As Irish As Kelly's Pig

Carol went to Ireland and all I got was this hat and drum. After consulting with many musicians, the general consensus is that I'm tone deaf and have a paralyzed vocal cord. However, I do have a molecule of rhythm (especially after two beers).

Now arthritis not withstanding, I am giving the bodran the college try. Hopefully by summer I will be able to join CP and her lively fiddle for a duet, who knows maybe if this nursing thing doesn't work out I can join River Dance.


Along with the Irish drum and hat I like to take naps with my high energy Welsh Terrier. Being the true Renaissance Man that I am, I refuse to let this Irish thing keep me from eating the Polish Perogies my Jewish sister sent me for Christmas. This year we decided to open the box marked perishable when it arrived, instead of leaving it on the counter for three days. Now that's Polish!

Summer of Love Smokey Mountain Harmonic Divergence and Moon Pie Fest

Mark your calenders, this August the Bagwan returns to the Smokey Mountains and the Plains of Tellico. August 13th to the 20th we will be dates this year (Babba Gi will be in Rome meeting with the Pope this Spring so the fourth annual conference has been moved from July). As usual the meeting will be held in a five star facility.

Quest speakers include Dr.s Diqattro & DiQuattro, the topics will include: exegetical eschatology and What Not To Wear featuring Francis Schaeffer. Music will feature Babba's bordran and Mrs. Gi's lively fiddle. Also, hopefully this years accomadtion will feature the greatly requested feature of central-air.

Space is limited so reserve early (walk-ins welcome but not preferred). Don't miss this opportunity for a time of reflection and discovery.

If I See My Friends, I'll Duck Down Under The Dashboard

Babba actually drove a third generation Prius today. I was surprised at what a substantial car it is. It felt like a rock solid mid-sized car, not like a golf-cart. It was very futuristic, especially when coming from a 93 Oldsmobile. My neighbor bought it for the gas mileage. When she compared other 40 plus mpg vehicles like the Honda Fit, the Prius won out. Now if they can just solve the problem with the pause when it switches from regular braking to dynamic braking it would be flawless.

How boring, driving is supposed to be about leaky mufflers, slipping transmissions, stuck windows and oil leaks. I'm not sure I'm ready for George Jetson's car, but I was impressed with its power, ride and refinement.

My first car, a 53 Chevrolet Bel Air (actually found in a widow's garage with 26K original miles) seems like a chariot compared to the Prius. It had 20 plus grease fittings in the front end, required an oil change every thousand miles, had tires that went flat on a weekly basis, had a 6 volt battery which the radio drained in three minutes and needed a tune up every ten thousand miles. It had a three speed transmission; at 25 mph you were in overdrive and at 50 mph it took 600 feet to stop. The steering wheel was the diameter of an extra large pizza, but you needed it to be 30 inches wide because with the king-pin steering if you didn't slow down to 10 mph you didn't make the turn.

We have come a long way from the Model T which came with a shop manual. In an urban setting with gas costing $7/gal the Prius would make sense. However, for now I'd get a Corolla and skip all complexity of a hybrid, plus at least I could change the oil in it on a rainy afternoon. It's hard to put a price on feeling useful.

Blah-Blah-Blah

I had the not so unique experience of dealing with a blowhard yesterday. What has caused the recent increase in people who feel the need to bloviate at will? Why do these people feel the need to erupt like some verbal pinata about any topic under the sun?

The best example I ever found of this phenomena is in Woody Allen's movie Annie Hall . What makes these folks just go on and on about any topic? They also suffer from Voice Modulation Disorder. They talk like they are addressing an outdoor high school commencement . Even if they sit three rows behind you in a plane they sound like they are in the next seat. Rows ten through eighteen are all privy to this font of knowledge emoting from the guy in row fifteen. The only one safe from this verbal cornucopia is the spouse that has years ago lost the ability to hear his droning.

