I'm Your Handyman, Redux.

Over the weekend, I was elected by our church vestry as junior warden. Even though the Canons of the Church and of the Diocese don't distinguish much between the duties of the senior and junior wardens, by tradition the senior warden is concerned more about polity, and the junior warden more about making sure the doors and toilets are working properly. Our last Junior Warden, Paul, did an outstanding job. He called the position "a glorified handyman"Ah, the handymen through T.V. history: Schneider from One Day at a Time.
George from Newhart.
Eb from Green Acres.
I'm not even as "ept" as the most inept of these. I'm not handy. I don't build things, and I don't generally fix things (when I was in private practice, I used to be able to fix traffic tickets, but I can't even do that anymore). So why, one could reasonably ask, would any rational parish want me as the Junior Warden of my church? Well, I do know a fair amount about the Episcopal Church, and I care about it a bunch. I also care a lot about my church, St. Jude's. Maybe I'm supposed to interpret the position broadly, as the Canons of the parish and Diocese do. As to the nuts and bolts? A couple of my friends, Gale and Leonard, promised to help (and and I made sure Paul kept his keys).

Showing Their Ash.

I heard on NPR today that Egypt dealt with growing public protests over lack of democracy by shutting down the Internet and jamming cell phones. I was thinking, "Boy, I'm glad I live in a democracy". Then I read today's "Charleston Post and Courier" about lack of public access to a hearing on whether a permit should be granted to a local utility for coal ash storage basin in my County. Apparently, a lot of people were left out of the meeting, including the reporter. Freedom of Information Act attorney Jay Bender apparently commented on the inadequate venue for the hearing, "You can't have a democracy in a phone booth", or something like that.

Coal ash storage is a big deal, as the folks around Kingston, Tennessee could tell you. I was the County Attorney for a little rural county, and I've had to review solid waste ordinances (not exciting stuff, to be sure, but necessary). I'm not your garden variety NIMBY (acronym for "not in my back yard"). I understand that waste of all types has to go somewhere. The problem I've got with the utility company in this case is the timing. The Federal Gummit is considering whether to recast coal ash as toxic, rather than as ordinary waste. The utility company appears to be trying to slip this by before the rules change. If coal ash is safe, then waiting a few more months to let the Gummit confirm it's safe shouldn't be a big deal, right?

Watching the Clothes Go Round.

Way back when I was in college, The Pretenders had a song called "Watching the Clothes Go 'Round". Something about the tedium and futility of life, or something of that sort, I think. I always sorta liked the group, even if I didn't always subscribe to their philosophy. Though I'm doing just fine, thank you very much, I still thought about the Pretenders as I did my laundry tonight.

State of the Union, Jack.

Okay, so President Obama mentioned South Korea three times to one shout-out for Russia (kind of cool for me, 'cause Oldest lives in Korea). And, did I dream it, or did he say we need to get rid of subsidies for Big Oil?

I'll Melt With You.

Among the presents that Lady Di and I received at our nuptials was a gift card for The Melting Pot. Generally, when I think melting, I think of Salvador Dali's "The Persistence of Memory": melting watches; not melting pots. I'm unaware of ever having been all that fond of fondue. Still, a memory persists of a meal I had at the Melting Pot in Tallahassee long, long ago, when I was still in school.


No Melting Pots in the Boro, but opportunity knocked as Lady Di had a seminar in the Palmetto State's capitol city of Columbia, which does have such a restaurant.


Look at all the healthy appetizers! Broccoli, apple slices, cauliflower and carrots to go along with cubes of various varieties of baked breads. Just zero-out the nutritious gains of the veggies by dunking them in a rich mix of wine and french cheeses, and you've got yourself a right tasty appetizer.


The sampling of Filet Mignon, peppercorn encrusted sirloin, chicken, duck and ravioli was very nice (sadly, Diane had the shrimp to herself. No shellfish for myself on account of allergies). The dessert fondue sauce was white chocolate creme brulee, which was torched to caramelize the sugar.


And they brought out some cool stuff we got to dunk in it, too.

I Think That I Shall Never See...

Okay, I'm no Joyce Kilmer, but I like a tree as much as the next person. Actually, I like trees more than the next person, since the person (next to) next door is mowing down a mess of 'em.

Fish Tales, Redux.

One of my fish, Tyson, went belly up today. It is the way of all fish, of course, but sometimes a guy can miss his fish. I got Tyson after the massive fish carnage I reported a year and a half ago in this post. Check it out, if you'd like. Or not. Anyway, farewell, fish. My your next life go swimmingly.

We will, we will Roku.

I've always been proud to be on the trailing edge of technology. I didn't get a CD player until, like, 1990. I still own records. Once in awhile, I make an exception. Lady Di got me a Roku for Christmas. What's Roku? it's one of those thing-a-ma-bobs you attach to your television set that let's you stream stuff from your computer. Not everything, mind you, but stuff like Netflix movies and t.v. shows and Pandora radio. So, now I can finally watch old shows, like "24" without waiting for the mailman to bring the newest disc. How cool is that?

