Author: bob

No! Bus Go By!*

Earthquake, whatever. At 3:29, I was in the rather delicate position of, er, using the facilities at The 1912 House, when I suddenly felt weak in the knees…

“This is odd,” I thought.

Maybe I was growing weak from missing another lunch break working at San Diego’s Omnipresent Charitable Organization. Maybe I’d overdosed on Trader Joe’s Multivitamin Supplement. Perhaps I had lifted too many heavy things the night before and reinjured my back—sending waves of neural dyslexia down through my legs (which was not out of the question). Then, while still engaged in my, um, activity, it hit…

WHAM!

Either somebody had hit the house with a 800 lb. sledgehammer, or a car had leapt over the curb and crashed into the house, or a giant himself had lifted the house two or three inches only to drop it with a thud, or we’d had what promised to be the first in a series of major earthquakes.

Not a series, fortunately, just a single, well-documented event.

We’re all safe. Neither us, the pups, not the house was harmed in any way. In fact, after getting off the phone with my sister this afternoon, she related that her son treated it like a non-event. “Earthquake? Why?” “When the earth shakes underneath you, that’s called an earthquake.” “Okay momma.” And that was that. By the way, he’s two.

That kid’s gonna be a pro when the big one hits.

Your pal,

bob

Electrolux, Dyson Claim To Suck!

I took a look at the logs and someone here in San Diego Hoovered up the last twelve months of the blog in one sitting. Wow! That’s a commitment to crap if I’ve ever seen it. Either that, or somebody doing a little, um, research. I suppose that’s to be expected when you lay your life out on the Innernut, but it can be a little off-putting if you don’t really know who’s doing the Hoovering.

In a puppy update, he’s fully recovered from the drugs and back to full-bark mode. Now he wonders why we’re not going for a run at the island right now. The answer, that he’ll likely rip out his stitches, even if understood wouldn’t be appreciated. To prove the point, they’re both staring at me, looking very sad as well. But hey! That should sell the prospect of adopting a dog to the browsers at the county fair tomorrow, eh?

On 60 Minutes, they showed what Ray Charles used to drink from the silver cup he’d keep in his dressing room and on stage. Coffee, sugar, and gin. Perpetually filled. When I heard that the cause of this great performer’s demise was liver failure, well, it didn’t take too much deduction.

In this 24 hour media-centric world I found myself wishing that Brother Ray hadn’t passed while we’re mourning Reagan. While the eulogies for the 40th president have at times been touching, they’ve mostly glossed over the truly bad things that his administration set into motion that affect us now. Training Crazy Sammy bin Laden? Yep. Arming Saddam? Yeah, that too. Fomenting civil wars in Central America? You bet! Ignoring the AIDS crisis? You can check that one off your list too.

I’d much prefer hearing a solid week of Ray Charles from every media outlet you turn to, thanks.

Pictures from the fair? Since you asked, of course.

Your pal,

bob

Adopt A Good Dog

I’ll be at the San Diego County Fair on Saturday from noon ’til three with somebody else and the pups promoting the German Shorthaired Pointer Rescue. Sure it’s the first weekend of the fair, but make a point to stop by our little outpost in the livestock barn to learn first-hand what these knuckeheads are all about and to see the boy dog in all his post-surgical splendor:

• More lumber removed from side? Check
• Tooth broken down to the root removed? Check.
• Ears cleared of foxtails? Check.
• Toenails clipped? Check.
• Intravenous drug delivery? Check.
• Anti-gnawing head funnel installed? Check.
• Grand total? Three quarters of a kilodollar.

Lovely.

On top of that, the dog is extremely baked right now. The tail wagging has devolved into an all-lanes shimmy. He has become alternately confused and maudlin (“I love you man!”). He’s also decided that the concrete is plenty soft enough (“I’ll just crash here dude.”). Poor little guy.

