Does anybody else remember two or three summers ago? The mercury was soaring, the pavement was boiling, hurricanes were aplenty, (wow, that’s a word! MS Word even offers some synonyms for it – copiously, abundantly, in great quantities – keep an eye out for my future blog on synonyms!) and everybody was screaming, “It’s global warming!!!” I didn’t panic then and I’m certainly panicking today! I woke up to a report of “mostly sunny and 50°.” Where’s your global warming now!
First, let me say that I’m not going to argue that we won’t eventually drive ourselves off this tiny rock we call home. I’m just not sold on the global warming thing. Everybody is so quick to look at their immediate surroundings and find long-term conclusions based on their observations. Hey, look, the temperature has changed a little over the last 50 years . . . we’re tearing the planet apart – everybody stop breathing! Never mind the fact that the world has gone through more drastic changes over thousands of years. Haven’t the poles switched once or twice? How do you think the mainstream media would react to that? My theory . . . this is a mostly natural variation in the Earth’s temperature, or more bluntly, it’s the tail end of the most recent ice age.
But what if it is true? What if the polar caps are going to disappear and the seas will rise. Apart from the loss of the polar bear, will anything truly terrible happen? I mean, is anyone really going to miss New York and Los Angeles?
So I will continue to live in my own little bubble, well above sea level and free from fear of the imminent demise of our planet. Of course, I will always continue to fear some much more reasonable things; packs of wild lions roaming the city, mutant machines enslaving the entire population and of course, bioterrorism. (Rob Burns once warned me he found anthrax on his shredded wheat!!!!!)
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
No Entiendo
Understanding is such a fickle companion. She will elude your every grasp for time on end, only to overwhelm you with enlightenment in an instant. How often have I searched for understanding; I’ve studied and read, spoke with one who has met her, yet still found myself wanting?
In college, I struggled through a semester of Calculus III. Each day was a battle to understand what was being presented. After a very poor start, I slowly began to comprehend the logic behind the math. At the end of the year, we were asked to take all the tiny pieces of information that had eluded me and use them in one large problem. All of a sudden, it made sense . . . I could do it!
I have seen this battle taking place in Andrew’s life, too. For months, I would ask him, “What color is this?” Occasionally, he would guess right, but it was usually just that, a guess. “Yellow.” (More accurately, “Yeyyo.”) Patiently, I would correct him, “No, buddy, that’s blue.” Now he names the colors of cars as we walk through a parking lot. He remembers that an elephant is gray (and big and went in the water). He carefully considers the question, “Which M&M do you want, brown or blue?” before making a decision.
So I continue my battle with understanding, trying to learn what is best for my child(ren). Someday I will understand it all . . . yeah, when pigs fly.
And there is an example of understanding swooping down on you like a hawk upon its prey. Unseen and unexpected, I one day found myself understanding the statement, when pigs fly. We were driving down some country road past a piece of American heritage, a family farm. On the other side of a fence, a pig was running. Its large body was rocking back and forth like a teeter-teeter, head, tail, head, tail. Watching this comical sight, my eyes focused on the head. In the violence of the run, the pigs ears were flapping in unison, up, down, up, down. I an instant, understanding had found me. She had taken all doubt and wonder from me; left me with another kind of wonder . . . even in a simple and silly statement, understanding brings a sense of freedom. So that’s what they mean . . . . when pigs fly!
(As a brief aside and shameless self-promotion, here is a link to a story I wrote, titled Understanding.)
In college, I struggled through a semester of Calculus III. Each day was a battle to understand what was being presented. After a very poor start, I slowly began to comprehend the logic behind the math. At the end of the year, we were asked to take all the tiny pieces of information that had eluded me and use them in one large problem. All of a sudden, it made sense . . . I could do it!
I have seen this battle taking place in Andrew’s life, too. For months, I would ask him, “What color is this?” Occasionally, he would guess right, but it was usually just that, a guess. “Yellow.” (More accurately, “Yeyyo.”) Patiently, I would correct him, “No, buddy, that’s blue.” Now he names the colors of cars as we walk through a parking lot. He remembers that an elephant is gray (and big and went in the water). He carefully considers the question, “Which M&M do you want, brown or blue?” before making a decision.
So I continue my battle with understanding, trying to learn what is best for my child(ren). Someday I will understand it all . . . yeah, when pigs fly.
And there is an example of understanding swooping down on you like a hawk upon its prey. Unseen and unexpected, I one day found myself understanding the statement, when pigs fly. We were driving down some country road past a piece of American heritage, a family farm. On the other side of a fence, a pig was running. Its large body was rocking back and forth like a teeter-teeter, head, tail, head, tail. Watching this comical sight, my eyes focused on the head. In the violence of the run, the pigs ears were flapping in unison, up, down, up, down. I an instant, understanding had found me. She had taken all doubt and wonder from me; left me with another kind of wonder . . . even in a simple and silly statement, understanding brings a sense of freedom. So that’s what they mean . . . . when pigs fly!
(As a brief aside and shameless self-promotion, here is a link to a story I wrote, titled Understanding.)
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Most Interesting Man in the World
While the title of today’s blog is tantalizing, those who have been paying attention will know that I could never be talking about myself. Instead, I am referring to my absolute favorite, post-animated frogs marketing alcohol to children, commercial series. You may have heard or seen them; they are for XX, otherwise known as ‘Dos Equis’ beer. The serial commercial chronicles the life and achievements of “the most interesting man in the world.”
Please allow me to take a few moments to revel in a few of my favorites:
The police often question him, just because the find him interesting.
If he were to mail a letter without postage, it would still get there.
His cereal never gets soggy. It sits there, staying crispy, just for him.
His advice on self defense: ‘The right look should suffice.’
If he disagrees with someone, it is because they are wrong.
He is the only person to ever ace a Rorschach Test.
He is . . . the most interesting man in the world.
While I love the humor in these commercial, it is not the reason I will someday sit down and sample a Dos Equis. I have thoroughly enjoyed humor-filled commercials before without falling to their temptations. There is more than humor to appreciate here. Each commercial ends with this sage of wisdom and experience relating to the listener, “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis.”
How thoroughly amazing is that? The brain-trust behind this series understood that for him to truly be that interesting, there was no way he could be tied down to one type of beverage. Obviously, he would occasionally enjoy a hard whiskey, a crisp soda or even a warm glass of milk. But they didn’t stop there. In their infinite and brave insight, they understood that a man of his report would even find himself enjoying their competitors beers. He does, however, prefer Dos Equis.
So it is to this work of marketing genius and artistry that I will one day raise a double crossed bottle to my lips, just to see if I too prefer Dos Equis.
Please allow me to take a few moments to revel in a few of my favorites:
The police often question him, just because the find him interesting.
If he were to mail a letter without postage, it would still get there.
His cereal never gets soggy. It sits there, staying crispy, just for him.
His advice on self defense: ‘The right look should suffice.’
If he disagrees with someone, it is because they are wrong.
He is the only person to ever ace a Rorschach Test.
He is . . . the most interesting man in the world.
While I love the humor in these commercial, it is not the reason I will someday sit down and sample a Dos Equis. I have thoroughly enjoyed humor-filled commercials before without falling to their temptations. There is more than humor to appreciate here. Each commercial ends with this sage of wisdom and experience relating to the listener, “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis.”
How thoroughly amazing is that? The brain-trust behind this series understood that for him to truly be that interesting, there was no way he could be tied down to one type of beverage. Obviously, he would occasionally enjoy a hard whiskey, a crisp soda or even a warm glass of milk. But they didn’t stop there. In their infinite and brave insight, they understood that a man of his report would even find himself enjoying their competitors beers. He does, however, prefer Dos Equis.
So it is to this work of marketing genius and artistry that I will one day raise a double crossed bottle to my lips, just to see if I too prefer Dos Equis.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Commas
As hard nosed as I usually seem and hope to be, I have at times found I have a softer, more civilized side that seeps through at any opportunity I allow. This manifests itself in many ways; through photography, through woodworking, through writing and occasionally (though a part of me is loath to admit it) through poetry. I love seeking attention for the first three of that list, but the last is usually hidden away for only myself, or a select few, to enjoy.
Today is different, though. I have a poem to share. It is not a conventional poem, nor in any way sentimental. I think in style and mode (is that a poetry word?), it should be a perfect fit for the type of information I hope to be disseminating through this blog. But first, a preface.
I was attempting to stay hip amongst my contemporaries by keeping up to date on Facebook. (Yes, I know that Facebook is so May 2009 and to truly be 'in the now', one must Twitter! Not me, though. I'm too stuck in the ways I began all the way back in early August.) In one post, a 'friend,' let's call him Mr. Randy, made a comment about commas, something to the effect of "you can use them anywhere." I was thusly reminded of the poem I hope to share with you (I say hope, knowing you may currently be thinking, "A poem about commas? I wonder what's on my Twitter account!") Having realized that, I will quickly draw this to a conclusion and share what I first promised in reply to Mr. Randy's post. (True to my rebel roots, the poem follows no antiquated form, but rather reads much like a sentence. I guess it is only a poem in name.)
Commas
by Mike Hofner
I, Mike, overuse commas, or those little, hook-shaped, punctuation marks which divide ideas, thoughts, or items in a list, in all my writings, sentences, and even poems, such as this.
(Yes, Mrs. Englishteacherwhoisreadingmyblog, the comma after 'hook-shaped' is wrong. Strangely, while the comma before the second 'or' was necessary when I was a child, it has since become an uncouth usage. But if I corrected what I wrote so many years ago, it would tear at the very essence of the poem. Please don't give me an F!)
Today is different, though. I have a poem to share. It is not a conventional poem, nor in any way sentimental. I think in style and mode (is that a poetry word?), it should be a perfect fit for the type of information I hope to be disseminating through this blog. But first, a preface.
