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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.

A woman went to the doctor's office where a young new doctor saw her.

After about four minutes in the examination room, the doctor told her she was pregnant.

She burst out screaming and ran down the hallway. An older doctor stopped her and asked what the problem was.

She told him her story. After listening, he had her sit down and relax in another room.

The doctor marched down the hallway to the first doctor and demanded, "What's the matter with you? Mrs. Smith is 62 years old, she has four grown children, seven grandchildren and you told her she was pregnant?”

The new doctor continued writing on his clipboard and without looking up said, "Does she still

OK. Things are really starting to get down to what my dad used to call - and here sensitive readers need to visit Disney.com - the "nut-cutting" around here. Which is to say that we've got the first of our septic forms hanging on the fridge with the other two to follow around noon today.

About that same time, we're expecting the rubber-stamp that is the home appraisal to begin. Maybe the first can finish early enough to impress the latter into adding an additional 20K to the value of this place, but we'll wait to see if that's the case. All the same, I'm expecting a small clusterfarb around the time I would usually assemble my salad.

OH - and I received our land survey in the mail today. Curious that, because I don't recall ever seeing one before, much less getting one through the mail. Then I was jolted into a sense of reality by reading the invoice that was included. I suddenly understood...

My past home sales/purchases had been handled completely by the title companies, and suddenly I was in a much more active role. which is to say that instead of paying four times the actual price for a survey I never see, this time I'm paying actual price for a survey that I can actually, well, survey.

As it turns out, I seem to own much more land than I thought I did. I can only hope that the new owner is as perky about that as I currently am. Maybe even more so.

And that's my Tuesday and Wednesday, I suppose. If you take note of the new tagline you might be able to sympathize with the larger element of my current situation. Or not. At any rate, things are starting to tense up around here in a very real sense.

But not to worry. The fireplace inspector is due on Thursday. I still can't believe that I'm selling and vacating this place, but things are what they are, right? And we are where we are in this process, right?

Fireplace inspector?...

Don't ask. Just not yet

Yes - just like the swallows returning to Capistrano, the turtles returning to their native beach to breed and hairy, smelly hippies converging on the mall in Washington D.C. (to breed) - it is once again time for that fine and wonderful tradition with which we've become so familiar. Christmas? New Year's? You should be so lucky...

No! This week has seen the revival of that shop-worn effort at Middle East "peace" talks! That's right - somewhere in the latter years of modern President's terms they decide that they need to bring together the Israelis and some flavor-of-the-month representative from the arab muslim contingent in order to boost local olive sales. Or something like that. No, wait; I think they visit carnivals and ride the tilt-a-whirl until one of them pukes on the other (notable past winner: George H.W. Bush).

Then again, they may just get together and find common ground by mocking scientologists - which is really funny to think about. Then again, if that were the goal I'd not only support the effort but I'd really try to get an invite.

I'm not sure what triggers this urge in our Presidents but it's difficult to ignore or deny. I think it may have something to do with the fact that they look back at their term(s) and remembering all the hard work they went through - are shocked to see that the world is still pretty much like it was on the day they took office. Very few "real" and "big" problems were fixed while they were at the helm, so it's time to get crackin'!

And if you're looking for a "real" and "big" problem, the Middle East is a great place to start your search.

So how much hope do I have that these talks will produce actual, real, favorable results? Exactly as much hope as I have of traveling to Mars for my 50th birthday -- Nil. These things will go the way they almost always do: Everyone, including I'm ashamed to say, US, will badger Israel into concessions of land and prisoners and infrastructure support and water and electricty only to emerge with an agreement that will be ignored by the other side.

But don't just take my word for it. History says so, too...

QUICK HITS...

Up to my old tricks... This is just , plain, sad. I mean, especially given the fact that he could have gotten a guard dog with a single call to Michael Vick. (I know -larger story and context to follow and we hope he's alright, but sometimes I have to give in to my dark humor.)

Speaking of sad - as in the sad state of the LSM - this is what passes for a headline these days? Haven't we known this for years?

And then there's sad and really a little creepy. It's an open transaction and everyone is of age (AHEM!) and it's certainly voluntary, but, ewww.

I think I'm now ready for anything. Literally. Well, not for "M" starting to date but I'm sure I've got at least 2 or 3 weeks to come to grips with that...

After church yesterday, I went to go help my folks complete their move. It was the very last day they had before they were expected to be out and it wasn't even a full day, because they were supposed to be out by 1700 hours. And there were rumors circulating on the Bonehead Network that any and all help was not only appreciated, but absolutely needed. So I decided to lend my back and my steel, (The Death Star), to the cause.

When I arrived, I was in absolute shock: not only were they not mostly done, there was so much stuff remaining in their two homes that I couldn't imagine them being done in the next two weeks! Worse yet, I was there alone without a single clue as to what was to happen to all the crap that was strewn on the sidewalk - what was to be moved and what was left in the hopes that it would be stolen?

You laugh, (hopefully), but I'm serious. As I pulled up there were two women pawing through the piles, (they were gone before I opened my door - proving my point). Soon after, a guy on a bike rode past and when he spotted me, he said, "it's all just a bunch of junk," (when he actually meant, "I didn't expect someone to be here while I chose something to steal"). I responded with, "It is what it is," (while I actually meant, "I don't recall asking you, Mr. Richard Head").

Shortly thereafter, another goofus on a bike was spotted looking into the gigantic dumpster they'd rented. When I appeared, he asked me if there were any bikes in there and I said I didn't think so. I went back into the house and watched him as the grabbed an old laptop and a cartridge of some sort before pedaling away.

I renewed my hope that my family would somehow be found and arrive so that I wouldn't be the only person on-site to deal with the crazies. And I got my wish -- kinda. They finally showed up and aside from my middle nephew I see a strange unknown child - a few years older than any of my nephews - bounding across the landscape. He's followed by members of my family and members of his own as they all approach the house.

'OK' I think, 'it's friends of my Sister showing up to help out.' Cool enough. But then the (obviously) pregnant woman asks my Sister her name. Suddenly, my train has not only jumped the tracks but has diced Pauline and run straight into the chasm. Taking the bridge with it.

As it turns out, this family happened by, saw my folks moving out and filling a dumpster and decided to ask if they might harvest all the aluminium they could find. My folks agreed and then, after seeing their work ethic, well, at work, negotiated a settlement that brought them back on Sunday.

It was a great agreement for everyone concerned because even as shell-shocked as I'd been by how much stuff was left to move/discard, I was impressed by the fact that one of previously-impassable rooms in their basement was 90% empty.