I sometimes wonder why adult-bloviation-disorder seems to be on the increase. Perhaps:
The decrease in inhibitory neuro transmitters in the elderly (this is what makes your ninety year old aunt feel the need to describe her last bowel movement to you).
The self-esteem movement (this has taught children that every thought they have is important to a stranger).
The new social network (where people feel the need to share every headache, burp and emotion they have on a real-time basis with thousands of strangers).
The feelings of increased irrelevance in the retired (their biggest decision of the day may whether to take one or two stool-softeners).
The feelings of helplessness over the collapse of our country (they realize we are bankrupt and no longer a great nation).
The touchy-feely pop-psychology of afternoon TV (this promotes the idea that talking in and of itself is therapeutic and can solve any problem including world hunger).

I'm getting better at recognizing the blow-hard and distancing myself from their machinations. I realize that the conversation they are having has really nothing to do with me; the reason I'm there is to just silence the voice in their head. For the true bloviator the only one of any importance is himself. With the help of technology bloviation doesn't even require a warm body, they can zip down I-15 with the cell phone at their ear and their head crooked like they've had a stroke while they try to use up 5,000 minutes.

Luckily I have CP to tell me when my pomposity and voice modulation disorder surfaces. I also had a father that taught me not to be the center of attention, he would say "keep quiet so people won't know how stupid you are". It was a time before books like Raising Kids God's Way made Little Johnny think everything he said was profound.

Christmas at Obama General Hospital

Thirty one Christmas's in the hospital, what a long strange trip it's been. Unlike the mall, business is down and management is conveniently absent. Sickness and death; what a great Christmas movie theme. Death never takes a holiday, it just hits a speed bump between Christmas and New Year's. The staff gets even more psychotic for about a month. Who will work which holiday? Who has kids? Who worked last Christmas? Add to this the fear of snow and you have General Hospital on Haldol. I love it.

Adding to the usual holiday malaise are recent Obama-Care mandates. Nurses spend two thirds of their time at a computer station. Cutbacks in reimbursement have whittled down staff and equipment (more bricks without straw)and the need to compete for patients (aka customers, clients, guests, patrons, benefactors etc) like a boutique restaurant just adds to the angst. Forget all the hype, the original Christmas probably took place in March. Book-up, soon it will be January second and the holiday psychosis will be over. A new deductible year will be starting and if your lucky you won't be a patient in Obama General Hospital.

The Downside Of Shopping On-Line

Fed-Ex delivered this today. I think it's a Christmas present for me but I'm not sure. I did ask CP for an Ames grain shovel which is in fact the best snow shovel around. However, I'm not sure if Santa will bring me one; you know the economy being what it is an all. I'll just have to wait and be surprised Christmas morning!

Christmas Parade

Come on kid, hurry up, we close in five minutes!

A Pause For The Cause

Go Dottie!

Dottie hit a home run in North Carolina with her Pork Marsala.
Carol did tweek it with some beef bouillon.
Pork, mushrooms, noodles and a rich sauce; Bon appetit!

Christmas Food Court Flash Mob, Hallelujah Chorus - Must See!

And I thought malls were all about bad food and overpriced chintzy clothing.

The Left Foot Of Fellowship

The Feed and Seed is entering a float in the Christmas parade. This years theme is "Christmas Movies", and we have chosen "A Christmas Story".

We are building a forty foot float that will have on it four scenes from the movie. This year I thought I would volunteer to be Santa Claus; a character for which I am uniquely suited for by both temperament and physique. However, there is a problem. The town says the only Santa allowed is the one at the end of the parade. I'm not sure if this is meant to keep the children from running into the road or perhaps they may be emotionally traumatized by seeing two Santa's in one block. Now my theatrical debut has been stymied. It looks like Babba-Santa will be hidden away in a little cottage, with only his right foot appearing to push little Ralphie down the slide. Let me see here, my only line (Ho-Ho-Ho) has been cut and my costume reduced to a red pant leg and black boot. All I can say is this is a a big step down from my usual church Christmas part as one of the Wise-Guys.

