Crunchy Thoughts

Well, folks, I finally broke down and got a web domain and server space. I couldn’t do all that I wanted with freebie ad-encrusted web space, so I figured it was worth the eight bucks. Now I can bombard you with pictures, video, and crazy thoughts nonstop and ad-free! Long live the internet, and all that.

The new web site is at http://crunchythoughts.com. If you want, you can type in the ‘www,’ but it’s not necessary. It’s a work in progress, like most websites, so poke around and you might find new stuff every once in a while. The main thing on it right now are the image galleries that were actually quite easy to set up. That is most definitely a work in progress; I’m always getting new pictures.

That old Tripod site is still up, though I’ll probably get rid of it after a while. It’s pretty nasty. I’m keeping this blog here for right now as well, though later I just might move it. That would require a bit of an overhaul, but I’m sure I’ll do it eventually.

Anyhoo, visit and enjoy.

Rocks

Yesterday afternoon, with temperatures at a near-balmy 72 degrees, I was lamenting the end of my precious jacket weather. Nothing left for me but short sleeved shirts and sad times.

This afternoon, it was 39 degrees . . . and falling. Gotta love the spring yo-yo weather here in Alabama. I proudly donned my long coat as I left work, cold and happy. They’re even mentioning snow showers for tonight. Oh, it would be so lovely.

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I saw my parents and sister this afternoon; they were coming through Fort Payne on their way back from New York City and surrounding Yankee burgs. They brought me back my favorite present, too: rocks.

No, seriously. They brought me rocks, and I’m the happier for it. Rocks are another slight obsession of mine, along with books, jackets, and people named Hans . . . . . Anyway, I got a rock from Central Park, two from Little Round Top, one from Seminary Ridge, and one other, but I’ve forgotten and I don’t want to get up to go look; I’d rather explain my laziness.

I need to figure out what to do with all my rocks, especially the ones from neat places. I got a bunch from Europe when I went in 1999. I even have a piece of a brick from the hotel we stayed at in Florence. Ken pulled it out of the wall for me.

My most favorite rock from the Europe trip, though, is the one I pulled out of one of the foundations of an ancient Roman building. About the size of a finger, it was mixed with other bits of rock and stuff in a Roman cement that supported the weight of people like Cesar, Marcus Aurelius, and those lesser-famed Romans. For 2000 years it stayed there and watched the world go by, until I came along and picked it up that hot July day while our group rested in the shade, hearing about how a pagan temple still exists today because it was converted into a Christian church, thus saving it from destruction.

How cool is that rock? It sure beats any cheap naked Roman statuette that you could get at any kiosk in the city. Besides, I have a Roman God of a husband now that I can see at my leisure.

Yeah, baby.

I wonder what I should do with my menagerie of worldly rocks. My first thought is to get a nifty shadowbox-type thing and arrange them all specimen-like, with labels. That’s the scientist in me talking. The artist in me wonders if I should try something more elaborate, like carve the rocks into the shape of the place they came from and make a rocky map. But that sounds sorta hard. I’ll figure out something else.

Until then, I’ll stay on the lookout for more neat rocks, like that concave one I took from Little River Canyon even though that’s sorta not allowed. I’ll do something spectacular with them someday; maybe when I get a yard.

If you see a cool rock, bring it to me.

The state bird, the state flower, the state tree, the state symbol, the state . . . alcohol?

Well, if it’s not one thing, it’s another. The great state of Alabama now has an official state ‘spirit.’ ‘Spirit’ meaning ‘whiskey.’ Yes, that’s right, folks. The Alabama legislature overrode the governor’s veto this week to name Conecuh Ridge Fine Alabama Whiskey the official state spirit.

Pause for dumbfounded speechlessness.

Now let me get this straight. Alabama, which I’ve always known as a conservative state, is in effect endorsing an alcoholic beverage? And we’re not talking about some light beer here, this is hard liquor. A hard liquor product that was initially created by moonshiners, which last I checked was an illegal practice. Since I have been of voting age, my Alabama politicians have decided that lottery is immoral, higher taxes to pay for education is a waste of money, and liquor is an important, burning issue across the land.

Now, I’m not saying that liquor is all-evil and from the Devil. I do drink on occasion; not whiskey, though, but I’m getting off-track. No matter what one’s stand on alcohol is, doesn’t it seem rather odd to attach the name of the Alabama government to a commercial product? That’s the problem I’m having with the issue. One could also mention the potential for children to think, “Well, if the government says it’s good, I should go try some,” but we all hear the “Won’t somebody please think of the children!” mantra too much already. However, it does not bode well for what should be a non-biased institution.