We’re so afraid of the effects of a general anesthetic on the dog that we wanted to get all of the work done at once. For that, Mr. Bruno suffers a tremendous amount of pain. And I feel guilty because of it.

That’s the reality of adopting a dog. You take the long satisfying good times with the pointed, expensive bad. They’re lovely, joyous, loyal animals who sometimes get into trouble and get hurt. Barring any real pet health insurance options, you just have to suck it up and pay full price. I hope that we can knock a little reality into the “shoppers” at the fair who are looking for a cute puppy with Bruno’s stitches on full display to remind them that adoption is a commitment, not a fleeting indulgence.

I’ve told this story before, but Bruno was raised by a real hunt club jackhole. As a puppy, he was subjected to repeated gunfire, was tossed into the deep end of the pool, and was kept in a crate the rest of his “non-training” time. The result was an animal who suffered deep emotional trauma and was subsequently discarded as “untrainable.” While I’d love to throttle the guy who put him through that, my revenge is simply to pamper and spoil the dog instead. He gets to hunt on his own terms now. When he feels like it. As it should be.

But that guy still deserves a dope slap, at minimum.

So, all I’m asking is that you come and visit us at the fair, stay and chat, and say nice things to a kind dog who doesn’t really understand why we asked the vet to cut him up today.

Your pal,

bob

What’s That Awful Smell? Part II

Not really part two, actually. Just a convenient excuse to use the line again. This time about the horrid odor in the Jeep Grand Livingroom. My boss was helping me load peecees in the hatch for delivery to the Children’s Services department (it really IS about the children, who knew?) and he was overcome by the malodorous effusion.

“Wow! Those are some stinky dogs!”

But I don’t think the smell is attributable to Mr. and Mrs. Puppy. I have a much more terrible speculation. I stepped in a puddle.

Not just any puddle though—and I’ll try to be delicate here—a puddle whose contents were augmented by an individual who, apparently, simply did not have the luxury of finding a sanitary facility to seek relief. I fear that I tracked this crime to the Jeep, infusing its carpet with someone’s offense against civil society.

Granted, my job takes me to some pretty stinky places, but that’s the nature of the place and I’ve signed on to it. I just don’t want to take it home with me.

Maybe baking soda will help.

Or steam cleaning,

bob

P.S. I also thought that enclosing a scoop of coffee in a paper bag and throwing that under the seat might help with the odor. Coffee is a pleasant smell, right?

UPDATE: Arm & Hammer Carpet Deoderizer has helped a lot (it’s positively like a bouquet in there now!) but the source still baffles. I put the coffee where the garage door opener might go in the headliner console and it seems to have worked a bit of its magic as well. Artificial forest + real ground beans = an aromatic festival!

P.P.S. Read the comments for a helpful tip on alleviating more stinkiness, but honestly, I shouldn’t have implicated the pups in the first place.

Monday? Already?

I was just getting started. The Padres beat (like a rented mule) the Brewers in the game yesterday. Sure, the victory wasn’t pretty—it seems that only the Yankees and the 1998 Braves can do that—but we won and we thoroughly enjoyed our new ballpark in the process. My brother, sister, one other, and I sat on the third base line next to the Western Metals Building. The long-bankrupt company’s home has been incorporated into the design of the park and adds a feature not unlike transporting yourself into solid rock. The park appeared suddenly, embedded into the side of the turn of the century brick warehouse. But it didn’t appear suddenly. The engineers had their work cut out for them in fortifying and reinforcing the structure to make it a part of a new San Diego landmark.

No, that was not the five dollar beers talking (sixteen ounce plastic widemouth bottles, old-school without the annoying “my head hurts” complaining from outfielders in the firing line). That was the architectural appreciation talking. Once inside, it became obvious how monumental the task of building the park must have been. How many bolts are required to secure this joint? How about eighty? (I counted forty per side while waiting for the restroom) How many welds? None. We’ll use the aforementioned bolts, thank you very much. My only complaint is with the East entrance. The stairs leading up to the plaza level funnel from a generous (and estimated) seventy feet up to a paltry twenty feet at the top. Nobody wants to stand in line on a staircase to reach an upper level. Nobody.