I was attempting to stay hip amongst my contemporaries by keeping up to date on Facebook. (Yes, I know that Facebook is so May 2009 and to truly be 'in the now', one must Twitter! Not me, though. I'm too stuck in the ways I began all the way back in early August.) In one post, a 'friend,' let's call him Mr. Randy, made a comment about commas, something to the effect of "you can use them anywhere." I was thusly reminded of the poem I hope to share with you (I say hope, knowing you may currently be thinking, "A poem about commas? I wonder what's on my Twitter account!") Having realized that, I will quickly draw this to a conclusion and share what I first promised in reply to Mr. Randy's post. (True to my rebel roots, the poem follows no antiquated form, but rather reads much like a sentence. I guess it is only a poem in name.)
Commas
by Mike Hofner
I, Mike, overuse commas, or those little, hook-shaped, punctuation marks which divide ideas, thoughts, or items in a list, in all my writings, sentences, and even poems, such as this.
(Yes, Mrs. Englishteacherwhoisreadingmyblog, the comma after 'hook-shaped' is wrong. Strangely, while the comma before the second 'or' was necessary when I was a child, it has since become an uncouth usage. But if I corrected what I wrote so many years ago, it would tear at the very essence of the poem. Please don't give me an F!)
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Knock Knock
Who’s there?
John.
John who?
John the Baptist.
As I laugh and splash water in her face, my wife once again proves that she is the best.
So many times I find myself short of an explanation when I try to describe what makes my wife so great. I recently heard a song that aptly describes my predicament; “Every time I try to tell you how I feel it comes out ‘I love you.’” But yesterday, as Mollie bravely accepted being the brunt of this joke for the nth time in our 7 years of marriage, I found words to fill out one of the many reasons; again and again she puts up with my favorite jokes.
The ‘ha ha, I’m splashing you with water again’ joke is my favorite actual joke. While it shows great patience on her part to repeatedly partake in my trickery (by the by, occasionally ‘Knock knock’ is followed by ‘Nobody’s home), patiently putting up with my absolutely favorite funny statement shows the patience of saint. When somebody asks how long we’ve been married, I quickly reply, “Oh, it feels like 15 years.” (That joke is decidedly funnier when Mollie is standing right beside me.)
To my credit, I have checked with Mollie to make sure she doesn’t hate my twisted humor. Her acceptance of my ‘humerical’ oddities (and there are many others - like when she finds a friend to join me for free chili after 11 pm when I really need a friend to join me for free chili after 11pm) is one of the reasons she is so great. Why is an elephant big, gray and wrinkled? Because if it were small, white and smooth it would be an aspirin!
While I joke about how I feel, I want nothing more than to be married to Mollie for time untold. She knows that I already have a gift for our 25th anniversary (those who are paying attention will have deduced it is likely small and silly). I have often told her how I look forward to celebrating our 5oth anniversary together. By then, I’ll have to tell people it feels like 110.
John.
John who?
John the Baptist.
As I laugh and splash water in her face, my wife once again proves that she is the best.
So many times I find myself short of an explanation when I try to describe what makes my wife so great. I recently heard a song that aptly describes my predicament; “Every time I try to tell you how I feel it comes out ‘I love you.’” But yesterday, as Mollie bravely accepted being the brunt of this joke for the nth time in our 7 years of marriage, I found words to fill out one of the many reasons; again and again she puts up with my favorite jokes.
The ‘ha ha, I’m splashing you with water again’ joke is my favorite actual joke. While it shows great patience on her part to repeatedly partake in my trickery (by the by, occasionally ‘Knock knock’ is followed by ‘Nobody’s home), patiently putting up with my absolutely favorite funny statement shows the patience of saint. When somebody asks how long we’ve been married, I quickly reply, “Oh, it feels like 15 years.” (That joke is decidedly funnier when Mollie is standing right beside me.)
To my credit, I have checked with Mollie to make sure she doesn’t hate my twisted humor. Her acceptance of my ‘humerical’ oddities (and there are many others - like when she finds a friend to join me for free chili after 11 pm when I really need a friend to join me for free chili after 11pm) is one of the reasons she is so great. Why is an elephant big, gray and wrinkled? Because if it were small, white and smooth it would be an aspirin!
While I joke about how I feel, I want nothing more than to be married to Mollie for time untold. She knows that I already have a gift for our 25th anniversary (those who are paying attention will have deduced it is likely small and silly). I have often told her how I look forward to celebrating our 5oth anniversary together. By then, I’ll have to tell people it feels like 110.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Stairs
While my main writing desire today is another topic, I cannot help but begin with my little girl. As of last night, she is heavier than she was when she was born. She has grown, from a tiny 3 pounds, 15 ounces, all the way to a monstrous 3 pounds, 15.5 ounces. Way to go baby girl!
Now I can move on to the day’s random thoughts.
It has been a very long time since I have fallen down the stairs! I came close a few weeks ago, but regained my balance and survived. Perhaps our stairs are too narrow; perhaps my propensity to fail under gravity’s spiteful force is rooted in my boyhood home, where I rarely used the only stairs, which led to the basement. Whatever the cause, I have a very violent and damaging history of changing elevations in our home. Today, I feel led to share a few of those horrific and traumatizing episodes with you.
Many of my falls have ended without any permanent damage being done to myself or my surroundings. However, a few scars remain. The most obvious one is near the stairs leading to our bedroom. I was casually walking down the stairs when I extended my foot too far beyond the lip of the next stair (that is usually how this happens, though I have been known to swing and miss at the next stair during my ascent, only to sprawl face first upon the carpet). My foot slipped forward, my arms went out and I went down. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I noticed the damage I had done. There upon the wall, in testament to my clumsy feet, my elbow had left its mark – a two inch dent in the plaster. (Quite strangely, I had trouble figuring out what the dent had come from.)
The external scars from my most traumatic fall have faded, but the internal scars remain. Let me begin by saying that I enjoy doing a little woodworking. A small, arched piece of wood that holds three hanging candles has become one of my favorite pieces. However, this piece hides a dark and secret past. I tried a couple of different techniques in bending the wood to create the arch before finding a successful solution (cutting thin strips of wood and gluing them together around a curved form). One unsuccessful method I tried was boiling a semi-thin piece of wood to soften the fibers, then trying to bend it over a form. Wait, what was I talking about . . . oh yeah . . . falling down stairs. Sadly, these two stories are integrally intertwined. I took the large pan of boiling water from the stove and was moving it to my basement workshop. I was walking as carefully as I could, all the while thinking of how my friend had recently managed to pour boiling water all over herself. I seriously did not want to do that!!!
Well, I expect you can follow this story to its conclusion. The patchy, red burn marks have since faded from my chest, but the memory still burns as hotly as the water did that day. Oh how I hate gravity!
Now I can move on to the day’s random thoughts.
It has been a very long time since I have fallen down the stairs! I came close a few weeks ago, but regained my balance and survived. Perhaps our stairs are too narrow; perhaps my propensity to fail under gravity’s spiteful force is rooted in my boyhood home, where I rarely used the only stairs, which led to the basement. Whatever the cause, I have a very violent and damaging history of changing elevations in our home. Today, I feel led to share a few of those horrific and traumatizing episodes with you.
Many of my falls have ended without any permanent damage being done to myself or my surroundings. However, a few scars remain. The most obvious one is near the stairs leading to our bedroom. I was casually walking down the stairs when I extended my foot too far beyond the lip of the next stair (that is usually how this happens, though I have been known to swing and miss at the next stair during my ascent, only to sprawl face first upon the carpet). My foot slipped forward, my arms went out and I went down. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I noticed the damage I had done. There upon the wall, in testament to my clumsy feet, my elbow had left its mark – a two inch dent in the plaster. (Quite strangely, I had trouble figuring out what the dent had come from.)
The external scars from my most traumatic fall have faded, but the internal scars remain. Let me begin by saying that I enjoy doing a little woodworking. A small, arched piece of wood that holds three hanging candles has become one of my favorite pieces. However, this piece hides a dark and secret past. I tried a couple of different techniques in bending the wood to create the arch before finding a successful solution (cutting thin strips of wood and gluing them together around a curved form). One unsuccessful method I tried was boiling a semi-thin piece of wood to soften the fibers, then trying to bend it over a form. Wait, what was I talking about . . . oh yeah . . . falling down stairs. Sadly, these two stories are integrally intertwined. I took the large pan of boiling water from the stove and was moving it to my basement workshop. I was walking as carefully as I could, all the while thinking of how my friend had recently managed to pour boiling water all over herself. I seriously did not want to do that!!!
Well, I expect you can follow this story to its conclusion. The patchy, red burn marks have since faded from my chest, but the memory still burns as hotly as the water did that day. Oh how I hate gravity!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Hostage
I cannot imagine what it would be like to give a child up for adoption!
We left the hospital yesterday. Well, I say we, but what I mean is Mollie, Andrew and I; Annaliese had to stay. She’s not there because she is unwell, but mostly because she is small. Still, we had to leave her, go home, and act for a while as if she was not part of our family. That may be too harsh an explanation. Perhaps it would be better to say that we have to function as a family, knowing that if she were here, everything would be different. How could someone ever permanently give their child away; how could they live like this forever?
So I find myself this morning trying to walk that fine line between the snooze button and getting up early enough to accomplish everything I want to do before work. I know what my routine requires, but I have to guess at the time it will take to drive across town to the hospital, spend enough time with the baby girl so that I don’t feel like I am abandoning her, and still make it to work on time.
Thankfully, work allows that I only have to do this twice a week. Hopefully, I only have to do for one week before the full definition of ‘we’ can come home.
We left the hospital yesterday. Well, I say we, but what I mean is Mollie, Andrew and I; Annaliese had to stay. She’s not there because she is unwell, but mostly because she is small. Still, we had to leave her, go home, and act for a while as if she was not part of our family. That may be too harsh an explanation. Perhaps it would be better to say that we have to function as a family, knowing that if she were here, everything would be different. How could someone ever permanently give their child away; how could they live like this forever?
