Ecuador Equals Ecuador

There was a great story in the Daily News the other day about one of our local teachers, how she's come up with an ingenious way to teach math and geography together.

I know I personally love the idea, since I had trouble with both subjects when I was in class. But back then we just had teachers who were very strict, and they kept to the "old ways," that they thought were best. If we weren't sitting in the corner with a dunce cap, they were washing our mouth out with soap. In fact, to this day, I still find the taste of soap bad. Back then, and this is serious, I used to always hear one of my uncles calling ladies a battle-axe and I didn't really know what it meant. I actually thought it was a word sort of like Cadillacs and didn't know it referred to big ugly axes. Anyway, they shook me and only quit short of killing me.

Thankfully, today our kids have teachers who give a rat's a** about, you know, teaching. Back in the old days, all they could think of was their own narrow definition of propriety and enforcing it. My teachers were such hopeless wretches, the only thing they ever taught me was they were out to get children. Whether there were mandatory reporters in those days, I don't know. One thing I do know, I wouldn't want to be caught cleaning the blackboards after hours ... the filthy sadists. Is it any wonder I did so poorly? I was thinking more about survival than anything else. But somehow still I managed to reconcile a checkbook to the nearest $100, pass the driving test, and take out my own garbage with a minimum of assistance from anyone. To this day, when I accomplish something, I pump my fist and say, "I did it," while alternately fingering the ground toward any of my old teachers who have died and gone to hell.

Forgive my digression, please -- it's unnecessary -- I didn't mean to say any of that. This was meant solely as a post about how much better teachers are these days. As evidence, I present the teacher who was featured in the newspaper the other day. Darn it, I threw away the paper and don't remember her name. I only remember the thing she did, what they were featuring, her brainchild of combining math and geography, albeit at the present time only in a limited way.

We all know geography is the study of memorizing the countries of the world. There's less a need for it these days thanks to GPS. But, still, it helps to know by heart how to get to certain places, even if it means coming up with creative ways to make the information stick in our memory. And that's what this gal's come up with. Good looking lady, too, not like the old battle-axes they had when I was in school...

Anyway, I said her technique is presently very limited. She's either going to need to expand it or hope others do. It might take someone in the university to put his mind to this. But it's a great pedagogy, bar none. I know I love it. I can actually say, just reading about it makes the country "Ecuador" stick in my mind, and that's the only geographical word she's got so far. Ever since I read the article, I've known about Ecuador. And if you read the rest of my post, you're going to remember it too.

OK, here it is. What she's got so far is the theory that "Ecuador" and "equal" are similar words. So, to combine the two subjects, she's teaching the arithmetic tables and substituting equal with Ecuador. Such as, 5 + 3 Ecuador 8, 4 x 3 Ecuador 12, 21 - 5 Ecuador 16, and 10 / 5 Ecuador 2, and so on. It also works with harder problems, she carefully explained, going all the way up to numbers that are a lot bigger, which would be common sense. 4000 x 3 Ecuador 12000, 1 million + 2 million Ecuador a whole bunch, and so forth.

I can't think of other geographical terms she could teach by this method. Maybe you can help. I myself don't have a teaching degree. I was scared straight about teaching when I was in school. Now, of course, I know I shouldn't hold it against all teachers just because I had the bad apples. You've always got good and bad, and the two are not Ecuador.

Underbrush And The Toymaker

I went to the toy store the other day for Christmas shopping and was a little scared when I saw a big gorilla across the room. But it was a big stuffed gorilla with all her little babies. Then I also saw the other stuffed animals, beautiful ones, big tigers, lions, and all the other lesser animals.

Of course they had dogs, which were good looking too. But I looked all through them and didn't find one that looked like my dog Underbrush. It seems like they never have the various mixed breeds, which is too bad because it seems like there'd be a big market for all of us with them.

I immediately went to the counter to complain. The ladies at the counter claimed they had nothing to do with the limited selection, but I don't know, they looked pretty guilty. I asked who was responsible for this sad state of affairs, and they ended up blaming the toymaker. What toymaker? I demanded. Where is this toymaker?

Remarkably, they directed me to a local toymaker. I was really expecting a toymaker in China, someone who wouldn't be so easy to contact, but it actually turned out to be a toymaker right down the street, a guy working out of his garage.

I went to his workshop and found him very accessible, very interested in talking to me about the lack of stuffed animals like my dog. I flashed him the picture seen above and he backed up, he almost staggered against a wall of hammers and hooks. He clutched his heart and I was afraid we might lose him.

