Last night, during the WSU @ BYU game, I saw this, and I just knew that I would see it today on some football blog, somewhere:
and sure enough, there he was, first thing, in the Curious Index on edsbs.com (that's EveryDayShouldBeSaturday, if you were wondering about the acroynm).
He's obviously had all of the fun that he can stand in this football game, but he got more fun later, as BYU kicked two more field goals to make it 30-6.
But for a while there, it seemed like I might not be watching the games. We turn off our TV not long after the last bowl game, and then turn it back on just in time for the return of college football. But this year, we got a surprise.
We turned the Dish back on on Tuesday or so, but didn't bother to watch it. Then, yesterday afternoon, I finished my "easy" run just in time to watch the kickoff of Sakerlina@Vandy, but I couldn't watch the kickoff of Sakerlina@Vandy, because the Dish Network had done some kind of upgrade to our service, such that I suddenly didn't have ESPN HD - or even plain ol' ESPN.
I made noises of an unpleasant nature, and then Ethel showed up with some guy at Dish Support on the telephone, and she was literally slapping me in on the side of the head while I was trying to figure out where my football was.
Turns out we had to turn the receiver off a couple of times and let it cycle through some sort of weirdness (did Dish partner w/Microsoft?) before the "upgrade" completed and I could watch the game, which was already well into the first quarter.
Which left me to pen this this morning, in leftover frustration:
"If you have the Dish Network, then you'll have an automatic upgrade.
If you have an automatic upgrade, you'll have to reboot your receiver
during the first kickoff.
If you have to reboot during the first kickoff, you'll miss several
minutes of the first game.
If you miss several minutes of the first game, then you will pull over
the next Dish Network service van you see and slap the employee
If you slap a Dish Network employee cross-eyed, you'll go to jail and be
the girlfriend of some big guy named after a Midwestern city.
Don't be a Midwestern city's girlfriend. Get Direct TV now."
Of course, I haven't gotten Direct TV now, because I'm afraid of what other games I might miss. (And I have to admit, the gentleman in the above photo looks like he might be named after a Midwestern city.)
I didn't get Direct TV, because I would have had to get it during the day today, and I had to work during the day today, although for a while it seemed like I was no longer working today.
I'm a member of a pushup instant-messaging club at work; several times a day, one of the ringleaders pops up a chat window with about sixty or so participants, and says "Go Time!" and then we do our pushups and say "Done!"
Well, today, instead of saying "Done", I said "Stick a fork in me". Then I tended to some other items, and went to a noon meeting.;
When I got back from the noon meeting, my boss called me on my cell phone at home - he's on vacation, but he wanted to check on how things were going today. So I told him some problems I'd run into, and he said he'd take a look at 'em, and then he wanted to know if, like, anything was wrong.
Huh? No, not really - everything's okay.
"Well, somebody said that you typed "Stick a fork in me" into a chat window and then disappeared, and some folks thought that you had just quit your job. I told them that that didn't sound like you, but they wanted me to check on you..."
Wow. I didn't know that it was that easy to quit :)
At least they were concerned; given my performance in this job, I would not have been surprised if they had actually breathed a sigh of relief - "whew. Now we don't have to fire him."
Or maybe they were upset because they didn't GET to fire me. Maybe somebody is really looking forward to the satisfaction of firing me - is waiting around my cube with a few pre-folded cardboard boxes, with the get-out-of-here speech already written, and does not want to be cheated out of his fun.
Oh, well. I'm glad to accommodate my management in any way that I can : ) ...so, stick a fork in me !
NOTE: The views expressed on this website/weblog are mine alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of Go Daddy Software, Inc.]
You can't tell it by looking at him, but on the previous hole here at The Legend at Arrowhead Golf Club in Glendale, AZ, Floyd took a 37 - and picked up before he made it to the green.
You have to be a particularly stubborn sort to do something like that. Fortunately, Floyd has a mother who's willing to provide those sorts of genes.
This was a two-dollar hole, meaning that he and I had tied the hole before it, so whoever won this hole won two dollars instead of just one (this is called a "push"). I had knocked two into the creek before it hit the lake, so I was sitting by the green already laying 8 on a Par Five.
Floyd got up close, withing 130 yards of the green, laying 3. A short shot across the lake onto the green would have had him putting for par.
I said to him, I said, "Floyd, look - I'm laying 8, over there. If you lay up off to the left of the green, you won't have to hit over the lake, and you're sure to beat me on this hole."
Floyd chose to ignore the old man's wise advice (more mother-genes) and tried to hit it over the water.
And it went right into the lake.
So he dropped a ball, and now he's laying 5 - the shot into the lake, plus the penalty shot to drop the ball again.