So I find myself this morning trying to walk that fine line between the snooze button and getting up early enough to accomplish everything I want to do before work. I know what my routine requires, but I have to guess at the time it will take to drive across town to the hospital, spend enough time with the baby girl so that I don’t feel like I am abandoning her, and still make it to work on time.
Thankfully, work allows that I only have to do this twice a week. Hopefully, I only have to do for one week before the full definition of ‘we’ can come home.
Waiting in LineMonday, August 24, 2009
Daddy, What are You Gonna Write Today?
With one and a half days of complete blur behind me, I am reeling as I try to find something to blog about this morning. The obvious choice is the little girl, how cute she is, how well she is learning (you should see her walk and hear her talk. . . . . . . oh wait, that's the boy), but the last three posts have been all about her (with as many tangents as I was able to fit in.) While I am happy to share the occasional family happening, I do not want this blog to become a daily journal. I would much rather broadcast to the world whatever strange and random thought I am currently having. Yet today, my mind is still preoccupied with the family business.
What to do? What to do? I guess I'll have to make something up. (Mike pauses briefly and sets the computer aside. He reaches for his breakfast, a warm helping of Hardee's biscuits and gravy. . . BINGO!)
I love biscuits and gravy!!! It is quite likely my favorite food, though there is one strong competitor for that title. More on that later. Waking up to a warm biscuit, smothered in a peppery gravy, thick with crumbled sausage is one of life's greatest pleasures. For a bargain price, the plate before me is one of the best. It has a rather unique peppery taste that I have not found in other gravies. The best, however, is a home made sausage gravy with a soft, moist biscuit beneath it. (Mike finishes his first serving and begins to contemplate the second . . .)
The main competition for the title of 'best food ever' is lasagna. I like my lasagna simple; noodles, meat, cheese and a little sauce . . . delicious. Of course, there has to be mention of the second runner up . . . tacos. Not fast food tacos, though. Once again, the home made version takes top honors. Tacos filled with too much meat to fit in the shell. Tacos brimming with lettuce and cheese and an all too spicy sauce. I guess that would round out an entire day's worth of meals. Biscuits and gravy for breakfast, tacos for lunch and a tasty lasagna for dinner. The perfect day.
Well, almost perfect. Honorable mention must be given to another fast food favorite. Perfection could not be reached without an afternoon stop at the very rare Taco John's, home of Potato Oles. Now my belly can be full. Now I can sleep content. Until the baby wakes me up . . .
What to do? What to do? I guess I'll have to make something up. (Mike pauses briefly and sets the computer aside. He reaches for his breakfast, a warm helping of Hardee's biscuits and gravy. . . BINGO!)
I love biscuits and gravy!!! It is quite likely my favorite food, though there is one strong competitor for that title. More on that later. Waking up to a warm biscuit, smothered in a peppery gravy, thick with crumbled sausage is one of life's greatest pleasures. For a bargain price, the plate before me is one of the best. It has a rather unique peppery taste that I have not found in other gravies. The best, however, is a home made sausage gravy with a soft, moist biscuit beneath it. (Mike finishes his first serving and begins to contemplate the second . . .)
The main competition for the title of 'best food ever' is lasagna. I like my lasagna simple; noodles, meat, cheese and a little sauce . . . delicious. Of course, there has to be mention of the second runner up . . . tacos. Not fast food tacos, though. Once again, the home made version takes top honors. Tacos filled with too much meat to fit in the shell. Tacos brimming with lettuce and cheese and an all too spicy sauce. I guess that would round out an entire day's worth of meals. Biscuits and gravy for breakfast, tacos for lunch and a tasty lasagna for dinner. The perfect day.
Well, almost perfect. Honorable mention must be given to another fast food favorite. Perfection could not be reached without an afternoon stop at the very rare Taco John's, home of Potato Oles. Now my belly can be full. Now I can sleep content. Until the baby wakes me up . . .
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel Hofner
While waiting, yesterday, for a long hour as the NICU poked and prodded our baby, I was speaking with my mother about writing. I told her that I really enjoy writing something that is free to twist and turn throughout. True to that form, the 'hello world, signed little girl' post I had just finished took most of the whole to get to the true desire of the reader, our baby girl's name.
Today, there will be no (or very little) mindless wandering to keep you from the prize. I will not add in any extra sentences or thoughts that are truly unnecessary to the plot - like this one. Ooh, Mollie just mentioned my picture in the State Fa . . . no, not going to do it . . . here is what you all came for:
Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel Hofner was born on August 22, 2009. She has 10 fingers, 10 toes and all the expected body parts in between. Each of those parts is exceptionally small, totaling only 3 pounds, 15 ounces. She measures 17 3/4 inches. Anna made her early entrance into this world at 4:13 PM and took mere seconds to make her first noise, a small and quiet squawk. She quickly turned pink and scored an 8 on her one minute Apgar test, followed by a 9 on her five minute test. (For those who are unsure of what an Apgar test is, you can read a little here. - Anna scored two on everything but color.)
Like with Andrew, there is a lot of family history in Anna's name. Part of her first name can be found in both my and Mollie's mom's names: Christine Ann and Lou Ann Marie. Elizabeth is Mollie's middle name. Like her brother, Anna has two middle names. This can also be found in Mollie's family tree; her grandfather was Laurnie William True Koenig. The origin of her second middle name requires slightly longer lesson in family history. Ida, Mollie's great-grandmother, chose some of her children's names from books she was reading. (I just spoke to Mollie's grandmother and she said Ida also named children after pastors they had - sorry Shane, John, Barry, Jeff and Sam, we didn't adopt that tradition). Tinúviel is a name from one of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, the Silmarillion. It is found in the story "Of Beren and Luthien," which is one of our favorite stories. Her last name is just something we pulled out of thin air; it has no family history at all . . . . . . .
So there it is. Annaliese has been officially introduced to the world. I know there is a public outcry for pictures. Some have been taken, but I am currently lacking the resources to transfer them to the World Wide Web (or even the comptuer). If you're growing impatient, just imagine that it is the early 1800's and the rider for the pony express is making his way to your town, pictures of Anna being jostled about in his saddle bag. You'll just have to wait.
(By the by, Andrew's two middle names are both from his great-grandfathers, Laurnie William True Koenig and Emery Hofner.)
Today, there will be no (or very little) mindless wandering to keep you from the prize. I will not add in any extra sentences or thoughts that are truly unnecessary to the plot - like this one. Ooh, Mollie just mentioned my picture in the State Fa . . . no, not going to do it . . . here is what you all came for:
Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel Hofner was born on August 22, 2009. She has 10 fingers, 10 toes and all the expected body parts in between. Each of those parts is exceptionally small, totaling only 3 pounds, 15 ounces. She measures 17 3/4 inches. Anna made her early entrance into this world at 4:13 PM and took mere seconds to make her first noise, a small and quiet squawk. She quickly turned pink and scored an 8 on her one minute Apgar test, followed by a 9 on her five minute test. (For those who are unsure of what an Apgar test is, you can read a little here. - Anna scored two on everything but color.)
Like with Andrew, there is a lot of family history in Anna's name. Part of her first name can be found in both my and Mollie's mom's names: Christine Ann and Lou Ann Marie. Elizabeth is Mollie's middle name. Like her brother, Anna has two middle names. This can also be found in Mollie's family tree; her grandfather was Laurnie William True Koenig. The origin of her second middle name requires slightly longer lesson in family history. Ida, Mollie's great-grandmother, chose some of her children's names from books she was reading. (I just spoke to Mollie's grandmother and she said Ida also named children after pastors they had - sorry Shane, John, Barry, Jeff and Sam, we didn't adopt that tradition). Tinúviel is a name from one of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, the Silmarillion. It is found in the story "Of Beren and Luthien," which is one of our favorite stories. Her last name is just something we pulled out of thin air; it has no family history at all . . . . . . .
So there it is. Annaliese has been officially introduced to the world. I know there is a public outcry for pictures. Some have been taken, but I am currently lacking the resources to transfer them to the World Wide Web (or even the comptuer). If you're growing impatient, just imagine that it is the early 1800's and the rider for the pony express is making his way to your town, pictures of Anna being jostled about in his saddle bag. You'll just have to wait.
(By the by, Andrew's two middle names are both from his great-grandfathers, Laurnie William True Koenig and Emery Hofner.)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Michael, Maurya, Andrew and . . .
Andrew was small. In my arms, or more literally in my hands, he felt so miniature and fragile. I can remember marveling that something so tiny could mean so much to me.
When Andrew was born, I was so anxious. I had no idea what to expect. I only knew that he would be leaving his belly abode and coming to stay with us. What that really meant to me and the rest of my life was an unknown. My life was due for some drastic changes, but I had no idea how those changes would truly affect me. That fear of the unknown left me nothing but anxious.
This time was different. I know the changes that are coming, how I will be up late and home early and jumping up at every sound this baby makes, just to be sure she is okay. This time anxiety had left me alone . . . this time was different . . . this time I felt fear.
Having a child early, even earlier than the expected early arrival, left me with so many questions about how everything would work out. But mostly, it left me with a fear that it wouldn't. Then it was time . . . and Mollie was pushing . . . and I was praying . . . and she was here.
Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel Hofner is tiny. She is not just small, like her big brother was; she is truly tiny. We have not been told her length or weight yet, but from the crown of her head to the tip of her chin is only as long as my index finger. She may be tiny, but she is here . . .and she seems to be healthy . . . and all fear has left me. I have a daughter.
When Andrew was born, I was so anxious. I had no idea what to expect. I only knew that he would be leaving his belly abode and coming to stay with us. What that really meant to me and the rest of my life was an unknown. My life was due for some drastic changes, but I had no idea how those changes would truly affect me. That fear of the unknown left me nothing but anxious.
This time was different. I know the changes that are coming, how I will be up late and home early and jumping up at every sound this baby makes, just to be sure she is okay. This time anxiety had left me alone . . . this time was different . . . this time I felt fear.