"What is the meaning of this?" He seemed angry. But it turned out he was simply stunned at Underbrush's beauty. Once that was cleared up, I asked if he could make me a stuffed animal version of her.

"I cannot do this dog justice!" he insisted. "I'm sorry -- such beauty!"

I thought maybe he was pulling my leg, really. I called him sir, out of respect, and told him I was flattered by his comments, but, really, you're a toymaker, surely not a judge of dogs and their beauty like at Eukanuba. You've made tigers, gorillas, and all the various breeds of dogs. Now suddenly you can't do this one? I asked if he could do something for me, maybe a representation, something made quickly out of yarn and baling twine at least.

"No! Not a representation! Not today, not ever! It would never do!" He was backing up like he might stagger into the hammers and hooks. I was afraid if he did that it might set off a terrible chain reaction like in the game Mousetrap, and eventually a marble slab (from his worktable) would fall and crush him. This was one dog he wasn't going to touch, whether it'd be baling twine or pipe-cleaners and toilet tissue.

"Please, please, please...." I tried to calm him, then I got tough: "This is ridiculous! Please use your talents to do something for us." I was a supplicant just as much as if I'd been wearing a robe and staring into the heavens with eyes like lights.

"No!" he insisted, "I care too much ... I shall do nothing!"

And that's how we left it. Meaning, all I have is the photograph ... and of course the actual dog.

Note: I thought I was going to lose Underbrush. The photo was taken the day it was arranged to put her to sleep at the vet's. She was hacking, hacking, hacking all the time, congestive heart failure. That was in June 2010. The vet did something, got some medicine for her, and waved a wand and spoke some magic words over her, and, believe it or not, she's still alive as of today, December 5, 2010. In the last few days she's been hacking some more. She no longer wears a halter or uses a leash, since these contribute to her problems when she strains for squirrels. And I don't feed her any more human food that has too much salt and other nasty ingredients. She's doing pretty well.

Mailboxes And Dogs' Heads

Two and a half years ago, I had a post on Old Cars and Dogs' Heads. I seem to remember I made a lot of good points on the similarities there. Well, today, finally, I'm back, this time on mailboxes and dogs' heads.

With some breeds of dogs, I just can't get over the lazy old shape of their heads. If there's really such thing as intelligent design, they were clearly designed with someone whose own head was stuck in the '40s. Or earlier. You figure, though, it's a head; it's going to have the basic design of most other heads, the eyes, mouth, nose, etc. But that still doesn't answer the question about the lazy drooping look, the curvature being just the way it is.

In the picture of the hound dog above, you might try to say it's the big floppy ears that give it that distinctive '40s look. But cover up the ears and you can see it's still there. In this case, the eyes don't help; they're adding to the dog's forlorn, lazy look. So what are we left with? A hopelessly old fashioned looking head, and, frankly, a body to match. They really do look like old cars, like I said a couple years ago.

In the case of cars, the styles change, although we've had that dopey looking PT Cruiser that was popular with some people, no one with any taste. Probably owners of old sleeping hound dogs. Fortunately, they've now quit making the PT Cruiser. My biggest hope is that all the remaining ones will be junked out very soon. Maybe dogs, if they were attuned to any of this, would hope the PT Cruiser would stay around, since it makes them less conspicuous.

The styles of cars, for the most part, have changed over the years. And you could say the same thing for mailboxes, although to a much lesser extent. I've seen all kinds of mailboxes, stylish ones, homemade ones, silly ones, novelty ones -- like a big fish -- and every conceivable design, really, both by the road and attached to people's houses. But despite a wide variety, the basic mailbox you see to this day is the same one they've had forever, the rounded, dumb looking thing that we're all familiar with. Like Dennis Quaid in "Vacation."

I think it's kind of amazing that this ugly design has held the field for so long. But none of the others has come close to displacing it. Just look at the thing. What could look dopier than that? But we can't get rid of it. People buy a new car every couple years, but they keep their mailbox forever. You drive through the rich part of town and you never see the same car twice, they've got lawn care guys always pulling up the old flowers and putting in new, and they reshingle their house twice a month on a fixed schedule. But the old mailbox will be there till they die and beyond.

Look at it. You tell me. Does that look like an old hound dog's head or not? It sure does! They can shine it up and spiff it up all they want, there's no masking its basic shape. Rounded, old fashioned, not only like a dog's head but also like one of those stupid hats stupid guys wear with the ear flaps.

Dogs can't help what shape their heads are, I understand that. God bless 'em. It doesn't really bother me all that much, because I know it's a natural shape, and God presumably doesn't make mistakes. But that's no excuse for these mailboxes dominating the market for centuries at a time. There's nothing divinely appointed about mailboxes, insofar as I know.

