I bid on Shatner's old toupee...

I'd forgotten, yesterday, to mention Ebay. Ebay is a major outlet for all manner of goodies, but largely only when you know what you want and how much you are willing to shell out. To this end, I refrained yesterday until I could offer some guidance.

This past year I've used a theme, peppered with random standards (specific authors my wife likes, or bands) that have gone over acceptably in the past. You know your loved one best, and I certainly can't offer anything more than what I did this past year: "adventure". I set out with an ideal, Indiana Jones, but found that many recreations were simply beyond my ability to afford. I branched out carefully and found a few items that fell within the theme and my budget, and struck out boldly.

This past year has been a success, gift-wise. Except the 1st season of STNG.

Gifts

Many people I know ask me, "Charlie, where do you buy such cool gifts? Your wife has a 14" pencil and an Indiana Jones hat, A Faberge egg, silk scarf, and the largest collection of Asimov's works I've ever seen!"

Well, gentle reader, I present a few shopping nooks for your perusal. All online, and all more than willing to aid you in your quest to give cool, extremely memorable presents:

Think Geek is a purveyor of electronic doodads and caffeination that might well cause you to write a book about why Johnny can't blink.

Archie McPhee's has cornered the market on its niche. Think about it.

For those who need something a bit militaristic, try U.S. Wings. They focus on Air Force type gear. If you can't use what they have perhaps What Price Glory has it. But their catalog isn't online.

Indy Magnoli makes stuff. Mostly Indiana Jones replicas, but he also has a good selection of "Lord of the Rings" gear and has a miscellaneous section. He also takes requests, but remember that he's an individual. Requests can take years to fill.

And, finally, Amazon. If the above doesn't help you, and you didn't try here first, try here now. It's amazing the stuff they sell, and they've added a beta shop since last you checked. Probably.

I can't help myself...

I feel like chatting a bit about religion. I don't do this often, and with good reason.

I'm a booger. In the face of organized religion, I'm a big time-waster.

My wife tries to tell me I'm just not ready for "the truth" yet, but I don't think her religion has it. In fact, I'm dead certain.

I like the idea of a thunder and lightning, volcano blasting, swarm invoking god. I'm really fond of the possibility that god (and yes, that's a lower 'g' on purpose) will blast the living hell outta people that, frankly, piss him off.

I don't believe that, but the idea has alot of appeal to me. What I believe is... complex. And simple.

I don't believe judgement day is going to strike any second. Today is equally as bad as yesterday, thinking of morals. You might hear more about the evils of the world, but that's radio, TV, and the internet for you. I do believe that people are, when it gets right down to it, good. Or, at least, well intentioned.

I believe that the presence of a divine being (other than me) in this universe shouldn't be the driving force for trying to be "good". That kind of thinking leads to trouble. People who get depressed at the idea that there isn't a god have issues. Really.

I also believe that people can chat about their religion all day at me, but unless they're willing to accept that their religion has holes in it (and I'm NOT talking about just one religion), and watch me drive the Mack truck of reason through them on occassion, they aren't going to get me to take them seriously.

Not that I was going to do that anyway.

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On a related note, I'd like to tell one of my favorite "You won't believe..." stories, regarding my father:

On a Saturday afternoon my brother and I were just beginning to bore of the cartoons available and consider the value of switching to MTV when there came a knock on the door. It was two nice young men of a clearly religious bent. They were dressed in black suits, with good haircuts.
They bid me good morning and asked if an adult was present for discussion.

Knowing that my father always has a cheerful word for ones such as these, I quickly summoned him forth. I think mom was shopping, but dad was a far better choice.

"Good morning, sir. We're here representing the church and was wondering if your family would be interested in attending this Sunday morning."

"I'd love to, if I can get your assurance that you'll attend my religious gathering."

"Ummmm..."

"We'll be barbequing a goat under the full moon while dancing naked..."

"We've gotta go, so many appointments"

They just about left skidmarks. That moment has left me in awe of my father. Few things really reflect his personality the way this one did.