And it went right into the lake.
So he dropped a ball, and now he's laying 7...
...right into the lake.
So he dropped a ball, laying 9 -
so he borrowed a ball from me, and he's laying 11,
...another borrowed ball, and he's laying 13, another, 15, another, 17, another, 19, (somewhere around here, the folks on the tee box behind us starting calling out impatiently) ball, 21, still, 23, again, 25, splash, 27 dribble, 29, plop, 31 slap, 33, bubble, 35, bloop, and he's laying 37...
...and the folks behind us have decided to give up on waving their arms and yelling, and have started to load up the assault rifles (most everybody in Arizona enjoys exercising their 2nd amendment rights - often, on the golf course) and we skedaddle.
A bit over a year ago, Floyd decided to chronicle the time that I took a 15 on the tenth hole at Arizona Traditions in Sun City. He made a pretty map showing each of the 15 shots, because he's just helpful in that sort of way (did I mention that he got half of his chromosomes from his mother? Sometimes, I think he got more than half from her) Intending to give as I had received, I though about doing that, but if I'd done that, it would be a little boring - we'd show three shots leading up to the shore of the lake, and one arrow into the lake with a "x 12" annotation, then a little picture of Floyd running for cover while the guys on the tee box loaded up the artillery and called in for air support.
I am pretty sure that Floyd was trying to recreate the last scene from Tin Cup, where Roy McAvoy blows a lead in the US Open by trying to prove that this one crazy, impossible shot can be made - and he eventually makes it, and - even though he's given up the US Open title - he gets the girl and the beer.
The problem here is that Floyd was only trying to hit the ball 130 yards, which anybody can do anytime, he has no audience except for me, Ethel, and the guys waiting on the tee box, and he's already got the girl.
And I won the two-dollar hole, but it cost me 14 borrowed golf balls.
I often check this page just to see what the Dow is doing. And, today, it looks like it's doing nothing at all.
See that number for the DJIA? See the number for the change? That means that the market has been open for a while, and somehow or other during the ups and downs, I caught it with no change since the opening bell.
Now, a fellow might say that the Dow showing the same value at two different times would be one in a million, since there are seven decimal places there. Another fellow, a little smarter, might say that the odds are much smaller than that, since that 0.00 reflects the change during the day; on any given day, the Dow's change can be in the 10-100 range without ruffling any feathers, so that would make the odds more like 10,000 to one (five digits to play with).
But predestinarians (and Trafalmadorians - the Slaugherhouse-Five Trafalmadorians, who are the only ones that matter) would say that the odds of that happening, and my happening to catch it and notice it at that moment, are 100%.
Predestination is a comforting belief. There are two extreme points of view - the "random chance" folks who just happen to believe that everything just happens, and predestinarian, who basically see that everything has already happened, and that we're just moving along the time track, seeing it play out (sort of like a ride at Disneyland, except I've never been to Disneyland, but I've been on this ride-through-reality for fifty three years now).
There are those who say that folks who believe in predestijnation must not even bother making decisions, since we think that those decisions are already made. They are missing the point; the fact that the decisions were made means that we made them, so there. Nyahh.
It would be nice to just stop making decisions. I'd like to do that - to dump all responsibility and blame (or credit) Fate for the way that things happen. The fact is, that I've been trying to do something very much like that for the lst twenty seven years; so far, no luck.Go ahead. Try it.
I remember St. Cindy in Copperas Cove, TX, telling me that she had read "Doctor, Alcoholic, Addict" (since renamed "Acceptance was the Ansswer") right after she quit drinking. This is a story that presents this notion:
"And acceptance is the answer to all
my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some
person, place, thing, or situation—some fact of my life — unacceptable
to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place,
thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at
this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God’s world by
Cindy was sitting in a rocking chair at her spiritual adivsor's home, and wanted to show how smart she was, and so she said "Well, gee, Betty, I suppose that that means that I could just sit here in this rocking chair and not do anything, and that would be part of God's will, huh?"
Becky said, "Yes, dear. Why don't you try that?"
Cindy said that she tried, really tried, to do that, but that she was up and doing something within ten minutes or so, without even thinking about it - it's like her mind went into a blank spot and she went right ahead and lived her life.
I certainly believe that we are capable of making choices, but I also believe that Somebody has already figured out what those choices will be, and has laid it all out for us.
Maia, my malamute-wolf mix (who's still pooping blood, or bleeding poop, but not nearly as much) is one smart dog. Everybody who knows Maia knows that. You can see that she doesn't just act on instinct (or bowel gas movements, or random numbers, which seems to be the main trigger for the brain of Lucy the World's Dumbest Cocker Spaniel). To quote the hunter in Jurassic Park - "When that one looks at you, you can tell she's working things out".