Besides that, the comparisons to the Padres’ former home at Qualcomm Stadium were flying. I thought that Petco Park was a lot more like a mall. Fascist Valley or Horton Plaza. My brother missed “The Q” with its clearly defined seating, better parking, and (hold on to your hats) better views.

“I don’t know, it was okay at The Q. You could see just fine from anywhere. I don’t know what the big deal was.”

I do. It was the luxury boxes. Bark Park has a lot of them. They even built two three-storey towers to accommodate more. (yes Virginia, that’s how you spell “storey,” despite what the spell-checkers tell you. – ed) It’s all about revenue generation and the opening season at The Litter Box has shown that you can make money at the ballgame game after all. Okay, maybe not until the revenue bonds are paid off, but still, attendance records have been shattered.

I’m rambling, so I’ll try to reel it back in…

Nobody got hurt. Nobody passed out. We didn’t scuffle with the cops despite their insistence that we walk on a certain side of the street (control issues kids? just wondering). In short, the game was lovely, the park that we purchased with our vote was outstanding, but the cops made the the walk to the car so miserable that in my mind at least, we should never go there again. Thanks SDPD!

Your pal,

bob

Friday? Already?

I was just getting started. The (very few) Macs we now support are a mess, the automated software installs are causing us fits, we conducted a couple group interrogationsinterviews, built a temporary server cabinet, drank too much coffee, and got cranky by the end of the day. And it’s all over now? What a pity.

This next, 1/3 shorter weekend promises to be full of thrills, chills, and spills as my brother is coming in to town. We’re going to take in the Padres-Brewers game on Sunday so that he can revel in the glory of the ballpark that he avoided paying for by moving out of town. The weather’s supposed to be glorious, but the game is scheduled to begin only a couple hours after his plane lands. Think he’ll stay awake? Your speculation is welcome, along with guesses as to what inning he’ll pass out (to keep it sporting, we’ll just use full innings, no “top” or “bottom” required. post your guess in the comments.).

I’d love to take pictures of the event but I wonder if they’ll let me take the camera in. I suspect not, but I’m taking it anyway.

Whoo!

– bob

UPDATE: Nobody wins the “When Will Stinko Pass Out?” contest. He stayed awake during the whole thing (he’d better because if only two five-dollar beers can put you away…). Sorry folks, better luck next time.

Good Lord!

As usual, my Wednesday trip to Autoextremist.com has filled me with hope and horror. Both this week coming from On The Table. You’ll have to scroll about midway through the page for the horror of the Chrysler 300 “mod.” The hope lies in the idea that Ford-owned Mazda scored a quality coup in Europe vs. Porsche (first entry). That wouldn’t have happened five years ago and I think says something very profound about the state of global economics. Could Mazda have done it without Ford? Would they even be around now without Ford?

Back to the horror. I read somewhere, Autoweek I think, that when the last generation squared-off Eldorado was introduced the designers where finally satisfied. To paraphrase, “It’ll be impossible—and truly ugly—for the dealers to slap a vinyl roof on this design. We’ve made it as hard as possible for them to make this ‘a retirement community’ car.” Clearly that designer was proven wrong by the ingenuity of those whose taste is so bad that they brush their teeth with smoked kippers, but there you have it. As stated so succinctly at Autoextremist, there’s a war over who knows best, the dealers or the manufacturers.

Dealers wouldn’t invest in vinyl roof treatments if they didn’t think they could sell them, but that’s not really the point. For a car like the 300 (and the Dodge Magnum) that breaks the current rules by embracing all of the old ones, the Sun-Citification on display in Michigan (and no doubt Arizona, and California, and Florida) kicks that bigger than life statement to the curb.