Bottom Falls Out Of The Flock-Market

We don't go nuts with Christmas decorations. In fact the large wreath that hangs over our garage came with the house. It was on the house when we bought it in July. In the last few years we spruced it up with lights and ribbons. However, the giant wreath is looking a little rough. The original white flocking is sort of a muddy brown. It looks like somebody came out of IHOP and threw up on it.

I went to four stores looking for a spray can of polyurethane snow and I can't find it anywhere. All they have is this sissy-pansy stuff called SNOW that is only for indoor use on glass. I bet the EPA had something to do with it.

So what are my options? I have some white lacquer left over from touching up Marianne's bumper-car. A little paint and some Rice-Krispies should work. The problem is a new neighbor who decorated for Halloween like it was Christmas and has decorated for Christmas like his home is Rockefeller Center.

I have finished my tax free Amazon.Com Christmas Shopping. North Carolina sued Amazon for lost sales tax revenue and lost the case. The states are just itching to get their greedy teeth into the inter-net so they can bankrupt that last bastion of free enterprise.

The only problem I have with Amazon is reading the reviews. Ninety per cent of people rave about a product and give it five stars and ten percent of the people give it one star and say it's the biggest P.O.S. they ever purchased. Some of the product reviews are moronic.

"I've had this lap top for two hours and so far its very dependable."
"This coffee maker keeps shutting off after two hours."
"I love my seven inch notebook computer, but the keyboard is small."

I usually look for at least four stars with a nice mix of reviews. If you see something with a five star review it probably from a singular customer whose item hasn't been delivered yet.

Average Customer Rating 3.7 out of 5 stars (216 customer reviews)Why go schlepping around? Just read the inane reviews! 5 star: (104) 4 star: (38) 3 star: (17) 2 star: (17) 1 star: (40)

Thanksgiving

BEN


















Biscotti

















BO




BED

Tis the season to be stupid

What would it take to get me to participate in this stupidity? Not even a free flat screen TV would get me into the middle of this stampede. Everybody's in a rush to get into where, Target? What a way to welcome the Christmas season.

Stay home, shop on-line, avoid the sales tax and human debris.

Caption Contest

Did I remember to record Top Chef?

T.S.A. agent accosts 3 year old child at security checkpoint

This is the end result of political correctness. If anyone else did this to a child they would be doing hard time. Too bad she didn't wear a berka, she would have avoided being traumatized. The TSA employee is only following orders. Where have I heard that before? Perhaps the Bill of Rights ceases to exist at the airport. The whole world is laughing at us, especially the Jihadists.

"You who philosophize disgrace, and criticize all fears. Bury the rag deep in your face, for this is the time for your tears."

Bob Dylan

The Lord Of The Pillow

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

God's Greatest Miracle

I spent my last day in Babylon at the Holocaust Museum.

I'm glad I was there alone because it isn't your usual slice of Americana exhibit. I'm only ten years removed from WW II, and it isn't as far removed from me as say the Civil War. Two doors away from me where I grew up was a doctor's wife who spoke beautiful Polish, she also had a tattoo on her arm. It wasn't talked about much , but usually the word got out that so-in-so was in the camps. I was taught that the Hun had this propensity and it hovered just below the surface and could rise up at anytime if not held in place by force. It was very convenient to think that this trait was some Germanic genetic aberration as opposed to plain old human nature.

I'm so cynical that I agree with the fellow who said "the question should not be, how can this happen, but rather how come it doesn't happen more often". Poland had a higher percentage of Jews than any other European country in 1930's. It seems that Poland's depth of antisemitism was especially deep, seeing that they had this vibrant minority that at 10 % of the population stood out among the peasant poor majority. I think my Polish grandmother was antisemitic ( my father thought she was Eva Braun herself). Luckily for me my parents had few prejudices.

