My YouTube Count

64 Channel Views
2 Subscribers

34 Original Pandas (added 080429)
30 Improved Pandas (added 080430)
111 Ringo Buys a Rifle (added 080504)
15 For What It's Worth (added 080509)
358 Eat All The Old People (added 080511)
561 Obama - So You Want To Be A Boxer (added 080514)
78 If The Animals Could Talk (added 080518)
19 Bring The Boys Back Home (added 080521)
31 You Are My Sunshine (added 080525)
38 Bad Guys (added 080528)
49 Madman (added 080601)
59 Kill A Kitten (added 080608)
20 Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave (added 080611)
59 Hook In Mouth (added 080618)
8 Stuart (added 080623)
================================
1450 Total Video Views

My YouTube Count

64 Channel Views
2 Subscribers

34 Original Pandas (added 080429)
30 Improved Pandas (added 080430)
107 Ringo Buys a Rifle (added 080504)
15 For What It's Worth (added 080509)
353 Eat All The Old People (added 080511)
546 Obama - So You Want To Be A Boxer (added 080514)
76 If The Animals Could Talk (added 080518)
19 Bring The Boys Back Home (added 080521)
31 You Are My Sunshine (added 080525)
35 Bad Guys (added 080528)
45 Madman (added 080601)
57 Kill A Kitten (added 080608)
20 Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave (added 080611)
55 Hook In Mouth (added 080618)
8 Stuart (added 080623)
================================
1431 Total Video Views

My YouTube Count

63 Channel Views
2 Subscribers

33 Original Pandas (added 080429)
30 Improved Pandas (added 080430)
106 Ringo Buys a Rifle (added 080504)
15 For What It's Worth (added 080509)
347 Eat All The Old People (added 080511)
540 Obama - So You Want To Be A Boxer (added 080514)
70 If The Animals Could Talk (added 080518)
19 Bring The Boys Back Home (added 080521)
31 You Are My Sunshine (added 080525)
35 Bad Guys (added 080528)
43 Madman (added 080601)
51 Kill A Kitten (added 080608)
20 Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave (added 080611)
54 Hook In Mouth (added 080618)
7 Stuart (added 080623)
================================
1401 Total Video Views

My YouTube Count

62 Channel Views
2 Subscribers

33 Original Pandas (added 080429)
30 Improved Pandas (added 080430)
102 Ringo Buys a Rifle (added 080504)
15 For What It's Worth (added 080509)
344 Eat All The Old People (added 080511)
539 Obama - So You Want To Be A Boxer (added 080514)
67 If The Animals Could Talk (added 080518)
19 Bring The Boys Back Home (added 080521)
31 You Are My Sunshine (added 080525)
35 Bad Guys (added 080528)
42 Madman (added 080601)
43 Kill A Kitten (added 080608)
18 Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave (added 080611)
49 Hook In Mouth (added 080618)
5 Stuart (added 080623)
================================
1352 Total Video Views

STV: Stuart

Uploaded yesterday, June 23, 2008

Today's Stupidity Index

Today's Stupidity Index is

HIGH

with a 95% chance of idiocy.

What this means:

• Avoid unnecessary driving, as other drivers will be on the phone, eating lunch, and otherwise not paying attention to the one-ton projectile they have aimed at you.
• Avoid unnecessary shopping, as other shoppers will stop short in front of you to stare blankly at nothing, then swing their cart randomly into your way as you try to go around them, then mutter darkly about how rude you are as you walk away.
• Hell, just avoid people in general. Stay home and get drunk. That's what I'm going to do.
  

Fresh Video: Hook In Mouth

Uploaded today, June 18, 2008

On a Personal Note

No YouTube vid for tomorrow, Sunday, June 15, 2008, due to a death in the family. Regularly scheduled content additions will continue Wednesday, June 18, 2008.

Some details, and thoughts

"Grandma Dorothy" was born June 13, 1923. She graduated nursing school in 1944 and shortly thereafter worked for, then married, "Doctor Grandpa." Together they had eight kids, six boys and two girls, of whom my father was the third.

