nuttier than squirrel poop! What was I thinking? Well, "thinking" might be an overly-generous verb at this point.