The roots of antisemitism was really explained well. It is very complex but one character that played a major part was Martin Luther. I was amazed at what I read about old Martin years ago. At last. 10 years ago the Lutheran church has apologized for what flames of antisemitism he ignited during the reformation. The Catholic church and a host of other minor players kept this scapegoat mentality going till the 1930's.

I have read a dozen or so books on the Holocaust and probably a dozen personal memoirs. I am not a scholar but since childhood I always felt the holocaust was a sentinel event in mankind's march to perdition. Some things I've started to realize:
Hitler's antisemitism became rabid after England entered the war. He realized the U.S. would follow England and the war was lost.
Hitler's real goal was to conquer Russia and the Balkans and create an empire similar to England's.
The holocaust was Hitler's third front and actually hastened Germany's defeat.

Next time you're in D.C. take a day and spend it at the Holocaust Museum. It will be better for your spiritual growth than a weekend with Beth Moore. If you are looking for something to increase your faith, just look to God's greatest miracle, the Jews.

AC/DC

This is the world's longest escalator. It's at the D.C. Metro's Rosslyn station. It was like descending into the Nether-World. It's like a hundred yards long, without any break in it. Agoraphobics must poop their pants on this thrill ride. Since the people are level and the angle of the escalator is close to 45 degrees, the riders look like teeth on some maniacal rip-saw. Since people in D.C. power walk everywhere, you better stand to the right because the left is the passing lane where Metro's race up and down for exercise.

I imagined this ominous chunnel as a conduit for all our tax money being tossed into the abyss.


All the money that we working stiffs throw into the chunnel ends up here, in Pelosi's sand-box. Last time I saw the Capitol in 1962 it wasn't as big. it didn't have those extensions on either side. I saw it before it was a Triple-Wide. I hear Nancy "only plays to a big room".


This is my contact in D.C. Here is Ben at the "Origins of Life" exhibit at the Smithsonian. I didn't see Ken Ham (aka Canned Ham in our family) anywhere. Ben is at a statue of Homo-Erectus-Liberalis. It seems that even five million years ago he already had his hand out.

Things I noticed about D.C.

Everyone power-walked
People weren't obese
Metro doors could break your arm
Two thirds of the people are young women
There is no sign of a recession
Everyone carries at least three electronic devices
Everyone eats out
The clubs and bars are full
There is a distinct shortage of "Babba-Types".
The panhandlers are amateurs compared to Asheville
The incidental male appeared either gay or metro
No one was talking to themselves
You could walk a mile without seeing a Wal-Mart
People still had money for Starbucks

Well Babba is back in Asheville, " were suit and tie meets tie-dyed".

On The Fifth Day God Created Babba

Five days without Carol and Babba reverts to a Neanderthal.

Fuzz-Buster

While Marianne is in Ireland, she left her car in Asheviile to have her Subaru modified.
The new model is guaranteed to help her make it through the West Virginia speed-traps.

Stump the Chumps

This week on Car Talk, trucker Richard has a busted fuel gauge in his 18-wheeler. He's got a trusty stick to help measure the level of fuel in his cylindrical tank, but needs a formula to tell him whether that level means he's got 3/4 of a tank, or is running on fumes. You'd think two MIT grads would be able to help, but, well, you'd be wrong.

OK my smart friends, the tank measures 18 inches in diameter. Obviously when you dip the ruler into the tank you know that at 9 inches it means it's half full. What mark on the ruler would tell you the tank was one quarter full?

I came up with 7.1 inches. I used only geometry and as usual I did it in my head and can't explain exactly how I got my answer except I compared the area of an 18 inch square with an 18 inch circle. So, my smart friends, help me out. Tell me if I'm right because the problem with having Aspergers is that even when you don't want it, it's always there.

Remember, no calculus, no trig, no sliderulers, just a simple calculator.