Growing up, the three eldest boys had a life markedly different from that of the five that followed. A polite way to sum it up would be to say that Grandpa was very strict. He was also my first example of pharmaceutical hostage-taking, freely writing prescriptions for Grandma to keep her mellow and compliant. A life on these drugs essentially ruined all chance she had for a healthy body, and I always knew her as fat, though there were photos to prove this had not always been the case.

In the early sixties, they moved to Hillside. Her parents had a little farmette there, and sold the neighboring lot to their son-in-law to build a house. That was the house I will always think of as my grandparents', a grand split-level home built into the hill with a walk-out basement. And at Great-grandma Aurelia's next door was the huge yard and in-ground pool. Most weekends of my childhood were spent there, visiting grandparents and Great-grandma and grandma's sister Jeannie, who was taking care of their mother.

In summertime, we'd get out to Hillside in the midmorning, spend the day swimming, visiting, running about and swimming some more. It was like a party every weekend, my aunts and uncles bringing my cousins, my dad's cousins bringing their kids, and everyone happy and at ease in the joy of family and recreation.

After Great-grandma died, Jeannie took over the property. Then came the summer everything fell apart. Jeannie went on a trip, and while she was gone Grandpa decided that the diving board for the pool, and the fence on that side, was on his property. He had some of his younger sons come while Jeannie was away and remove the board and move the fence.

This asinine act forged a rift. Siblings had to choose sides; most of them agreed with Grandpa, his eldest son (my Uncle Ray), and my dad agreed with their aunt Jeannie, and the second son simply decided he wanted nothing to do with any of it and refused to speak to anyone for a while.

It was heartbreaking for me as a child, to see my cousins visiting Grandma and knowing they couldn't cross that imaginary line into Aunt Jeannie's yard to play. That was the year I started hearing the ugly truths about Grandpa, how he treated his family, and how much Grandma's siblings despised him for ripping their family apart.

All because of a stupid diving board. Of course the board wasn't really the issue: it was just a physical representation of Grandpa's determination to be right and have his way, no matter what the cost to those around him.

As time went on, the rift was healed to some extent; when Aunt Jeannie died, it seemed that summer that they would all forget the stupid fight and we could all be a family again. But reconciliation didn't last long, and soon the family slipped back into its quiet division.

Once I hit 18 and moved out of my parents' home, I didn't see much of my dad's family. I didn't want to; older and wiser, I knew much of my dad's troubles with his own family were directly caused by what his parents had put him through, and I had a hard time forgiving them for that. I did miss my cousins, and many of my aunts, whose only sins had been being the children of or married to the uncles that followed Grandpa no matter what.

We did make the trip north to Wisconsin for their 50th wedding anniversary, and to Berwyn for Grandma's eightieth birthday in 2003. That birthday was something: eight kids and their spouses, 24 grandkids, and four great-grandchildren in attendance, along with other family members and friends, made for a very crowded banquet hall.

So much of Grandma's life was overshadowed by Grandpa...

She died late Monday, June 9, 2008. My dad called me a little before 6:30 AM Tuesday to let me know. And I cried, not because I felt any grief for her or myself, but because, after everything, my father was clearly torn up to know that his mother was gone, and he would never see her alive again.

So on Thursday I made the trek to Hillside once again, to be there for my dad. And of course Grandpa was there, mostly deaf, getting infirm, but still the same old curmudgeon, freely criticizing his three eldest sons and their sons, even as his wife lay before him in her casket.

It did give my cousin Jason, only child of Uncle Ray, an epiphany to his father's "pinched look," to know he had to silently accept the abuse about his weight (hefty but not fat), his habits, his wife (who wisely stayed in New Mexico). My brother, who had already learned this, cheerfully said "yes, Grandpa," to every slam and slur, and let it go without a second thought. Not so for my cousin David (only son of the uncle who, back when, opted to ignore the whole family rather than get dragged into a fight with them), who more than once simply walked away when Grandpa started to talk to him, giving the excuse of having small children to tend to.

Grandma was interred the next day, her birthday, Friday the 13th. We actually started off the service at the funeral home with a verse of "Happy Birthday," cruelly ironic icing for the whole morbid ritual. After the singing stopped, a small hopeful voice of one of the great-grandkids piped up from the back: "Are we gonna have cake?"