I'm keeping my eye out for newer and better mailboxes, and I hope I see some real soon. And I'm also keeping my eye out for these hound dogs and their weird shape. I hope I don't see very many of them because that would get old fast. But it wouldn't hurt me to see a few every once in a while so I can keep thinking of what else resembles them.

Let's Be Sunbeams For Masturbananda!

Swami Sri Masturbananda is a bright light in the firmament of masters, advanced beings, and avatars. And he gets brighter all the time. Because if he's wearing down, he stokes the inner fires and once again shines forth in glory. What a glorious master, who also calls us to be light in a dark world, beaming forth with the radiant energy that is in us!

For his chelas (students), it is a fantastic feeling to know that the master is looking out over us, happy to know we're following our devotions as he teaches. Maybe the rest of the sleepy village doesn't know what's going on, but to the master's eyes (and ours, to a lesser extent) there is a bright flash of light or even a beam as the highest consciousness is glimpsed in this heavenly work. He looks out and attracts the little beams unto himself on the mountain and helps channel them both up and down for the satisfaction of all.

We're so fortunate to be among his followers. Because, without naming names (the dreary know who they are), there are so many masters who have taken the same old dreary road of abnegation and asceticism, discouraging their followers to even lift a hand unless it's for the purposes of self-flagellation or to cinch up their hair underpants. Away with whips, the bad kind! Away with yak drawers! Swami Masturbananda calls us to lift a hand ... often and early... that we might drive away the clouds of morning and let the sun shine through!

The fact is, We're all light, star stuff. But our consciousness somehow gets stymied, or tricks itself into seeing darkness and even embracing it. To that extent we've fallen and original sin is real. But in the master's teachings, the original light is literally close at hand. Therein is the original bliss, the greatest bliss, present for each of us to know. Now, to a certain extent, the fullness of this realization is something that may take many of us millions of incarnations to reach. The difference in Swami Masturbananda's teaching is that we don't have to wait entirely, but we can glimpse the highest realms right now, for seconds at least, by following his way.

I was with the master a number of years ago in India. I remember his wonderful way of practicing the same basic techniques even though he is so much more consciously advanced than any of us. That means he is with us. And I remember his frequent retreats to the outhouse. We chelas would stand back at a safe distance -- it was a lot like the nuclear testing at Bikini atoll, goggles, the whole bit -- light would build up, you would see the wooden walls stretching out from the energy, and, finally, there was an explosion and the roof would blow off. It was all very intense.

Similarly intense are those times he's up the mountain. Devotees below notice the sudden appearance of daylight -- it seems like it's comes a little too early, then they realize what's going on. The look out their window and see the light, then the sun comes up a couple hours later. They smile and pull their blinds. For those who are not already spent, they redouble their efforts. And a small few, those who lift weights and have really big muscles, even triple theirs. I've heard of a few whose hand and arm turned to butter, they went so fast.

From the mountain, Swami Sri Masturbananda looks down and sees the smaller shafts of light building to a greater degree, and smiles. All is well on the mountain ... and in the valley.

Note: The picture has been altered only to enlarge Swami Masturbananda so we could see him. He's the same size as other men, most of the time.

What About Bob?

Overheard in a rural diner a few days ago, while I was trying to eat breakfast:

"I wonder how much longer Bob will be with us."

"In some ways it would be a blessing..."

"He's pulling out the IVs and everything else."

"They went to put him to bed and his diaper was full of blood."

"What?"

"They went to put him to bed and his diaper was full of blood."

We wish all the best to Bob, whoever he may be. But it sounds like things have advanced in such a terrible way that, as his friends say, it'd be a blessing...

I Got A Roto-Rooter Gift Certificate

How's this for timing? I got a Roto-Rooter gift certificate in the mail yesterday, two days after my first plumbing disaster in years. With this card I could've gotten $25 off, but now what? I don't see an expiration date.

I didn't actually go with Roto-Rooter the other night, but I might've if I'd had this card. Now I can only wait and hope I never need it.

I'm smiling at their greeting, after telling me I can get $25 off my next service, they say, "We look forward to serving you and your home again soon." How's that? That's like an ambulance driver saying we look forward to serving you soon. Have a heart attack. We can't wait for a catastrophe. That's the only time I call.

My Solidarity Group

I'm a proud member of a Solidarity Group. You may have heard of them; it's the latest thing, people in communities rallying together to offer support for one another.

