Ain't no cure for the summer time... weirdness.

It skipped spring and went straight from January to July, which has caused us to use the airconditioner more than usual, so I live in this strangely quiet world with the ever present white noise of fans. I am living in a house piled full of boxes, with lots of my posessions already shipped off to a friend's 2 story garage for storage. My country has gone from the world's leader on human rights, to a frequently cited offender, and the people that followed every dress stain of a President lying about a blow job has no interest in the fact that the current President lied to justify a war. I have served on a church Search Committee, and LulaBell and I continue to deepen our involvement in our church, even as I am embarassed on a daily basis by the conduct of "mainstream" Christians in my country. As conservatives run up debts, F1 ran a race with only 6 cars because Michelin can't make tires.

Blinddog demands pizza and chipmunks, and it's all I can do to keep from spilling my beer.

Then my sister calls, and tells me she's become an ordained, pagan reverend, and she's going to do a wedding ceremony for some friends of hers.

I hope that the Tour de France is good this year. It may be the only "normal" part of summer I can salvage...

Good Advice from the Past

I never had the chance to get close to any of my older relatives except my mother's mother. I used to spend time at her house after school, when my parents were busy, sometimes in the summer, and, once I was old enough, working on things around her house.

Later in life, after my grandfather died, she took on a housekeeping style that could best be described as "cluttered." Her kids weren't real big on showing up and seeing their mom's house a mess (and it was, sometimes, a big mess), and they made this very clear to her. This prompted the best piece of accidental advice anyone ever gave me: "It's my house," she declared, "and if they don't like it, they can kiss my ass!" I was scandalized (or pretended to be) by her language, and we had a good laugh about the fact that "old ladies are not allowed to talk like that."

This came back to me recently, hearing a friend mention her discomfort at people commenting on her appearance. I've spent a big chunk of my life taking criticism for my own appearance. I got teased for my hair being too long, then too short, then too long, as well as for being too trendy, and too "gay." I took crap for dressing too "up tight," too casual, too preppy, too hippy, just plain badly, and, again, "gay." (How my hair and clothes could have run off to be gay without me, I don't know. I always thought we trying to get girls together. I guess we were on different pages... must explain my limited dating success in high school and college...)

The high points (or low points) were the Christmas party I went to with a buddy (dressed up, both with longer hair and thin goatees) where everyone thought we were dating, and the other time, after a party, when a girlfriend told me I needed to cut my hair and dress more "preppy," because I scared her friends. (I retaliated by showing up in a tie-dyed heavy metal shirt, red and green plaid shorts, and workboots the next time... I was mature like that.)

All of this came back to me today, thinking about what this friend mentioned, and then I heard my grandma's voice: "It's my house, and if they don't like it, they can kiss my ass."

Worn Thin

It's Monday, and I'm already worn out. (sigh)

Did an inspection this morning of a house we're looking at buying. It was supposed to be a couple of hours, and it ended up being close to three. Don't get me wrong, it's the best money I've spent in a while, but it was tiring. Inspector found a few routine small things ("extend this gutter, re-grade that area near the house") and a few not so small things. After a lot of worry (and some money) on the deal, it's very frustrating. I was hoping to be hosting all my pals for spaghetti dinners this fall in a new house. Guess we'll have to do some more negotiating, or restart the looking process.

One good thing happened, though, that helps keep things in perspective: Blinddog knocked over the poll and bird house that our little family of wrens is living in out in the herb garden. We knew they had recently nested, and that there were babies inside. Turns out, when it tumbled, 4 baby birds fell out (or crawled out, hard to tell). We were pretty scared, but got them back in (without touching them, of course) with some delicate use of garden tools. We waited, and finally momma bird came back. We've watched for a couple of days, and she's taking things to her babies as usual. Hopefull they will grow and move out soon so I can get a dog-proof poll in place. (grumble grumble grumble)

Momma bird sits on the fence now, when we go outside, and chatters at us. Can't blame her. Blinddog got scolded too (much more immediately after her demolition work), and has been in the, uh, well, the dog house, for a few days. No more "outside alone" priveledges for her!

Flying High

Summer is here (well, sort of), and I am shaking off some of my general state of malaise. Time to bust out the Sammy Hagar, the cold beer and tequila. I got the mountain bike tuned up (finally), and once I get a new middle chain ring on the front, I'll be ready to hit some trails.