A Triumph Of The Will

Behind this calm appearance lies a will of iron. Lately Bo has made the trimming of his front paws a "Battle-Royale". It has reached the point that we only trimmed one nail a week. Usually the match would result in CP getting head-butted, scratched and both of us sweating like farm animals.

We decided to call in a hit-man, our neighbor Ruth who is a veterinary assistant. Ruth grabbed Bo and body-slammed him down like a calf in a roping contest. She put her forearm across his neck and laid on him. Meanwhile, Bo is squealing like a pig. I'm getting very upset and am about to come to his rescue when Ruth says "OK now do his nails". I was able to grind off a quarter inch off all sixteen nails.

This Saturday without Ruth, CP and I did Bo's nails. It was great to get the job done without a scene. When you have a stubborn Welsh Terrier you can never let him win, ever!

Your Father's Oldsmobile

The Oldsmobile's A/C quit working. I noticed it getting a little tepid in August. I'm glad it lasted til October. Down here A/C becomes life support in the summer. Now, this can be a terminal event in a seventeen year old car. As a matter of opinion, I considered the Freon12 A/C in the Olds was its best feature. I have all winter to ponder the option of selling my last connection to Petersburg, W.V.


I got this car and a 98 Olds Delta 88 from Hospice Motors. A nurse in the Hospice Unit would let me in on some real deals from her patients who wanted to divest themselves of their Detroit Iron before they passed. CP loved her Delta 88 which two deer totaled for me about a mile outside of Petersburg. We got more money from Geico for the car than we payed for it.


Maybe because of my Autism Spectrum Disorder I'm more sentimental about cars than people.
I refused to sell my 88 4-Runner to some teenager who wouldn't appreciate it, and would probably kill himself with it. I found it a nice home with an older gentleman in Red House, W.V.
I probably can get about $1000 bucks for this car even without A/C and with a noisy muffler. However, ten Franklins in my hand won't be enough to make up for a car that can take you down the Interstate on a Flying-Couch at 75 mph.

Local, Free Range, Non-Caged Talent

Vaudeville, what a wonderful change from the internet, television, politics, and Hollywood. Nothing entertains like seeing jugglers, plate spinners, magicians, dancers, dog acts, knife throwers, comics etc.



The energy and talent in Asheville is refreshing to an old coot like me, and they welcome broken down ex-hippies like Babba.



The proceeds from the show went to a local food bank and the local brewery donated four kegs of beer which helped to further the charitable mood. The music was from my favorite Asheville band Sirius B. CP and I went in our usual Tart & Vicar costumes.

People of Wal-Mart-Saturday morning @ 6 AM

I always go to Wal-Mart on Saturday, usually before sunrise. I try to avoid the People of Wal-Mart . I think I need to go a little earlier. I try to zip in and get my dozen routine things and be home by 7 am to listen to the same people calling C-SPAN. I make the store loop picking up Bo-Treats, coffee, ice tea, light bulbs etc.

I'm making good time, heading to the register that's actually open on the end of the store where I parked (it's Wal-Mart policy to only open up one register until the parking lot is full). Now, I have had back pain all week so I decide to skip the open register and zip back to the pharmacy dept. and get a tube of Equate brand Ben-Gay. The smallest tube they have is about twelve ounces; that's enough to grease the front end of an 88 Toyota 4-Runner ten times. I don't want to spend $5 on some crap that doesn't work anyway so I head back toward that empty register I spotted earlier. I now see the cigarette/snuff register has opened, but standing there is the lady who talks to herself. This Wal-Mart client shops every Saturday morning. I first ran into her a few months ago in the toothpaste aisle where she was talking to the Listerine. I by-pass this screwball and head toward the register I first lusted for.