Having a child early, even earlier than the expected early arrival, left me with so many questions about how everything would work out. But mostly, it left me with a fear that it wouldn't. Then it was time . . . and Mollie was pushing . . . and I was praying . . . and she was here.
Annaliese Elizabeth Tinúviel Hofner is tiny. She is not just small, like her big brother was; she is truly tiny. We have not been told her length or weight yet, but from the crown of her head to the tip of her chin is only as long as my index finger. She may be tiny, but she is here . . .and she seems to be healthy . . . and all fear has left me. I have a daughter.
Two More Weeks
Two weeks from now, we're scheduled to have a new baby in our house. At least, that was the schedule we were on ten hours ago. Then we had an ultrasound. There was something semi-funky on it and another appointment was scheduled for today. We came in and the semi-funky thing was semi-nixed, only to be replaced by another semi-funky thing. While everything else seems to be working properly, our baby girl is small.
She has always been on the small side, but this time her size showed very little increase compared to three weeks ago. The doctor explained that something, and they don't know what, was causing her development and growth to slow. He told us that she would have a better chance if she were allowed to continue growing on the outside.
That statement activated the self-check function in my brain. On the outside . . . what exactly does that mean . . . outside? Outside? Outside! Was he really suggesting that our baby girl needed to be born now? My staggering attention was quickly directed back to his words, which confirmed what I thought I had heard. Our baby wasn't going to be born on her due date; she wasn't going to be born around Labor Day, as we had expected all along; she was going to be born now!
The word 'now' is actually a little strong for the situation. They have started the process of inducing Mollie, which they expect to take from 1-2 days. (Not to worry, that is not 1-2 days of labor. That time frame mostly consists of preparing her body for labor.) But 'now' does imply that the next time we go home, we will have reworked the sleeping arrangements so that none of our family members will have a bed inside another person!
So tonight, I sit here mostly in shock. I have been slow to warm to the idea that we are having a girl . . . I'm going to leave that as typed, but it is nowhere near accurate. More to the point, I am scared that I will not know how to raise a girl, how to protect a girl. With Andrew, I had some inkling of how a boy grows up, having experienced it myself. I understand that most of the dangers that face a boy are ultimately internal decisions. I can teach him about the choices he will face and then hope I have guided him well enough that he will avoid any major pitfalls. With a girl, though, I look to the future and see so many threats that neither she, nor I can control. It scares me. I can teach and teach and teach, but in the end, much of what she potentialy faces is mostly out of our control.
As I type, and then reread the last paragraph, I agree that it succinctly express what I feel, but at the same time, I realize that she and I (and Mollie and even Andrew) will be able to help, guide and protect her. Much of what I fear is actually dependent on her choices, though often times it is a choice of avoidance, rather than what I see as the boy's struggle, the choice of nonparticipation.
In the end, I know that I can only raise her the same way I hope to raise Andrew. I can teach her what is right, I can lead them her put their faith in God, and ultimately, I can step back and watch as she find their own way in the world.
For her, that that journey will begin earlier than we ever expected.
She has always been on the small side, but this time her size showed very little increase compared to three weeks ago. The doctor explained that something, and they don't know what, was causing her development and growth to slow. He told us that she would have a better chance if she were allowed to continue growing on the outside.
That statement activated the self-check function in my brain. On the outside . . . what exactly does that mean . . . outside? Outside? Outside! Was he really suggesting that our baby girl needed to be born now? My staggering attention was quickly directed back to his words, which confirmed what I thought I had heard. Our baby wasn't going to be born on her due date; she wasn't going to be born around Labor Day, as we had expected all along; she was going to be born now!
The word 'now' is actually a little strong for the situation. They have started the process of inducing Mollie, which they expect to take from 1-2 days. (Not to worry, that is not 1-2 days of labor. That time frame mostly consists of preparing her body for labor.) But 'now' does imply that the next time we go home, we will have reworked the sleeping arrangements so that none of our family members will have a bed inside another person!
So tonight, I sit here mostly in shock. I have been slow to warm to the idea that we are having a girl . . . I'm going to leave that as typed, but it is nowhere near accurate. More to the point, I am scared that I will not know how to raise a girl, how to protect a girl. With Andrew, I had some inkling of how a boy grows up, having experienced it myself. I understand that most of the dangers that face a boy are ultimately internal decisions. I can teach him about the choices he will face and then hope I have guided him well enough that he will avoid any major pitfalls. With a girl, though, I look to the future and see so many threats that neither she, nor I can control. It scares me. I can teach and teach and teach, but in the end, much of what she potentialy faces is mostly out of our control.
As I type, and then reread the last paragraph, I agree that it succinctly express what I feel, but at the same time, I realize that she and I (and Mollie and even Andrew) will be able to help, guide and protect her. Much of what I fear is actually dependent on her choices, though often times it is a choice of avoidance, rather than what I see as the boy's struggle, the choice of nonparticipation.
In the end, I know that I can only raise her the same way I hope to raise Andrew. I can teach her what is right, I can lead them her put their faith in God, and ultimately, I can step back and watch as she find their own way in the world.
For her, that that journey will begin earlier than we ever expected.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Too Many Staples
I was in need of some staples at school today. I had recently acquired a newly donated ‘drug rep’ stapler for my classroom (it’s purple, if you care) and was stapling papers for class. (What else would I do with it . . . . well, I could have been using it as an obtrusive tweezers, but I wasn’t . . . I was stapling.) A short jaunt into my work, I ran out of the obligatory staples the tool came with. I suspect the drug company expects they can avoid looking too cheap by including a small . . . what is a row of staples called??? Pardon me while I peruse the internet . . . according to Everything2.com, a row of staples is called a “herringbone series.” So the drug company included a herringbone series of 50 staples, thus leaving me longing and looking for more.
I found a box and was truly amazed to realize that staple packages are neither created for, nor marketed to the individual consumer. The small box I found, which was roughly 4 1/2” x 1 1/8” x 1 5/8”, contained 5,000 staples. How was I to ever need 5,000 staples? Consider this. At a minimum, the typical sane person uses one staple to connect two or more pages. (I say ‘typical sane’ because I have used numerous staples on one piece of paper while creating a battle-ready, rubber band propelled hornet (as named by this seven step, instructional website, which, by the way, left off step 2.5, encase the folded paper in staples). I would theorize (though for reasons that may soon be obvious, I haven’t tested my theory) that an individual staple can be reasonably expected to connect 9 pieces of paper before staples begin to become damaged and ineffective. To justify purchasing 5,000 staples, the aforementioned typical sane person should plan on connecting 10,000 to 45,000 pieces of paper into various packets over their lifetime.
I spent part of my day contemplating why staple producers would have chosen such a gratuitous number. Perhaps they are only marketing to corporate America. Perhaps the creation of staples is so inexpensive, that creating and selling an excess is necessary to turn a profit . . . okay, that doesn’t make sense. My favorite reason accompanies a mental picture. Imagine walking through a store; let’s choose one at random – Staples, looking for some metal bullets for your super-duper paper connector. Aah, there they are, but which package is right for you? 5,000? No, too many. There it is. You reach and pick up a tiny package the size of your thumbnail – 10 staples. Perfect. And the cost is even better - $0.00002.
Of course, life is full of irony. I just finished the budget for next month and went to staple last month’s budget together. Wouldn’t you know it, I’m out of staples.
I found a box and was truly amazed to realize that staple packages are neither created for, nor marketed to the individual consumer. The small box I found, which was roughly 4 1/2” x 1 1/8” x 1 5/8”, contained 5,000 staples. How was I to ever need 5,000 staples? Consider this. At a minimum, the typical sane person uses one staple to connect two or more pages. (I say ‘typical sane’ because I have used numerous staples on one piece of paper while creating a battle-ready, rubber band propelled hornet (as named by this seven step, instructional website, which, by the way, left off step 2.5, encase the folded paper in staples). I would theorize (though for reasons that may soon be obvious, I haven’t tested my theory) that an individual staple can be reasonably expected to connect 9 pieces of paper before staples begin to become damaged and ineffective. To justify purchasing 5,000 staples, the aforementioned typical sane person should plan on connecting 10,000 to 45,000 pieces of paper into various packets over their lifetime.
I spent part of my day contemplating why staple producers would have chosen such a gratuitous number. Perhaps they are only marketing to corporate America. Perhaps the creation of staples is so inexpensive, that creating and selling an excess is necessary to turn a profit . . . okay, that doesn’t make sense. My favorite reason accompanies a mental picture. Imagine walking through a store; let’s choose one at random – Staples, looking for some metal bullets for your super-duper paper connector. Aah, there they are, but which package is right for you? 5,000? No, too many. There it is. You reach and pick up a tiny package the size of your thumbnail – 10 staples. Perfect. And the cost is even better - $0.00002.
Of course, life is full of irony. I just finished the budget for next month and went to staple last month’s budget together. Wouldn’t you know it, I’m out of staples.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A Gentle Rain
A long, long time ago, in a kingdom far, far . . . wait, it was yesterday . . .
I had a very eerie experience yesterday. It was after the tornado sirens had stopped sounding and we were able to walk outside. We had been missed by a decently long way, it turns out but I could tell that something had happened. It wasn't like the last time I walked outside after a tornado. Last time, I saw a shopping cart stall had been moved. Then I saw that another had been knocked over. Still thinking there had only been some strong winds, I then saw a large, rooftop air conditioner lying in the parking lot, followed by the car that had been pushed sideways into another car, later followed by the complete devastation that had worked its way through Springfield's southern end.
That time, the tornado had traveled about 6-8 blocks south of our house. This time, it hit two small towns outside of Springfield.
Like I said, I wasn't near the heart of the problem, but I could tell that something had happened. As I stepped outside, something caught my eye. Flipping over in a free fall, a large piece of cardboard was making its way to the ground. It landed and my eyes roved up again. Something else came drifting down. It was a leaf. There was another, and another, and another. I peered into the depths of the clouds above. From seemingly nowhere and amidst a gentle rain, hundreds of leaves were falling from the sky.