They did good work, and further impressed me in a particular way: they were working in their own self-interest - namely, by searching for a particular metal in those objects my parents were looking to discard.

But towards that end, they also fulfilled a need of my parents; they had emptied much of a home and filled most of a dumpster. It was the perfect example of free market capitalism in its purest form. Adam Smith's "invisible hand" was so prevalent in everything that you couldn't sneeze without being slapped by it.

But that was the only part of the experience that made any sense, because aside from the fantastic family which showed up for the aluminium (AN 13), and who eventually started collecting copper (AN 29) as well, but managed to also clear out roughly 40% of an unmanageable and completely unpassable basement, there were several others who showed up in varying roles.

(LONGEST. SENTENCE. EVER!)

There was an older gentleman who knew my Dad and for some other reason also wanted to walk away with as many stuffed animals as he could carry. He came back later and left with a damaged birdhouse on a stick.

There was the guy who showed up and asked to rummage through the dumpster for metal. This created an immediate conflict of interest, because they'd promised ALL of a certain type(s) of metal to the family helping us. But through my Dad's broken Spanish, he determined that he newcomer wanted to troll the contents of the dumpster - which were already pre-screened - and was in search of a completely different type of metal altogether.

At which point I started to question my career choice. Why wasn't I out running around town in search of various types of metal? The market seems to be thriving, and I'm sure that if I chose to collect lead (AS PB) there's a gubermint program supporting it.

But then I saw the guy in question and remembered why it is what I do: I'm never spotted - by ANYone, at ANYtime - walking among the debris of strangers. Now, maybe I'm just a snob in that area, but I'm perfectly OK with the idea that I'm not comfortable with that idea.

Plus, it would take a LOT of work on my part to be able to identify certain metals by sight alone...

Sorry guys - no post today. I have to get to bed so that I'm fresh and re-freshed in time to get to Kohl's for it's 4 AM opening. Pretty schweet, huh? I can get out there, do ALL my Christmas shopping and be done before I have to go into the office. Man, I can't imagine a better scenario...

Oh wait. Yes I can; it's called SLEEP you morons!! Seriously, what is wrong with you people women? The stores are closed for ONE day and you're Jonesing so bad that you have to hit a retail establishment at a time that would irritate a rooster?!? Maybe something along the lines of "professional help" is in order here. Or maybe they have some kind of a patch available for y'all. It's worth checking into. Seriously.

(Actually, the idea of me heading to a bloody mall at 4 AM should be the JOTW...)

IT'S FOR THE GIVING OF THE THANKS...

Hey gang - we celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday! Seems obvious, no? Frankly, the time would have been better spent moving boxes down the mountain, (which actually happened, just not with the proper intensity and volume), and then helping my folks move their stuff from the old house to the new. Which I'm sorry to say I had no part in. Too busy in the other task, as it turned out.

So we took some time to feed the kids vast amounts of potato chips and other crap while they ran around and screamed like you could not imagine, and then sat down to feast on the traditional fare. Except for stuffing, because the cooking committee forgot that it was on the menu.

It's probably obvious that given the junk food to which they were exposed and the quantity that was consumed - as well as the HUGE distraction of being in Grandma's New House - we expected them to eat very little turkey. And only The Binkster proved this to be the case; The older two ate like condemned prisoners at a last meal.

Which is a good thing. A good - surprising - thing...

Pictures to follow on the kids' pic page. (Estimated completion date March 2009).

HAPPY, HAPPY...

And as Thanksgiving either approaches or departs, so too does our great, grand, good wishes go out to Dood for the very happiest of the happiest of birthdays. My best friend of better than 3 decades, he brings out the very best and very strangest in me. And that's a very, very good thing.

Happy Birthday, my brother. I hope it's grand in all those ways that only we can talk about. And I know you know what I mean...

J.O.T.W...

A Cautionary Tale:

"Cash, check or charge?" I asked after folding items the woman wished to purchase. As she fumbled for her wallet I notice a remote control for a television set in her purse.

"Do you always carry your TV remote?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "But my husband refused to come shopping with me, so I figured this was the most evil thing I could do to him."

My worst fear, realized. Another?

Too True, I'm Afraid:

It was the day of the big sale. Rumors of the sale (and some advertising in the local paper) were the main reason for the long line that formed by 4:00, the store's opening time, in front of the store.

A small man pushed his way to the front of the line, only to be pushed back, amid loud and colorful curses. On the man's second attempt, he was punched square in the jaw, and knocked around a bit, and then thrown to the end of the line again. As he got up the second time, he said to the person at the end of the line...

"That does it! If they hit me one more time, I won't open the store!"

But of course he will. It's his job, after all...

(Click the pic for context and ownership)

Good morning! to most of you. To others it's good afternoon and to a rare few it's "cram it with walnuts, bub." To each their own, I suppose.

Yeah - about yesterday - let me explain by saying that sometimes you smoke the crack and sometimes the crack smokes you. Or something like that. But my current situation is starting to affect me in so many ways that's it clear an explanation is due all the same. Here goes:

You see, normally I'm a pretty cool guy. Not cool in the "gadding about town without wearing any panties" sense of cool, (and honestly, when did THAT become the definition of cool? James dean is spinning in his early grave), but in the "level-headed" sense of cool. I'd suggest thinking about Iceman from that movie featuring that idiot cult member, but Iceman was cool in both senses.

That is, the level-headed and the James Dean senses. It had nothing to do with a lack of foundation wear. Just so we're on the same page...

Anywho, I'm not one to panic. I'm very analytical and I'd like to think that I have goodly amounts of Faith in store and the two serve me quite well. It's what allowed me to walk - slowly - and be the last to emerge from a city bus that was rumored to be on fire, back in the day.

True story. It was a rumor that caused a good number of bumps and bruises to the panicked idiots who pushed through each other on their way out the doors and caused a great deal of laughter on my part. And you should have seen the looks on the faces of those rubbing their foreheads and shoulders as I sauntered out of The Death Bus telling the driver to "chill out."

McQueen is in the house...

But things are different, now. This isn't about me recognizing that flames aren't dancing on my overly-plump pink arse; THIS is about finding a home for my family while flying within the restrictive canyon that is county regulations -- without losing custody of our kids in the process.

Now I recognize that losing the kids - even temporarily - is the very definition of "outside possibility" but it's still on the table. I know that every County employee with whom we share face-time will recognize that it's in the kids' best interests that they stay with us -- short of us living in cardboard boxes under a bridge. And even then, I know that one of them would write, "structurally sound ceiling" on her report. So the risk of losing our kids is roughly that of me waking up on the far side of Mars tomorrow.

