I want to spread some holiday cheer but I need your help. If you have a post about the holidays, leave a comment or an excerpt below with a link to your post so we can all enjoy it.
Friday, July 29, 2005
" The Red Planet is about to be spectacular!
This month and next, Earth is catching up with Mars in an encounter that will culminate in the closest approach between the two planets in recorded history.
The next time Mars may come this close is in 2287. Due to the way Jupiter's gravity tugs on Mars and perturbs its orbit, astronomers can only be certain that Mars has not come this close to Earth in the Last 5,000 years, but it may be as long as 60,000 years before it happens again.
The encounter will culminate on August 27th whenMars comes to within 34,649,589 miles of Earth andwill be (next to the moon) the brightest object in the night sky. It will attain a magnitude of -2.9and will appear 25.11 arc seconds wide. At a modest75-power magnification
Mars will look as large as the full moon to the naked eye
This month and next, Earth is catching up with Mars in an encounter that will culminate in the closest approach between the two planets in recorded history.
The next time Mars may come this close is in 2287. Due to the way Jupiter's gravity tugs on Mars and perturbs its orbit, astronomers can only be certain that Mars has not come this close to Earth in the Last 5,000 years, but it may be as long as 60,000 years before it happens again.
The encounter will culminate on August 27th whenMars comes to within 34,649,589 miles of Earth andwill be (next to the moon) the brightest object in the night sky. It will attain a magnitude of -2.9and will appear 25.11 arc seconds wide. At a modest75-power magnification
Mars will look as large as the full moon to the naked eye
Mars will be easy to spot. At the beginning of August it will rise in the east at 10p.m.and reach its azimuth at about 3 a.m. "
Two years ago, Mars came closer to earth than any other time in recorded history. This October it will come nearly that close again. Some people have decided to resurrect an email that started two years ago stating that Mars would be as large as the full moon to the naked eye.
Let’s pray this statement is false. If Mars came close enough to earth to appear as large as the full moon, it would be the end of life as we know it. The red planet would alter our orbit and raise monumental tides. The event would change our climate to a point that global warming would look like a minor heat wave.
On Aug 27th 2003 Mars came within 56 million km of earth making it the closest in recorded history but it still only appeared as a bright point of light barely brighter than Venus at a magnitude of -2.9. This October, Mars will come within 69 million km and show at a magnitude of -2.3.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Mr. Duckslayer’s son was married this past weekend.
This was a difficult wedding for me to watch. I’ve known Junior Duckslayer (JD) and his wife since they first began high school. I knew them before they began dating.
Although I was the leader of JD’s small group at our church, I never felt like his mentor or spiritual leader as much as I felt like his peer. That’s because all the guys in the group accepted me as a friend and treated me no differently than they treated each other. I honestly felt that I was unqualified to lead this group and the only reason I took the role of leader is because they asked me to. I still feel that I learned more from them than they learned from me.
When JD was a senior in High School, he befriended Dr. Smellgood who was a Freshman. I noticed an instant change in the Doc’s maturity level. He became more confident and developed leadership skills that I’m not sure I could have taught him on my own. The influence of Mr. and Mrs. Duckslayer had filtered through their son to my own. I consider my family very fortunate to have them in our lives.
JD’s bride is the woman I would have chosen for my own son if I had that choice to make. In fact, the only thing that stopped me from attempting to fix them up years ago was the age difference. She is more beautiful and intelligent than she gives herself credit. I realized her capacity for thought during one of our first conversations. I was talking about a subject that was as difficult to explain as it was to grasp but in a room full of her peers and adults, she was the only one to get it. I was instantly impressed and from then on, if she ever referred to herself as anything less than intelligent I would remind her of that conversation.
Other people’s kids tend to annoy me but there is something about the Duckslayer and Bunnybasher kids that warms my heart. I think it’s the quality of upbringing that shines through.
Good child rearing produces good decision makers and the Duckslayers have been blessed with a son-in-law and daughter-in-law that any parent would envy. Both of their children have chosen very well indeed.
Mr. Duckslayer asked what the highlight of the wedding was for me and I was hard pressed to come up with an honest answer on the spot. I told him I would have to think about it and write it down. So here it is:
The ceremony was touching; especially the time spent praying for the groom beforehand and the reception was an awesome time, punctuated by the groom singing to his new bride but now that all is said and done, I have to say that the one thing that sticks with me is the warmth found in the Duckslayer family.
I met Mr. Duckslayer's Mother, Father, and brothers for the first time this weekend. They treated me like family just because I’m a friend of their brother’s. This is a big deal because I’ve not seen much of my own parents and siblings in the last 20 years and I begin to miss that feeling of unconditional acceptance.
Another highlight was the opportunity to visit, albeit too briefly, with The Chasms. Every time I see these two, I feel closer to them. In fact, when we parted for the last time on this visit I avoided the handshake and hug that I would have normally offered when saying goodbye. I was afraid I might not hold onto my composure...It’s like saying goodbye to my own kids. I regret that decision, however, because in trying to cut back on emotion, I feel I may have appeared aloof. I prefer to act as if I’ll be seeing them again tomorrow.