We're always looking for people to stand in solidarity with and help: cancer victims, the grieving, injured veterans, people who've lost limbs, Republican halfwits, etc. The thing we're ultimately doing, whether physically or long-distance (emotionally), is crowding around them, offering words of support, commiseration, and even a group hug, if that's "safe" for them. Of course we want improvement in their lives.

Ironically -- and I hate to be a downer about it in public -- we do have some major disagreements among ourselves about who to stand with. There's a real disagreement right now about standing with Republican halfwits. Personally, I feel there's just too many of them, and, even though I'm an optimist by nature, I just don't think it'll do them any good. In fact, it might encourage them in their waywardness and ignorance and not lead them toward recovery or improvement. A lot of people are pessimistic about cancer victims, but at least you do occasionally hear of miracles with them.

But I'm also always one who wants to put disagreements to rest. And I'm willing to meet everyone halfway, even a halfwit. So, yes, if push comes to shove, and the group votes to take that path, I will stand in solidarity with them.

The other night we had an unusually scrappy meeting. Thanks to all the shouting, pushing, and the various leaders walking out, then walking back in ... plus the sound system going on the fritz with some loud feedback, at which point I was covering my ears, I didn't catch everything we voted on. This messed me up badly. The result of which was, I thought we were shaving heads to stand in solidarity with a local girl with cancer. But it turned out we were only supposed to bring cans of vegetables for the food pantry. So it looks like I'll be wearing a stocking hat all winter.

Your Basic Standard Twin Ice Machine

First, the bad news: I'm not going to be writing about ice machines everyday, as popular as I know that'd be. The idea appeals to me, too, but it'd be such a monumental task, all the traveling, the research, etc. It's a lot easier to just make a few incidental remarks about ice machines in general than it is to have to really know a lot about them, their specs, information on the manufacturers, the history of them, and so forth.

Still, if I'm going to be the kind of fanatic and expert on them that will get me a sure booking on the Travel Channel, it wouldn't hurt occasionally to look like I'm at least going through the motions. So I'll be doing a post every once in a while on the subject, and, just between you and me, I'll probably be inflating some of this stuff, like the number of ice machines I've actually visited. At first I was thinking I'd need to visit 12,000 of them to be a qualified expert. But now I'm thinking I can just count each one as 100, because there's so many of the same kind.

So guess what ... yesterday I visited 200 ice machines, and I have pictures from both of them! That's a lot of driving to get to 200 ice machines, believe me. You get out of the car, go over and check it out, get back in the car and rush off to the next one. And since you see them everywhere, every convenience store, every liquor store, and lots of grocery stores, there's a lot of stop and go driving. It's kind of boring really.

I got a pretty good picture of one of them, seen above. (Let me say, I'm referring to these as "ice machines," but that might be an inaccurate term. I really don't know what's going on inside. But they're more or less just big freezers storing ice that some guy put in them, aren't they? The machine part, if that's the right term, would just be the mechanical apparatus keeping the freezer working. But I'm going to keep calling them ice machines, since I've already started.)

The picture shows an ice machine model that seems to be pretty common, a double whammy, and I saw 200 of them just today alone, so that's an awesome statistic. All this time, having been a guy who hasn't paid attention to ice machines, I thought they were all single whammies, like the one they discovered on Mars a couple years back. Single whammies are what I seem to recall from when I was a kid. But, clearly, these days they're going for the double wides.

The big advantage, I'm guessing, to the double wides is that they can stock twice as much ice, meaning it won't run out until the delivery guy gets back, who now shows up only half as often. I was wondering today what they call the double wide machines -- I've been calling them double wides, double whammies, the twins, or just a double. When they break down, I was guessing they're probably called double trouble or terrible twins...

As is seen in the picture, the machine makes a nice presentation. The white color is very clean. This particular design goes way back, so it's built up a lot of goodwill among the buying public. Everyone knows this machine is going to have ice that you won't be ashamed to use. Again, personally I would prefer the single, since that's what I grew up with. The doubles have about twice the size of what I'd like to see. But I don't object to the double on any moral grounds, nor would I have any big objection to buying ice from one, if I bought ice, which I don't usually. I bought some for a picnic years ago, but that's it. Even so, I'd rather buy it from a single, but that's just me. I'm wondering if the demand is really that great, or could it be the ice man is simply greedy?

Be that as it may, at least it's not a triple or a quadruple, so we can be thankful it's only a double.

I'm glad I took the picture of this machine when I did. Because, you might not believe this, my phone went on the fritz soon afterward. For the last few months my camera has been adding a green, weird effect to all pictures. But a week or so ago it started working right again. Then today, a little while after I took the picture above of the first 100 machines, it quit working again.