Another amazing thing is the fact that the Senate used their power to overrule Governor Riley’s veto of the bill. Is having a state spirit that important? Did the legislature think that Riley was absolutely out of his gourd to think that some constituents might find this silly, uncalled for, or even offensive? Apparently not.

“I thought the resolution was harmless and humorous,” said Senator Pat Lindsey, who (sadly) is a Democrat. Harmless and humorous.

Harmless and humorous.

Then why was it an issue? The government’s objective is the collective welfare of the people. We do not pay them tax dollars to keep us amused, nor do we pay them to pass harmless little bills that are of no consequence. Isn’t there more important issues to handle? Don’t we have a budget to balance, bureaucratic loopholes to fix, or schools to fund? If not, then y’all quit convening and go home.

That will humor me.

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Ugg, all this soapbox preaching has worn me out. Anybody got a drink?

St. George Island, Florida: A Photo Summary

I am always incredibly amazed at how fast wonderful days skim by, and last week was no exception. In fact, the only slow part of last week was the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday before we all headed down to sunny Florida. Steven and I amused ourselves with repeated trips to Wal-Mart. I believe we set a new personal record for ourselves: four trips in three days. Quite scary, not to mention tortureous . . . except for the last trip when we went with our friends and I got a kooky straw hat.

The seven of us stayed at a wonderful beachhouse courtesy of Ande Like the Mint and her parents. I was extremely amused as I have always stayed at a condo for previous beachy trips. I’m afraid I’m ruined for life and will stay at beachhouses forevermore. This house was especially cool as there was an elevator installed. We mostly used it as an oversized dumb waiter for all our luggage. Below is Steven preparing to safeguard our loot for the long vertical trek.

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The house was across the street from the beach side (with the house itself located on the ‘bay side’), but the walk to the beach wasn’t bad at all as long as you were wearing shoes. I know this from experience. My feet took quite a beating on this trip, starting with my lack to lather the tops of my feet with suntan lotion. It was an interesting experience to walk around after that. Another morning, in my rush to get a picture of the sunrise, I walked out to the beach barefooted. The driveway to the house is defined by semi-crushed oyster shells, mind you. Walking back over that with ice-cold feet is a bit piercing. There also was an encounter with a rouge sand spur, of which I think there is still a little bit in my heel. Now I bet I could walk over hot coals or a bed of nails and not even flinch. Yeah.

I’m afraid to say that we all committed the terrible crime of trespassing while we were down there. The guy who has a house on beach side apparently does not want indentations of footprints to mar his sandy drive. We bit our thumb at him (who was out of town anyway) and walked on through. Eat our footprints.

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All the previous times I’ve vacationed at the beach, I did so with my immediate family. On this go I was quite amused by all the activities we did. Frisbees, flying kites, skimboarding, chasing after dolphins, all this was fascinating. All the pictures I took attest to this. If somebody moved, I snapped their picture. I was a triggerhappy Carrie with a new digital camera. I was probably the most annoying person on the trip in that respect, but I just couldn’t help myself. It was a great liberty to take picture after picture with no worries of film and development costs; knowing I could just run inside and scoot the picture over to the (rented) laptop and start anew. To be able to immediately look over my work to delete unfocused shots, check for under or overexposure, or just laugh until my sides hurt at the endearing goofiness of everyone . . . it’s just perfect. Ohhhh, the humor of it all.

And now to end this section with a totally inadequate picture of a game of frisbee.

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On the coldest day of the week (Wednesday) we all went into town to eat lunch and play putt-putt golf. I do enjoy the putt-putt, even though I suck horribly at it. I mostly amused myself by taking pictures of others. Here is Ande Like the Mint kicking ass with her kiddie putter.

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We went on quite a few beachwalks while we were down there. That was very refreshing; Lord knows I need the exercise. During these walks, I was surprised at all of the naturalness that was still around on the island. There were always at least a few dolphins just beyond the sand bar; there were sandpipers, seagulls (Mine?), and pelicans in land, sea, and air; and my Lord, there were so many seashells. A former marine biologist major’s heaven. I even saw a dead sea cucumber washed up on the beach. We found something new on every walk we embarked on.

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I mentioned earlier that I went out to get sunrise pictures, forgetting my shoes in the process. Remember? Well of course I had to include at least one of my hard-earned sunrise pictures. I got quite a few, of course, but this one amuses me because of the unknown individual with his hands in his pockets in the foreground. It was fascinating how fast the sun came up over the water and before you knew it, it was daytime and you were out of disk space. Click, click, click.