The Muzikdudes are the relative (no pun) newcomers in this group of family and friends. The Bunnybashers and Duckslayers have been friends for many, many years and are truly family to each other but that hasn’t hindered the closeness of our relationship with them. Their arms are always open to my family and we always feel welcomed. They make us feel like we belong with them.
Yeah, this wedding was difficult for me but great at the same time. I hate to see how I’ll react when my own kids get married...I know I’ll be a wreck. I prefer not to think about it.
So, in answer to Mr. Duckslayer's question; the highlight of the wedding went beyond the ceremony or reception; it went all the way to my heart.
This was a difficult wedding for me to watch. I’ve known Junior Duckslayer (JD) and his wife since they first began high school. I knew them before they began dating.
Although I was the leader of JD’s small group at our church, I never felt like his mentor or spiritual leader as much as I felt like his peer. That’s because all the guys in the group accepted me as a friend and treated me no differently than they treated each other. I honestly felt that I was unqualified to lead this group and the only reason I took the role of leader is because they asked me to. I still feel that I learned more from them than they learned from me.
When JD was a senior in High School, he befriended Dr. Smellgood who was a Freshman. I noticed an instant change in the Doc’s maturity level. He became more confident and developed leadership skills that I’m not sure I could have taught him on my own. The influence of Mr. and Mrs. Duckslayer had filtered through their son to my own. I consider my family very fortunate to have them in our lives.
JD’s bride is the woman I would have chosen for my own son if I had that choice to make. In fact, the only thing that stopped me from attempting to fix them up years ago was the age difference. She is more beautiful and intelligent than she gives herself credit. I realized her capacity for thought during one of our first conversations. I was talking about a subject that was as difficult to explain as it was to grasp but in a room full of her peers and adults, she was the only one to get it. I was instantly impressed and from then on, if she ever referred to herself as anything less than intelligent I would remind her of that conversation.
Other people’s kids tend to annoy me but there is something about the Duckslayer and Bunnybasher kids that warms my heart. I think it’s the quality of upbringing that shines through.
Good child rearing produces good decision makers and the Duckslayers have been blessed with a son-in-law and daughter-in-law that any parent would envy. Both of their children have chosen very well indeed.
Mr. Duckslayer asked what the highlight of the wedding was for me and I was hard pressed to come up with an honest answer on the spot. I told him I would have to think about it and write it down. So here it is:
The ceremony was touching; especially the time spent praying for the groom beforehand and the reception was an awesome time, punctuated by the groom singing to his new bride but now that all is said and done, I have to say that the one thing that sticks with me is the warmth found in the Duckslayer family.
I met Mr. Duckslayer's Mother, Father, and brothers for the first time this weekend. They treated me like family just because I’m a friend of their brother’s. This is a big deal because I’ve not seen much of my own parents and siblings in the last 20 years and I begin to miss that feeling of unconditional acceptance.
Another highlight was the opportunity to visit, albeit too briefly, with The Chasms. Every time I see these two, I feel closer to them. In fact, when we parted for the last time on this visit I avoided the handshake and hug that I would have normally offered when saying goodbye. I was afraid I might not hold onto my composure...It’s like saying goodbye to my own kids. I regret that decision, however, because in trying to cut back on emotion, I feel I may have appeared aloof. I prefer to act as if I’ll be seeing them again tomorrow.
The Muzikdudes are the relative (no pun) newcomers in this group of family and friends. The Bunnybashers and Duckslayers have been friends for many, many years and are truly family to each other but that hasn’t hindered the closeness of our relationship with them. Their arms are always open to my family and we always feel welcomed. They make us feel like we belong with them.
Yeah, this wedding was difficult for me but great at the same time. I hate to see how I’ll react when my own kids get married...I know I’ll be a wreck. I prefer not to think about it.
So, in answer to Mr. Duckslayer's question; the highlight of the wedding went beyond the ceremony or reception; it went all the way to my heart.
The Sound of Muzik is becoming a weekly post rather than a daily post.
It isn’t intentional and I definitely have enough to talk about but I don’t have a computer right now and I don’t want to post from work. I’ve received permission to use a computer at the church but I’m not there every day and when I do log on to make a post, I don’t want to use their bandwidth spending hours on other blogs.
…and that’s why you haven’t seen me.
I plan to post a couple times per week until I’m back on my technological feet so please bear with me.
It isn’t intentional and I definitely have enough to talk about but I don’t have a computer right now and I don’t want to post from work. I’ve received permission to use a computer at the church but I’m not there every day and when I do log on to make a post, I don’t want to use their bandwidth spending hours on other blogs.
…and that’s why you haven’t seen me.