Still, it haunts a portion of my brain.

Which is a long way of saying that our home has sold. Or at least that it's in the process of doing so: the offer has been made, the counter has been accepted and the inspection has come back. (I know some of this is redundant information, but it helps me to keep it clear in my mind, so please bear with me, here.)

As to the inspection, I can honestly say that I was completely expecting that one of the terms of sale be that we anchor the moon to our fireplace, so that it's always visible. I'm not completely sure what drew me to that conclusion, but maybe one day I can tell the entire story and someone out there can back me up. Anyway, he came back with a list of only 5 requirements. Four of them were reasonable and one of them was bizarre. And 20 that I knew about and expected were completely absent.

Of course this caused all sorts of speculation but it also brought us to a central conclusion; this is going to happen. We're going to have to move and we have nowhere to land.

We've always had backup plans in case this should come to pass, but as they become more and more real, they also become more and more emergency, last-ditch-efforts-to-avoid-the-cardboard-box-scenario sort of plans. Live with my folks? Well, maybe. Then again, I had a dream of a Hard falling-out with them the other night and it's certainly not outside the realm of possibilty, or the realm of the past.

Move into my Sister's abandoned home? Well, there are mutually-beneficial parts to that arrangement, but there's also a sword of Damocles in the mix. Lost for an answer, I am <⁄YodaSpeak>.

But we went to see another house on Monday. It was in my old neighborhood -- in the sense that I never actually lived there but spent plenty of time visiting it, if you catch my drift -- so I wandered along mostly forgotten-familiar pathways to reach the house. I walked through it, taking notes of its flaws and problems (many) and wondering about it's history.

I concluded that it was the victim of someone's first effort at a fix-N-flip. So many things were just weird enough to lead me to believe that there were hands at work who really didn't know what they were doing. Probably why it hasn't sold yet, frankly.

And the only thing that came to my mind was, "Great. I've already owned a home built by Drunk Hippies Construction Co. - why would I want to move into another?" When we all know that what I want hardly enters the equation.

Well, that's not entirely true. I just want an answer to the question, "where will we live?!?" Turns out that's pretty much what's on The Wif's mind as well...

WITH ALL SYMPATHIES...

It is with a heavy heart that we announce the passing of a family member of one of The Stonestead's ONLINE family. Please pray for your co-reader and someone I hold dear in my heart, because they have lost their Grandmother.

I know for a fact losing a Grandmother is an especially sharp cut - as I'm sure many of you know as well - because it's a blow against our own history, in a sort of way.

But more importantly, they've lost someone who probably defined "unconditional love" in their life: Someone who never, rarely or gently corrected them and only in the most dire of circumstances. Someone who was quick with a compliment - and a chocolate - and who was almost beyond angering. A woman who had seen it all and still managed to react with utter and genuine surprise while watching their grandchild do a summersault...

...

Then again, I'm only guessing at this. The Grandmother in question might have been the worst sort of disciplinarian who 'switched' all children around her for ending their sentences in a proposition or for not knowing where the jelly stain was at.

(Please tell me that at least 3 of you get that)

GrandMaMa might have been the sort to raise a yardstick to her brood - or her brood's brood - if they spoke without being spoken to, crossed the street outside of the crosswalk or raised their voices while inside the house. You never know until you've lived it, I guess.

So, let's try this little test: Everyone think about your Grandma. Imagine her in her favorite frock in her favorite chair (even if that means it's in a Bingo hall) and at her happiest, or as much so as you've seen her. Got it? OK, concentrate on that picture...

do you see a yardstick within her reach...?

thought not...

Godspeed

Not that I'm trying to be gross, but I awoke to find a steaming log on the floor in front of my side of the closet. I feel compelled to say that it was NOT mine. No, in recent years my dog has aged to the point where his immune system sometimes gives in to certain bugs with neither fight nor complaint. It's something we have to live with -- although I have not yet learned how to live with it...

Oh, and did I say 'log?' I here formally apologize for that. It was much more a forest. And it was the portent that signaled the rest of my day.

I also woke up feeling vaguely as if someone had drained the life force from my body. I guess a long, busy weekend will do that and I guess that I have many more of them in store. At least I know what to expect. Then, at church, as I'm getting the sound board ready for deployment, I learn that the video feed is totally jacked. That is: Jacked Beyond The Ability Of Those In The Booth To Repair It. And I was one of those in the booth.

I'm sorry to have to say this, but I should have known what was going on. I should have been able to fix it and it was probably little more than a right-click and some small amount of magic, but I was blocking on it somehow. The answer couldn't have gotten through my brain with a dental pick, a bad attitude and a large amount of plastic explosive.

Again - just as the day seemed to order up. But surely better times are to be had at home, right?

Well, The Wif decided to take the kids out on the town so that I would be left alone - yet again - to see to the needs of our home. At which point I wanted to say, "whatever," because, unlike our Fathers, I enjoy being around my kids. I enjoy explaining to them what I'm doing, showing them how to use the tools, (in kid-appropriate ways) and watching them relate all that to their own experiences.

But not today. Today, I work alone - under the belief that I'll make grand progress. I mean, I suppose I'm flattered that The Wif holds my skills in such high regard, but from time to time I run into and suffer from a problem that is far beyond my control.

Like I did today. I had sanded and stained the last four doors before I moved all of the under-sink poisons to the last, recently-emptied cabinet and was ready to go! When I realized that the fix I had in mind would never work. But in order to explain the fix...

The cabinet face that hides the sink-works is not actually attached to anything. It floats in space and sometimes aligns itself vertically where it belongs. But other than that, it needs a firmament. It requires a fixative to time and place and function.

Which is to say that I need to find a way to attach it to the counter that sits above it. Sure, it sounds easy enough and I had already designed a plan; but once on the inside of the project I realized that it wasn't going to happen according to my vision.

Time to imagine something else...

We had our inspection on Friday. That would be the inspection of the home we're selling, rather than the home we're buying. The inspection for the home we're buying is currently scheduled for... -- um... -- NEVER because we still don't know where we'll end up living. It's an interesting circumstance, because we have to be licensed as a foster home and then we have to have a permanent address before we can file to finalize.

yay

At any rate, we learned last Monday that the inspection was coming. It was short notice and I know that The Wif wasn't able to leave the house in the condition she would prefer (showroom fresh). So we spent a Friday afternoon in our own sort of exile; The gals went to their appointment and toured the land while the boys got lunch and then proceeded to sleep in the truck. Well, the younger boys did; the elder boy had to keep it on the road.