While it was an interesting and unique experience for me, I knew that it likely meant destruction for someone else. Our prayers go out for those who were hit, and I hope that the people of our city will respond as well as they did last time.
I had a very eerie experience yesterday. It was after the tornado sirens had stopped sounding and we were able to walk outside. We had been missed by a decently long way, it turns out but I could tell that something had happened. It wasn't like the last time I walked outside after a tornado. Last time, I saw a shopping cart stall had been moved. Then I saw that another had been knocked over. Still thinking there had only been some strong winds, I then saw a large, rooftop air conditioner lying in the parking lot, followed by the car that had been pushed sideways into another car, later followed by the complete devastation that had worked its way through Springfield's southern end.
That time, the tornado had traveled about 6-8 blocks south of our house. This time, it hit two small towns outside of Springfield.
Like I said, I wasn't near the heart of the problem, but I could tell that something had happened. As I stepped outside, something caught my eye. Flipping over in a free fall, a large piece of cardboard was making its way to the ground. It landed and my eyes roved up again. Something else came drifting down. It was a leaf. There was another, and another, and another. I peered into the depths of the clouds above. From seemingly nowhere and amidst a gentle rain, hundreds of leaves were falling from the sky.
While it was an interesting and unique experience for me, I knew that it likely meant destruction for someone else. Our prayers go out for those who were hit, and I hope that the people of our city will respond as well as they did last time.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
How is it Possible?
Brett Favre is of the best, if not the best, quarterbacks of all time. He has surpassed milestone after record, virtually eliminating Dan Marino from the record books. He has essentially removed Marino from the 'Greatest Ever' conversation by eclipsing those records AND winning multiple (a very late edit - please replace 'multiple' with 'one' - Thanks Scott) Super Bowls.
Then how is it that this stoic image of Green Bay lore has found so much ire from his former (and yes, I do mean former) fans?
To paraphrase Brett from only two or three weeks ago, 'I'm done for good this time.' Perhaps it was the multiple millions of dollars thrown his way, but now he has reneged on that, and worse. Favre has joined Green Bay's hated rival, the Minnesota Vikings. In doing so, Favre managed to insult all of Wisconsin with this gem; "If you're a true Packer fan, you'd understand."
Understand? I'm sure they understand. They can clearly see that Favre is nothing to himself if he is not in the limelight. He doesn't care for the fans he once had. He doesn't care for a legacy that could last forever, untarnished, while he fades quietly into retirement. I can understand loving a game and taking every opportunity to play while one is able, but to repeatedly retire, stay retired and unretire convinces me that he just needs to be seen, to be the center of attention.
I for one am semi-glad to see him back. Yes, my beloved Bears will have to face him again, but that's just one more opportunity for them to grind his self-loving frame into the dirt. (Okay, two opportunities, if his aged body survives until the second meeting.)
As for Green Bay and the insults he poured out upon their fans, I hope they 'forget' to retire his number.
Then how is it that this stoic image of Green Bay lore has found so much ire from his former (and yes, I do mean former) fans?
To paraphrase Brett from only two or three weeks ago, 'I'm done for good this time.' Perhaps it was the multiple millions of dollars thrown his way, but now he has reneged on that, and worse. Favre has joined Green Bay's hated rival, the Minnesota Vikings. In doing so, Favre managed to insult all of Wisconsin with this gem; "If you're a true Packer fan, you'd understand."
Understand? I'm sure they understand. They can clearly see that Favre is nothing to himself if he is not in the limelight. He doesn't care for the fans he once had. He doesn't care for a legacy that could last forever, untarnished, while he fades quietly into retirement. I can understand loving a game and taking every opportunity to play while one is able, but to repeatedly retire, stay retired and unretire convinces me that he just needs to be seen, to be the center of attention.
I for one am semi-glad to see him back. Yes, my beloved Bears will have to face him again, but that's just one more opportunity for them to grind his self-loving frame into the dirt. (Okay, two opportunities, if his aged body survives until the second meeting.)
As for Green Bay and the insults he poured out upon their fans, I hope they 'forget' to retire his number.
Faux Art #23 - Nightmare (In the Realm of the Snake King)
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Faux Art #23 - Nightmare (In the Realm of the Snake King) Created Using Photoshop Distort
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Life is Strange, Art is Stranger
Ask my college friends, I was not a fan of abstract art. I spoke vehemently against its inclusion as a recognized art form. It wasn't that I didn't like it, it's just that I didn't see a point in displaying something some dude made when he accidentally tripped over a can of paint.
Fast forward 10 years. I'm sitting at my computer, trying to learn about Photoshop. I begin to play with filters and discover the liquify setting. Liquify, I come to find, causes your picture to behave as thought it were wet paint; you can smear the paint and move it around with a digital finger. Thus, I created my first abstract art. While I found visual pleasure in this work, my mind still rebelled, saying, "That's not art." Yet, as a creation of my own, it needed to be assimilated into my life, accepted in some way. I had to find a way to satisfy both my love of design, yet sate my distaste for what I consider fake art.
Simply enough, I was able to embrace my new found pastime through a simple title: Faux Art #1 - Water Flowing. My strange art has since been validated as an interesting and likeable medium. I sold Water Flowing at a garage sale, one of the first pictures I ever sold. Mollie will often look over my shoulder at a piece I am working on and say something to the effect of "Wow." (or, "I don't really like that one as much"). Since then, I have created over 25 images in my Faux Art series. It is so strange to have found myself working on the side I had argued against in my (earlier) youth, persuaded to persist only by a simple naming device.
As a brief aside, Art is no stranger . . . he was my barber when I was a kid. (But he did have a handlebar mustache, which is kind of strange.)
Fast forward 10 years. I'm sitting at my computer, trying to learn about Photoshop. I begin to play with filters and discover the liquify setting. Liquify, I come to find, causes your picture to behave as thought it were wet paint; you can smear the paint and move it around with a digital finger. Thus, I created my first abstract art. While I found visual pleasure in this work, my mind still rebelled, saying, "That's not art." Yet, as a creation of my own, it needed to be assimilated into my life, accepted in some way. I had to find a way to satisfy both my love of design, yet sate my distaste for what I consider fake art.
Simply enough, I was able to embrace my new found pastime through a simple title: Faux Art #1 - Water Flowing. My strange art has since been validated as an interesting and likeable medium. I sold Water Flowing at a garage sale, one of the first pictures I ever sold. Mollie will often look over my shoulder at a piece I am working on and say something to the effect of "Wow." (or, "I don't really like that one as much"). Since then, I have created over 25 images in my Faux Art series. It is so strange to have found myself working on the side I had argued against in my (earlier) youth, persuaded to persist only by a simple naming device.
As a brief aside, Art is no stranger . . . he was my barber when I was a kid. (But he did have a handlebar mustache, which is kind of strange.)
Monday, August 17, 2009
Alice Was Wrong
While the buzz from winning at the State Fair is still going strong, the greatest buzz of a teacher's life is coming to an end. Despite the fact that summer does not end until late September, my summer is officially over. And is it just my imagination or is school starting extremely early this year. Perhaps I am wrong in remembering that this dreaded day used to hold off until after Labor Day. Perhaps this is some Communist plot to "sap and impurify our precious bodily fluids." (15 bonus points if you can name the movie!) Whatever it is, I don't like it.
There is a dull, faded silver lining, though. I am only working two days a week for the first half of this year. The other three days, I will be home watching our soon to be new baby girl (surprisingly and perhaps ironically, Labor Day comes up again). Also, on this teacher in-service day, there is the promise of donuts!
As great as those two things are, they are not enough to untaint this day. I will have to make a call to Mr. Cooper, asking him to rewrite some of his lyrics. "School's out for 2/3 of Summer."
There is a dull, faded silver lining, though. I am only working two days a week for the first half of this year. The other three days, I will be home watching our soon to be new baby girl (surprisingly and perhaps ironically, Labor Day comes up again). Also, on this teacher in-service day, there is the promise of donuts!
As great as those two things are, they are not enough to untaint this day. I will have to make a call to Mr. Cooper, asking him to rewrite some of his lyrics. "School's out for 2/3 of Summer."
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A Bit 'O News
First of all, let me begin with an apology to those who read my facebook post of yester eve. I had mentioned that I had some good news to blog about today. Unfortunately, you have had to wait all day for that news, as I was unable to get a bit of html to agree with me this morning, and after church my afternoon was unexpectedly filled with an emergency paintball game. But with further ado, I give you my aforementioned news.
When I entered two pictures in the State Fair this year, I had some vague hope that perhaps a judge would notice one of my pieces and like it enough to give it one of those 'honorable mention' ribbons. Such was my thought as I wandered through the Artisans Building yesterday, viewing the artistic pieces that had been submitted. Just before I came to the amateur photography section, I read a small slip of paper, which had been hung on the wall.
First Place: Not Me
Second Place: Not Me
Third Place: Not Me
Fourth Place: Not Me
It was truly disappointing to discover my great mediocrity in this way. I would much rather have seen my photo hanging on the wall, with no ribbons beside it. At least then I would have been able to revel in the mere fact that my photo was hanging in a gallery, instead of lounging about in a three ring binder.
Still with that distasteful tinge upon my mind, I turned to view some works on another wall. There was my entry in the digital imagery category. Seeing my photo while yet unaware of its fate was all of the experience I had hoped for. But it got better. Hanging beside my picture was a ribbon . . . a blue ribbon. I felt like my wife Mollie acted when got her jersey autographed by her favorite baseball player, Mark Buehrle. She was giddy as a school girl. I was bubbly as a . . . well, what's bubbly . . . a boiling cauldron . . . a hot bath . . . not quite the image I'm going for . . . but the feeling was great!
It is truly strange to think that I won first place in a competition at the Illinois State Fair. I am really looking forward to taking the picture home and hanging it in our house, its prize hanging beside it. But until then, if you have the opportunity to visit our fair, please stop by the Artisans Building and see some of the neat works on display there (but especially mine!). If you cannot make the trip, just keep scrolling. You can see my picture below. (I also found the link to the State Fair competition results page, which you can see here.