I plan to post a couple times per week until I’m back on my technological feet so please bear with me.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
As I’ve already stated, the multi family camping trip is an annual excursion.
Most of us are fine with the way things are and require little change to keep the trip exciting but last year, the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers decided to become the proverbial Jones’ with which everyone else would need to keep up.
While we all used to camp in tents, last year found the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers with a pop-up camper in tow. They were sure to park their accommodations on the most elevated position of the site so they could flaunt their socioeconomic standing over the mere peasants below. It didn’t matter that their trailer was raised off the ground…they still forced the rest of us to camp in the flood plain because our social place was at the bottom of the hill.
As poetic justice would have it, the Muzikdude family owns a tent (that sprawls out over at least 20% more square footage than the rolling wannabes on the hill) and we didn’t have to share our abode with another family. They way I see it, the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers represent, not the higher social class, but the housing project of the campground. For all we know, they decided to move into the same domicile to keep the welfare checks coming. Furthermore, the trailer they camp in is borrowed. At least I own my tent outright. Nonetheless, I refuse to look down my nose at them. Everyone has their problems and some of us choose to build a façade of faux luxury so others may not notice our actual situation.
This year, we pulled into the campground to find someone already occupying one of the three campsites we had reserved. They couldn’t possibly be part of our group because they were living in a monstrosity that resembled a tour bus. I double checked to make sure the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers were still in front of us towing a pop-up camper and they were…so what rock star parked a motor home on our campsite?
Apparently, we had invited Paris and Nikki to the camping trip. The door of the bus opened, stairs automatically descended from the undercarriage, and red carpet unrolled to make a path fit for royalty. Our friend, The Techno Pimp (henceforth referred to as “Paris”) emerged through a cloud of mist that was created from the conditioned air of the coach meeting the warm outside air. The change in temperature was so drastic we heard a small clap of thunder that seemed to ordain Paris and Nikki’s position above the rest of us.
Paris wore a silk smoking jacket and clenched in his teeth a meerschaum pipe carved with the likeness of his favorite hunting dog. He spoke with a British accent. “Welcome to my wilderness.” He said in a haughty voice while directing our attention to all of creation by turning in a full circle with arms spread ending in a self-embrace. Then he took a deep breath through his nose flaring his nostrils like a racehorse after a lap around the track. “I love being me” he stated in a manner that transcends pomp. I thought he might take flight.
Whatever, Paris.
I found my spot in the flood plain at the bottom of the hill because I knew the pop-up would require the next available location of high terrain and asked Dr. Smellgood to clear the area of large rocks. Paris mocked us and felt a need to mention he only had to push a button to level his mansion.
Thanks, Paris.
I almost handed Dr. Smellgood a shovel to start digging a basement but I refrained from playing the one-upper game that was afoot. Instead, we staked our claim in the drainage ditch with the leeches and flies and tried to make the best of the algae and mold.
Paris watched from a Queen Anne wingback with his feet on an ottoman (or quite possibly a servant’s back) as if he were watching his favorite sitcom. He sipped brandy and smoked cigars. Occasionally, he laughed or applauded.
Mrs. Techno Pimp (henceforth referred to as “Nikki”) is much more humble than Paris, but not charitable enough to offer their extra bed to Mrs. Muzikdude and myself. I understand, however, that Nikki didn’t want to contribute to the declining value of property in an otherwise decent neighborhood by creating another housing project. Urban America had just raised the roof on their pop-up right next to the suburbs and I don’t blame Nikki for taking a stand. We have to establish the “right” side of the tracks from the “erong side of the tracks and we must fight to maintain those boundaries. In fact, I believe I caught Paris in the bus with his laptop and GPS software plotting a railroad between his rolling home and the pop-up next door. I can’t be sure, however.
Once I had established a homestead, Paris trotted over in his fuzzy slippers to ask (condescendingly) if I wanted to see the accommodations in which he would be spending his weekend. I said “you suck” and we headed over to his place.
We walked through the English garden, meandered across the courtyard, and finally arrived at his front door where he offered me a beer. I was relieved to find his cooler stocked with Colorado micro-brews as opposed to snooty Bavarian bocks or pretentious Barleywines and my faith in mankind’s humbleness was about to be restored. I pulled a beer from the cooler and headed to the front door of the motor home to use the bottle opener. That was a defining moment. This motor home had no bottle opener mounted next to the door…what kind of motor home doesn’t have a bottle opener mounted next to the door? I laughed at Paris as he headed up the stairs to fetch an opener. He hung his head in shame declaring the missing accessory as the buses only flaw. I suddenly had a better attitude about touring the spectacle of the campground.
Paris quickly regained composure and sounded like Robin Leach as he showed me the sunken tub and real toilet with flushing action…I was impressed. His laptop sat on the console next to the driver’s seat with a GPS uplink. The screen displayed the campsite in three-dimensional topography. Paris had apparently flown in on instruments.