After the funerary rite at the church, we all went to the gravesite, and once the casket was lowered and the lid placed onto the liner, the family milled about, pointing out the marker stones of other dearly departed; some of us went to the section for "the Innocents," where children are buried, to find graves of those unfortunate infants that didn't survive very long. We could not find the marker for my mother's sister, who had been struck and killed by a car when she was ten, but we did find, in my mother's family's area, the grave of her youngest brother, also killed in a vehicle mishap in 1995.

Then it was lunch at a local restaurant, and by three we were at Uncle Ray's, where most of us (who weren't driving) commenced to drinking. I spent most of the next four hours outside. We talked freely of everything and anything except Grandma and Grandpa, and I got to remember that sometimes, family can be good, and soothing for the soul.

When my parents were leaving, my dad got a little teary as he told my brother and I how much it meant to him that we had been there both days for him. On the long ride home, my brother admitted he didn't have a favorite memory of Grandma, and I vented a bit of inherited venom about Grandpa.

At the church, I did write a poem about her, politically-correct but pointed just the same:

"Grandma Smiled"
Grandma smiled
While cousins cried
And aunts sighed
Grandma smiled
If a kid's wild ride
Made uncles chide
Grandma smiled
Deer gobbled corn
Made Grandpa forlorn
Still, Grandma smiled
In her heart and her mind
As the clock did unwind
The truth of her peace
Kept her always at ease
And she smiled.

w00t!

My vids on YouTube have broken the 1000 views mark!

I'm tickled spitless.

Fresh Video: Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave

Uploaded today, June 11, 2008
(better late than never)

"Not Dead Yet" at Blog of the Weird

No Can Has Organs, Not Yours

Worth 1000 Words: Lego Repairs

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found via Fark

Worth 1000 Words: DomOlympics

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found via Fark

Blogger Hax!

I have a blog at LJ I don't use much any more; the one thing I thought it had over Blogger was the lj-cut tag. But after a bit of looking, I found a couple of offerings that make it all better.

Method One, from Vin at Beta-Blogger for Dummies is good if you do a lot of longer posts. Format of blog itself isn't great, nor is the bright pink background, but the how-to is well laid out and easy to follow. (I suggest copy-n-paste to a document to save your eyes.)

More about this method ...

Vin's method creates a "read more" link that opens the post's individual page in a new window or tab.

It's quick and easy to do; one piece of code goes into the blog template, the other into the post template.

There are additional tweaks and twitters for link color, size, wording, and so on. Definitely worth checking out if you have a lot of long posts.

But since I don't, I quickly found the "read more" link annoying on my short posts where there is nothing more to read than what has appeared on the main page.

Method Two, from Gaby at the Categories Blog, is the one I'm using now: better suited to a blog like mine that has posts of varying length.

More about this method ...

Gaby calls these cuts "expandable post zones," and that's a good term for it: one click to expand the text, and another collapses it back into the Internet aether.

The best part is that it doesn't add an unnecessary link when there is no text to reveal. That is just awesomeage.

To be fair, though, Gaby's post isn't as newbie-friendly as Vin's. For example, my template doesn't include the " < style type="text/css" > " tag; so when I followed the instructions as written, the code didn't work. I had to go back into the template and add the tag myself. Not a big deal, but for anyone unfamiliar with hand-coding, this omission might make them pass on this otherwise excellent tweak.

Both blogs offer plenty of other great stuff for bloggers: certainly worth a click or two to peruse.

STV: Kill A Kitten

Uploaded today, June 8, 2008

6-7-8-9-10

Today, being June seventh, 2008 CE, there's two times today we'll get to see a neato number progression:

6-7-8-9-10.

I was still snoozing this morning at nine, so I missed that one, but tonight it still counts. :)

So here's to 6/7/8 9:10!

An Epic Adventure (courtesy of the DMV)

All I wanted to do was register a title and transfer my plates.

I've been through this a few times; I felt no dread as I prepared for my journey. That should have been my first clue I was in for a nightmare afternoon.

Keep reading ...