Evening came and I was out, and I thought I may as well get another 100 under my belt, so I took this closeup of a machine. I wanted to just get the ICE part from the top as a closeup. It wasn't till I got home, then, that I noticed the camera had crapped out again. Those aren't the true colors of the sign. I didn't check it while I was there, because I was worried that the store manager might be wondering why a guy was taking pictures of his ice machine. That's what I thought about the first one I took, too. Since video cameras are extensively in use, there's videos of me taking pictures of ice machines 200 times today alone! After a while, you'd think they'll start wondering what's up with this guy? And maybe the police will set me down for some very earnest questioning.


AN ICE FANTASY:

While I was driving today looking at ice machines, I had a fantasy about some characters from the original Adventures of Superman show from the '50s.

In this fantasy scene, Herb Vigran is of course the boss and John Doucette is the underling, and they're breaking into someone's home to steal a bunch of jewels.

Herb Vigran, in his stern, hard voice says, "I wonder where they keep the ice." John Doucette, in his goofiest voice, replies, "Uh, I think they keep it in the freezer, boss." Herb: "Not that ice, Stupid!" John suddenly remembers why they're there and says, "Oh yeah, the ice!"

I Found A Cool Ice Bag

I was driving in the country yesterday for pleasure, looking to see what I might see. My eyes spied in a field afar a group of deer. I got my binoculars to get a closer look. A buck was standing there, looking good with his masculine rack.

I kept looking -- putting the binoculars to very good use. And then my eyes were drawn to some litter. A litterbug had apparently discarded some trash by the road, then with the wind it had blown into the field.

After the deer were departed, I climbed the fence and ventured across the field, which turned out to be quite a walk -- these were really good binoculars. It reminded me of the first time I saw the Rocky Mountains; you see them from an enormous distance, then you drive toward them but you never actually arrive.

In this case, though, I reached the spot where the litter was -- which turned out to be exactly what I thought it was from a distance (with my really good binoculars ... I could've guided an unskilled hand in heart surgery from my car with just the binoculars and my phone.) The litter turned out to be an ice bag. The very kind of bag you get ice in from an ice machine.

I'm of course now interested in ice machines, trying to work myself up to a fanaticism and expertise on the subject so that someday I might be featured on the Travel channel. So I'm interested naturally in ice bags too. And what demonstrates my fanaticism any more than walking across a huge field to claim an ice bag stuck up against some weeds, being buffeted in the wind?

There was some risk in this undertaking because the field was marked 'No Trespassing,' and the farmer might've caught me -- technically the litter belonged to him. But I made it back to the road OK, so that's a little bit of extraneous karma I'll get to deal with sometime later, doubtless.

Anyway -- as to the bag -- what an interesting specimen it turned out to be! You can see it in the picture, admittedly not as good as being able to see it up close, where you'd be able to thoroughly examine it.

What I notice first is the great illustration, meant, I assume, to convey the sense of coldness. It's a polar bear standing on his back twos and holding a block of ice in his front twos. He's in a very cold land, as is typical for polar bears. There's an igloo in the scene. By the looks of it, the igloo either has a window or its simply missing a block. Perhaps the bear is going to stick the block there (the nice option), or maybe he took the block from there (not so nice) to sell it. The smile on his face doesn't show anything incriminating, in my opinion, so we'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next thing I see is an icy font and a slogan: "ICE WHEN YOU NEED IT!" Like I mentioned the other day, these icy fonts are expected on a bag of ice or an ice machine. I don't have much more to say about it than that. It doesn't take a genius to explain the connection between the font and the product, but if it did, I'd be well equipped to expound upon it in some detail. One genius observation I might make is maybe the bear's plugging the space with a clear piece of ice (a window) because it's 'Ice When He Needs It.'

The part I like best is actually one of the smaller elements, in the upper left corner, a small starburst mortice with the words "PREMIUM ICE." That's good. You're not just getting ordinary frozen water; it's better than that -- it's premium. It might be cubed, crushed, or extra crushed; whatever, it's the good stuff.

This was a great find. And the walk didn't bother me -- I need the exercise. I also got to see some cool deer, including a buck. I only regret that I had to trespass on a guy's field. But look, I was able to liberate an excellent ice bag!

UPDATE: I'm going to leave out the name of the ice company that made this ice and their location. The last thing I want is more competition in this ice fanaticism thing I've got going. And, besides, the ice companies already have all the ice machine groupies they can handle.