Paris started the generator so I could enjoy my visit in air-conditioned comfort while listening to music pumped through the stereo system in which he had tapped his iPod. The generator was barely audible so one could watch DVDs or play games on the X-Box without distraction. The generator also ran very smoothly, which prevented the bottles in the wine cellar from rattling against one another.
We sat at the table in the dining room discussing the technical advancements of portable living and watched the inhabitants of the housing projects across town through one-way glass. For a fleeting moment, I felt at home on the hill with the upper class.
Next year, I plan to put my 20 years of construction experience to good use. I will bring nothing but logs and build a cabin on a hill instead of a tent in a pit.
I may even dig a moat. If Paris is lucky, I might let him park in my driveway.
Most of us are fine with the way things are and require little change to keep the trip exciting but last year, the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers decided to become the proverbial Jones’ with which everyone else would need to keep up.
While we all used to camp in tents, last year found the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers with a pop-up camper in tow. They were sure to park their accommodations on the most elevated position of the site so they could flaunt their socioeconomic standing over the mere peasants below. It didn’t matter that their trailer was raised off the ground…they still forced the rest of us to camp in the flood plain because our social place was at the bottom of the hill.
As poetic justice would have it, the Muzikdude family owns a tent (that sprawls out over at least 20% more square footage than the rolling wannabes on the hill) and we didn’t have to share our abode with another family. They way I see it, the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers represent, not the higher social class, but the housing project of the campground. For all we know, they decided to move into the same domicile to keep the welfare checks coming. Furthermore, the trailer they camp in is borrowed. At least I own my tent outright. Nonetheless, I refuse to look down my nose at them. Everyone has their problems and some of us choose to build a façade of faux luxury so others may not notice our actual situation.
This year, we pulled into the campground to find someone already occupying one of the three campsites we had reserved. They couldn’t possibly be part of our group because they were living in a monstrosity that resembled a tour bus. I double checked to make sure the Bunnybashers and Duckslayers were still in front of us towing a pop-up camper and they were…so what rock star parked a motor home on our campsite?
Apparently, we had invited Paris and Nikki to the camping trip. The door of the bus opened, stairs automatically descended from the undercarriage, and red carpet unrolled to make a path fit for royalty. Our friend, The Techno Pimp (henceforth referred to as “Paris”) emerged through a cloud of mist that was created from the conditioned air of the coach meeting the warm outside air. The change in temperature was so drastic we heard a small clap of thunder that seemed to ordain Paris and Nikki’s position above the rest of us.
Paris wore a silk smoking jacket and clenched in his teeth a meerschaum pipe carved with the likeness of his favorite hunting dog. He spoke with a British accent. “Welcome to my wilderness.” He said in a haughty voice while directing our attention to all of creation by turning in a full circle with arms spread ending in a self-embrace. Then he took a deep breath through his nose flaring his nostrils like a racehorse after a lap around the track. “I love being me” he stated in a manner that transcends pomp. I thought he might take flight.
Whatever, Paris.
I found my spot in the flood plain at the bottom of the hill because I knew the pop-up would require the next available location of high terrain and asked Dr. Smellgood to clear the area of large rocks. Paris mocked us and felt a need to mention he only had to push a button to level his mansion.
Thanks, Paris.
I almost handed Dr. Smellgood a shovel to start digging a basement but I refrained from playing the one-upper game that was afoot. Instead, we staked our claim in the drainage ditch with the leeches and flies and tried to make the best of the algae and mold.
Paris watched from a Queen Anne wingback with his feet on an ottoman (or quite possibly a servant’s back) as if he were watching his favorite sitcom. He sipped brandy and smoked cigars. Occasionally, he laughed or applauded.
Mrs. Techno Pimp (henceforth referred to as “Nikki”) is much more humble than Paris, but not charitable enough to offer their extra bed to Mrs. Muzikdude and myself. I understand, however, that Nikki didn’t want to contribute to the declining value of property in an otherwise decent neighborhood by creating another housing project. Urban America had just raised the roof on their pop-up right next to the suburbs and I don’t blame Nikki for taking a stand. We have to establish the “right” side of the tracks from the “erong side of the tracks and we must fight to maintain those boundaries. In fact, I believe I caught Paris in the bus with his laptop and GPS software plotting a railroad between his rolling home and the pop-up next door. I can’t be sure, however.
Once I had established a homestead, Paris trotted over in his fuzzy slippers to ask (condescendingly) if I wanted to see the accommodations in which he would be spending his weekend. I said “you suck” and we headed over to his place.
We walked through the English garden, meandered across the courtyard, and finally arrived at his front door where he offered me a beer. I was relieved to find his cooler stocked with Colorado micro-brews as opposed to snooty Bavarian bocks or pretentious Barleywines and my faith in mankind’s humbleness was about to be restored. I pulled a beer from the cooler and headed to the front door of the motor home to use the bottle opener. That was a defining moment. This motor home had no bottle opener mounted next to the door…what kind of motor home doesn’t have a bottle opener mounted next to the door? I laughed at Paris as he headed up the stairs to fetch an opener. He hung his head in shame declaring the missing accessory as the buses only flaw. I suddenly had a better attitude about touring the spectacle of the campground.