When we were finally allowed back into our home, I quickly prepared dinner, because it was 6:00!! Yes. The "buyer" (for I still expect it to fall through in a spectacular fashion) had spent FIVE BLOODY HOURS! of a Friday afternoon looking over every screw head and carpet fiber in the area. That's the only answer I can imagine, frankly.

Of course, the home inspector left his card and we put it on top of the pile of those who had already been here. But this was different and I felt compelled to add a slogan: "For when four hours feels like rushing the job..."

From the political files we unearth this little gem: "Hillary - strong enough to be a man, but made a woman." At least, that seems to be her (very) unofficial campaign slogan. But hold on a sec. When asked a straightforward question about a position she'd taken publicly (that it "makes sense" to issue drivers licenses to illegal immigrants), she crumbled faster than Egyptian pottery from 800 B.C..

Then, when Pretty-boy edwards and wet-behind-the-ears obama dared to say, "HUH?," she quickly tucked herself in behind her own skirts and had her husband go out and defend her. Yeah, that's a sure showing of genuine strength; being unable to stand up to the "savage attacks" of the overly-coiffed empty suit that is john edwards. We're all suitably impressed by the strength of the world's smartest woman.

(What do you know? I was wrong yesterday; you can do sarcasm via the printed word without an incredibly long introduction. Learn something new every day...)

It got so bad that word leaked about threats to Wolf Blitzer - the host of tonight's democrat debate - should he ask her any tough questions. To his credit, and the only reason he earned the capitals, he said something to the effect of, 'if they're afraid of me, wait until the Republicans get a hold of her.' It was a decent statement and the sentiment was fine but rather short-sighted. Even if it does help to define the current state of the American left:

His comment wasn't, "wait until she has to face ahmadine-whackjob" or "how's she going to handle Kim Jong Il?" It was, 'wait until the opposition party is in the picture.' Now, this could mean that he simply doesn't imagine her as the nominee or he's under some sort of cloaking device where Iran and Korea can't be seen, but I think the obvious is the most likely answer: nothing matters to the left more than securing political power.

And towards that end, the real enemy is the Republican party. So sad...

For reasons that would be interesting only to me, I stumbled across this little gem recently. Now, being an old hacker from Back In The Day, I can honestly say that I had at least a passing familiarity with the concept already. But it was just that: passing.

I hadn't bothered to keep up, (because it's far too 'clubish' for my tastes), but I was still interested to see the evolution and explosion that has seemingly taken place. Fairly impressive, frankly, but I think they've lost their way. If a "rebel" "language" can occupy that much space on a Wiki page, and contain such exhaustive documentation of its own ways, well... how much counter-culture could it possibly contain?

Not to mention the fact that the picture of the watch is really, really lame. It reminds me of punching 5-8-0-0-8 into a calculator and then turning it upside down. But then again, I guess that was the origin of the language in the first place. But did that webpage point that out...?

In my "normal" life, I find about 20 minutes to browse the interwebs every evening, so I've got to be very efficient in my efforts. I glance at headlines, read Lumby's page as well as a few others and check my many newsletters for something that might be of interest. In doing all of this, I sometimes run out of time, as you well know.

But sometimes, I run across an absolutely perfect column that I feel I have to share with everyone I know. So there it is.

Now, I don't point this out to all of you in the faulty belief that I have the perfect marriage. Quite the contrary. And I don't sit here and pretend that I have "cracked the code" to completely pleasing The Wif every time and in every endeavor. Far from it...

No, I pass that column on to my friends and family because it needs to be read by them. By you. Even if it doesn't apply, it needs to be read and understood and digested by everyone on the planet.

And I understand perfectly if you object to the religious overtones of the article. I wish you'd understand the column in the light of those themes, but if you don't or don't want to, I do understand. Just so long as you read and "get" the larger idea that's being presented.

Namely - and the author doesn't spend much time addressing this point - the false idea of what constitutes masculinity these days. Being "a man" isn't about "being in charge" or "running things," but rather about serving. That is, a man is first supposed to serve God (if you tend towards believing such things), then serve your Wife and finally serve your family (if such applies).

What an odd picture of masculinity! Such a show of weakness over that of the strength of conquering as many women as you possibly can! To "SERVE" the weaker sex and small children?!?! What the Hell are you thinking? Did Men lose a war somewhere along the way?!?!

Yeah. It's an idea that's just that strange in today's culture; men can prove their strength by tending to the needs of others. It's just zany enough to make me wonder when "masculinity" became confused with "selfishness." Because the two weren't always synonymous...

J.O.T.W...

(I'm beginning to wonder if anyone out there remembers that this feature was kept alive initially by a reader who no longer can be bothered to check in on it. It's a curious irony that's been further kept alive by emails from some hot blonde from the heart of the mid-west and some Dood who's office is roughly a mile away from my own. As further ironies erupt, I'll keep you in the loop.)

And with no further ados and all apologies...

You might be a Redneck If-

• Your wife can't fix you dinner because she has cheerleading practice.
• You consider safe sex as having a padded truck bed.
• You think safe sex is having a pad in the head board of your bed.
• You take your dog for a walk and you both use the tree at the corner
• You ever get hot flashes at cattle auctions
• You have ever financed a tattoo
• Slamming the door on your truck creates an instant sunroof.
• You paint your car with house paint
• Stealing road signs is a family outing.
• Your side by side refrigerator consists of two igloo coolers
• Someone offers you a silver plate and you pull off you belt buckle and say "no thanks, I've already got one"
• You've ever yelled out the window "KIDS!! STOP PLAYIN' ON THAT SHEET METAL!'
• Your child's first pet was a chicken
• You think God looks like Hank Williams, Jr.
• You have more guns than teeth
• Your baby's first words were "Attention, KMart shoppers"
• Your front porch collapses and kills at least three dogs
• You use your belt buckle as identification
• Your belt buckle is bigger than your head
• Your family tree doesn't fork
• You consider dating second cousins, 'playing the field'
• You've ever used your fishing license as a form of identification
• You missed your graduation because your kids were sick
• You refer to fifth grade as "My senior year"
• Somebody yells "Hoe down!" and your wife hits the floor
• The highlight of your family reunion was your sister's nude dancing debut
• You go to your sister's wedding so you can kiss the bride
• Your family reunion was ruined 'cause your daddy burnt the Spam
• You go fishing with a generator and a piece of copper wire
• Fancy eating out (for you) involves drivin' to the next window

I lay claim to nothing original in any of that. Not that it needed clarification...