The Power Of My Archives

When you have over 1,000 posts on the internet, as I do at this blog, it starts getting interesting. Because you have readers hitting them all the time, things from years ago, and sometimes I wonder how they got to the random post. They go on like residuals, or reruns, or golden oldies.

Approximately 20% of my posts come from the time I was the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement. At that time, I had my own electrical generating plant and my own tire factory. That really struck a chord with people, believe me, and it continues to this day!

You'd think people would have enough tires in their lives, but you couple the fact that people simply like tires with the idea that you can make a fortune off them, of course there's going to be an enduring interest there. So a couple of my most popular posts have to do with making tires, how to get your own tire company up and running. I myself no longer do this, since the Residential Industrial Movement was destroyed. But that doesn't affect my archives. So there's always someone hitting these two posts: "The Black Smoke of Industry" and "My Tire Industry Rolls On."

They want to know how it's done, how to make tires! So they read a little bit and it starts something. Then they often write me for more information, exactly how they would go about starting their own tire factory. I tell them all the same thing, that you better love hard work and long hours. And that you may as well kiss your family goodbye right now, because you're either going to neglect them to do the work, or you're going to lose them in the work. Like if you have the kids helping you, sooner or later they're going to fall into a vat of something, get crushed, or be overcome by toxic fumes. It's an unbelievable story but a true one.

Still, there's hardly any swaying some of these people. Because all they can think of is the big money. They're reasoning that every car needs four tires and one in the trunk, making five. We all know a tire is between $80 and $120, then with all the add-ons -- balancing, alignment, old tire disposal fee, white walls, air spigot, tread polish, miscellaneous service fees, federal and state surcharges, gauges, lug nut snuggies, and even air, which is going up all the time thanks to inflation -- you're looking at an average cost of $500 per tire.

That may sound like big money, and that's as far as the dreamers look, but think, most cars already have five tires. No one's starting from scratch. You're not going to have a car drive in to your factory on nothing but metal rims with an empty trunk. You're going to have to wait for their old set to fizzle out, and in the meantime you're looking at a mountain of inventory and supplier bills you wouldn't believe. Because the fact is, people hardly ever really need a new tire. Real life isn't like NASCAR, where they're changing tires every 20 miles.

OK, putting that one aside -- that gets a lot of hits. But you want to know the biggest search phrases that bring people to my archives? You're not going to believe this. There's two big ones: "If you see a red dog running free" is one of them. I wrote a post on the song "Abergavenny" one time. And ever since then, on a daily basis, there's someone in the world looking for information about that. To me, that's wild, because this isn't a Beatles' song or something extremely popular; it's obscure.

The other big search phrase is a lot more scandalous, and it's this: "undress grandma." Seriously. I just shake my head. Because, believe it or not, there's lots of perverts out there constantly googling for information on how to undress their grandma! I get letters on this too, which I completely ignore, since I have no way of getting a reliable affidavit signed that says they need the information for legitimate purposes. As far as I'm concerned, in the absence of those assurances, to me these people are nothing but perverts. The irony here is that this post today has the phrase in it again and so this will also be a drawing card for that crowd!

Anyway, what's so hard about figuring out how to undress grandma? You do it the same way as any other woman, just perhaps without the same urgency. I hope that's true. I've undressed mine many times -- there's no thrill to it. It's all for purposes of hygiene or changing clothes. Nothing lascivious. I'm like a doctor. And I look away a lot. There's still things I haven't actually seen ... clearly ...

Of course there's grandmas out there who don't have my grandma's hard years on them -- she's 104. You get one of the ones who was pregnant in high school, then her daughter was also pregnant in high school, I guess you could easily have a grandma in her upper 30s. But face it, the grandkid's still got a ways to go, no matter what Freud says, before he's going to be consciously looking for action. By then she's in her '50s ... which, I guess that's not so bad. Still, she's your grandma, for crying out loud! Get a girlfriend your own age!

So I'm not too happy about that traffic. But what can you do? I'd love to put a parental lock (or a grandparental lock) on their computers, but I'm limited in my abilities to do so. I have no ability to do that.

The power of my archives! Everyone should try it. Get your own blog, write a bunch of stuff, and watch the world beat down your door!

The Ice Machine Fanatic

I'm seeing some of the craziest stuff on TV. We've got an infinite number of channels trying to fill an infinite amount of time, so naturally anything goes.

I think it was on yesterday, a show on the Travel channel about the "most unique" McDonald's restaurants. The crazy thing about it was that they featured an expert on unique McDonald's places and things, a guy who's made it his mission in life to visit every McDonald's. He's already been to around 12,000 of them. Of course he has lots of stories to tell, and there was a TV show this one time, at least, that featured him.

