Is it too late to blog? Is it ever too late to blog? A few minutes before midnight and I thought I'd click here and plug in, for no good reason but to say I was still alive, for those who were wondering. Wonder no more -I'm just keeping busy, and keeping my distance from the interverse.
Just looked up "interverse" on Google. Seems I made the word up.
Okay, good night.
~
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The president has finally touched a nerve. WARNING: Politics ahead!
How could he?
Because Bud Light is the most popular beer in the world, and he felt it was a safe pick. Because our president is not a beer drinker and sadly knows nothing of the stuff. Because, because, because, because! Bud Light is also not owned by an American company, so there's an offense there as well.
Officer Crowley, easily the only real blue-collar, average American working-man of the three, picked Blue Moon, and though I admire his selection of a perceived microbrew, this beer is just terrible (and happens to be owned by Coors.) Seriously, Blue Moon tastes like malted ass. My humble opinion on this matter was justified when The Winemaker was visiting a month ago and he mentioned that "some bastard left a sixpack of it in my fridge" where he said it sat for months before he finally poured it down the sink. (Now, I probably wouldn't go that far, but I can understand the sentiment.)
Hotheaded Harvard Professor Gates chose Red Stripe, working man beer of Jamaica. Red Stripe is also not an American beer, but I think I appreciate the choice -though probably not for the same reasons. (It has that bullseye of an ad campaign, "Hooray beer!") Truth be told, Blue Moon is higher rated than Red Stripe by Beer Advocate, but I prefer Red Stripe, if only because it comes in those fun little bottles.
Anyway, I suspect these were all political decisions, though perhaps not Officer Crowley's, who merely suffers from poor taste, rather than a submission to political correctness (the former being the more easily-corrected condition.) Why Obama couldn't pick a bold, flavorful American microbrew is a disappointment, and I am sure there is a tap of a hundred-thousand consultants (all working pro-bono) from which he could have chosen in this area, myself included. But don't be tempted to think that the new "Beer Czar" is not a political position. (It would be. For example: My beer choice for Obama. What? It's a very popular American microbrew!)
It was thoughtless of our president to not pick Anchor Steam's "Liberty Ale" or any of the Samuel Adams brews. Or he could've procured a few bottles of "Equality Ale" from the Capitol City Brewing Company just down the street from the White House. I've never tasted it, but it seems to me this would have been a fine choice. Because when Crowley and Gates sit down at that picnic table on the back lawn, which side is Obama going to sit on?
Summit to be held this afternoon.
~
How could he?
Because Bud Light is the most popular beer in the world, and he felt it was a safe pick. Because our president is not a beer drinker and sadly knows nothing of the stuff. Because, because, because, because! Bud Light is also not owned by an American company, so there's an offense there as well.
Officer Crowley, easily the only real blue-collar, average American working-man of the three, picked Blue Moon, and though I admire his selection of a perceived microbrew, this beer is just terrible (and happens to be owned by Coors.) Seriously, Blue Moon tastes like malted ass. My humble opinion on this matter was justified when The Winemaker was visiting a month ago and he mentioned that "some bastard left a sixpack of it in my fridge" where he said it sat for months before he finally poured it down the sink. (Now, I probably wouldn't go that far, but I can understand the sentiment.)
Hotheaded Harvard Professor Gates chose Red Stripe, working man beer of Jamaica. Red Stripe is also not an American beer, but I think I appreciate the choice -though probably not for the same reasons. (It has that bullseye of an ad campaign, "Hooray beer!") Truth be told, Blue Moon is higher rated than Red Stripe by Beer Advocate, but I prefer Red Stripe, if only because it comes in those fun little bottles.
Anyway, I suspect these were all political decisions, though perhaps not Officer Crowley's, who merely suffers from poor taste, rather than a submission to political correctness (the former being the more easily-corrected condition.) Why Obama couldn't pick a bold, flavorful American microbrew is a disappointment, and I am sure there is a tap of a hundred-thousand consultants (all working pro-bono) from which he could have chosen in this area, myself included. But don't be tempted to think that the new "Beer Czar" is not a political position. (It would be. For example: My beer choice for Obama. What? It's a very popular American microbrew!)
It was thoughtless of our president to not pick Anchor Steam's "Liberty Ale" or any of the Samuel Adams brews. Or he could've procured a few bottles of "Equality Ale" from the Capitol City Brewing Company just down the street from the White House. I've never tasted it, but it seems to me this would have been a fine choice. Because when Crowley and Gates sit down at that picnic table on the back lawn, which side is Obama going to sit on?
Summit to be held this afternoon.