It's just what I've come to expect: I go out of my way and stay up far too late in order to crop, resize and upload pics - and then create the file and the captions, in addition to renaming and re-linking each of the older pages - which then need to be uploaded as well - only to hear... what?

Those of you who complained the loudest about the lack of recent kid pictures are also those who...

Ah, what's the dif? I'm just fooling around anyway. The previous paragraph is the perfect example of how difficult it is to convey "tone" via the written word - as well as the explanation of how frequently I fall victim to that particual inability. I can do sarcasm with great expertise and manage to pull it off with a certain amount of regularity, but only via the spoken word.

Sarcasm is very difficult to do in writing unless it's as a closing statement. For example, if you deploy 800 words in opposition to a proposed tax hike and are sure to counter each relevant argument offered by the other side, you can end the post with "so be sure to take more of my money for your needs," safe in the knowledge that you've set the foundation and the last sentence was so obviously sarcastic that it could not be missed by even the dimmest of bulbs.

So why did I start today with sarcasm before I built the foundation? Well, because I could, I guess. And doing so safe in the knowledge that I'd explain everything along the way made it that much easier. But not one whit witty-er.

HA!

In other news, I seem to have blown out my right quad. Not exactly something I'd planned to do but here it is all the same. Time to deal with it, I suppose. So tomorrow (today, to you), I'll go in and see if I need surgery or if I just need to sit on my arse for a few weeks. And since neither option plays into our current game plan, that's what I'll do; neither.

I know that most of the damage was done on Tuesday when I spent most of the morning on a ladder, either going up to retrieve storage bins or carrying the same down. Tough work, considering that there were about 50 bins that had to see the light of day. Of course, getting them out of the attic wasn't enough; they also had to be carried downstairs, out of the house and into either my truck or The Wif's car.

From there, they were designed to land in or second storage unit and so they did. Fortunately, it's a jigundous operation and they provide you with hand trucks in order to ease your load. Unfortunately, the flatbeds and the like tend to diminish the scope of your efforts.

For example, if I leave the house with a truck full of bins and boxes, it will have taken me an average of 18 trips from home to truck before I'm ready to roll. Once at the storage unit, I can use their flatbed and carry the same load to the unit in 2 or 3 loads, max. It makes me feel like a slacker, frankly.

Add to that the fact that we've taken 5 loads down the hill and we haven't even begun to make an impact on the space of said unit and you've got a rather dispiriting situation on your hands, you do.

Now I know that I should look on the bright side of things and should recognize that the vast amounts of open space still available in our second storage unit bodes well for our effort. Yes. I recognize that. But it also means that if 5 full loads barely makes a difference, then we've got a TON of runs ahead of us before this is all over.

Not to mention the fact that we still don't have a place to live once the trigger is pulled on all this. Fortunately, I don't think it's likely to happen. But that's a tale for a different time...

Like the rest of you, I'm forced to live within a certain cell that I've created for myself. At a certain point in my past, I thought that I had created Utopia, but it turns out I was wrong. After all, anything so temporary could not be a long-term solution by definition...

Now, I should say that I'm still following Presidential Politics and the fact that I've given them all a pass (for now) should not reflect poorly against myself. The fact is, I'm saving my powder so that I might more fully expose the posers and exalt the genuine article above the others when it happens.

Such is my wish...

But the truth is that I'm operating contrary to my nature, at the moment: I'm going along with such ideals that espouse the idea that we're due to undergo an "inspection" this Friday afternoon. And that's the very first step towards my most recent failure. Or so I see it from where I sit today.

"Why must I be judged?" is the first question that leaps to my mind. Small wonder, frankly; We're all judged every day and we'll all be judged in The Day to come.

So why now?

Man, Oh, Man. Do any of you ever get the feeling that you're eating the seed corn? Because it's a feeling that's really been plaguing me lately. I mean, I understand the underlying concept and the importance of adhering to a plan and setting a certain amount of the Good Stuff aside so as to underwrite future efforts, but I also know the feeling of having to go to the well when need be. But where would that leave us? Bankrupt? Homeless?

I believe I have both Bingo and Yahtzee on that count...

Which is to say that in the tempest of fear I experienced recently I had developed a plan which was sure to bankrupt us - which would be a rather interesting turn of events, frankly.

So the other option is that we would be left homeless by this recent turn of events and frankly, that's the choice I'd prefer. After all, we'd only be "homeless" for a series of minutes before we settled on a solution and from there we'd quickly settle on a settlement strategy and then we'd all be changing underwear under the same roof soon enough.

Many of you have already guessed at the fault in my plan. Namely, that I'm a man and everything I plan is lousy with problems. But beyond that, the sane among you will recognize that our kids are still - and are going to continue to be - wards of the State/County for at least another four months. This means that although we're allowed to move, we have to move from stable situation to stable situation.

Thus exiteth my family...

(Just kidding. I love you all dearly but it's a different circumstance from which we cannot waver. That is, it's the exact opposite circumstance from everything you've taught me. I guess I have to learn the lesson somewhere along the way...)

So just bring on December, already. A cold, hard month is pretty much what I'm ready for. Just to go public with that information...

First off, a well-deserved and much-belated Thank You to our veterans. Those who hold the line and those who have passed the job to the next generation. I would say that I can't believe that I forgot the day was nigh, but I believe it completely and without reservation. So, seriously: Thank you for filling the void I now wish I had stepped into. Your service is appreciated.

Here, at least. Thank you.

And that's obviously related to the title - or so one would think - because it means that we Federales get to take Monday off as the official Holiday lest - God forbid - we get "cheated" out of a day because it happens to fall on a weekend. No. We can't take Saturday or Sunday off because we already have them off. So instead we get the Friday before or the Monday after to sit at home on our arses. Why, it's almost as if we went into the office anyway, (he said, playing the gubermint-worker stereotype card)!

So on the surface, I should be happy because I am facing a Monday morning that would pass without any involvement on my part, for once. Except for one specific and wonderful fact: tomorrow is the anniversary of my blushing Bride's birth, and as such I feel at least minimally compelled to spell her against the children during the sunrise hours of the morning.

So I'll get up with the boys' first noise - well, first screams anyway - and we'll prepare the table for Mommy's arrival. We'll sign birthday cards and place stickers and hang jewelry in all the appropriate places as Daddy faces the sunrise and tries to convince the kids that it's a moral imperative that they play quietly in their rooms.