My new team won a heck of a game last night over the number one team in our league. Those guys should be a league up from us, and by the end of the night, we had them whining and taking dumb penalties. They have only 3 regular season losses - and 2 are to us. One win for my backup, and good buddy, "Carp," and one win for yours truly. (write up is at HockeyGoalie, my other blog)

Now, if we could just shake this humidity off, I'd be happy. Or at least what approximates happy for a cranky malcontent like me...

And on the lighter side...

Check out Men in Coats

It's a place where everyone fits in, more or less, but where, if you look hard enough, nobody feels really at home.

That's a line from today's NYTimes article on class in fiction (and tv and movies) in America. It's brilliant, and describes so many aspects of life in America today: neighborhood, church, work, family.

Tailgate Politics

Every morning, as I walk from the far, back end of the lot, I notice all the stickers on the various cars, and especially all the pickups: Ignore Your Rights - They'll Go Away, Proud American, Kerry/Edwards, Bush/Cheney, and the ubiquitous, Support Our Troops. This morning, I saw a truck I hadn't seen before (I'm a car guy, I remember your car better than your name). On the back of a little white pickup, a blue magnetic ribbon: Bring the Troops Home.

That's nice, I thought, looking up, further from the ashphalt, what else is there? Veterans for Peace; Honor the Warrior, Not the War.

Bravo, mytery colleague with the little white truck, bravo! You're someone that gets it.

Patriot Smack, or, I am Not a Terrorist!

Just for the record, I am not a terrorist, I have never attempted to build a weapon of mass destruction, nor have I, nor do I, advocate the overthrow of anything, except maybe top 40 radio... but that's another rant.

I mention this so the government knows that I do not pose a threat. I am a normal, muddled, middle class American, who loves his country, even if he doesn't love its government most days. My general state of malaise doesn't rise to the point of presenting a clear and present danger to anything other than my peace of mind and my friends' patience.

I don't recall everything I've read, bought, listened to, and if I did, I probably couldn't always tell you why. I know that I've read "Day of the Jackal" more than once; own 2 different English translations of the Koran; have friends working on sensitive projects for the government; had other friends that were registered socialists; have surfed web sites for militia types, infectious diseases, and nuclear technology; have been known to listen to Public Enemy and Bad Brains; share a hometown with (that idiot) Michael Moore, and voted for Mrs. Ketchup's Husband instead of the Draft Dodger in the last election. Most damning of all, I read the New York Times and Newsweek, and have a thing for Maureen Dowd.

Of course, I grew up in a more or less Christian household; I played sports, went to college, and got slightly better grades than the President (sorry, George, couldn't resist!); I joined the Episcopal church, got married, and hold down a middle class job; I own about a half-dozen Bibles, covering 3 or 4 versions, and have served on a few committees at my church, which I attend weekly; most of my friends are professors, doctors, or computer systems folks; my wife and I are looking at nicer houses and talking about having kids, so I spend a lot of time reading home improvement and health sites; I listen to a lot of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman; I've voted for at least as many Republicans as Democrats; I've read almost everything Tom Clancy and John LeCarre have written, and have looked at Anne Coulter's book (well, ok, just the cover), a bunch of times.

The Republicans, urged on by the White House, are trying to renew and expand the Patriot Act. Under it, they could subpoena my library, internet and bookstore records. They would know who I called, and could authorize themselves to listen in. They could enter my home without my permission, or even a judge's ok, and they would never have to tell me. It would be a crime for my doctor to tell me that they secretly pulled my medical records, and whatever I've said to a medical or psychiatric professional would be fair game for FBI agents to go through and use as they please. There would be no judicial oversight of these "investigations," and if I were deemed a threat, I could be held indefinitely, without access to attorney or trial.

So, just for the record, fellas, you can put me in the "eccentric, but harmless" column. I studied Russian history to fulfill a distribution requirement, wondered if Tom Clancy was right, that you could build a bomb with glasses-making equipment, remember almost none of the French or German I studied, and really didn't want to grow up in Flint with (that jerk!) Michael Moore.

I admit, I still think Maureen Dowd is kinda hot, but Anne Coulter looks better in that bondage gear she wears on her book covers... whatever political statement that makes. ;-)