But if I get up and go into the kitchen and reach up and get one of the Scoobie Snacks off the top of the refrigerator, and say "Maia! Want a scoobie?" that there will be the rattle of claws on tile and the huff of dog panting until Maia is sitting there, waiting for her snack.
Sure, that's a simple case, but I'm a simple guy.
How much more might He know me, than I know Maia?
Anyway, talking about it is only an academic exercise. I reckon that some folks choose to believe in predestination, while others are destined not to.
Ethel has a tendency to push some of her drives off to the right. Especially on Hillcrest's Number 6 - which is out of bounds if one pushes it too far right (which I often do, costing me two strokes plus distance and endangering passing motorists).
This last weekend, she pushed it HIGH and right -
Yep, that's Ethel's ball in the blue spruce. You won't see that very often.
Let me qualify that - you won't see that very often, but you'll see it more at Hillcrest in Durango than you might see it other places. At Hillcrest, they have a lot of *very thick* evergreens. I think I've had two balls go up and not come down this summer.
Those balls disappeared into large, older-growth pines. This is actually a little blue spruce (if you're my age, and you say that phrase a few times, it won't be long until you're singing "It's my little blue spruce, you don't know what I got...") short enough that we could actually reach in and grab the ball. (Ethel was not to stand on top of the golf cart and try to play this where it lie).
But it took me years - decades - to lose a ball in a tree. Ethel's done it in months. The corrolary of this is that it took me decades to realize that I could blame my lost balls on the big pines around me. Ethel's already got that one down, too,.
....who, me? I'm at home alone this weekend. Ethel is in Salt Lake City. Funny that Ethel wants to live in Phoenix, but she's always going to Salt Lake City, whereas I would give up body parts to live in Salt Lake City, but I never get to go there. This is called "fairness". Look it up.
I'm at home alone with two dogs, one of whom (Maia) had surgery last Thursday, so I get to do post-operative care for her. The surgery involved the removal of a 5-inch-circumference tumor ("Id's nod a toomah! Id's nod a toomah at all!") from around her anus.
So this means that she's having to re-learn how to, well, poop, and how to pinch off said poop when poop happens. She is making progress But for many days she simply didn't know how to poop at all, and wasn't aware of when this was happening. This meant that "poop happens" - all over the condo.
And there were also two drains left in her hind end, to drain the blood out from the surgery. So for a week I've had bloody poop. (Which, you have to admit, would be a great name for a rock band.)
I can see the posters - "Bloody Poop in the Condo, opening for Death Cab for Cutie this Friday night! Give it up, Phoenix!"
Fortunately, most of the downstairs is tile. Only my office has carpet, and that has a door. So I can keep Maia out of the office. We've had to put up a temporary dog-blocker on the stairs, because the entire upstairs is carpet. "Bloody Poop in the Condo" can be a rock band, but "Bloody Poop in the Carpet" is a disaster.
Of course, this means that I have to leave the dogs downstairs at night. Which means that they howl and bark, to remind me - "Hey! You left us downstairs! Looks like you forgot something!" So I've tried to sleep on the sofa, which means that I'm surrounded by dog-on-tile noises. It also means that, when I get up to go to the bathroom, I have to turn on the light and navigate the possible bloody-poop land mines.
Ethel ALWAYS picks a great time to go to Salt Lake City.
Oh - and part of post-operative care in this case is hotpacking. Hot-packing her rear end, actually - twice a day, taking a hot towel, and holding it across her backside - across both drain holes and her anus. So I get HOT bloody poop, wet and runny, twice a day. The joys of pet ownership.
She's supposed to be home tomorrow afternoon. When she walks in, I'm handing her a hot wet towel, a mop and a bucket of bleach water.
...are two pieces of the Iceberg Salad at the Ore House Restaurant in Durango.
I've never seen a salad served in pieces before.
Three bites, and it's gone?
And most things at the Ore House are gone pretty quickly, unless one has discipline; the food there is very good. It's probably our favorite restaurant - but it's pretty expensive, so we don't go there very often.
We thought that we were going home tomorrow, but it turns out that Maia had a tumor ("It's nod a toomah!" - reference? anyone? Bueller? Bueller?) and she had major surgery yesterday, and she needs to stay here to see the doc for followups next week.
But Ethel is going to Salt Lake next week, which leaves me here to give Maia her doggie pills, apply hot packs to the surgical site twice a day, and mop up the blood that she is still seeping (Doc says that that seepage is a good thing. Doc doesn't have to clean it up).
Here's a funny thing - for almost all of Maia's life, we've thought that she was half-Malamute and half Golden Retriever, based on what a vet in Park City told us. But the doc here in Durango says no, that dog's part wolf.