And then? After the surprise trap has been tripped? I'll go back to bed. Of course, I'll couch it in terms of, 'working in the garage,' or 'digging for the right-sized box,' but that's the only time I'll time I'll use the couch. I'll spend the rest of the morning back in bed...

Seriously: Happy Birthday, My Wif; I love you with all my heart and the addition of children to our family has not diminished that level in the least. If anything, it has multiplied and increased and grown the level of love that I feel towards you, so it must have also multiplied the size of my heart.

I should probably have that tested...

This may yet prove to be the sweetest evening of my year to date - NOT counting kid-related euphoria, that is. And why? Well, because I have the next 6 days to myself and to my family.

And to concentrate on the condition of my home and to re-arrange the contents of same so that they fit some sort of geographical map that I can't even contemplate at this moment. Think about it as "International Feng Shui," while blindfolded. Or something like that. Because I mostly think about it as, "One week to break Daddy's back."

I HATE cross-over episodes. That is, those shows where the characters visit each other's settings and plots in the hope that the more popular will elevate the other show. Even if it involves two shows I happen to enjoy, I find the transparent ploy to be annoying at best.

The example that comes to mind is the The Critic/Simpsons cross-over. And in spite of the fact that I liked both shows and the episode itself was replete with examples of how very much they seemed to hate doing it, said cross-over left a bad taste in my mouth.

Which is not to say that it didn't have it's moments; "Coming, Eudora!" was a classic. And the fact that I know of the line should be more than enough to prove that I watched the episode, in spite of my loathing for the device.

Well, it happened again tonight. I actually sat through the CSI/Without A Trace double feature. Why? Well, I still enjoy CSI. It's one of very few shows that I've been able to watch past its fourth season, (others being NYPD and - much earlier - St. Elsewhere), and although I've long abandoned WAT, I watched it in the beginning, (and for about 4 seasons or so), so I'm at least familiar with most of the characters and what they're all about.

Besides, hint at two consecutive hours of Marg doing just about anything and I am SO! THERE!

Unfortunately, that's all it was: a hint. I hate cross-overs...

I'd just HATE to be a professional sports broadcaster. Oh sure it might be interesting getting all those behind the scenes scoops and gaining special access to the verboten areas of the stadium, that could be pretty cool. But you'd have to pretend to be excited about stuff like lacrosse and soccer.

Yes. Soccer. Can you imagine how that could warp your psyche?

And finally I wanted to share with all of you the unique and special gift that we'll be giving The Binkster this year - and on his actual birthday, no less. Yay for us!

At any rate, we decided to go big for the boys this year. Something that would be difficult to replicate and certainly something that not every other newly 3-year-old and 2-year-old would be getting. It took some thought a whole ton of effort, but we finally landed on the perfect solution; we'll officially be homeless as of The Binkster's birthday next month.

Fortunately, The Bink is still small enough that he can sleep in the box that the new microwave came in. And I'm pretty sure that - if he sleeps diagonally - D-Man will fit in the box that once housed the new TV. And we can use the extra packing materials to build a solid foundation for "M's" bed.

As for The Wif and me, well, we just have to find the right bridge to place the family under. It should be broad enough to provide protection from the elements and deep enough to allow the heat to spread from our fire in the 55-gallon drum.

Well, provided everything goes according to plan, that is...

J.O.T.W...

A man with a nagging secret couldn't keep it any longer. In the confessional he admitted that for years he had been stealing building supplies from the lumberyard where he worked.

"What did you take?" his priest asked.

"Enough to build my own house and enough for my son's house. And houses for our two daughters and our cottage at the lake."

"This is very serious," the priest said. "I shall have to think of a far-reaching penance. Have you ever done a retreat?"

"No, Father, I haven't," the man replied. "But if you can get the plans, I can get the lumber."

The laws of golf
LAW 15: A severe slice is a thing of awesome power and beauty.

Oh, how I hope it's true...

You know - I had a full-on rant prepared for tonight. And against the usual targets because, well, who else is out there, frankly? It was full of highlights of hypocrisy and of double-speak and finger-pointing in eight different directions and a wonderful example of...

Well, let's leave that where it is lest I trigger a premature launch that I'm not ready to deal with, shall we?

The truth is, The Wif has beat me into bed for the first time in several weeks, I've visited a prospective purchase on Arizona in Lakewood today (199,900) and I've been so tired lately that I've bored a small hole into my skull on the outer ridge of my right eye, (the curse of being right-handed, I suppose).

so please bear with me. Joke(s) tomorrow unless I lose my hands in some kind of bizarre accident and full explanations will come when my comfort level rises past the ballast line.

Thanks for everything. Sleep out...

Man. If I could tell you everything that's going on here... well, I probably still wouldn't. It's not that I believe in the idea of a "jinx" or anything like that, it's just that I'm pretty heavily invested in them or something like them. All the same, I will say this:

• We have Faith that things are happening according to plan.
• We know that we are NOT the authors of said plan.
• We, too, have a plan in place.
• We also have a backup plan in place.
• As well as an emergency, backup plan. Just in case.
• All the same, work continues - in spite of the fact that I can hardly move as it is.
• And now that I can finally see an end to my current labors - eventually - I'm all the more willing to see them through.

And if you think you know what I'm talking about, you probably don't. And if you feel as though you're left far afield without a clue, you probably know more than you think you do. Or not. I could well be full of "it."

But Seriously; I've come to learn that ANY project that teaches you something about yourself is probably among this world's highest callings. It's a grand evolution for me because for years and decades now my motto has been, "Good enough, IS." I thought I was being creative; turns out I was being lazy.

In my ever-ongoing kitchen cabinet project not only have I learned that I'm capable of rather competent work, but I've learned to finish the job before it's finished.

Which is to say that I've learned to completely finish the door - sand, shape, correct, stain and polyurethane - before I decide upon which side to mount the hinges. It's a subtle difference, but I've learned that it's ALL the difference where it really counts.

(Stay tuned...)

I originally had no intention of going down this road with that title, but will take the brief diversion because I can. Just remember: This isn't the post I intended and that one will follow this one...

I'd like to thank all of the fine manufacturers and retailers out there who are so concerned with how often - or how well - my family and I poop. No, really. It gives me great peace of mind to know that there's a yogurt out there that promises to deliver regular and more rewarding bowel movements. Yes I'm being sarcastic and yes, this comes from the Father of a small red-head from outer space who has already benefited from daily ingestion of said yogurt.

And I still don't find those two statements to be at odds with one another.

I am also eternally grateful to know that there is a brand of cheese out there that delivers the proper types and ratios of Poop Bugs. It's about time that cheese played some sort of role in the digestive process, frankly.