First I went online to the State's "cyberdrive" site, looking for the fee associated with the transaction. I knew there would be one, but no matter where I looked I couldn't find any dollar amount regarding vehicle tax or transfer fee - not an example, not even a ballpark figure.

So I called the information line, and was connected to a human voice in a remarkably short amount of time. This helpful lady told me that the transfer fee would be $80. I wasn't thrilled with that figure, since I'd just renewed the freaking plates late and paid $98 dollars for the privilege, but, having no choice in the matter, accepted this inevitability with what grace I could muster and headed off to the ATM.

A bit about the car:

I’m happy taking the bus to and from work most of the time, since there are stops right by my house and my office, and the commute gives me time to mess about on my laptop and sight-see. But, in my suburban environment, a car is a necessary evil for little things like grocery shopping; also, the busi only run once an hour and stop at 5 PM, so small errands, like picking up a prescription or returning a book to the library, can turn into ridiculously long excursions.

This particular vehicle is a manual-transmission1989 VW Fox, nothing fancy, fuel efficient, with plenty of grocery space (and paid for in cash, which is always a nice little thrill to be able to do). Its major flaw is the lack of emergency brake.

I never realized how much I relied on that hand-brake until I didn’t have one.

First stop: the bank by the DMV, not the branch I normally use. I pulled up to the machine, to find that there was a definite “hump” in the pavement, so as soon as I took my foot off the brake the car started rolling. So instead I parked the car and headed inside. I had my hand in my bag on my wallet, ready to whip out my card and get my cash, as I looked around for an ATM, I noticed a burly security guard getting ready to perform a 20-foot flying tackle, so I decided instead to give up the search, fill out a form, and withdraw cash via a teller.

All went well until she informed me that I'd filled out a slip for Savings instead of Checking, that they do not have Checking withdrawal slips, and if I don't have a check with me she could sell me a temporary one for fifty cents.

I declined playing extra to get my own money and asked about an ATM inside. She directed me to the one outside. I informed her I was on foot, since most drive-up machine owners would rather not have pedestrians being struck by vehicles at their ATMs. She assured me it was no problem – well of course not, not for her, I'm the one standing out there praying some soccer mom in her SUV on the phone doesn't grind me into the asphalt.

I withdraw $100, figuring that having a little extra cash on hand won't hurt, then get back in the car and drive to the DMV. As I cross the lot, I see a bag – smallish duffel-type bag, black-and-grey camouflage pattern – sitting in the lot between me and my destination. I also see the DMV security guard warily approaching the bag from the other way: it's clear he doesn't want to have to touch it, but unlike the rest of us he can't leave it for some one else to deal with.

He picks it up carefully, and, of course, takes it into the DMV right ahead of me. Turns out it was just a diaper bag, but still. One dirty bomb can be as ugly as another.

The DMV here in town I have little problem with overall; there are rarely long lines or surly bureaucrats to deal with, the place is clean, and the AC was on. I got my forms quickly and started to fill them out.

The first, for the title transfer, included a table for figuring the tax owed. Since my car is more than 11 years old, the fee is flat and nominal. $25.

Five dollars more than I have on me.

Crud. (Why oh why hadn't the lady from Driver Services Information Line mentioned that? Well, because I didn't ask, of course.)

Sigh. Well, it could be worse. I look at the other form, to transfer the plates, and realize I have to go back out to the car anyway: I don't have my plate number memorized, and I need my insurance card for the policy number.

As I cross the parking lot I note the Off-Track Betting (OTB) establishment on the other side of the lot. Certainly they'll have an ATM: it's a gambling parlor. You don't want your losing-but-surely-about-to-win pigeons wandering out for more cash, they might not come back.

Having completely forgotten the burly guard at the bank, I repeat my entrance, hand in bag, scoping the joint out. Fortunately there are no heroes there, only half-drunk geezers perking up hopefully at the sight of me. I spot the cashier in his cage and know that's where the ATM will be, and sure enough it is. And of course I know there will be a transaction fee on top of the “foreign ATM” fee charged by my bank, but when I see these highwaymen want $3, I cancel the transaction and figure I'd rather spend that money on gas and wear & tear on the car.