Paris quickly regained composure and sounded like Robin Leach as he showed me the sunken tub and real toilet with flushing action…I was impressed. His laptop sat on the console next to the driver’s seat with a GPS uplink. The screen displayed the campsite in three-dimensional topography. Paris had apparently flown in on instruments.
Paris started the generator so I could enjoy my visit in air-conditioned comfort while listening to music pumped through the stereo system in which he had tapped his iPod. The generator was barely audible so one could watch DVDs or play games on the X-Box without distraction. The generator also ran very smoothly, which prevented the bottles in the wine cellar from rattling against one another.
We sat at the table in the dining room discussing the technical advancements of portable living and watched the inhabitants of the housing projects across town through one-way glass. For a fleeting moment, I felt at home on the hill with the upper class.
Next year, I plan to put my 20 years of construction experience to good use. I will bring nothing but logs and build a cabin on a hill instead of a tent in a pit.
I may even dig a moat. If Paris is lucky, I might let him park in my driveway.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Real life got in the way of blogging over the past seven days but I’m back. My posting schedule may be erratic for awhile but it’s the best I can do right now. I think I may actually tell the long story when it’s over but until then, we have some catching up to do.
As you know, I went camping with friends.
This is an annual trip and we’ve about nailed it down to a science in that I always bring the firewood, Mr. Duckslayer or The The Skunk Whisperer bring the worms and everyone else brings the items of lesser importance such as tents, clothing, and cookware. However, this year, The Skunk Whisperer learned a valuable lesson about the care and maintenance of earthworms.
Just like dogs and children, leaving worms in the car during the summer tends to dry them out and leave them less than playful. Fish like things that wiggle and dead worms don’t do much of that so The Skunk Whisperer ended up making an emergency worm run before we hit the road to the great outdoors. The replacement bait were real performers especially when having a hook plunged through their body. They danced, they wiggled, they screamed for mercy… but it was dinnertime and the fish were hungry…or so we thought.
I can justify the maltreatment of a worm to ensure the survival of the upper chevrons of the food chain and although we occasionally end up losing our bait to the fish we take comfort in knowing the fish have been fed…but this year was different. We senselessly drowned dozens of worms without one of them being consumed by a fish. We tried lures, flies, and salmon eggs. A couple of us had luck with the salmon eggs but I honestly believe we would have done better to attempt hatching the eggs so we could have the salmon. The only fish that we caught were suckerfish and only two of those at that.
Sucker fish act like a trout on the line so we would all get exited when someone got a bite but once the fish was landed we realized we had caught the love child of Mick Jagger and Angelina Jolie. These abominations have massive lips lined with teeth. It’s a truly gruesome sight and even if the fish were tasty, I don’t think I could bring myself to eat one.
Luckily, we are all educated in the catch and release program so we knew what to do with these ugly creatures.
Mr. Duckslayer has the simplest technique for the release of unwanted fish. His method resembles that of someone skipping a stone across the water. I’m not sure what the fish think of it but the rest of us get a laugh. Conversely, I was surprised to see Mr. Duckslayer's son gently place a fish in the water and give it a chance to regain its bearings before releasing it. Mr. Duckslayer is the type of person that, if you drop a fish on the shore while attempting to release it, he will kick it into the water as if he were trying for a field goal.
That’s just his way. Don’t piss him off.
So we didn’t catch any fish worth keeping, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t eat well.
More on that later…
As you know, I went camping with friends.
This is an annual trip and we’ve about nailed it down to a science in that I always bring the firewood, Mr. Duckslayer or The The Skunk Whisperer bring the worms and everyone else brings the items of lesser importance such as tents, clothing, and cookware. However, this year, The Skunk Whisperer learned a valuable lesson about the care and maintenance of earthworms.
Just like dogs and children, leaving worms in the car during the summer tends to dry them out and leave them less than playful. Fish like things that wiggle and dead worms don’t do much of that so The Skunk Whisperer ended up making an emergency worm run before we hit the road to the great outdoors. The replacement bait were real performers especially when having a hook plunged through their body. They danced, they wiggled, they screamed for mercy… but it was dinnertime and the fish were hungry…or so we thought.
I can justify the maltreatment of a worm to ensure the survival of the upper chevrons of the food chain and although we occasionally end up losing our bait to the fish we take comfort in knowing the fish have been fed…but this year was different. We senselessly drowned dozens of worms without one of them being consumed by a fish. We tried lures, flies, and salmon eggs. A couple of us had luck with the salmon eggs but I honestly believe we would have done better to attempt hatching the eggs so we could have the salmon. The only fish that we caught were suckerfish and only two of those at that.