Just in case you haven't been paying attention, there is also a plethora of ads for fiber in all its various, glorious forms and ingestibilities. Clear powder, coarse tablets, flavored chalk-slabs; it goes on and on.

Now, I'm perfectly willing to accept the idea that I might have brought all this upon myself through the television shows I choose to watch. After all, there aren't a ton of tampon commercials run during football games and I don't imagine you see too many beer ads while watching soap operas; these network guys pay a staff to monitor their demographics so they can deliver the proper eyeballs to the proper product, and vice-versa.

So it's probably because I watch Game Show Network and Discovery Channel as a default that I'm inundated with these types of ads. After all - older folk are the ones who tend towards their programming. Fair enough.

But you can't tell me that the cereal ad that is filmed in a construction site setting isn't absolutely hilarious. Because males of every age will tell you that it is.

And now that THAT'S out of my system...

Glancing back to re-read the title The good news is that my folks will close on their house(s) in about a week and a half. They've had closing days come and go all year, but this really looks as if it might actually happen. If only because the other circumstances are going to prove to be such a hard burden on them. Of course they'll be happy to have the whole thing behind them and be in their new setting in whatever form it may turn out to be, but it's a whole ton of work between here and there.

One of my regrets is that I will be completely unable to help them in any way. As the oldest son I feel a certain obligation to be there, but I now have a family of my own that I have to care for as well. And I know they understand that. Still...

The other news of note is that we got an offer on our place today and yes - I'm as dumbstruck as you are right now. I think I "know" who has made the offer and I have to say, I'm ever so grateful that I don't have his nerve in my tooth.

His offer was 232K - a mere $30,000 below our asking price which is probably not so far out of line for this market. But of course there were conditions; as I read the offer I saw that he wanted the dishwasher and the stove from the kitchen. This made me wonder how the refrigerator had offended him, but I read on.

He wanted us to give him $5,000 at closing, as well as pay HIS closing costs and foot the bill for the appraisal. 'Going a bit far' I thought, as I read on...

Another clause stated that he was asking for the fridge - so it hadn't wronged him after all - as well as the washer and dryer. OK, so he wants to help us lighten our moving costs, I guess. But what I read next floored me.

He asked that we leave behind our fireplace tools.

No - you didn't read that incorrectly. He wanted us to include - as household utilities - our fireplace tools. I got a bit creeped out at that, but the whole thing became rather interesting rather quickly.

Being asked to abandon your fireplace tools raises some rather unique questions, not the least of which is, "do they hold any sentimental value?" Another is, "if these are so valuable, should I rush out, buy a new set and keep them in a raging fire for 3 days so they look used?" "Is there even an ebay category for fireplace tools?"

Eventually I put it all together and concluded that he's looking to buy as furnished a place as possible for as little as possible. And the fact that he needs 5K of my money tells me that he's completely over-extended. He's on the verge of folding faster than Superman on laundry day. Oh sure we countered but he'll never go for it because I don't believe he can swing it. We'll get the rejection tomorrow around mid-day and pull the house off the market in the afternoon.

From there I can only look forward to weekend upon weekend of home improvement projects. My chance to teach my kids how the various tools work and maybe to teach them some appreciation for what we have.

That'll make it all worthwhile, frankly...

So, what did YOU do this weekend? Me? Mostly I just sat on the couch drinking beer and shouting obscenities at at my television. Even as new and as big and as clear as it is, that couldn't help the pathetic game it was forced to display...

Truth be told, I caught not a minute of the first game and just enough of the second to suffer a new sense of disgust with my normally-beloved Broncs. Sure they lost a quarterback early, but that's why you have staff and recruiters and one or two other quarterbacks on the roster. And if the backups aren't ready to go, well, it's not shame on them, it's shame on you Mr. Head Coach. You gotta expect that sooner or later even your star player is susceptible to injury and unless you've got Wolverine taking your snaps, he's going to need some time to heal.

But that's neither here nor there because I meant to talk about my weekend. My three-day weekend, to be specific. Yes, this was one of those long weekends for me - the next is even longer - 5 days; unfortunately, they'll probably be spent much as this one was. Namely, I spent Friday alone with the kids. Great fun, but not very productive as far as selling this house goes. On Saturday, I had the boys here with me and it was somewhat interesting.

The Binkster awoke In. A. State. He'd walk around with a hat that he wanted on. As soon as you put it on him, he took it off. Then he'd ask you to put it on him again. I swear, it was like living with john kerry. He'd fuss if you gave him "breakfast water" from his cup or if you gave him new water from his brother's cup. Finally, we'd had enough and The Wif put him in his crib just before she and "M" left to hit the town.

He sat there awake - but quiet - for some time, so D-Man and I started doing some work around the house. We carried doors upstairs and I wrestled a 600 pound treadmill down the stairs. We moved furniture, vacuumed and shampooed carpet. Sometime in there, Binky fell asleep (about 11:00) and I knew trouble would follow.

I woke him up and we had lunch, then D-Man went down for his nap, but Binky would have none of it. The very idea of a second nap in one day seemed to scare him into a full alert state. Ah, well. I was still able to move furniture and continue to clean the carpet - especially so since The Binkster is deathly afraid of such devices - so I was able to do the entire family room and half the hall. All in all, a pretty danged productive day, frankly, and I was looking forward to a leisurely Sunday to follow.

But! You men out there know how you have your plans... and then all of a sudden you have HER plans? Guess what? I got a call on Saturday telling me that it was all arranged for The Wif to take the kids, along with my Israeli Sister-In-Law and her brood, to the zoo, "so that [I] would have an entire afternoon alone to work on the house."

Gee. Thanks, Hun.

We parted ways in the parking lot after church. I was about to drive off when I realized that I hadn't yet received my marching orders. Actually, to be fair I should tell you that The Wif doesn't issue "marching orders" in the traditional, "make sure you get that room painted and I'd better see some clean gutters when I get home!" sense, but she does have a certain level of expectation. So I decided to inquire as to what those expectations might be:

ME: "Wait - what do you want me to focus on today?"

TW: "Just what... whatever would be most difficult to do if there were kids in the way."

ME: "Right. I'll take a nap, then. Good idea."

She laughed and I raced home. I applied the first coat of polyurethane to 7 cabinet doors and as many drawer fronts. While those were drying I removed old drawers and emptied 2 large cabinets, (whose contents are currently strewn across the entertainment center, the end tables, the play kitchen and the mantle. It's quite humorous), and started sanding the boxes.