It's Too Late, Baby.

I tried. Really, I did. Looking good for Auburn at 19 to 11 up on the Ducks, but it's after my bedtime. I'll check on it in the morning.

Give Me Monet (That's What I Want)...

This morning, as I looked vaguely out of my back window at the icestorm beyond, I was struck by a "life imitates art, imitates life" moment. I've been out of the U.S. of A. only three times in my life. In one of those visits my buddy, Dirk, took me to the Vincent Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. He left an impression on me (or, I should say, a "post-impressionist" impression). See how that view out of the window is reminiscent of the blurred quasi-reality in Van Gogh's paintings? No? Maybe I'm crazy. Wait, that's what HE said!

Well, maybe Claude Monet is more like it.

Yeah, give me Monet; that's what I want!

Princess Caroline

I've developed an interest, of late, in my ancestry. I know my dad's mom's family came from Sweden, but I know next to nothing about my dad's dad's family. I've had a little better luck on my mom's side. Over New Year's weekend, I visited my mom's brother: my Uncle Bob. On occasion- and on this occasion- I inquire(d) as to our mutual heritage: the Blackfords. Alas, Uncle Bob has only been able to determine the Blackford line with certainty back, I think, to his great-great-great-grandfather whose parents met the fate that befell an alarming number of my kinsmen: "killed by Indians". With somewhat less certainty, but with reasonable surmise, he links us with the author of "War Years with Jeb Stuart", written by Lt. Col. W.W. Blackford, C.S.A., who was Major General Stuart's Adjutant during the Civil War. I'm looking forward to reading it (once I get done with "Peace Like a River").

Thanks to his (and my mom's) cousin Paula, I already know a great deal about my mom's mom's family. Cousin Paula put together an amazing text tracing several of her grand-parents' (my great-grandparents') lines back to Malcolm II, King of Scotland. Following the tradition of those Celtic Kings, he tacked on the prevailing genealogy of the time and traced the line back to (gulp) Adam and Eve. One day a few years ago, I passed this along to my daughter, Caroline, who told a boy that she kinda liked that she was descended from a Scottish King. Caroline's friend, Phillip, caused me more than a little pain, but I'll always be grateful for his response to Caroline's comment: "Gee, Caroline, you might be a Princess". Well, she's my Princess, anyway.

New Year's Daze.

New Year's weekend was a stone groove. Lady Di and I kennelled the dogs and left the Boro for Central Florida. We had a New Year's Eve luncheon with AndyMan and niece Allison at Uncle Bob and Aunt Maggie's home in Orlando. The Blackfords are always good company, and Aunt Maggie made sure, as she always does, that we had lots of good food to eat. After lunch, Diane and I donned our Florida State University Seminoles gear and watched the Chick-fil-A Bowl at an area sports bar. South Carolina fought gamely, but the 'Noles prevailed. I'm generally a Gamecock fan, and I've boasted of the 'Cock's baseball championship; however, I'm an FSU alum, so I'll happily collect the four or five one dollar bets I'd wagered on the 'Noles. Saturday, we dragged our carcasses out of bed and headed for the Citrus Bowl to watch the University of Alabama Crimson Tide (whose mascot is, inexplicably, an elephant), battle the Michigan State University Spartans.

There's Lady Di outside of the Citrus Bowl. The weather was perfect. 78 Degrees and sunny. The atmosphere crackled with the hopes of fans of both teams. We consumed normally forbidden food like hot dogs, chips, french fries, and big bottles of coke, and, er, ... dang, where's the bathroom?


Apparently, we weren't the only fans who'd over-imbibed.

Even mascots gotta wait their turn!


The Crimson Tide inundated the Citrus Bowl. The joint was crawling with 'Bama fans.


And their allegiance runs deep, too. This gal's wearing a shirt in tribute to legendary 'Bama coach Paul "Bear" Bryant. The Bear's been dead longer than this fan has been alive, but she knows all about him. How does 'Bama get fans so loyal?


They start 'em young.

Like I said...

Spartan fans were probably outnumbered four to one. The lot that showed was spirited, though.


Now, that's a hat, right there.


These lads had spirit (must not care for math, though: I tried to get them to spell "S-U-M", and they said it didn't add up).


The end-zone is a pretty cool place to watch a game. Hard to tell how many yards either team got from play to play, but you don't get a view like this one on the fifty yard-line.


...or this. If you want to get a decent idea of how the third best team in the SEC destroyed the co-champions of the Big Ten, then just look at the blocking on this play. The Tide played bigger, stronger, and faster than the Spartans.

MSU's football team took a pounding, but the band rocked the house at half-time.

The game got ugly. At 42 to zip late in the second half, we joined the throng of Spartan fans in a funereal procession back to our cars. Still, it was a lot of fun (and the Spartan fans took some solace in knowing their team was, at least, the best team in their state, which, as any Auburn fan will tell you, was not true for the Tide. War Eagle!).