“It’s just another car, except you can put eight sets of clubs in the trunk. Grandpa will love it if only it looked more, you know, regal!”

On a side note, my Dad buys pool building supplies from a company located next to an Auto Park. Their next-door neighbors have a thriving business supplying the dealers with those same fake convertible tops, outlandish chrome wheels, and goony pinstriping work (care for a “Cathedral City Edition” Pontiac Sunfire? Can do!) and I had a chance to spy. On the racks in their back lot sit hundreds of fiberglass forms for their many terrible fake top creations.

I hate to encourage the terrorists, as you may well understand, but if you bad guys really feel the need to bomb something…

I’m just saying.

Your incendiary pal,

bob

As a side note, if you’re considering a new car you should really test drive a Mazda, they’re fun, well put-together, have a model for everybody, and inexpensive for what you get. By the way, if you’re considering a Ford Escape, drive a Mazda Tribute first, same small SUV, but with Mazda’s handling goodness thrown in for a better price. No, I don’t work for Mazda, but I’ve liked them for years and can wholeheartedly recommend them against most of their competitors.

Not A Hero

I’ve spent this beautiful Memorial Day weekend doing chores. I knocked down a wall (in tribute to the veterans of the Berlin Air Lift), I washed the Jeep (in honor of Ernie Pyle), I fixed my neighbor’s garage door opener (to, if you want to stretch a little, pay homage to the guys and gals who made it home from World War II to enjoy the prosperity of the Fifties), and I won six bucks in dime-ante poker (for the rest of the average Joes). Pathetic analogy-making aside, it was a lovely, productive weekend.

And I’m still convinced that the only reason I could enjoy this weekend as I did was for the courage of the men and women who had the guts to go out and fight for my right to do it. Sure, I’ll get a little flack for that statement, either as too pollyanna-ish from one side, or too far right, depending. Frankly, I don’t really care.

What I do care about is you! The comments templates have been repaired so that the fonts aren’t nearly as ugly, plus there is now a counter on the front page so you can see if anybody has responded. It took a grand total of ten minutes to fix, but I think it looks nicer and work better. On top of that, it’s free! Ain’t it great to be in America! (hey slappy, it’s the world-wide-web, remember? a web? all over the world? hello? -ed Sorry for the over-exuberance. -bob)

More in a bit,

bob

Is It Too Early To Evangelize?

My employer has an abnormally long (six months!) probationary period so its best not to make waves. The interesting thing, to me anyway, is that there are quite a number of fellow Mac evangelists in the company despite the Windows XP clampdown imposed by the “standards-based” individuals in my department.

Would you consider it a career limiting move to advocate for a larger Macintosh presence in an otherwise homogeneous network environment? I’ve thought about it for quite a while, even before I was officially hired, and came to the conclusion that advocacy was worth a shot. So tonight I wrote a long letter to the network administrator detailing how I can ensure that the Macs play nice in his domain.

This brazen cheekiness might not get me fired, but it won’t make me any friends either. More friends would be good at this point in my ersatz career.

…and it seemed that I made the guy mad this afternoon when I brought the whole thing up. Geez.

On thin ice,

bob

UPDATE: The answer is a resounding “yes, it is too early!” I received a reply to my suggestion that went something like this: “that’s a dumb idea and if you advocate for it I’ll fight you every step of the way, so drop it” So that’s that, I suppose. There I go thinking again.

When Is A Car Not A Car?

My Illustrious Writing Partner is now driving her recently departed dad’s car. I have to say here that, as a car guy, I don’t know how I would handle that. To turn the key every day, to hear the supercharger sing the same song your dad heard, that might be tough for me, save my friend’s thought, “He’s laughing with joy right now.”

She’s wanted a sports car for quite some time now, but never like this. I think about the baggage, she thinks about how he would have wanted to share the open air excitement of his little roadster with the daughter he cherished.