All these years folks have been saying "Is that a wolf?" and we'd laugh and say, no, Malamute-Golden mix. And we may very well have been wrong. All along. Again.
During my run this morning, down on Rt 250 north of Durango, I came upon this little rest stop:
I'd like to be invited to the power lunch at the Durango Chamber of Commerce where some businessman brags "Oh, yeah, we're heavy into advertising - I'm sponsoring one-seventh of a Porta-Potty out on 250 near Trimble Road".
First off, I can't see this as "supporting cycling" so much as "supporting pooping", and if you know of any businesses that OPPOSE pooping, I don't want to know about it.
And I can't help but think that, with this kind of scenery, one should install windows in the porta-potty.
When I first saw this, I assumed that it had something to do with the big bicycle races this weekend in the Durango area (Bicycle races::Durango like Wine at dinner::Paris) -but looking at it, that sign seems to be much too permanent to be installed for a single event.
So what, exactly, are these people paying for by sponsoring this roadside convenience? Are they paying one-seventh of the cost of having it pumped out at regular intervals?
Side note - I had a vague suspicion that this porta-potty would be right about where it was today. I even told God so, somewhere during the run out - I said "You know, God, it sure would be nice if there were a porta-potty right near the turnaround point of this run - not at the EXACT point, because that would be too freaky, but somewhere very near. But, of course, I'm not going to ask for that, because then, when it didn't happen, I'd get all uppity".
The portoilet was 1 min and 15 seconds back from my turnaround : )
When I bought the set, I had a driver, a three wood, and a five wood.
I replaced the driver with a Taylor Made.
And yesterday, I destroyed the three wood.
I was having One Of Those Days (tm). Where last weekend, I was hitting my driver 300 yards down the middle, and following up with 220 yards with the three wood, yesterday, I would swing the clubs, and the clubs would do whatever they wanted to do, and they would make the balls do bad things.
Really bad things.
These kinds of things - * Slicing at a 90 degree angle into the water out of bounds. * Duck-hooking the ball directly into the ground to where it makes a WHUMP sound and digs into the turf so that it requires extraction. * Topping the ball - bad enough that once I topped it down into thick grass, and it bounced up and backwards, and I lost 8 inches net. * Slamming into the ground just behind where I'm intending to hit the ball.
That last one really drove me crazy - I'd do three practice swings, and then SLAM! when I was swinging for real. The club would bounce off of the ground and hit up into the ball, which would then roll fifty yards.
On the 17th hole, I did that last one three times in a row - and then lost it and swung the club up into the air and directly down into the ground WHAM at which time the clubhead came off.
SO now I don't have a three wood.
You know, there's a REASON that they call profanity "golf language".
I asked the clubhouse to fix it, but they wanted approximately the same price that I could get a new one from Ebay, which is what I did - now I'm waiting on that club so that I can WHAM it into the ground some more.
The good news is that, even though my golf game is getting a little worse, my running has gotten a LOT worse, so now I'm a better golfer than I am a runner.
In other golf news - Ethel steps up to the tee and swings and the ball goes 150-170 yards down the middle. It's pretty darn amazing.
The bad news is that that means that she's not about to quit, which means that I have to keep playing too.
We came down less than two weeks ago, but we were expecting to go to Mexico. However, I've got job troubles, so we didn't go to Mexico. But, having job troubles, I'm best off in Colorado, where there is no need for me to ever go anywhere during work hours.
Here in New River, our group meets at noon, and our gym is a 15-20 minute drive away . In Purgatory, our group meets in the evening, and the gym is a 3 minute walk.
The big bag on top is the new Christmas Tree that Ethel bought here in the last couple of years, with the golf clubs packed in the tarp on both sides. We have to put all of this stuff on the roof because the girls are going up with us - Lucy we could just put in a box and put the box in an air-tight plastic dry-cleaning bag, but Maia needs more room.
(If you're wondering, yes, the car can get out of the garage with that big bundle on top. Don't know if we'll be able to get into the underground parking with it on there, but I suspect there's more room up there than there is down here.)
If we're going to keep moving dogs and golf clubs back and forth to Purgatory, we will have to have a Thule or Yakima rack. We have a cartop storage unit, but it has to have crossbars on which to mount. We'll have to have someplace to keep the dogs while the golf clubs are in the back of the SUV.
We've never had both dogs up at the condo before. Maia loves it up there, but Lucy's never been. I'm not really in favor of Lucy going up there, because just having Lucy around just makes things seem duller - lights don't shine as bright, the mountains are hazy, IQs actually drop 15-20 points when she's in the room. But Ethel wants her up there, and what Ethel wants, Ethel gets, pretty much.