When I entered two pictures in the State Fair this year, I had some vague hope that perhaps a judge would notice one of my pieces and like it enough to give it one of those 'honorable mention' ribbons. Such was my thought as I wandered through the Artisans Building yesterday, viewing the artistic pieces that had been submitted. Just before I came to the amateur photography section, I read a small slip of paper, which had been hung on the wall.
First Place: Not Me
Second Place: Not Me
Third Place: Not Me
Fourth Place: Not Me
It was truly disappointing to discover my great mediocrity in this way. I would much rather have seen my photo hanging on the wall, with no ribbons beside it. At least then I would have been able to revel in the mere fact that my photo was hanging in a gallery, instead of lounging about in a three ring binder.
Still with that distasteful tinge upon my mind, I turned to view some works on another wall. There was my entry in the digital imagery category. Seeing my photo while yet unaware of its fate was all of the experience I had hoped for. But it got better. Hanging beside my picture was a ribbon . . . a blue ribbon. I felt like my wife Mollie acted when got her jersey autographed by her favorite baseball player, Mark Buehrle. She was giddy as a school girl. I was bubbly as a . . . well, what's bubbly . . . a boiling cauldron . . . a hot bath . . . not quite the image I'm going for . . . but the feeling was great!
It is truly strange to think that I won first place in a competition at the Illinois State Fair. I am really looking forward to taking the picture home and hanging it in our house, its prize hanging beside it. But until then, if you have the opportunity to visit our fair, please stop by the Artisans Building and see some of the neat works on display there (but especially mine!). If you cannot make the trip, just keep scrolling. You can see my picture below. (I also found the link to the State Fair competition results page, which you can see here.
First PlaceSaturday, August 15, 2009
Go Go White Sox
My son woke us up this morning and, true to what Mollie said last night, I had to get up with him. We got up and were going to play a game on the computer, but it was running slow and he was a little wheezy, so off we went to find his nebulizer. Nebulizing a nearly two year old can be a very daunting task. How many of you can sit still for 15 minutes with something covering your mouth and nose? I knew I needed something I could put on TV to keep his attention. The usual go-to video would be one of his Baby Einstein animal videos, but I am currently burned out on them. What was I to do??? I wandered into my study and perused our collection. I needed something entertaining to me, but that would also hold his interest. I found a perfect marriage of those two factors: The White Sox 2005 World Series DVD. (As a side note, Andrew just came and joined me on my lap. He says "Hi" to everyone.)
I'm going off topic (which may be a good thing), but it is truly amazing watching him grow up. From a few weeks ago when his attempts at jumping actually lifted him about an inch off the ground, to his use of words I had no idea he knew (he recognized and named a camel the other day, which is not an animal I remember seeing in his animal videos), I am repeatedly surprised by his memory, his development and his vocabulary.
Watching him is truly fun. On our way to the zoo yesterday, I was sharing some M&M's with him. I would hold two up and ask him, "Andrew, do you want the green one or the yellow one." Most times when asked, he would turn his eyes from one hand to the other and I could see him contemplating the question - which one do I want? "Green," he would finally reply. "Orange," was always a quick answer when given the option and was never passed over for a different color. There was actually one time when it took him a couple seconds to choose an orange M&M. It was when I held up my hands and asked, "Do you want orange or orange?" He looked from one hand to the other, then looked again, as if to wrap his mind around the fact that something was different, something was wrong. He looked one last time, assimilated the oddity and chose an orange.
My dad has told me the story of how he was watching an infant me as my hands waved about. All of a sudden I stopped and looked at my hands, turning them over slowly. He said tha at that moment, I was realizing that I was in control of these two things that had been previously been unguided in their movements. It is hard to continually realize that so many experiences are completely new for a young child. Being able to watch as Andrew grows, learns and adapts is truly amazing!
I'm going off topic (which may be a good thing), but it is truly amazing watching him grow up. From a few weeks ago when his attempts at jumping actually lifted him about an inch off the ground, to his use of words I had no idea he knew (he recognized and named a camel the other day, which is not an animal I remember seeing in his animal videos), I am repeatedly surprised by his memory, his development and his vocabulary.
Watching him is truly fun. On our way to the zoo yesterday, I was sharing some M&M's with him. I would hold two up and ask him, "Andrew, do you want the green one or the yellow one." Most times when asked, he would turn his eyes from one hand to the other and I could see him contemplating the question - which one do I want? "Green," he would finally reply. "Orange," was always a quick answer when given the option and was never passed over for a different color. There was actually one time when it took him a couple seconds to choose an orange M&M. It was when I held up my hands and asked, "Do you want orange or orange?" He looked from one hand to the other, then looked again, as if to wrap his mind around the fact that something was different, something was wrong. He looked one last time, assimilated the oddity and chose an orange.
My dad has told me the story of how he was watching an infant me as my hands waved about. All of a sudden I stopped and looked at my hands, turning them over slowly. He said tha at that moment, I was realizing that I was in control of these two things that had been previously been unguided in their movements. It is hard to continually realize that so many experiences are completely new for a young child. Being able to watch as Andrew grows, learns and adapts is truly amazing!
Friday, August 14, 2009
Aah, the Zoo
St. Louis is home to one of the greatest and best zoos I have ever been to. I went to the zoo in San Diego, often billed as the best . . . I can agree, for the animals. The animal enclosures were so large, I remember spending most of our day walking from one to another. Added to that, the immense size made it easy for the animals to find a quiet place to hunker down, out of sight of all those rowdy people. Long walks + Few visible animals = Not my favorite.
The zoo in St. Louis, however, has animals you can actually see. Yes, the enclosures are large enough to not be depressing (like the zoo in Springfield, IL - man that place is a downer), but they are designed in a way that the people can see the animals. For example, you can view the tigers from three sides of the enclosure, including one view from above.
Speaking of the zoo, it's getting late. Andrew and I must be going. To paraphrase what is likely my favorite Blues Brothers line, 'It's 106 miles to St. Louis, we have an empty tank of gas, a full pack of diapers, it's light and we're wearing sunscreen. Hit it!'
The zoo in St. Louis, however, has animals you can actually see. Yes, the enclosures are large enough to not be depressing (like the zoo in Springfield, IL - man that place is a downer), but they are designed in a way that the people can see the animals. For example, you can view the tigers from three sides of the enclosure, including one view from above.
Speaking of the zoo, it's getting late. Andrew and I must be going. To paraphrase what is likely my favorite Blues Brothers line, 'It's 106 miles to St. Louis, we have an empty tank of gas, a full pack of diapers, it's light and we're wearing sunscreen. Hit it!'
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Let's Go Go Go Kenny
We all know that Ozzie Guillen is loco . . . is it wearing off on Kenny Williams too? The White Sox have made some huge (and very expensive) pick-ups in recent weeks. First, he traded for Jake Peavy with just minutes remaining before the trading deadline. Then he claimed Alex Rios off waivers from Toronto. That all sounds well and good, but here's the rub . . . Peavy currently has a bum knee (I think it's his knee) and Rios plays outfield, where the Sox have two important bats (Quentin and Dye) and a center fielder who is having a career year in the leadoff spot. A hurt pitcher and a guy you don't really have a spot for??? Kenny must be going nuts!
While I will not argue against the idea that Kenny Williams may not be altogether there, I will point out that both of these acquisitions are signed for a long time! This year, the moves seem mostly crazy, but next year . . . next year Kenny looks like a genius. Podsednik, the guy who's having a career year, can't be expected to perform like this again . . . insert Rios. By next year, Peavy should be near to his previous form, a form which happened to win a Cy Young Award. Just think about this starting rotation: Peavy, Buehrle, Danks, Floyd and some other dude we haven't heard of yet. Kenny might have a little sanity left in him!
Bonus Time! If Ozzie can work his magic, he can fit Rios into the lineup this year. That, and the fact that Peavy is on track to be pitching in the Bigs by the end of the month, the Sox just got a little closer to outlasting Detroit and Minnesota as they make a push for the pennant. If that happens to pan out, then copy and paste the earlier mentioned starting lineup here for a playoff series. I really like how that looks. Kenny Williams, you're my hero!!!!!
Too bad we can't play defense . . . . oh well, the idea was fun while it lasted.
While I will not argue against the idea that Kenny Williams may not be altogether there, I will point out that both of these acquisitions are signed for a long time! This year, the moves seem mostly crazy, but next year . . . next year Kenny looks like a genius. Podsednik, the guy who's having a career year, can't be expected to perform like this again . . . insert Rios. By next year, Peavy should be near to his previous form, a form which happened to win a Cy Young Award. Just think about this starting rotation: Peavy, Buehrle, Danks, Floyd and some other dude we haven't heard of yet. Kenny might have a little sanity left in him!
Bonus Time! If Ozzie can work his magic, he can fit Rios into the lineup this year. That, and the fact that Peavy is on track to be pitching in the Bigs by the end of the month, the Sox just got a little closer to outlasting Detroit and Minnesota as they make a push for the pennant. If that happens to pan out, then copy and paste the earlier mentioned starting lineup here for a playoff series. I really like how that looks. Kenny Williams, you're my hero!!!!!
Too bad we can't play defense . . . . oh well, the idea was fun while it lasted.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
This is Ridiculous
I was going to rave about the start of football season, but for some strange reason, I am getting an 'internal server error' when trying to upload the image that was to accompany 'my sto-ry.' Thus, football is out! In its place . . . . stupid computers!
Do you remember the first time you worked for hours, typing an paper that was likely due in a few short hours, when Zap, it was gone? Your computer decided it hated you and there was nothing you could do about it. (If you need, please take a few seconds to calm down before going on.) . . . (Okay, I'm ready.) Do you remember the second time it happened??? The third?????? Or are you one of those people who actually learned to save their files as they worked? Perhaps you are one of the rare creatures who saves every 5 minutes, backs-up to disk every 10 minutes and e-mails the file to themselves every 20 minutes. Not you? I haven't met that person either. (As if to prove my point, I just got an error message from the 'auto save' feature of blogspot: "! Could not contact Blogger.com. Saving and publishing may fail. Retrying . . ." - Time to copy to a text file!!!)