So I go back to the bank, withdraw another $40, go back to the DMV, finish up my paperwork, get a number, and wait in line for an auditor. While I'm waiting, a lady has left her keys on the front desk, oddly enough also a Volkswagen key prominent. They are reunited quickly enough, and then my number is called, and I go to the auditor ad hand over my papers.

She zips through them and we make a bit of small talk, then she tells me she just needs the $25 vehicle tax, which is payable with check or money order.

Wait. What?

We don't accept cash for the vehicle tax, she informs me. Only money orders or checks.

“Headdesk,” I say in answer.

Wait. What?

Head-desk, I explain. You know, when you slam your head down onto your desk because you just can't take anymore.

Oh, she sympathizes. She then clues me in that the Super Wal-Mart (SWM) across the street sells money orders for a quarter, and also has a bank inside that sells them for a dollar. There is a customer entrance, she tells me, directly opposite the DMV exit door, so all I have to do is exit the DMV, cross the street, pass the auto service bays, and go into the SWM.

This is what I do. And, in doing so, learn what Wal-Mart means by “Super.”

While your car is getting serviced, you can find lumber, seedlings, underwear, groceries, furniture, weapons – I found lots of stuff, at low, low prices.

What I could not find was the front of the freaking store.

By this time I was rather peeved, and made no effort to stifle my displeasure. Mothers nervously herded their children away and a guy on his cell lowered his phone to gape after me as I ranted about my predicament. Finally I located the customer service counter.

As I approached the clerk she asked if I needed a money order for the DMV. I agreed I did, and asked if the forms had given me away. She said they had, and that they got people coming over for money orders all day long. She even knew how much I needed it for, and we agreed they could just print up a stack of them to have ready, since the DMV seems to enjoy this little power-play.

So back I went, armed with my completed forms, my money order, my cash, and an utter lack of good humor for this opera of shenanigans. I got another number (69 this time, so it was almost worth it), headed back to “my” auditor, and got the title transfer taken care of at last. Then I go – almost skipping with relief – to the cashier to get the plates taken care of. With the skill and ease of long practice, she reaches without looking behind her for a set of plates, scans their barcode, and asks me for $143.

Now wait, I tell her. This is supposed to be a transfer, not buying new plates.

Oh, she answers, looking at my form again. See, here, they filled out the form wrong. They marked this box instead of that one. As she cancels out that transaction and starts the correct one, I say nothing - *I* filled out the form wrong, but after everything else that afternoon, damn if I was going to admit it.

Finally done, I exit the DMV, start walking to my car, and –

I can't find my keys.

I empty my bag onto the car hood, check all my pockets (not that with the jeans I was wearing they could hide in a pocket) twice, and no keys.

So once again I stomp into the DMV, rudely cut in line, and ask the clerk if anyone has turned in a set of keys, VW car key on it, with a yellow kinda-smiley-but-not-guy fob.

He checks all the places they stash stuff lost or left behind (like the diaper bag). No kinda-smiley-but-not-guy keys.

Well, shitbitchdamnhellfuck.

All I can figure is I dropped them in the SWM: a horrifying prospect, as I'd been wandering lost, and would therefore have little hope of faithfully retracing my steps. I'd have to wait there for hours until some one turned them in.

I stomp outside, go to where I'd waited to cross the street before, glance down: and there are my keys, in the grass beside the curb, the fob giving me its slightly disapproving look.



Reunited, I go to my now-legalled-up car, thankful my misadventure has ended and I didn't have to hurt anyone.

But the two burning questions remain: why does the Secretary of State's website not include plate transfers in its “Basic Fees” section, and wtf won't they disclose beforehand that, unlike every other institution in the known universe, they won't accept the currency issued by the federal government for paying vehicle taxes? It says right on it “legal tender for ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC and private.”



If there is a debt more public than State vehicle tax, I can't think of it.

The Power of Fark Compels You

I simply must give credit where it is due ... within a few hours of posting a link to my Old People vid, the wonderful Farkers have given it 60 views.


Even better, I don't have to worry about The Fark Effect, since it's YouTube's server and not mine. :)

(In case you don't know what Fark is, first click here then seek counseling.)

STV: Madman

Uploaded today, June 1, 2008