I reach the other register and see a young lady with a cart full of Mountain-Dew twelve-packs. I sense a problem right away, the checker is waving for the manager (I guess the P.A. system isn't turned on til noon.) It seems she wants to get the 24-pack sale price applied to each pair of her 12-packs. Hyper-Mountain-Dew-Girl says she had called the store and they said it would be OK. Dew Girl is now doing jumping-jacks trying to wave down the manager (She then turns to me and tells me she's a Libra). They finally get the manager's attention and he starts to mosey on down to register #1. Now, the night shift manager is not too sharp (last week he was probably pushing the carts inside with the little trolley). The manager listens to her long tale, and then asks her who she spoke with. Of course she can't remember because that whole story is a crock. The manager gets out his calculator and is calculating how many 12 packs make up a 24 pack. At this point I bail out and head back to the snuff register.

The lady who talks to toothpaste is still there babbling to the cashier about computers in the classrooms. I push her cart away and start putting my stuff on the conveyor belt. She and the checkout lady get my message and I'm checked out in less than two minutes. I'm walking back across the store and I pass Dew Girl, who has finally checked out and saved five dollars on her caffeine score. I get out to my car and right next to me in handicapped parking is the think-out-loud lady talking to herself as she loads her car ( I guess talking to oneself is considered a handicap).

A week ago I went to Wal-mart and they were out of three pound Great-Value Arabica coffee. It never occurred to me that I could take three one pound cans to the register and and get them for the price of a three pound can. I'm thinking maybe I should go to Wal-mart at five AM, but it would probably be just a different cast of characters.

By the way, "How's The Family"!

The Socially Inept Network

"The Social Network" is a movie about the designers of The Facebook. I will put aside my own feelings about Faccia-Libre. I will not preach about how Facebook is just another symptom of our fragmented society. I want to review the movie.

At the onset, Jesse Eisenberg (Juno) and Justin Timberlake (N-Sync) do not inspire thoughts of good drama in my mind. However, both these young men, when given a good script, a good story and good direction stepped up to plate and hit one out of the park. The movie has three flawed protagonists, two are Harvard students and one is a cyber-hustler. The antagonist is the higher education cyber-establishment.

Eisenberg plays Mark Zuckerberg, the socially inept ADDHD computer genius. Andrew Garfield plays Eduardo Saverin his business-major partner whose' practicality and lack of vision almost killed the concept. Timberlake plays Sean Parker, the cyber genius of Napster who sees the potential of Facebook. Parker realized that Facebook had to remain cool to appeal to the youth and also that the lack of privacy was the key to exponential growth. They had no idea that Grandma would be tagging people and playing Farmville on the site.

The movie works because it simply told the story. I couldn't believe how much I liked this movie. Perhaps I liked it because it was about a small group of people caught up in a unique moment in history. O.K. they didn't invent penicillin, they invented a self indulgent cesspool of sophistry, but still they had initiative. I give the movie four and a half stars.

It is a true American Tale.

Secretariat

We went to a preview of Secretariat while in Vegas. You can't go wrong with a Horse Movie, but they came close. About twenty minutes into it, after having a portion of The Book of Job read and two negro spirituals sung, a cold chill ran down my spine. I thought "this is a Christian movie", is a guy going to get up out of his wheel chair and give the field goal sign with his arms when the horse wins the Triple-Crown? John Malcovich overacted a bit as the eccentric trainer. Diane Lane really stepped up in her performance as the daughter trying to save the family horse farm during the 60's cultural revolution. She usually plays a ho or a home-wrecker.

Hollywood could have done so much more with this script. They could have had Lane having an affair with the trainer, the rebellious daughter getting pregnant, the neglected husband coming out etc. However, the story was about the horse. Aside from some clunky dialogue, the movie worked. My favorite line was "in horse racing there are no excuses." That is so much different than today where all we get are excuses. It is a good family film that comes up to the edge of Christian silliness. I give it four stars.