~
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
We are a fully integrated Mac family now, for better or for worse. For better! (I see your eyeroll and raise you.) After waiting some months for the corporate gods to announce their new product upgrades at the WWDC, we got in touch with our connections and placed the order for the new family laptop. Well, business laptop. Okay, Mrs. Ditchman's laptop. (It's a tax write-off all the same.)
Our "connection" is one of several of my cousins who hail from the Silicon Valley area and who work for that hippest of computer companies and who mentioned last Christmas about the happy and benevolent "Friends & Family" discounts they get. One phone call saved this penny-pinching family a few hundred bucks, so we were very grateful. "It's what it's there for!" said my cousin. What a swell guy.
Mrs. Ditchman seems to have come around. The old banged-up PCs were just piling around the office here; a Gateway tower with that old cow logo on the front, (Cow logo? Always made me wonder) an IBM "Thinkpad" which has padded its thinking capacity with so many plug-ins and third-party apps that it thinks no more, (and therefore, isn't) and then that rhino of a CRT which causes the lights to flicker when you turn it on, its screen's rainbow hues are unviewable now, though we hang on to the beast out of respect for the environment. Anyway, the quick response and sharp images of the new MacBookPro sitting on her desk are a joy to look at. And yet today we have all the computers hooked up, in an attempt to synchronize everything and, as well, pluck the old files out of the dinosaurs. Our office looks like Matthew Broderick's bedroom in Wargames. (Heh.)
Though I know she is busy, it looks as if Mrs. Ditchman has abandoned the concept of transferring the old files altogether. Funny how that is -I've experienced it myself- how you resist the change because all your info is in that one electronic block and you can't possibly leave it behind, and then when you finally make the transition you find you never go back. You don't need it, none of it, like all those boxes in the attic, but one day an old customer will call and their file will be on some archaic hard drive and you'll wish you'd made the effort of the transfer and... ugh. Anyway, I'll get to it. Maybe in a month or two. Maybe never.
I'm not sure how I talked her into Mac, but I believe it had something to do with all our business photos being on my computer, and the need to display the slideshows on a fancy laptop for sales presentations. (Also, the new MacBooks are made of aluminum, so there was a certain mutual metallurgic collaboration that had an appeal.) But I decisively did not talk her into it! I merely pounced when she was amenable to the idea, so now we are all definitively Mac. I find it amusing, diverting, and yet somewhat annoying whenever it fails to live up to Mrs. Ditchman's high expectations after my passionate pitch. Oh, well. It's a computer, not a Fabergé Egg, for crying out loud.
But it's awesome! I sit down at it and she enters, "Hey! What are you doing with my computer!" so she must be getting attached to it. Our music and photos and business files and address books are all (mostly) accessible in the Home Network I've set up here, with the dumb little old iMac downstairs blinking out email and Facebook all day. And all the iPods; car iPod, jobsite iPod, running iPods. And then there's the AppleTV, of course.
So what'd I do? Went out and bought an iPhone. Okay, two of them. Look, we were already on AT&T and our phones were getting old and dumb, as technology does with age. (I forget how many Gs there are in the networks now, but our phones were still on F, or something.) Anyway, the iPhone has finally adjusted down to $99, as opposed to the $599 or whatever ungodly amount it was when the thing first launched, and this seems to me a perfectly reasonable price. How do I like it? HOPPING JEHOVAH IN HEAVEN ABOVE IT IS AWESOME BEYOND ALL MEASURE! No kidding. I love it. It's even better than I thought it was going to be. Now I see what all the huffinanpuffin was about. I'm not going to go into it today, but I just figured I'd let you know. I think it is very sweet.
And, oh, hmmm, here's something interesting, in case I was wondering about our diminished checking account.
~
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Well, this is interesting. I mean, interesting in the fact that of course there are underwater aliens! Everyone knows that! I doubt a bunch of men in close quarters in a Russian submarine would ever hallucinate after a while. And who knew that Russian subs had windows? Let's see the government try and write these perfectly legitimate sightings off as undersea swamp gas, or experimental ocean balloons, eh?
Anyway, I'm bouncing back today (finally.) Got a run in this morning and feeling much better, thank you very much. And thanks for hanging in there with me, all 27 of you, my dedicated readers, even though most days I just feel like writing: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
Did you know there's meaning behind all that filler? I looked it up. Check out the translation:
Just seems to describe writers (and runners) everywhere, that boring old nonsense filler. Who knew?
The Ramona job was finished late yesterday and I can put that one behind me for a while, until the wind blows it over and I have to return for repairs. The wind! Customers are always concerned about the wind. Sometimes I have to show them the engineering tables where it specifically says the 70 mph and 90 mph wind ratings. (I build them to 90 mph.) People always say, without exception, "Oh, no. The gusts get very strong up here." And who am I to argue? I always remind them, "90 mph is a Category 1 hurricane. If you get 90 mph winds in your backyard, you're gonna have bigger problems than your little patio cover blowing away." Makes people think.