** We now go to Mike, who's joining us live from in the field. Mike, can you tell us where you are? ** Yeah Ken, I'm standing here in the middle of WordPad. Windows are crashing all around me . . . **
How is it that we have come to rely so heavily upon an inanimate object that so often shows its disdain for us by not functioning as we see fit? Y2K, at the least, showed our fear of losing our computers. People were like, "Oh man, the world's going to end and computers are going to come alive and eat my pet chihuahua and I'm going to miss the first Simpsons episode of the new year!!!" Yeah, it was crazy!
But honestly, I think it would be quite interesting to see our society try to recover from such a devastating loss. Just watch how a person reacts when their cell phone stops cooperating for a few minutes or their e-mail goes down. How do you think they would cope if they had to permanently resort to writing actual letters.
So will our computers ever fail us? I expect they might. Perhaps I will not live to see it (except on a personal level), but I cannot imagine a world in which some element of society, or a society itself, lasts forever. History has shown us as much.
I will leave you with this quote which has been burning in my mind, asking to be typed. It is from Mr. Albert Einstein. He said, "I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."
Do you remember the first time you worked for hours, typing an paper that was likely due in a few short hours, when Zap, it was gone? Your computer decided it hated you and there was nothing you could do about it. (If you need, please take a few seconds to calm down before going on.) . . . (Okay, I'm ready.) Do you remember the second time it happened??? The third?????? Or are you one of those people who actually learned to save their files as they worked? Perhaps you are one of the rare creatures who saves every 5 minutes, backs-up to disk every 10 minutes and e-mails the file to themselves every 20 minutes. Not you? I haven't met that person either. (As if to prove my point, I just got an error message from the 'auto save' feature of blogspot: "! Could not contact Blogger.com. Saving and publishing may fail. Retrying . . ." - Time to copy to a text file!!!)
** We now go to Mike, who's joining us live from in the field. Mike, can you tell us where you are? ** Yeah Ken, I'm standing here in the middle of WordPad. Windows are crashing all around me . . . **
How is it that we have come to rely so heavily upon an inanimate object that so often shows its disdain for us by not functioning as we see fit? Y2K, at the least, showed our fear of losing our computers. People were like, "Oh man, the world's going to end and computers are going to come alive and eat my pet chihuahua and I'm going to miss the first Simpsons episode of the new year!!!" Yeah, it was crazy!
But honestly, I think it would be quite interesting to see our society try to recover from such a devastating loss. Just watch how a person reacts when their cell phone stops cooperating for a few minutes or their e-mail goes down. How do you think they would cope if they had to permanently resort to writing actual letters.
So will our computers ever fail us? I expect they might. Perhaps I will not live to see it (except on a personal level), but I cannot imagine a world in which some element of society, or a society itself, lasts forever. History has shown us as much.
I will leave you with this quote which has been burning in my mind, asking to be typed. It is from Mr. Albert Einstein. He said, "I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Where have you gone, Gary Larson?
There was a rule! You couldn't change your Far Side calendar until it was tomorrow and it wasn't tomorrow until the time you normally would have woken up, had you bothered to go to sleep.
Now there's a new rule. Friday, December 21, 2007 stays on the calendar because it may be the last good Far Side that ever graces my desktop. Mr. Larson has been retired for, what is it, almost 4-5 years now! The 2007 calendar that collects a reminiscent dust upon my desktop was Gary's version of a 'Retirement Sucks' tour. It became the one last thread that I now cling to, as I dream of days past when I could look forward to a new and twisted piece of artistic humor every morning.
I once got a letter from Mr. Larson. I had written him, asking if I could post one of his comics on Pedro's website. ("Two days after it's invention, the rubber band is tested.") For your entertainment pleasure, I will give a snippet of my letter here.
-----
Dated: 5/10/2004
Mr. Larson,
Through extensive research, I have discovered that you do not like people distributing your cartoons on the internet. I have read your letters to various web sites and completely understand your feelings that your cartoons are your children. I have a similar fatherly feeling towards one of my creations, Pedro. Pedro is a rubber band ball I created about five years ago, whom I have grown to love.
It is with the understanding and respect only a father could understand that I ask this question, "Can one of your kids come over and play with my kid?"
If you wish to view Pedro's site before making this decision (a parent should always know who their child's friends are), you can find the address . . .
-----
Not surprisingly, and at my request in lieu of a uninteresting and undignified "NO" response, Mr. Larsen (or at least one of his close associates) was kind enough to send me his absolutely wonderful 'cease and desist' letter! (You can read someone else's copy of the letter here - mine is safely filed away in some currently unknown location).
Yet all that reminiscing leaves me here, still looking at the same comical frame for the last year and a half, still wishing I could open a box and begin anew my comical adventures. Perhaps Mr. Larson needs to take another page from Ozzy's book. Perhaps it's time for a 'Retirement Still Sucks' tour.
Now there's a new rule. Friday, December 21, 2007 stays on the calendar because it may be the last good Far Side that ever graces my desktop. Mr. Larson has been retired for, what is it, almost 4-5 years now! The 2007 calendar that collects a reminiscent dust upon my desktop was Gary's version of a 'Retirement Sucks' tour. It became the one last thread that I now cling to, as I dream of days past when I could look forward to a new and twisted piece of artistic humor every morning.
I once got a letter from Mr. Larson. I had written him, asking if I could post one of his comics on Pedro's website. ("Two days after it's invention, the rubber band is tested.") For your entertainment pleasure, I will give a snippet of my letter here.
-----
Dated: 5/10/2004
Mr. Larson,
Through extensive research, I have discovered that you do not like people distributing your cartoons on the internet. I have read your letters to various web sites and completely understand your feelings that your cartoons are your children. I have a similar fatherly feeling towards one of my creations, Pedro. Pedro is a rubber band ball I created about five years ago, whom I have grown to love.
It is with the understanding and respect only a father could understand that I ask this question, "Can one of your kids come over and play with my kid?"
If you wish to view Pedro's site before making this decision (a parent should always know who their child's friends are), you can find the address . . .
-----
Not surprisingly, and at my request in lieu of a uninteresting and undignified "NO" response, Mr. Larsen (or at least one of his close associates) was kind enough to send me his absolutely wonderful 'cease and desist' letter! (You can read someone else's copy of the letter here - mine is safely filed away in some currently unknown location).
Yet all that reminiscing leaves me here, still looking at the same comical frame for the last year and a half, still wishing I could open a box and begin anew my comical adventures. Perhaps Mr. Larson needs to take another page from Ozzy's book. Perhaps it's time for a 'Retirement Still Sucks' tour.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Birth of the Phoenix
It was a very cold morning. The sun had yet to show over the horizon, but I was already in my car, heading for the dam at Lake Red Rock near Knoxville, Iowa. I had never visited the dam quite so early, but this morning, I had a secret hope; something I hoped to accomplish. I crossed the dam and wound down a few side roads until I reached a small parking lot along the banks of the Des Moines. I parked, grabbed my Jack Bauer bag from the seat beside me, and set out. It was a short walk to the old bridge that now crossed only half of the river. By this time the sky was lightening and out across the river, I could see what I had come for. At the end of the bridge, I took out my camera and screwed it onto my monopod. After a little height adjustments, I was ready. There were eagles here!
I spent hours that frigid morning, watching the eagles swoop to the river, skim the water's top and fly off with a fish writhing in their talons. I snapped off countless photos, always hoping that one of these national symbols would come a little closer. As the morning waned, I noticed an eagle perched in a branch on the near side of the river. Behind him, the sun had risen and showed red through the trees. I moved nearer and waited. I took a few pictures . . . and waited again. I moved around a few times, changing the composition of the bird and the tree and the sun. Then there it was. The sun had risen to the perfect height. The bird sat perched upon the choicest branch. The bridge had been built to the exact height. And I stood there with my camera at the very moment that all these elements came together, silhouetting the bird against the crimson sky. I pointed and clicked and clicked and clicked . . . . and the bird took flight . . . .
I spent hours that frigid morning, watching the eagles swoop to the river, skim the water's top and fly off with a fish writhing in their talons. I snapped off countless photos, always hoping that one of these national symbols would come a little closer. As the morning waned, I noticed an eagle perched in a branch on the near side of the river. Behind him, the sun had risen and showed red through the trees. I moved nearer and waited. I took a few pictures . . . and waited again. I moved around a few times, changing the composition of the bird and the tree and the sun. Then there it was. The sun had risen to the perfect height. The bird sat perched upon the choicest branch. The bridge had been built to the exact height. And I stood there with my camera at the very moment that all these elements came together, silhouetting the bird against the crimson sky. I pointed and clicked and clicked and clicked . . . . and the bird took flight . . . .
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Cows on Venus
Garage sales are great!!! There's nothing quite better (perhaps a slight exaggeration) than finding that perfect thing that you need at a great price. Used, new, some strange combination of the two, garage sales provide ample opportunity to find that perfect thing you've always needed, though you likely just realized its true importance in the master plan of your life. I love getting a great deal. Just yesterday, I saw a small Texas Instrument calculator for $25. No, that's not the great deal . . . it reminded me of a couple of weeks ago when I did find a great deal. It was another TI calculator. Not some dinky, mostly useless one, this was a TI-85 Plus graphing calculator. This baby retails for about $95 dollars! They were asking $1!!!!! But I, a seasoned veteran of the garage sale, was not satisfied with that. I got the calculator, along with $2 dollars worth of things my wife also wanted (dare I say needed), for $2 total. That's right, I got the calculator for free!!!