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I think that every trip needs that one specific moment that defines the entire experience. It is even better if this moment is captured in picture form. Even though not everyone that was there is in this picture, it still, I think, defines the whole week for everybody. It’s a fantastic picture, but goddamn it, Ken snapped it with my camera, not me.

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Skimboarding, though it looked amusing, was not something I was willing to try. I know I would have just fallen down and busted my ass on the hard, wet sand. So instead, I got pictures of other people doing exactly what I feared would happen.

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To a continue a tradition from last year, we created another Mer-Willis, except this time it was more gender-correct with Katie as the sandy creature. We were all rushing to create the sculpture and snap pictures before her boobs cracked.

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We laughed. We danced. We burned. We jumped for joy.

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Proof I was there. Proof that not only did I wear a swimsuit, it was of the bikini kind. Proof I probably shouldn’t. Proof that maybe in reality I don’t think I look that bad or else I would not feel the need to prove anything.

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The week went by incredibly fast, and before we knew it we were thinking, “we’re going back day after tomorrow.”

“Boogers upon heaps of boogers!” thought I. As we watched the clock seem to gain speed before our very eyes, Willis expresses his intense dissatisfaction.

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Before it seemed possible, we were to Saturday, the day before leaving. After a last hurrah at the beach and a scrumptious dinner with a parrot, we were inside eating the rest of the food, playing games, and avoiding the ardurous task of packing. Ken, Lisa, Steven and I sat down to a game of Scrabble. After Steven and I made the play that sealed the game for us, Ken and Lisa played this word.

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And then it was Sunday. Sunday on an island that barely sits in the Eastern Time Zone that has just switched to Daylight Savings Time. Us Central Time Zoners struggled endlessly with the concept. “When do you want to leave? Uhh, 9 am? Do you mean Central or Eastern time? Our time. Our time now, or our time in Central, or our time in yesterday’s Eastern, or the time that is Central now? No, no, our time.”

Though I don’t think we ever got it quite right, we ended up leaving at 9:30 Eastern, 8:30 Central. That’s in Daylight Savings Time for those of y’all who are still confused. And thus began my 12 hour journey across the great state of Alabama, with stops in Dothan, Auburn, and Birmingham until I reached Fort Payne with a sandy suitcase and a confused Renton wondering where his salmon went.

Sorry, Renton. Here in cold North Alabama all we serve is regular ol’ cat food.

Juvenile Sexual Harassment? Only in Alabama . . .

I would be the first one to admit that, as far as looks go, I am average. Of course, my husband would disagree with me (I think the term ‘babe-alicious’ would creep into his mind), but in the eyes of most of society, I am just another chick goin’ to Wal-Mart on a Thursday afternoon. Therefore I was much surprised today when I was treated to cat-calls and other general hooplah . . . by a five year old.

“Hey, come here and give me a kissy-kissy,” he hollered at me repeatedly. “I just want a kissy!”

What do you say to such advances from a gangly backwoods kindergartner? Should you feel honored or just immensely creeped out? I go for the latter. I mean, that kid could grow up to be the next Pee Wee Herman. He certainly looked the part.

This situation also could be sad as well, since I’m only hit on by pre-adolescent guys. No guys my age oogle at me, except that one dude from Steven’s apartment, and I wonder if he was slightly drunk, or stoned, or both. Nevertheless, it makes for a good story.

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I’m slowly gettin ready for the trip. My clothes are a-washin now, and then I shall pack. I better not forget Renton’s food, toys, his otter bitch, and his leash. I need the Plexiglas and paint, the camera, DVD’s for Cathy, phone charger, blender, uhhh, toothbrush, and surely I’ll remember the normal clothes and my entourage of self-grooming items. And if I do forget any of this stuff, certain people can ride my ass about it all week, because how can someone post a list of ‘stuff to get’ on their blog and then forget it? Surely I am above that.

Ha ha ha.

Oh yeah, swimsuit! And flip flops that I intend to mod this weekend.

I won’t forget a thing.

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And one last note, did you know that the word ‘blog’ is not in Blogger’s dictionary? Me either, until just a second ago. Oddsfish.

Fart Goes The Renton

What is it now, a Tuesday? Yeah, a Tuesday. Let’s see, amusing things presented in an amusing manner . . . I’m stumped. Guess I’ll fall back on the old staple of rambling.

I was talking with Steven the other day, and I remarked, “I’m creative. I’m so creative I make no sense . . . at least I make sorta pseudo-sense to you”

“Say what?” Steven replied.

I guess I just don’t make sense at all.