The Saga Continues. O'Hare Airport: Your stimulus $$$ @ work

We arrived in Chicago about 0800 and exited our pencil-jet onto the tarmac where it was a windy, wet 40 degrees. We wait outside for our luggage to be unloaded onto the trolley and driven twenty feet to a magical line where a shivering mob is waiting. After finding our bag among the thirty identical black carry-ons the march of the penguins begins. The flock begins the walk through a maze of concrete barricades, under dripping air-conditioners and finally up a stairwell to the terminal.

We were told to take the shuttle between B-33 and C-31. Now that's about as far away as you can get and still be in Cook County; we have 29 minutes to get our connection. We are booking along when CP sees the sign for the shuttle. It's between the Men's and Ladies' rest rooms and looks like the entry to a utility closet. I was looking for a monorail. We open the door to the closet and there is a stairwell full of people. They are waiting for the "hoopty", a little shuttle bus like the courtesy van a hotel would use. Finally we move till we get to the front where the lady pulls the rope across and says we have to wait for the next bus. CP is doing her out-of-towner schtick telling the bored attendant we have nineteen minutes to make our connection.

Finally we get into the hoopty and it lumbers the three hundred yards across the tarmac, stopping for every luggage train and almost getting hit by a catering truck. We arrive at B-33 just as they are calling our zone. I can't believe a major city airport connects its terminals with a hoopty! The super-sized fellow next to me on our plane tells me "it's been like this for ten years, O'hare is a #%$@ hole". on

Great Flight

My flight from Chicago to Las Vegas was a crusher. I was happy to get the bulkhead seat. The plane is about full and the window seat next to me is still open. In walks a couple with an aggregate weight of 700 lbs. They pass by me and I breathe a sigh of relief (my last deep breath for three hours). The lady sits behind me and the guy hurls himself into the seat next to me. Since it was a bulkhead seat I couldn't lift up the arm rest and lean on CP. For three hours I sat with this guys gut sticking in my side like a 20 lb. sack of flour.

Behind me was sitting a 300 lb Pickwickian. This guy had sleep apnea that sounded like a giant Pug with croup. If I had an oral airway I'd have put it in him.

Babba was gracious to both of them. It's part of my new persona; plus I took an extra Lyrica pre-flight.

Kids Know Better

This looks like a pretty easy job. After all, if Ralphie's Mom didn't volunteer him the lug nuts would've been safely in the hubcap on the ground. However, there were other "help your father jobs" that are more meaningful and fraught with peril. Hold The Flashlight was my favorite. I can't remember exactly what critical task required me to be pressed into service, but I do remember that I sucked at it. I had to hold the heavy flashlight rock steady for minutes at a time while my Dad fumbled around trying to fix something. This was before the age of LED's and lithium batteries. After a mere three minutes the glow would start to diminish as the batteries started to die. That would lead to more cussing and a trip to the fridge where we had old batteries aging alongside the cheese. A dozen dead batteries didn't dissuade Dad from wanting to terrorize you. All that meant was that the flashlight strength and agility test was replaced by, hold the match.

Another job that proved how utterly useless I was concerned the toilet tank. I had to hold this big copper float ball up to stop the water from shooting out while Dad replaced some copper tube. After a minute I couldn't hold it any longer. A gusher of water shot up to the ceiling and left a stain which I got to view about six times a day for the next ten years. Perhaps that is why nowadays I prefer to work alone.

Counting The Cost.

The new and gentler Babba is getting worn out. I now have people talking to me who previously been repelled by my aura of anger. Why are these silly people taking up my time with talk about their spouses, children, flooded basements, car problems, and money woes? Now that my defensive shield has been turned off a simple quick run to the break room for coffee can turn into a five minute confab.

Well, the word is out now. Bring your problems to Babba, he's the Oskar Schindler of the O.R. Life was sure easier when all I cared about were dogs and guns.

Being Nice Is Hard Work

I survived another week among the long-knives. A full week of penance where I recited a thousand times "how's the family" and a hundred "have a good weekend's". I find it a lot of work and it's time consuming when someone actually takes it seriously and replies with more than the one word answer I'm expecting.