He looked normal enough in all the typical things you look for, eyes, head size, etc. But there he is, going nationwide and around the world, looking for the elusive good meal at McDonald's.

It made me think of other fanatics, what I might be able to do to be featured on one of these Discovery-type channels and all their feature stories. Definitely going to McDonald's is now out, thanks to you know who. But you could have a guy who goes to every adult bookstore/movie place in existence. That would make a fascinating study, since you figure there's going to be less and less of them thanks to the internet. Probably the best place to find them would be where truck drivers go, the interstate. And even there, with 3G/4G network cards, we're going to lose a lot of these little pieces of imagined paradise. Anticipated paradise, anyway, although ultimately disappointing.

Just let your mind wander ... there's all kinds of places you could be a fanatic and an expert about. Fast lube places, oil change stations. The biggest drawback would be you don't get your oil changed as often as you eat. Plus it sounds very boring. I was driving around today and saw an ice machine and thought maybe that could be my specialty. Everywhere I go having my picture taken with the ice machine. Then let's say I've got 12,000 visits to ice machines -- and there have to be more ice machines than McDonald's -- and the Travel channel has a story about ice machines, guess who they're going to come to for information. I'd have all the specs, my favorite kind of machines, etc.

One thing that would be interesting in this subject is the "ICE" font they always use. With snow and ice hanging from the letters. I'd love to know how many variations there are on this. It'd be interesting also to know what psychological difference it makes in ice sales to use an icy font.

But what I don't want to happen is, say I go to 6,000 different ice machines, then I hear there's already an ice machine guy who's been to 20,000. And the Travel channel people contact him ... and I'm left out in the cold.

A Plumbing Disaster Last Night

When I go to the basement to do laundry, one thing I don't want to find is standing water on the floor. But, darn it, that's what happened last night.

I walk through a darker part of the room to get to the light switch, and I'm not used to hear sloshing under my feet in the process. So I immediately had a very bad feeling about things when it happened. Right away I knew the night was shot as far as discretionary time went -- time for relaxing.

These things have to be taken care of right now.

I called my Cousin Roto to see if he had any favorite plumbers. His dad was one of the original Roto-Rooter guys in the area, and Roto was obviously named after his work, so, of course, who better to ask? His dad is dead, so there's no getting him. And Roto isn't doing it anymore. But he makes pretty good recommendations, so he told me who he'd call. It turns out now there's about a dozen different "Rooter" companies, so the Roto-Rooter company, when they went to trademark the name, somehow let the "Rooter" part of the name get away. Unless it's a generic word, like "Cola" in Coca-Cola.

I was looking at the names -- and thinking about the ones I didn't see, like if I wanted to be a plumber. Like how come there's not a "Presto Rooter"? But I Googled it and there is a Presto Rooter somewhere. What would be another one? "Rooster Rooter"? That sounds absurd. But I Googled it and there is a Rooster Rooter, in California. Oh my gosh. How about "Mighty Rooter"? You know what -- there's a Mighty Rooter out there too! So it looks like the hardest part about coming up with your own Rooter company might be getting a name. What are the chances that "Super Rooter" is taken? Pretty good, let me see: Yes, there is! Probably about the only ones not taken would be "Wimpy Rooter" or something weak like that. I don't see any. But there's a septic tank service on Wimpy Road in Georgia and a Wimpy's Backhoe Service in Florida.

Anyway, the guy from the Rooter company Roto suggested -- and to be fair, Roto said they're all equally good, at least in theory, since it's a snake thing and a one way pipe -- showed up pretty quickly for a Saturday night. He squeezed in back there in the little space we have and put together his big old snake, letting it do its work, at 400 rpm. He got done and I asked when it was going to go 400 rpm and he said it already had, so that was a big surprise to me. Meaning I'm going to need another clog to see it better... I'll wait.

We had a good conversation, a friendly time. I could see the crack of his ass while he was squeezed in back there sitting. It made me think of a Saturday Night Live skit from decades ago. But I kept looking away, for my own comfort and sanity. All told, though, we had certain things in common, etc., and I was super friendly. I'm always super friendly -- that's just my way. But it pays to be extra super friendly when you've got a guy with your house's plumbing in his hands. And speaking of hands, we had such a friendly time we wanted to shake hands, but since he had sewage on his hands we didn't.

Cold Turkey Leftovers

I was listening to John Lennon's song "Cold Turkey" today: "Cold turkey has got me on the run..."