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Renton is bouncing off the walls tonight. I caught him on the counter earlier, bad kitty. I put him in the bathroom to punish him, and while in there Renton fussed up quite a stink. It hit my nostrils the moment I let him out for dinner. Well, at least I know he’s getting a meaty diet.

One would think that I’d write at least one more once before we leave, but if not, be aware that a bunch of us are goin’ to the beach next week, so I won’t be writin’ nothin’. Yo. I’m digressing into gansta-speak. Yes yes, trip trip, fun fun, bye bye.

Aww, Spit

It’s always a nice, quiet evening around here when I have given Renton a bath. He seems to think it unseemly that he should be so clean, so he licks himself for hours until his coat is glazed with a new sheen of cat spit. It is three hours gone since his bath and he is still in his chair, preening away at a paw.

Renton’s chair. He confiscated it from me, you know. He tries to take his dad’s and his Aunt Cathy’s office chair as well when he is visiting them. My chair, I’m afraid, he has stolen for good. It is half my fault, however. I’ve sat in that chair so much that there is no butt padding left, so a few weeks ago I dragged the recliner chair, otherwise known as the Blue Chair, from the living room into the computer room, where most of my time, sadly, is spent. I now sit quite low to the desk, and my hands fall asleep rapidly, but my butt is comfy, and Renton gets his own chair.

Sometimes, if he is feeling paticuarly oppressive, he will perch on top of the back of the Blue Chair and gawk at me like a vulture. It’s like Snoopy, but with a devil-eyed cat instead.

And speaking of the devil, I now have photographic proof of Renton’s evilness. This is the animal that I share my abode with:

Yep, that’s my baby. The WolfDevil.

Eight

Well, it has been a while, hasn’t it? Terribly sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit busy recently, and I did get to have an adventure as well, so at least I’ve got stuff to comment on now. Not that anyone pays attention to any of this.

On Wednesday, I got to have a bonifide trip in an ambulance. Looking back on it now, it was quite amusing, especially the sign above the back doors that read “Providing You With Quality Care” or something thereof. Wouldn’t that be oh so comforting if that was the last thing you saw before you died? Lovely. At the time, of course, I was a bit too freaked to notice the amusement.

I’m still not quite sure what happened, actually. I don’t care to go into too much detail, as it is boring, but I was alone at work and my heartbeat reacted oddly when I had to use my asthma inhaler. So I do the 911 thing, they come and collect me, monitor me, and drive me over to ye olde DeKalb hospital, where I then wait two hours to see a doctor and one more hour to finally be let home. By that time, Steven had said “Fuq school,” and was one hour in to the three hour trip up here from Auburn. I was so glad he drove all that way just for me. I am also eternally grateful to my boss and his family, who kept me company while I was sitting there contemplating what looked to be a booger on the curtain (hey, it’s an improvement over the last time I was in an ER (Brookwood), where I saw blood on the ceiling). After all, I don’t know anybody in this town except them and my Renton, who as yet has not learned how to drive. Heck, we’re still working on the toliet thing with him.

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Speaking of Renton, there seem to be no stories about him recently. He is being too good, too sweet, too unlike himself lately for there to be any interesting stories. Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to know that I can trust him in the computer/guest/extra room while I run to the bathroom for two minutes. It’s been quite a wonderful luxury; I wonder where my karma is gonna make me pay.

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Random fact: 87 days ’till Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. And, of course, that leads into . . .

88 days until Howard Shore himself conducts the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra in the music from Lord of the Rings. I’ve got my tickets in the chifferobe; where are yours?

Road Trip

I miss the smell of diesel fuel at the buttcrack of dawn. This realization came upon me yesterday morning as I was coming into work an hour early for a road trip to Chattanooga, where my boss had his diesel truck running in idle. It was a surprisingly good smell, and memories of band trips of the past came into my mind. . .

Get up, no time for shower, grab your stuff and go go go to the band hall, wait for the buses so you can get a good seat, talking through your chattering teeth to your teeth-chattering friends. Hey, they’re passing out the per diem, money money money, how much did you get? Dude, they better stop us at someplace cheap.

Oooh, the buses are here, rush rush rush to The Drum Bus Bus #2, claim your seat with your jacket and backpack full of amusing stuff. Find the Pit people, gather the instruments, make sure it’s packed, ReadY? One, two, lift! Into the belly of the bus, now do that five more times, is it all in? Fantabulous, I’m gonna go get some cheap coffee from the Sunshine Room, want some?

Hey, the sun’s coming up, think it might rain? So freezing cold, get on the bus and wait, wait, wait for 350 other people to situatie themselves, are we readY? Yeah, there goes JV, we’re ready, start up the bus, moving out. Road Trip!