But yesterday, she pushed me on it. "Is there a guarantee? I heard there was a guarantee. If the wind damages it are you going to come out and fix it?" At which point I scrutinized the tiny muscles in her face and tried to read her subtle body language to ascertain if she was joking or not. I couldn't tell. She got me. So I said, "When it happens, call me."
I've never had to fix one for that problem before, but now I know I just asked for it.
Meh. That's life. I try not to dwell, and preoccupy myself with undersea humanoids in silvery suits. They're more reliable than the weather.
~
Anyway, I'm bouncing back today (finally.) Got a run in this morning and feeling much better, thank you very much. And thanks for hanging in there with me, all 27 of you, my dedicated readers, even though most days I just feel like writing: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
Did you know there's meaning behind all that filler? I looked it up. Check out the translation:
Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure?
Just seems to describe writers (and runners) everywhere, that boring old nonsense filler. Who knew?
The Ramona job was finished late yesterday and I can put that one behind me for a while, until the wind blows it over and I have to return for repairs. The wind! Customers are always concerned about the wind. Sometimes I have to show them the engineering tables where it specifically says the 70 mph and 90 mph wind ratings. (I build them to 90 mph.) People always say, without exception, "Oh, no. The gusts get very strong up here." And who am I to argue? I always remind them, "90 mph is a Category 1 hurricane. If you get 90 mph winds in your backyard, you're gonna have bigger problems than your little patio cover blowing away." Makes people think.
But yesterday, she pushed me on it. "Is there a guarantee? I heard there was a guarantee. If the wind damages it are you going to come out and fix it?" At which point I scrutinized the tiny muscles in her face and tried to read her subtle body language to ascertain if she was joking or not. I couldn't tell. She got me. So I said, "When it happens, call me."
I've never had to fix one for that problem before, but now I know I just asked for it.
Meh. That's life. I try not to dwell, and preoccupy myself with undersea humanoids in silvery suits. They're more reliable than the weather.
~
Monday, July 27, 2009
Woke this morning a tad melancholic, which would make me angry if I let it, since I have no truly legitimate reason to be either melancholic or angry, but it happens sometimes. One reason: I didn't have a good dinner last night, nor much of a lunch yesterday. And then I had a dream where I was living in Pasadena again, with Carey. It was a nighttime dream, which is an atmospheric occurrence used by my subconscious to reinforce a certain dismal sense. In the dream, I was happy to see all my old friends I hadn't seen in years, but I found I missed my kids and my wife. There are stages in life, that is known, but if you live correctly the latter stages improve the perspective, and the thought of turning back reaches an absurd height.
Not that I was thinking of turning back. It was just a dream; dark, distant, depressing, and today I go back out to Ramona where it's supposed to be in the 90s again, and that is nothing to be cheery about. So now what? Have a hearty breakfast, and git her done! Git on with it!
Also missed my run this morning and yesterday, due to extenuating (and otherwise prolonged) obligations. Must stay on target, and not get tempted with a distraction. Must arrange goals in a hierarchy of importance, so as not to get sidetracked. Must not quit, so as... to not be a quitter, I guess.
This is all hard with a family, who have goals of their own. As well it's hard with all those necessary daily achievements; find work, do work, make money, pay bills. I'm amazed the Little Digger is nine months old and getting ready to walk. Nine months before that he was nowhere to be found, and could hardly be imagined. What happened here? Where did it all go? Where was I?
He's the greatest. Yesterday we were in the kitchen and I went to hug Mrs. Ditchman. No good reason, really, except the obvious (I love her.) We were standing there, arms around each other, and we looked over at the boy in his high chair who was just watching us. He had a big smile on his face, like he was just happy to see his parents hugging. So sometimes, when you hug your wife, it's nice to have that outside encouragement, (because we all know that sometimes it can be difficult to hug your wife.)
And this recent blogging has been just terrible, dumb reading. Started out so strong at the beginning of the year, and now I'm just phoning it in (sometimes literally.) It's easy to write, but it's difficult to write well, (and who says I've ever achieved the latter?) It takes time, and commitment. Like a family. Like a garden.
And I've felt that the garden is something of a failure again this year, sorry to say. It's been so hot, and there's the ongoing drought concerns, so I just let it all fall down the hierarchy of family needs. Makes me sad to see those empty garden boxes out there, with all their inherent potential. But I do have the Great Pumpkins, and I did get some flowers planted around the pond a while back. I was doing my end-of-the-day garden round last Friday, all hangdog and self-pitiful and feeling sorry for being responsible for all that dried, cracked earth, and then I took a step back and noticed something: that middle section around the pond really looks nice. There were a few pretty yellow water lillies, some hyacinth, and the goldfish were still alive. Sometimes you just get so headlong into your life's work, that it doesn't occur to you to perform the simple act of lifting your head to see what the whole point of it all is.
