Oliphant Parts

Hey hey hey Friday. I should be hard at work, but my head is killing me and sitting up makes me want to puke. Nothing like a spinning world. I wanted to write something thought-provoking, or at least interesting, but after this, what else is there to say? For anyone too lazy to follow the link, I’ll include the content of this incredibly great letter to the editor in the continuation.
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We’re almost halfway through April, and I just had the third idiot this month try to crash into me. Unlike the last one, this guy (gal?) wasn’t yapping on a cell phone, but still refused to accept that the little yellow lines that are drawn on the pavement have any meaning. What’s so tough about actually following lane lines and only turning onto the freeway where you are supposed to. It is possible that these folks can’t see me, but considering that each time it has occurred while I was driving a crew-cab GMC Sierra 1500 (a.k.a. Big-Ass-Truck), and my lights were on, I think it might be time to revoke a few licences if that is the case. I suppose it could be my fault, since I refuse to ignore traffic laws and turn only after I reach the limit line (or whatever that white line at the end of the lane is called) rather than cutting across the double yellow line and taking the corner as sharply as possible, but I don’t think so. C’mon, folks!– put down the phone, the curling iron and the breakfast burrito and open your damned eyes while driving!

Is it just me, or has the phrase “Jumping the shark” (and it variations) jumped the shark? When local columnists start using it as part of their common dialogue, I think the shark has been jumped, we’ve reached a tipping point, Elvis has left the building and it is time to consider the phrase clichéd and move on to the next great thing. Or try writing some original descriptive text. Harumph!

Is it just me, or are people getting larger? As should be obvious by now, I’ve been traveling a bit for work lately, which involves a lot of time flying on United and Alaska. United is great because I am a Mileage Plus member and generally get bumped up into business or first class. Alaska, while usually less of a hassle (i.e. they usually don’t leave me stranded in Chicago), sticks me in coach since I am too cheap to pay for the grown-up sized seats. I understand that coach seating is designed for patrons under 5′ 3″ and 115 pounds or less. I also understand that the comfort design for most coach seating was based on the works of the Marquis de Sade and input from Tough Love and other BDSM organizations. That said, why do I always get seated here in the back of the bus, er plane, next to a man-and-a-half? Shouldn’t there be some effort on the part of the airline to actually match passengers to tickets? If you take up more than one seat, shouldn’t you be required to buy two tickets?

I’m sorry if I offend anyone (oh hell, actually, I am not), but if you take up more than 1/4 of the seat next to you, either pay for it or get off the plane. I don’t want to spend the entire flight trying to keep from being pushed into the aisle (note to self: Next time a two-seater sits next to me, make sure to take the window seat. That way I can use the bulkhead to push back. With luck, I can launch the guy out and under the beverage cart, rendering him unconscious for the rest of the flight, and much more amenable to being stuffed into the toilet).

I moved to Idaho for several reasons, four seasons being an important one. It is now early January, the snow has long melted away, and I am suffering through 50 degree weather. What the hell happened to my winter? I went south to California for three days and came back to a rainy hell not much different than the Humboldt County weather I had just visited: wet and mushy. Soon I’ll find myself surrounded by ferns, redwoods and mildew. Ewww. Okay, maybe not to the ferns and redwoods, but I could do without the perpetual mildew and damp.

As I chased the puppy barefoot through the backyard this morning, I was reminded of why I like snow: Frozen feces. Instead of the occasional questionable squish underfoot, with snow, there’d be a nice solid puppy pile with no smear to it. Plus, I wouldn’t be tempted to venture out without shoes on. Ew. So, where’s my winter? If this is global warming, then it blows monkey-nuts big-time. Wait, is that monkey-nuts or just plain monkey nuts? Either way, I’m not happy. Not at all.

So, here I am in Idaho, and it looks like we are rapidly melting back into fall, or perhaps spring. That gives me, at best, three seasons. If I wanted that, I could have stayed in Humboldt. Please, dear sky, god or nature, snow again, and snow hard. I want to shovel my driveway, chain my tires, and build snow rats in the front yard.

Let me tell you what I want, what I really really want . . . well, first and foremost, I really really want to get that damned song out of my head.

I really really want all shows that require a laugh track to remind you that they are supposed to be comedies to be cancelled and the writers shot.

I really really want GW to tell us why we’re in Iraq. Not the candy-assed flipflop reasons he’s been using so far, just tell us we’re there because we want access to the damned oil and because it is good for certain businesses.

I really really want supposed news outlets which report rumours rather than facts to be disbanded, their editors and owners castrated, and the reporters branded. I don’t want to keep hearing about Karl Rove’s supposed pedophilia unless you’ve got some real evidence to back it up (although I do find the rumours of the love affair between Sean Hannity and Alan Colmes to be quite entertaining — hopefully they are true). I want to hear facts, not factoids.

I really really want the federal government to live up to its responsibilities for the “No child left behind” act. Either fund it or scrap it.

I really really want the Clear Skies initiative to actually be about cleaning up air pollution, not increasing it. In the immortal words of Captain, Road Prison 36, ” What we’ve got here is failure to communicate”, and it’s not us who don’t understand the concept of what clear skies are.

I really really want a clean desk and a good night’s sleep. And some more ice cream. And at the moment, what I really really really want is to go get breakfast. Good day, all.

I think we are officially at war. Yesterday, I didn’t let the cat loll across my lap and keyboard as I tried to work. This morning I discovered my wallet floating in the dog’s water bowl. Pretty keen trick for a beast with no opposable thumbs, but I’ve got the higher brain function. I think. If I can gather a coalition of the willing (i.e. the wife and kids), I’ll start with sanctions. Like no food or water for a bit. How do you like that, you furry little bugger? If that doesn’t work to humble the twerp, I’ll see about getting him neutered again. I will not be beaten by a damned cat! Speaking of pesky and cute, where’s my email from PeeWee?

I have a raging headache today, so no exciting entry discussing the contents of my belly button. I’d like to go back to bed, but it’s already 4 p.m., so what’s the point? Okay, time to do something.

I don’t know if it was the magazine or the statement, but my wife did not like me handing her the adverts for more. I handed her the envelope and said “Dear, I think this is for you . . . it’s a magazine for old broads.”
In return, she hit me and reminded me that she is younger than I am. She must be having a bad day. Cranky, cranky, cranky.

WTF? First it was ISO. Now it’s “GO girl!” Introducing the one magazine that celebrates women over 40. Get a full year free! So, are the market droids assuming that I am a woman over 40, or that I am attracted to women over 40? I hadn’t really thought about age limits, but I don’t think I’ll spend a disproportionate amount of time fantasizing about the 40-plus set yet. Why do I get these offers? Is Nathan a common name for a woman?

Okay, I have to open the envelope and see what they’re pushing. Ah, ageless beauty and style secrets, the good divorce, passing the torch, and lots of shoes. I think there may be a mistake here. First, it turns out the magazine is called more. As in more advertising and more articles that are not relevant to me. Second, I don’t see a single article oriented towards the 36 year-old male computer programmer. Sorry more, but I think I will pass this time. Ask me again in four years when I am actually forty. Maybe by then I’ll be into gender reassignment and interested in your article. In the meantime, I’ll pass the envelope and flyers on to my wife and see if she is interested. Women love it when you claim they are older than they really are, right?