Sucker fish act like a trout on the line so we would all get exited when someone got a bite but once the fish was landed we realized we had caught the love child of Mick Jagger and Angelina Jolie. These abominations have massive lips lined with teeth. It’s a truly gruesome sight and even if the fish were tasty, I don’t think I could bring myself to eat one.
Luckily, we are all educated in the catch and release program so we knew what to do with these ugly creatures.
Mr. Duckslayer has the simplest technique for the release of unwanted fish. His method resembles that of someone skipping a stone across the water. I’m not sure what the fish think of it but the rest of us get a laugh. Conversely, I was surprised to see Mr. Duckslayer's son gently place a fish in the water and give it a chance to regain its bearings before releasing it. Mr. Duckslayer is the type of person that, if you drop a fish on the shore while attempting to release it, he will kick it into the water as if he were trying for a field goal.
That’s just his way. Don’t piss him off.
So we didn’t catch any fish worth keeping, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t eat well.
More on that later…
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Friday, July 08, 2005
This site is on auto pilot.
The annual camping trip is at hand.
Every year the Muzikdude family goes camping with the Duckslayer, Bunnybasher, Techno-Pimp, and Fat Pastor families. This year we will be gone from 8 July through 11 July.
What does this mean to you? Well, since there are no internet connections available in the wilderness I won’t post for 4 days. I will be killing fish, drinking beer, and cooking food over fire. You’ll miss me, I know, but the resulting stories should be worth the wait.
In the meantime, I would like to propose a game because blogs have a way of dying out if left unattended for too long. Just as I have the neighbors feed my fish, water my habaneros, and bury my victims, I need YOU to keep this site alive.
Comment on this post, and then visit the person who commented before you. I realize this is just like Michele’s game and to be quite honest, that’s where I
When you visit the blog of the person above you, comment on their most recent post and end your comment with the phrase:
“I was mooned by Muzikdude"
Play multiple times per day. Just be sure someone else leaves a comment before you play again otherwise you'll be sending yourself to your own site. Oh, and don't forget the Mystery Blog.
Go. Do it. Now.
Don't make me use this thing.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Strange things happen to me.
I went to Target with Mrs. Muzikdude and found this beautiful T-shirt. It had the logo of a major oil company on the front with the words “I got gas”. It was soooo me! I put it in the cart and was giddy to know that I had something to wear to the Duckslayer’s son’s wedding in a couple weeks.
So while we be bopped around Target looking for things we don’t need I couldn’t quit picking up the shirt and looking at it. I laughed every time I read those words. I was obviously becoming very attached to my new garb. The euphoric feeling was compounded by the fact that I had found the last shirt on the rack and it was in my size. If you shop, you know that never happens.
When we finished looking at all the things that Mrs Muzikdude says I don't need we headed to the checkout.
The girl scanned my new T-shirt and gazed at the register screen with a perplexed expression. Then she looked to me and said “This shirt has been recalled”.
Recalled? Who recalls a T-shirt? What could be wrong with it? She said it might be flammable.
Oh...is that a lactard joke? Fine...joke about my gas...go ahead, I’ve heard them all; everyone makes fun of the lactard...yuk it up funny girl.
Turns out she was serious.
I said “look, I want this shirt. The one I’m wearing is flammable too but Wal-Mart let me buy it anyway. I’ll prove it to you...got a light? I’ll bet your shirt is flammable too…let’s set fire to ourselves in protest. Are you with me?”
No, she wasn’t with me and handed the shirt to a manager.
I asked if I could sign a release of liability or something but the manager said Target can’t sell dangerous merchandise.
“You sell chain saws, Cheetos, and hefty bags. You sell household chemicals and all the ingredients for Napalm. Are you seriously going to call this T-shirt dangerous? I promise I won’t choke on the thing if you sell it to me nor will I use it to rob a liquor store.”
“Sir, it could be something as simple as the dye lot. The shirt might bleed when you wash it.”
(yeah, someone's gonna bleed if I don't get that shirt)
“I promise to be gentle. I’ll hand wash it…I’ll take it to the dry cleaner”
My pleas fell on deaf ears…the shirt was not for sale.
I lost it. I pulled my knife out and pointed it at the manager then I told Mrs. Muzikdude to pull the car up to the front door. I took the shirt and we made a getaway.
Ok…maybe not so much, but I was almost that desperate.
I really wanted that shirt.
I went to Target with Mrs. Muzikdude and found this beautiful T-shirt. It had the logo of a major oil company on the front with the words “I got gas”. It was soooo me! I put it in the cart and was giddy to know that I had something to wear to the Duckslayer’s son’s wedding in a couple weeks.
So while we be bopped around Target looking for things we don’t need I couldn’t quit picking up the shirt and looking at it. I laughed every time I read those words. I was obviously becoming very attached to my new garb. The euphoric feeling was compounded by the fact that I had found the last shirt on the rack and it was in my size. If you shop, you know that never happens.
When we finished looking at all the things that Mrs Muzikdude says I don't need we headed to the checkout.