2 hours later my lungs and sinuses are packed with dust, I still have to stain the boxes and replace their contents and The Wif is leaving the zoo. Grand.

As they arrive home, I've barely cleared off the table so we can have dinner, I've stained 1/3 of what I have to and the doors still need to be drilled for the hinges. Well, everyone loves a challenge, right?

As I sit here now, I still have to hang at least one more door and replace the foodstuffs for tomorrow. The only problem is, I can't drill my final four holes because The Wif is asleep and The Binkster isn't. It's these sorts of things that make me chuckle, because they are the very fiber of my life now.

Unproductive, but pretty cool...

NOW THAT'S FUNNY..!

I feel as if I owe you guys this, (I've reduced the size - click on it to go to his webpage and see the thing in full):

It's from a self-sustained, online comic called XKCD and if you try to read any meaning into that name you're crazier than I am. Feel free to poke around his site - I'm sure you'll find some very funny stuff. I did. But this comes with a disclaimer; he's not as guarded with his use of the language as I am. Granted, it's not like an every other day thing, but every now and then you'll encounter something that might trigger your inner Flanders. If you have one.

That's all I'm saying...

To an unknown victim of my family: I openly and honestly apologize for the harm you imagined done to your car/ego. I am completely sorry for the damage my son inflicted upon your vehicle and I here offer to pay for any repairs that you've incurred by having the fingerprints of a two year old on the top of your bumper. Seriously, just bill me for the damage.

I know we were in the wrong because you so obviously pointed it out to us. I mean, after dressing my kids for Halloween-candy-gathering in what I concluded was a safe spot of the parking lot, and then heeding your warning of impending damage and then putting it all together, I somehow felt as if I was in the graduate class. And I thank you for that.

Given the fact that an excited 2-year-old, ready to troll for Halloween candy had worked himself up enough to tap his hand along your bumper 2 or 3 times, I can completely see how you were well within your rights to slam your hand from within your own car against your own roof three times as violently as you did.

It makes perfect sense, frankly.

And all seriousness resumed, I hope you hammered so hard that you produced a short in your dome light. I hope that you somehow managed to pound out a couple of hail dents, but also managed to produce so high points in the metal that you hope to be leveled by hail.

And in a strange turn of events, I strangely hope that he was there to ogle the teens and tweens attending the function. Because the thought that this idiot has kids of his own takes me back to the days of my youth makes me shudder in fear for them...

I find myself in a rather strange cycle at the moment. It goes something like this: I grab my gun, load the magazine with ammo, (129 grain jacketed hollow point, for those keeping track at home or wish to break into mine), insert the magazine, cycle the slide to chamber the first round, take careful aim, gently squeeze the trigger and blow a hole through my foot.

Repeat...

Oh - I've always done my fair share of this from time to time but lately it seems like it's my bloody calling card; everything I touch ends up coming around to bite me in the arse. I start one remodeling project only to realize that the next one will cause me to re-do the last one. I cut one single corner on even the most rote of tasks - say, taking out the trash - and I then find myself having to correct a problem of a missing trash can the hard way: by beating the bushes and peering into our neighbor's yard to see if said can has been blown/rolled onto their property.

As I say, this is happening with increasing frequency lately and I'm almost to the point of taking it personally. Especially given the latest example...

Remember yesterday when I told you about taking out my frustrations with the big TV by taking it outside and throwing it into my truck bed? Well, what I neglected to mention is that I actually lifted the thing over my head as I did it. Made a right proper ceremony of it, I did. Felt good about it, I did. I had vanquished the bothersome irritation and proven my superior position in the tech chain at the same time.

In fact, when I bought its replacement today, I put it into the bed of my truck so that it could see first-hand its fate should it disappoint me. "Perform well my friend, lest you suffer in the same manner."

But the new set is front-heavy and I somehow managed to place it in the truck in such a way that any abbreviated stop on my part sent the box lurching forward. Fortunately, there's enough debris in there that it didn't slam onto the floor face-first and void the warranty in a violent manner. Unfortunately, that meant that I had to correct the situation in preparation for a twisty drive up the mountain.

So as I parked, I positioned myself so that I could reach the back of my truck and move the box as needed. In doing so, I eventually walked past the passenger side of my Dood-acquired tool box and noticed that the entire side was half-open. I examined it more closely and saw that the post that fits into the lock on that side had been pried completely out of contact with the lock.

Holy Crap! Someone tried to pry their way into my toolbox! I never hold too many valuables in it, but my golf clubs, small toolbox, two folding chairs and one of my original Monets is in there, so my first thought was to open it up and take an inventory. And then I saw the real problem:

No stranger had molested my toolbox. I noticed a sizable dent about 2/3rds into that side and had easily diagnosed the problem. The box had suffered a violent episode that re-shaped it's opening edge and forcibly popped the bolt from it's secure location. Said episode had also re-shaped the top, so that it was at least equally affected.

This leaves two surfaces that require my attention this weekend. I have some idea of how to deal with the box itself, but I'm still contemplating how to come to terms with the lid. I'm sure something will come to me. "Something" that will require much more attention somewhere down the road.

Oh - and what was the source of the "violent episode?" Well, I suspect most of you have already figured it out but a certain code of self-humiliation forces me to type it outloud: when I threw the television from the deck into the bed of my truck, it first landed with all its force on the edge of my toolbox. This bent all 4 elements involved: The box side, the box lid, the TV and your humble author.

3 of the 4 knew it immediately. The one with the lowest IQ of the bunch took an additional 18 hours to figure it out...

AND WHILE WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT...

The new TV seems to be a thing of beauty, but I'm only able to judge by the fact that it's on and running behind me and I can see the light and hear the sound. Woo-Hoo! 4 hours and it's still operational. Believe me, I'll take it at this point.

But when this set dies it's a sure bet that I won't be throwing it off an upper deck, much less lifting it over my head to do so. Unless it burns Uranium as it works, I suppose. Because this thing is flappin' HEAVY. How heavy is it? Well, it's caused strokes in several philosophy professors; is that heavy enough for you, man?

(Sorry - couldn't resist.)

It weighs at least 100 pounds. That's my guess. It's nearly impossible for me to lift on my own - and this from the guy who had to get it from the bed of his truck all the way upstairs and into the entertainment center. I'll leave it behind rather than move it, frankly.

And that decision is made all the easier by the fact that it's 30 1/4 inches wide. Well within specs, but only in theory. Because I can't get the danged thing into the entertainment center and behind the decorative trim. It should work and I should be able to put it right, but I just can't see how at this point.

See above...