Today of course is the day for cold turkey, the day after Thanksgiving. But I didn't have any, maybe for the first time ever. Some of the family was over, and I had the foresight to send all the leftovers home with them, thinking how much I hate them, the leftovers, not the family.

It'd be better than nothing if I didn't have any other food. But there's something about turkey that makes it ultra dry as soon as it's been cooked. It's very disgusting stuff.

But I've got a few leftovers today, bits and pieces, snippets of ideas, and stray ideas that I want to get rid of:
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I'm looking for a diner with the lady in white or pink serving hot roast beef sandwiches with mashed potatoes and gravy and happy to see you. I think it's a dying breed, like __________ (whatever).
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Church of the Embittered Shepherd -- "Some wolf bastard stole my sheep!" -- "The end of your search for an embittered church."
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Concrete Football League -- All games played on cement fields for real bone-crunching action. 8 hour games because of constant injuries.
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Doodletron illustrations. Colorful backgrounds with doodles overlaid.
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Overheard on 11/14/2010, a guy on the phone: "Oh man, I just did the front page like an hour ago." Must have been some big news!
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Driving on college campus: Didn't see anyone carrying or waving pennants. Saw lots of gadgets, and a few Gidgets on phones.
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What color was the wood? Wood-colored.
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The worst part about going blind, not being able to see.
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Turkeys these days are nothing like the ones I had when I was a kid. Back then, each of the kids got a wishbone from the old bird, so they were happy.
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Have I ever seen a cute ear? No. Nicely proportioned? Yes, most often known by not being too big.
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The process of dying is tough, but it looks like you get used to death right away.
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Facial hair grows overnight, meaning Santa sleeps a lot!
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Man speaks with forked tongue spooning with daughter, must get knife.
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The heart, of course, is susceptible to heartburn.
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I've Got An Itch Right Here

I'm bugged about itching and scratching. There's way too much of it.

There's a big difference between sleeping and being awake. I hardly ever itch when I'm asleep. It's like at funerals I've been to, the difference between being alive and dead. Others are scratching, but the dead are content.

Just thinking about itching makes me itch, and I've heard others say that too. I have some thoughts about localized and universalized phenomena. When it comes to itching, for me it's localized. There doesn't seem to be a general field of itching. I don't feel other people's itch. Still, just like yawning, if I saw others scratching like crazy, I'd probably start itching too.

One itch I've had for years is itching in the ears. That's very annoying. The ears have a nasty construction, being open yet you're not supposed to mess with them. But how can you not? It looks weird to be scratching your ears in public, but we don't associate them with erogenous zones, so no one thinks anything more about you scratching than how weird it looks. The appearance of an ear itch, for me, is immediate. There's no arc to its appearance. It's just there ... 100 mph.

Then we all know about scalp itch. I haven't got much more to say about it, except it's well addressed by consumer products. I'm thinking about shampoos.

Then, more embarrassing, there's the region where everyone's action takes place. Why that would be itching all the time, I could make some guesses. For one, there's too many folds and creases, and too much rubbing together. Nothing's really nailed down in a permanent place. It might be left, right, center, up, down, big, little, tight, or loose. Then with some exertion, you get perspiration, and it all interacts in a negative way. And it builds on itself, with perspiration accumulating in the surrounding garments, and next, dirt, various leakages and minor soiling from an inability to meticulously clean oneself.

All the nasty regions are so concentrated in that one area, in my opinion, there's no better place in the universe where the conditions are so right for the spontaneous generation of new strains of harmful bacteria. We try to blame it on African monkeys, but I'm not so sure. If you have an itch, you need to get it checked out. And if you happen to scratch, please clean under your fingernails before you shake my hand. The only positive thing about crotch itch is you can reach it in an emergency. The same thing goes for the ear.

The itch that has the worst placement is in the middle of the back. Normal length arms aren't long enough to reach it. So you're left seeking out a pasta stirrer, or getting someone to help you (left, right, up down), or buying a professional backscratcher. For me, the downside to a backscratcher is that it makes it itch again within seconds. So it's best not to scratch your back too well, just touch it enough to take care of the immediate problem. Touch a tree but don't rub too hard.

Time doesn't allow me to get to all the other itches, like the bottom of the foot, the top of the foot, and the tip of the nose. The tip of the nose itch is the worst of these, unless you're dealing with a foot fungus on the others. Because the itch you get on the nose is always some little bacteria that needs to be killed.

It's strange, speaking of bacteria, why we don't get itches in our internal organs. But thank God we don't, because they'd be really tough to scratch.

P.S. -- Happy Thanksgiving!