Moving Day
Not at home. At work.
Last week I think I was whining about relocating to an office in a different building. For the past 15 years I’ve worked in an office that it located out in some beautiful rolling Texas hills.
For 10 of those years I was in a corner cubicle that had open window space on two sides… beautiful view. I’d sit there and look at the window and try to have a serious work-like expression on my face. You’d see critters from time to time, the occasional skunk, or even a wild turkey wandering around looking for a date (they do this thing with their voice and their wings and stuff, imagine Gregory Hines putting some moves on).
But I moved.
It was a trade-off. I have an office now, with a door and everything. New furniture. It’s nice. I have a place to hang pictures. Here’s the first one I put up. It’s puppies.
Everybody loves puppies. People will sit in my office and think “awwww, what a nice guy he must be. Puppies”. And then I will negotiate them out of their ridiculous position on indemnification of intellectual property ownership and that will be that.
I have a window too. Not as big a window, but a window. Here’s what it looks like outside my window.
Nice dumpster.
Meh. The crepe myrtles help.
This office used to belong to the guy who was president of my Division when I started here 15 years ago. Another guy, who has worked here longer than that, was offered this office a year ago, but he passed on it. “Too many ghosts in there” he said. “Bad ju-ju”.
I don’t have any bad memories to associate with it, so no big for me. But that big dark stain in the carpet has me kinda curious. Explosive gastric distress, induced by fear? Or excessive blood loss from a severe ass-chewing? I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been a good thing.
It’s funny how we get used to places, and how unsettled we feel when those places change. Packing is a chore. I’m sure unpacking is too, but I’ve been putting that off for a bit. I unpack when I need something, like a stapler.
I don’t really have a complaint, and where I sit and do my job is a nicer place than most people have. I know we have some cube-dwellers here and there (or pirates out on ships at sea doing, I don’t know, pirate things). So I should be gracious about it (although those of you who are getting to know me know I will rub it in if you tell me where you work sucks).
I got four walls. A desk, a phone.
And puppies.
It ain’t a bad gig, not at all.
The dumpster is a good reminder to Dave that he's come a long way.
Roughing It Archives
Basic plot line. An “insane” bomber wing commander decides to attack the Russkies pre-emptively and kick off World War III, convinced that the political leadership in the US is ignoring the threat of the Global Communist Conspiracy. So he orders his B-52 wing, armed with nuclear weapons and cruising at the fail-safe point, to proceed with an attack. Desperate to avoid the nuclear conflagration, President Merkin Muffley attempts to thwart the attack by helping the Russians shoot down the invading planes, which cannot be recalled (due to super-duper anti-enemy being sneaky measures that involve a recall code only crazy general knows).
In Texas, all sodas are cokes. This is simple efficiency, how many goddamn words do you need to waste on these things?
We mostly grow two things in this part of Texas, neither of which you eat. Well, not directly anyway. The first is hay. 
One thing you can’t do when you cut this stuff and bale it, you can’t bale it wet. Wet hay will start to decompose, and the temperature of the decaying plant inside the bale will get hot enough to start smoldering and eventually ignite. Farmers down here have an expression for people who cut and bale wet hay, if they see it burning out in a field somewhere. They call them “dumb asses”.
With orders to engage, they followed NVA soldiers who successfully pulled them into a killing field. They were cut off from the rest of B Company. At the end of the day they were overrun, 8 men surviving by pretending to be dead. Sgt. Grandstaff had been wounded in both legs but continued to fight, attacking a machine gun emplacement with grenades after crawling into position. He later called in an artillery strike on his position, risking his life to save his men. He was killed by an enemy rocket. 
It’s not hard to keep an eye on maintenance needs for your car – you’re in it almost daily and can tell when something needs to be done. But if you have more than one, well you have more than one to keep an eye on. 
I mean, no notification of an impending need. Nada. Couple of weeks ago I had to switch trucks with youngest, I forget why, and it started raining. I turn on the wipers. The one in front of me is working. The passenger wiper just sits there, looking all bored and shit. Why is this? Because I had not imparted knowledge to my child. I did not tell her Easter Sunday when she had 5 inches of snow and ice on her windshield not to turn on her wipers until she broke that stuff up. Or the knurl on the wiper nut would become loosened (or stripped). 
So what happened? The cinderblock exploded, and the porch fell down. 
I opened the can and poured a little two foot long trail, and then made a pile about the size of two fists at the end of the trail. This was going to be so cool. I placed the can (sealed, for safety) a good safe distance away, call it two feet, and began striking the matches. I hadn’t started stealing cigarettes from my parents yet so I wasn’t any good at this yet, but I finally got one lit and managed to keep it lit by cupping my hand around it. In order to light the trail, I had to lean over and keep my hand around the match. And then I touched it to the gunpowder. Right as my dad pulled into the driveway from work.
It presents a bit of a logistical challenge, but I’m up to it, cause I have the Wheel(TM). 
I said yes, fine, no problem. She asked “what are you doing”? 
(a note to all my friends north of the Mason-Dixon line. Just chill. I know you know everything there is to know about wintry weather. Just like you know I don’t know diddley-squat about it).
Big heavy wet snow. That fell on big unmanaged tree limbs around power lines.
I arrived in Salt Lake City, home of the Great Salt Lake, which incidentally was the original name of the city, it later being abbreviated to just Salt Lake City. This is the manner of abbreviation for the Latter Day Saints. If you have a four word name, cut it by 25% and there you have it. Great Salt Lake City is now tidily abbreviated to Salt Lake City. Done and done. 
I traveled south to Orem, home of the great University founded by Mr. Young. It was a Monday, Presidents Day, and as I wandered and explored I noticed the strong influence of the LDS almost everywhere. Even at the liquor store. Yes, Utah has liquor stores. These are operated by an arm of the state government, and are referred to as “State of Utah Liquor Stores”, which is consistent with their practice of using exactly the number of words you need to understand what this thing is. The first thing I noticed was they open at eleven in the morning and close at seven in the evening. 
Incidentally, Scooby sounds very Chinese to me. I never really thought of that before. 
Otherwise, it's a bullet to the head. Those of you who know me and squirrels, know I'm capable of it. So what do you say? I'll give you a week. He's a goner after that. I mean, he's got his moments, but I can't take it anymore. You can though, he's much better than he was and I'm just bitter about the past. Save him. You know you want to. 
It was a magical evening.