Which brings me to my main point. People quite often have their priorities quite mixed up! You see, at the same garage sale, there was this neat, little rocket launcher toy that, when controlled by your computer, would turn and fire a rocket. It was probably a $20-$30 toy for which they were asking $5. Strangely, it was not something I needed, like most garage sale finds, but instead, something I only wanted. So I came back at the end of the day and made them an offer I knew they could refuse - $1. Not surprisingly, they said no.
But then I was surprised. Back in the car, my wife pointed out, "Well, you can see where his priorities are." This young man was willing to basically give me a $100 dollar calculator, but he was unwilling to part with his toy at a low price. I guess the main point is that we often miss the true value in things, while assigning too much value to others simply because the entertain us. It makes me wonder how many things (and I know there are many, many, many) I have overvalued in my life. More telling, how many things have I undervalued in lieu them. That's probably something I should work on!
And that's why there will never be cows on Venus.
Which brings me to my main point. People quite often have their priorities quite mixed up! You see, at the same garage sale, there was this neat, little rocket launcher toy that, when controlled by your computer, would turn and fire a rocket. It was probably a $20-$30 toy for which they were asking $5. Strangely, it was not something I needed, like most garage sale finds, but instead, something I only wanted. So I came back at the end of the day and made them an offer I knew they could refuse - $1. Not surprisingly, they said no.
But then I was surprised. Back in the car, my wife pointed out, "Well, you can see where his priorities are." This young man was willing to basically give me a $100 dollar calculator, but he was unwilling to part with his toy at a low price. I guess the main point is that we often miss the true value in things, while assigning too much value to others simply because the entertain us. It makes me wonder how many things (and I know there are many, many, many) I have overvalued in my life. More telling, how many things have I undervalued in lieu them. That's probably something I should work on!
And that's why there will never be cows on Venus.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Good Old Days
How many of you have been around long enough to think of some time in your life as "The Good Old Days?" I may not exactly think about times past in that way, except perhaps in jest, but there are so many memories that are good, and now becoming old! Which memory, you ask, was I specifically struck by this morning? Well, I'll tell you . . . . later.
Gravity is not my friend! You might say that gravity and coexist under a very tense truce. He sits besides me all day long, seeking the perfect opportunity to strike. Often, he toys with my mind with a gentle tug upon some object in my hand. Other times his assault is strong, attacking my very being! It's been a long time since gravity has spitefully pulled me down a flight of stairs, but he did try the other day! The problem with an arch-enemy like gravity is that the conflict is so very one sided; there is very little I can do to threaten, harass or even insult gravity. All I do is threatened by his very existence. I am left at his mercy.
(My sister, on the other hand, has taken the offensive - she builds launch vehicles for Space X. Yet still, all she does in defiance is governed by gravity.
Remember the good old days, way back in college, when you could stay up until the early hours of the morning, then wade through your next day, mostly unaffected? I went to bed at 5:00 this morning. I was woken up at 8:00. Then asked my brain to write.
Man am I tired!
Gravity is not my friend! You might say that gravity and coexist under a very tense truce. He sits besides me all day long, seeking the perfect opportunity to strike. Often, he toys with my mind with a gentle tug upon some object in my hand. Other times his assault is strong, attacking my very being! It's been a long time since gravity has spitefully pulled me down a flight of stairs, but he did try the other day! The problem with an arch-enemy like gravity is that the conflict is so very one sided; there is very little I can do to threaten, harass or even insult gravity. All I do is threatened by his very existence. I am left at his mercy.
(My sister, on the other hand, has taken the offensive - she builds launch vehicles for Space X. Yet still, all she does in defiance is governed by gravity.
Remember the good old days, way back in college, when you could stay up until the early hours of the morning, then wade through your next day, mostly unaffected? I went to bed at 5:00 this morning. I was woken up at 8:00. Then asked my brain to write.
Man am I tired!
Friday, August 7, 2009
I Feel Sorry For Pedro
Samwise, our four year old beagle, used to get daily attention! We would spend puppy and Mike time, chasing a ball (him, not me . . . . well, sometimes me) or sitting on the floor, scratching each other's belly. Then Andrew came along. Now Sam-time has been pushed to the back burner, only occasionally checked when I think it might be getting burned.
Within a month, we will have another knee high creature in our house. Our second child, whose name is being kept under lock and key, will arrive and she will push Andrew to the back burner, while Sam will be removed from the stove, allowed to cool, put in a Tupperware and shelved in the refrigerator. (I hope you're not taking this literally!!! Obviously, we don't have any Tupperware that big!)
Which brings me to Pedro. For those who are unfamiliar, Pedro is my 128 pound rubber band ball. (Pedro's Web Site) He hasn't been fed in over three years. He has been pushed back by Samwise, put in storage for Andrew and will soon be that container in the back of the fridge that we fear to open. All the while, he has sat patiently, enjoying his quiet spot on a small rug beside my desk. He has endured being used as a shelf for my homeless printer. He has watched quietly while Andrew sits upon my lap, stealing the attention that used to be his. So I am left to wonder, with so many others vying for attention, is it time to put the old boy out to pasture? Is it time to send him to the next world via the fiery pyre that has long been prepared for him? Or do I let him sit idly by, as he falls into disrepair, longing for a brief taste of the attention he once had?
Hopefully the latter, or better, is his fate. Perhaps, I will sit and talk with him for just one minute before leaving my study and turning my attention back to those who truly need it.
Within a month, we will have another knee high creature in our house. Our second child, whose name is being kept under lock and key, will arrive and she will push Andrew to the back burner, while Sam will be removed from the stove, allowed to cool, put in a Tupperware and shelved in the refrigerator. (I hope you're not taking this literally!!! Obviously, we don't have any Tupperware that big!)
Which brings me to Pedro. For those who are unfamiliar, Pedro is my 128 pound rubber band ball. (Pedro's Web Site) He hasn't been fed in over three years. He has been pushed back by Samwise, put in storage for Andrew and will soon be that container in the back of the fridge that we fear to open. All the while, he has sat patiently, enjoying his quiet spot on a small rug beside my desk. He has endured being used as a shelf for my homeless printer. He has watched quietly while Andrew sits upon my lap, stealing the attention that used to be his. So I am left to wonder, with so many others vying for attention, is it time to put the old boy out to pasture? Is it time to send him to the next world via the fiery pyre that has long been prepared for him? Or do I let him sit idly by, as he falls into disrepair, longing for a brief taste of the attention he once had?
Hopefully the latter, or better, is his fate. Perhaps, I will sit and talk with him for just one minute before leaving my study and turning my attention back to those who truly need it.
Faux Art 11: Superhero
Created Using Distort in PhotoshopSubmitted to Illinois State Fair
2009 Amateur Digital Imagery Contest
2009 Amateur Digital Imagery Contest
Thursday, August 6, 2009
A Big Day
Tomorrow is a big day for me. Tomorrow, I will enter two of my photos into my first real photography contest, the Illinois State Fair. I've had my pictures in online 'contests' before, but never in anything that really matters. "Really Matters" I say that as if my pictures and whatever happens to them is really important. Not likely!
But some things are truly important!!! Like the fact that I recently realized that I can cut up potato, put a little butter and spices on them, and throw them in the oven to add a side dish to our meals. Now that's really important!
As you might be able to tell, I 'm still not quite sure for what purpose I'm going to use my pulpit to the world. Some days, I may rave about the most recent 'amazing' thing my kid did (today, he pooped in the potty . . . . stuff like that). Other days, I may rant about the . . . . okay, I'm getting bored. Did you realize there's a tv show called "The police women of Broward (can't spell) County." I just saw a commercial . . . looks terrible! Just a heads up.
What I was trying to get at was, I will try to get the two photos I am entering in the Illinois State Fair posted up here in the near future for your viewing pleasure. Keep a sharp eye out!
But some things are truly important!!! Like the fact that I recently realized that I can cut up potato, put a little butter and spices on them, and throw them in the oven to add a side dish to our meals. Now that's really important!
As you might be able to tell, I 'm still not quite sure for what purpose I'm going to use my pulpit to the world. Some days, I may rave about the most recent 'amazing' thing my kid did (today, he pooped in the potty . . . . stuff like that). Other days, I may rant about the . . . . okay, I'm getting bored. Did you realize there's a tv show called "The police women of Broward (can't spell) County." I just saw a commercial . . . looks terrible! Just a heads up.
What I was trying to get at was, I will try to get the two photos I am entering in the Illinois State Fair posted up here in the near future for your viewing pleasure. Keep a sharp eye out!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Look
Way back in the day, my college roommate and I would go on some extremely long rollerblading excursions. Andy and I would strap up our boots and head off into the Cedar Rapids wild. Often, our destination would be 'The Embasy,' a Czechoslovakian . . . um . . . museum??? cultural center??? I guess while I was skating around, speaking in a thick Russian accent, I never really paid attention to what it really was! But that's not the point . . . After one of our 3 hour missions, Andy and I wobbled back to our dorm room and fell, exhausted, onto our couch. We sat there for a couple of minutes, then I said, "Look!" Andy looked over at me as I began to take off my black, fingerless gloves that I wore for blading. And he looked . . . and looked . . . Stopping out of whatever thought I was lost in (or lack of thought), I followed up with this: "I have no idea why I just said that!"
Having no idea what and why I said something was such an historic part of my college existence that I thought I should resuscitate that theme into my life through this generations version of the village rambling idiot . . . a blog.
I have not yet considered whether I shall use my powers for good or evil. I do hope to post a few of my pictures up here and sometimes ramble on too long about the cute thing my kid did, or the completely stupid and meaningless thing I saw, or heard or thought. Other than that . . . . I have no idea why . . .
Having no idea what and why I said something was such an historic part of my college existence that I thought I should resuscitate that theme into my life through this generations version of the village rambling idiot . . . a blog.
I have not yet considered whether I shall use my powers for good or evil. I do hope to post a few of my pictures up here and sometimes ramble on too long about the cute thing my kid did, or the completely stupid and meaningless thing I saw, or heard or thought. Other than that . . . . I have no idea why . . .
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