The girl scanned my new T-shirt and gazed at the register screen with a perplexed expression. Then she looked to me and said “This shirt has been recalled”.
Recalled? Who recalls a T-shirt? What could be wrong with it? She said it might be flammable.
Oh...is that a lactard joke? Fine...joke about my gas...go ahead, I’ve heard them all; everyone makes fun of the lactard...yuk it up funny girl.
Turns out she was serious.
I said “look, I want this shirt. The one I’m wearing is flammable too but Wal-Mart let me buy it anyway. I’ll prove it to you...got a light? I’ll bet your shirt is flammable too…let’s set fire to ourselves in protest. Are you with me?”
No, she wasn’t with me and handed the shirt to a manager.
I asked if I could sign a release of liability or something but the manager said Target can’t sell dangerous merchandise.
“You sell chain saws, Cheetos, and hefty bags. You sell household chemicals and all the ingredients for Napalm. Are you seriously going to call this T-shirt dangerous? I promise I won’t choke on the thing if you sell it to me nor will I use it to rob a liquor store.”
“Sir, it could be something as simple as the dye lot. The shirt might bleed when you wash it.”
(yeah, someone's gonna bleed if I don't get that shirt)
“I promise to be gentle. I’ll hand wash it…I’ll take it to the dry cleaner”
My pleas fell on deaf ears…the shirt was not for sale.
I lost it. I pulled my knife out and pointed it at the manager then I told Mrs. Muzikdude to pull the car up to the front door. I took the shirt and we made a getaway.
Ok…maybe not so much, but I was almost that desperate.
I really wanted that shirt.
Dear readers,
I had just returned to my desk from the restroom when the phone rang. I was informed that I had been “selected” for a “random” urinalysis.
Well golly, Gomer, I just shot a specimen down the drain; it’ll be a few hours before I can produce another quality cup of brew. Therefore, I sit here pumping coffee and water like a fiend waiting for that feeling in my bladder that indicates I may be able to bring forth a 45-milliliter flow.
Not only do I have a quota on the amount, I also have a time limit. I have to report in the next hour, ready to perform but to be quite honest, I got nothin’. Too bad there isn’t more of a literal meaning behind the term “pissed off” because I am definitely that.
I’ve been doing this test for almost 21 years and there has never been a reason to suspect I use drugs but the government can never be too careful. I may have taken up a crack habit since my last visit to the lab 3 months ago. People do that sort of thing, you know. They live their entire adult lives drug free and suddenly at the age of 41, for no apparent reason, they dive into the hard drugs and risk a 20-year career and pension. Let’s get serious, I’ve found other ways to feel high. If I want a decent head rush, I’ll drive up to the visitor center on Pike’s Peak the next time I need to “make a pile” as Hoss would say. If that doesn’t make my head swim there’s nothing a bowl of crack can do for me.
The thing that really bunches my diaper is that I have customers and I’ve had to cancel appointments with them in order to do this. “Sorry Mr. Building Manager, I have to go pee in a cup so the Government knows they can still trust me. 20 years of faithful service without as much as a reprimand doesn’t prove a thing to them. They need to know my bladder is clean.”
So, yes, I’m blogging from work because I have nothing else to do while I try to muster up a half cup of goodness for the tax payers of America. This will be in lieu of my lunch break because I’ll have to work through it in order to catch up.
Doing my part to ensure your freedom,
Muzik
I had just returned to my desk from the restroom when the phone rang. I was informed that I had been “selected” for a “random” urinalysis.
Well golly, Gomer, I just shot a specimen down the drain; it’ll be a few hours before I can produce another quality cup of brew. Therefore, I sit here pumping coffee and water like a fiend waiting for that feeling in my bladder that indicates I may be able to bring forth a 45-milliliter flow.
Not only do I have a quota on the amount, I also have a time limit. I have to report in the next hour, ready to perform but to be quite honest, I got nothin’. Too bad there isn’t more of a literal meaning behind the term “pissed off” because I am definitely that.
I’ve been doing this test for almost 21 years and there has never been a reason to suspect I use drugs but the government can never be too careful. I may have taken up a crack habit since my last visit to the lab 3 months ago. People do that sort of thing, you know. They live their entire adult lives drug free and suddenly at the age of 41, for no apparent reason, they dive into the hard drugs and risk a 20-year career and pension. Let’s get serious, I’ve found other ways to feel high. If I want a decent head rush, I’ll drive up to the visitor center on Pike’s Peak the next time I need to “make a pile” as Hoss would say. If that doesn’t make my head swim there’s nothing a bowl of crack can do for me.
The thing that really bunches my diaper is that I have customers and I’ve had to cancel appointments with them in order to do this. “Sorry Mr. Building Manager, I have to go pee in a cup so the Government knows they can still trust me. 20 years of faithful service without as much as a reprimand doesn’t prove a thing to them. They need to know my bladder is clean.”