Having your dad as your passenger no matter what plane he’s on at the moment? Think about that for a moment.

Your pal,

bob

Dude, Take A Pill

There has been a centuries-long debate, fiercely fought, hotly contested, over an issue many hold strong opinions on. I’m pleased to announce a solution that will please each side of the divide. Here at The 1912 House Labs, we have devised the perfect way to deliver pills to a dog who hates taking any medication way too much.

First a little background; the dog’s job around here is chasing birds AND cats AND lizards AND bugs out of the backyard while we’re away. He does a fine job, certainly (you don’t see any birds around here, do you?), but there are occupational hazards. He cut the corner of the house a little too tightly while racing after something or other and wound up with a bit of shingle embedded in his side. The problem was that this chunk of lumber was embedded along the line parallel to his ribcage, so I didn’t notice it until it became infected.

The dog didn’t mind though and never lost a step, but there was that ninety-year-old cedar riding around in there and it had to go. I did a little doctorin’ and took out a huge piece of wood that was a little thicker and longer than a matchstick.

Exploratory surgery was scheduled for today at the vet, but postponed a week to see if the drugs will work. Oh, the drugs. Nickel slugs of antibiotics, one and a half, twice daily for a week or so. I’ve seen too many rejected, slobber-coated pills skitter across the kitchen floor to let that happen again. How could he be fooled into downing them as quickly as any other treat? The answer was threefold: sugar, adhesive, and texture. A spoonful of sugar, blah, blah, blah, but it mostly works. Peanut butter has that in spades along with an adhesive quality to keep those damn horse pills in place. The big secret here? Tortilla chips! Crunchy, like the pills themselves, plus they have a gentle curves to hold a as much peanut butter and as many drugs as you can load onto them.

Funny, but the dog never even noticed that the chips are stale. That, and the infection is going down.

Your relieved pal,

bob

Let’s Look Through The Mailbag!

Reader “Fiancee” writes:

Hi Bob!

You’ve been spreading rumors over the internet suggesting that a certain sister and her fiance haven’t contacted you regarding a new purchase. Poo! [She] has tried to call you twice. Anyway, you two can fight over that one. My essay suggestion is this: Talk about indoor tiles on the ceiling, you know the white ones. Can you discuss what it entails to rip down, what I might expect to find underneath, what to do when we get there, good and bad scenarios, how much space usually found between the tiles and the original ceiling. And of course cost parameters! [She] is already chomping [sic] at the bit. Let’s talk soon.

Yikes! And it turns out that he’s exactly right. After I posted that, I thought it might be good fun to actually check my messages (both on the gizmo by the phone and the voicemail thingy). Sure enough, she did call to tell us the happy news and sadly, we failed to listen. We’re horrible people and should be ashamed, so we will be.

What should one expect when tearing down ceiling tiles? Asbestos! Lovely, useful, insulating asbestos. Oh wait, what’s that? Cancer-something? Whatever.

Considering the age of the “remodel” that I’ve been hearing about, chances are nine out of ten that the tiles are made of the stuff. If you’re made of money, you can hire an asbestos abatement crew to come in and remove it. If you’re not, you can certainly remove it yourself, but take a bunch of very over-the-top measures to keep from breathing it. If it were me, I’d get a garden insect sprayer, fill it with water, pump it up, and spray the hell out of the tiles first. Wearing a respirator (not a cheap/crap dust mask) and goggles, I’d scrape the stuff off while keeping it wet. Scrape it into garbage bags and seal them when full.

I heard that there’s wall to wall carpet that’s going away, so that’s a good drop cloth, but make sure that the asbestos fibers don’t dry out and become airborne before the carpet is removed. That makes the ceiling repair time and painting time short, but you really, really don’t want to breathe that stuff. At all.

Is that enough for now?

Your contrite pal,

bob

Happy Monday!