~
Not that I was thinking of turning back. It was just a dream; dark, distant, depressing, and today I go back out to Ramona where it's supposed to be in the 90s again, and that is nothing to be cheery about. So now what? Have a hearty breakfast, and git her done! Git on with it!
Also missed my run this morning and yesterday, due to extenuating (and otherwise prolonged) obligations. Must stay on target, and not get tempted with a distraction. Must arrange goals in a hierarchy of importance, so as not to get sidetracked. Must not quit, so as... to not be a quitter, I guess.
This is all hard with a family, who have goals of their own. As well it's hard with all those necessary daily achievements; find work, do work, make money, pay bills. I'm amazed the Little Digger is nine months old and getting ready to walk. Nine months before that he was nowhere to be found, and could hardly be imagined. What happened here? Where did it all go? Where was I?
He's the greatest. Yesterday we were in the kitchen and I went to hug Mrs. Ditchman. No good reason, really, except the obvious (I love her.) We were standing there, arms around each other, and we looked over at the boy in his high chair who was just watching us. He had a big smile on his face, like he was just happy to see his parents hugging. So sometimes, when you hug your wife, it's nice to have that outside encouragement, (because we all know that sometimes it can be difficult to hug your wife.)
And this recent blogging has been just terrible, dumb reading. Started out so strong at the beginning of the year, and now I'm just phoning it in (sometimes literally.) It's easy to write, but it's difficult to write well, (and who says I've ever achieved the latter?) It takes time, and commitment. Like a family. Like a garden.
And I've felt that the garden is something of a failure again this year, sorry to say. It's been so hot, and there's the ongoing drought concerns, so I just let it all fall down the hierarchy of family needs. Makes me sad to see those empty garden boxes out there, with all their inherent potential. But I do have the Great Pumpkins, and I did get some flowers planted around the pond a while back. I was doing my end-of-the-day garden round last Friday, all hangdog and self-pitiful and feeling sorry for being responsible for all that dried, cracked earth, and then I took a step back and noticed something: that middle section around the pond really looks nice. There were a few pretty yellow water lillies, some hyacinth, and the goldfish were still alive. Sometimes you just get so headlong into your life's work, that it doesn't occur to you to perform the simple act of lifting your head to see what the whole point of it all is.
~
Friday, July 24, 2009
OH, I've been beat down all week by the merciless Ramona heat. Ramona, which is where I'm working, is a stone's throw from Hell's doorstep, and I feel like a cauterized blotch on the southland desertscape. It's where all the fires start down here in Southern California. It's that hot. Things just catch fire spontaneously. No, really. I was admiring a sunflower in someone's backyard and it caught the reflection of the sun off a piece of aluminum, and it burst into flame right there in front of me, nothing left but ash and smoke. I'll have to be careful.
It's been demoralizing and debilitating. There's no shade in my business until my work is done, and I am like the hungry chef or the sick doctor all day. The only bit of shade is a small spot against the house that the dog uses. I kicked him off of it and collapsed there, but it smells of dog. Yesterday, I got to a point where I had to climb the ladder a thousand more times. It was 4:30 and I had already drank a case of Gatorade, and I just unlatched my tool belt and let it drop. I quit. Just walked off the job and left all the tools there. I never do that. I always load up the power tools so the customer is not responsible for them, but yesterday I couldn't take it anymore. I'm quietly wishing they'll be stolen in the hot night, and then I'll have to spend all weekend replacing them, while I pray for cooler temps for next week.
When the weather gets like this, there's just no predicting how long the job is going to take. Add to it that this job is another 60 footer. Sounds like money! you think, but the projection is so short (5' in parts) that it's not. Interesting thing: the wider the cover, the more work it is. The greater the projection, the less work. I won't explain it, so trust me, but one of the problems is that if your tools are on one side of the yard, you have to walk 60' every time you need something. What? Stage the tools in the middle? I can't. There's a pool there. Yes, a pool I can't use. It's possible it doesn't exist at all, however, and is just some luckless mirage. I'll check again this morning.
I use every tool in the truck. For some reason, these jobs take every tool. And I spend a good portion of the day just loading and unloading the truck. This house is also on a bit of a hill, and I couldn't park in the driveway, so the thought of loading up at the end of the day just killed me. I abandoned the jobsite, but I am not a quitter, as it was a tactical retreat. I've regrouped, and am returning to that battlefield now. But that ground evaporates the sweat and drinks in blood, and I am not sure it was wise to leave the weapons just laying out there.
Have a frost-free weekend!
~
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