So, yes, I’m blogging from work because I have nothing else to do while I try to muster up a half cup of goodness for the tax payers of America. This will be in lieu of my lunch break because I’ll have to work through it in order to catch up.
Doing my part to ensure your freedom,
Muzik
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Today I am enlightened.
The red lights on the back of vehicles are there to let us know that said vehicle is stopping. For some reason this morning, I forgot that simple fact.
An impatient driver made a quick lane change in front of the woman I was following and although she could have merely lifted her foot off the accelerator, she opted to stand on her brake pedal. My reflexes were not as cat-like as hers and I drove into her rear bumper. I guess this is as close as a car comes to having sex. Since I was only doing 10 miles per hour, I barely left a mark on her vehicle but a police officer two cars back felt I deserved a $110 dollar ticket that will add 4 points to my license.
Joy.
My “victim” was crying when the officer approached and I realize now that I could have equalized his bias by crying myself. Of course, my “victim” would have just cried louder to which I would have had to wail and sob and a pathetic contest of emotional pleas would have ensued.
My car was unscathed but my “victim’s” vehicle sustained a horrific smudge of paint on her rear bumper causing a rather unsightly blemish with which she surely would have difficulty living. I shudder to think my name may show up in her suicide note.
I will certainly lose sleep over this ordeal, which means I may actually get some work done today.
Here’s the weird thing: I had back surgery two years ago and although this accident was anything but traumatic, my back is killing me. I hesitate to make an appointment with the doctor because this could just be a simple backache (as I’m prone to those since the surgery) and I don’t want to be a whiner. Alas, I will likely visit a physician nonetheless. I just won’t mention the terrible car wreck from this morning.
I do hope my “victim” is fairing well considering the severity of her distress. I too am distressed, both financially and…well, financially.
The red lights on the back of vehicles are there to let us know that said vehicle is stopping. For some reason this morning, I forgot that simple fact.
An impatient driver made a quick lane change in front of the woman I was following and although she could have merely lifted her foot off the accelerator, she opted to stand on her brake pedal. My reflexes were not as cat-like as hers and I drove into her rear bumper. I guess this is as close as a car comes to having sex. Since I was only doing 10 miles per hour, I barely left a mark on her vehicle but a police officer two cars back felt I deserved a $110 dollar ticket that will add 4 points to my license.
Joy.
My “victim” was crying when the officer approached and I realize now that I could have equalized his bias by crying myself. Of course, my “victim” would have just cried louder to which I would have had to wail and sob and a pathetic contest of emotional pleas would have ensued.
My car was unscathed but my “victim’s” vehicle sustained a horrific smudge of paint on her rear bumper causing a rather unsightly blemish with which she surely would have difficulty living. I shudder to think my name may show up in her suicide note.
I will certainly lose sleep over this ordeal, which means I may actually get some work done today.
Here’s the weird thing: I had back surgery two years ago and although this accident was anything but traumatic, my back is killing me. I hesitate to make an appointment with the doctor because this could just be a simple backache (as I’m prone to those since the surgery) and I don’t want to be a whiner. Alas, I will likely visit a physician nonetheless. I just won’t mention the terrible car wreck from this morning.
I do hope my “victim” is fairing well considering the severity of her distress. I too am distressed, both financially and…well, financially.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Today is the day Americans celebrate their freedom of speech, religion, taxation with representation, and all those other things that make us the humble, non judgmental people we are.
Today is the day we try not to blow ourselves up with cheap Chinese explosives.
Today, we try not to burn our children with said explosives.
Today, the rest of the world celebrates our willingness to keep them safe from all the bad stuff like mean people and big bombs.
No need to thank us; we’re glad to do it.
Today is the day we try not to blow ourselves up with cheap Chinese explosives.
Today, we try not to burn our children with said explosives.
Today, the rest of the world celebrates our willingness to keep them safe from all the bad stuff like mean people and big bombs.
No need to thank us; we’re glad to do it.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
This was sent to me by Mr. Duckslayer.
I'll be holding and ebay auction to see if Preparation H will buy ad space on my butt.
I'll be holding and ebay auction to see if Preparation H will buy ad space on my butt.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
My favorite picture from the Seven Bridges hike today.
Click image for full resolution.
To answer questions in the comments:
Seven Bridges is a trail in North Cheyenne Canyon/Colorado Springs.
It was another father/daughter hike.
I have no idea what kind of flower it is other than a Colorado wild flower.
Click image for full resolution.
To answer questions in the comments:
Seven Bridges is a trail in North Cheyenne Canyon/Colorado Springs.
It was another father/daughter hike.
I have no idea what kind of flower it is other than a Colorado wild flower.
Friday, July 01, 2005
I made fun of West Virgina the other day. I retract my denunciation of that state.
Mr. Duckslayer has directed my attention elsewhere.
Read the whole thing.
Mr. Duckslayer has directed my attention elsewhere.
Read the whole thing.
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