I’m too dumb to think of a Question this morning, but I’ll post one this afternoon (and another tomorrow morning). That sounds fair, doesn’t it?

You bet!

bob

Disaster Fails To Strike! Film At Eleven

Friends, there is nothing as anticlimactic as a job well-done. My coworkers and I disinfected the servers from our desert outpost, but also relocated the server room from a maintenance closet to its former location upstairs, reconnected said servers, and got them up and running before 5:00 on Friday.

Ho hum.

Sure we left San Diego at 5:00 in the morning with said servers in the trunks of our cars and ended up fairly punchy by the end of that day, but that’s what we’re getting paid for, right? We continued working there on Saturday to tidy up, tweak some things, wait for the wiring guy to fix some bits he messed up on Friday, and take some pictures. Even after all of that futzing, nothing went wrong. Where’s the fun in that?

My folks are planning a big party in a couple of weeks, so I spent the rest of Saturday working on their house. They have an outdoor ceiling fan (I didn’t even know that weather-resistant fans existed. The thing has plastic blades fer crissakes!) so I spent my time wiring it and tying it in to the patio lighting. Not the most exciting pursuit to be sure, but it did involve some roof work perilously close to the drop from the power pole. As you know, I don’t get along very well with three phase power supplies, so at least that bit was nerve-wracking. We have to have some drama somewhere, don’t we?

By the way, did you know that my sister is buying a house? Me neither! I hear that it’s a fixer-upper. Hell, I know all about fixing-upping and I’d be happy to help, but alas, I’ve heard nothing about it directly for her or her fiancee. The second hand stories I’ve heard though don’t make the joint out to be all that bad. More cosmetic than structural as far as I understand it. Executive take-away: I’d be happy to help!

There’s much more here to be explored. Something, surely, that could conceivably be entertaining. I’m a little to fried from the roadtripping to make something engaging out of it right now (and you’ll move on by tomorrow, so we’re left in the lurch. -ed That’s been the M.O. hasn’t it? -bob).

Your sleepy and sore pal,

bob

Let’s Take A Look At The Logs!

– or –

Ashley, You’re Freaking Me Out

As is my custom, I thought I’d take a look at the logs for this thing. I was interested to know if this Question Revival Week had garnered any more hits (sadly, no. actually fewer) and found that a page hit reported on own my Jaunty Blog Log (which should look like this: http://www.btherieau.blogspot.com/) came up thus:

file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/ashley/Desktop/umbria/gender%20files/data/sample.2443.html

So I’m Ashley’s gender studies lab rat? Is that it? Am I really Sample No. 2443? What exactly does that mean? Dear Ashley, what have you learned from this mess? Post a comment and let me know.

I would be really freaked out, if the next guy hadn’t ended up here by searching for “…girls in pajamas nu_de.” Dear Mr. Perv. if they’re in pajamas they’re not n-ude, get it? Just imagine the internal conversation; “rocket science or ped_oph/ilia, gee, I don’t know, rocket science seems so hard…” (words searched on by creepy dudes obscured on purpose so the search engines won’t find them, as was the full search term. -ed Thanks! -bob)

The more prosaic search terms, like “subway tile + black border” are much more welcome, as you might imagine. I’d like to see more people arrive here looking to adopt German Shorthaired Pointers, or even the occasional Jeepster people, my people after all, but no. I get the gender studies folks and some real creeps stumbling upon my humble musings.

Sure, I’m trying to take the high road in this post, but I found myself laughing out loud at this Gizmodo post. And I’m kind of a vegetarian fer crissakes!

This really didn’t come together very well, did it?

Your best pal ever,

bob

P.S. No Question tomorrow, I’m afraid. It’s going to be a very early and long day. We rebuilt some infected servers today and will be driving to the desert to reinstall them in the morning. The wee hours of the morning. My coworker is taking the company car and staying in a hotel, I’m taking the Jeep Grand Livingroom and staying with the folks.

I think that I get the better end of the deal.