Another challenge is that I have an expressive face; especially when it comes to disgust. Botox is expensive and it only gives you Pelosi-Face for a couple of months. I'm thinking about taking a dopaminergic blocking drug like Reglan. This way I can walk around all day with a mask-face typical of an eighty year old Parkinson's patient.

I also need to expand my repertoire of concern quips. I've thought up some new ones:

Do you think it's time to bring the plants in for the winter?
What did you do this weekend?
How about those Dolphins?

Everyday I go to my Higher-Power, my Source, the one and only Fred Rogers.

Shut Up, Ralphie

It seems that Ralphie is in trouble again. My name was mentioned in connection with not being PC. Some of my co-workers have complained that I'm too abrupt. They said all I do is bark orders and I never inquire about their families and their home life. I thought I was doing good overcoming my Asperger's Syndrome, but I guess please, thank you, good morning and have a nice weekend aren't enough.

You would think that after sixty years I would realize, " I don't have baseball players, I've got girls." It's really hard for me to do what doesn't come naturally. However, this week I did step out of my comfort zone and let a co-worker know her eye-liner was running down her nose. I've also added the tag line "how's the family" to all my greetings and requests. I'm really in uncharted territory here. Maybe because at the age of thirteen I took the Nazarene Vow I tend not to be too personal with the fairer sex. It just seems like I'm stepping into a mine field by trying to act like Fred Rodgers.

The chasm between myself and the crew became evident to me when one of them stated "work is where I come to develop relationships and socialize." It really struck me that I must be an emotional Neanderthal, because I thought it was where I went to earn money.

My week long apology tour ended on Friday. I must accept the things I can't change. I appeal to my higher-power to help me be more patient with people. I have to or else the Wee-Bees will prevail. I'm getting Botox injections to help with the eye-rolling problem. I also need to pick up a few new tag lines and learn how to say "Oh-Fudge" and really mean it.

Never Forget

Nine years after 9/11 where are we at? The World Trade Center hasn't been rebuilt, the country is balkanized and bankrupt. We have a President that has more regard for Islam then the United States. We have had a dozen subsequent small scale attacks and our major defense has been dumb luck. We have subcontracted our Space Program to the Chinese, along with our debt and manufacturing capability. Our southern border is a super highway and illegal aliens have a better chance of being hit by lightning than being deported. I think 9/11 was a turning point in the decline of the Western Culture and the rise of Islam.

I never liked the Twin Towers. One summer I worked doing dry-wall in the new General Motors building on 59th Street. I thought that 50 story building was tall enough. The next summer I worked a few weeks at the Twin Towers site. It always seemed like a "Tower of Babel" to me. It took the better part of an hour to get up to your work floor. At 3:30 the shift was over and it would be after 4 before I could get down to the ground taking four stairs at a time (I was nineteen). It reminded me of Oral Roberts' ridiculous high rise hospital that was a logistical nightmare. The higher you go the more floor space is used up by elevators, stairs and conduits. The highest I got in the towers was the 86th floor, that was high enough for me.

Another thing different about the building was that plaster, cement, and wire lathe weren't used on the stairwells and elevator banks. It was the first time sheet-rock was used in a NYC commercial building to enclose these areas. Our company also did wire lathe and sprayed fire proofing.
I got to visit a site of a fire in one of the company's former jobs. The amazing thing was that even this small fire caused the steel beams to buckle and twist. Anyone that doesn't think steel melts never ignored their car's engine temp gauge or fired a machine gun.

After the M.G.M. Grand fire anytime I hear their an alarm that announces, "An emergency exists in this building, Stay where you are and wait for further instructions" I get up and leave. I don't care if the waiter just put a steak in front of me.

I was in the 7th grade waiting to get into home-room when I heard that JFK was shot. I was working in Petersburg W.V. when the World Trade Center was attacked. The difference was that on 9/11 I realized the country would never be the same.