Was he wrong to turn down the opportunity to explore a different faith? I don't think it was foreign to him. Could that faith have been "the one true faith"? Possibly, but I don't think it likely.

Fallen Angel

My youngest is jumping off the couch, with the absolute knowledge that someone will catch him. The faith he has in his parents is just so beautiful. How many of us, when faced with even those we love, will endanger ourselves for no reason... with certainty that everything will be okay?

Yeah, I suppose that is me.

It could be useful

I pick up lots of information. It's what I live for, really. This past year I studied drawing, something that had never interested me before. I can now create reasonable facsimiles of people on paper, even adding that third dimension. I know what a tortillion is and how to use it. I've applied multiple types of erasers, depending on need.

I know that if I can draw a convincing cone, pyramid, and sphere, I can draw anything. That's cool.

I also know that molecules in the eye rotate when struck by light, the optic nerve detects the rotation (probably through electron configuration changes, but I'm not sure) and that is what we see.

I know that back in 1958 ASCAP ganked it's song library after radio stations refused to pay them. The result is BMI.

That's just some recent stuff. I know tons of movie quotes, how to type, what I look for in a woman, what I need in a woman, and much more. I boggle the mind.

Pls rpt. Tx garbled.

Angie

Wind pulled at the sandy hair of the girl in front of me, pulling her toward the next bit of dirt that she might dance in with those bare feet, or get on her pale-yellow dress. But she had time to smile, the 8th of 13. Yelling could be heard behind her, her brothers falling on each other in fits. She gives me a hug before running to break them up. Six years wearing the authority of a mother.

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It's not 3 paragraphs, but I knew Angie. She was the only bright spot amongst the people who lived behind me while I lived in Alabama. Her parents... I don't know what happened to them, or why she came to live with the already burdened family of two adults to twelve kids. The adults wandered the house looking stoned, hair destroyed by stress and cigarettes. The oldest three held the authority of tyrants. But only while present. Angie could make the kids twice her age whince, afraid of disapproval.
When I talked to her, it was brief. She was there to help everyone, but they liked me most amongst neighbors, maybe because she liked me. She'd say "hi" and ask me what I was doing, or if I could help move a railroad tie they used to border their yard or twist the swingset back into place. The dirt on her wasn't because she was messy... dirty. It was because she worked. I didn't know it, but she had every bit of respect I could give.

**************************************************
That's 3 paragraphs. I think.

On a personal note, my kids had a bit of interaction I thought was fun. My youngest has reached the "no!" phase, while the middle child has become contradictory. This afternoon the middle child (henceforth "M.C.") did something minor to his brother, and this resulted:

Me: "Could you please be nice to your brother?"
Toddler: "No!"
M.C: "Can!"
Toddler:"No!"
M.C:"Can!"
(Irony ensues)

Thought I'd share.

Again with this writing stuff...

Until I met my wife I never felt like I was being supported by anyone as far as writing goes. My father pressed for more practical skills, like typing. Everyone I knew told me that I couldn't make a living at it (which I don't) and that rare are those luminaries that do.

This is probably true. I don't know of many authors that don't supplement their income with writing.

But couldn't I be one of the few? Am I not smart enough? Gifted in the appropriate skills? Why must writers be smacked down before they get on their feet?

Tomorrow's writing assignment is to characterize someone. Really get into their noggins. 3 paragraphs or less.

Another writing assignment...

I'd be fishing, but simple writing can be simple to come up with. In a few weeks I'll shoot for something more complex. Maybe I didn't make it clear that you, the viewing public, can feel free to write along with me.

It'd help me feel less like a fish in a bowl.

The Chair

It isn't in the corner, because there isn't any. It is the ugly orange that brings disco into the background. It has been worn by the constant presence of my father, the smell of his cigarettes clinging to it. The remote has it's own patch, on the right arm... a rectangular reminder of the rule my dad maintained over the television on Sunday mornings, and weekday evenings.

The stuffing and springs protrude through the seat, a testament to my father's constant presence. The handle to the footstool, part of the chair, splintered from the abuse two gleeful boys made it suffer.

In my head it is all that makes a recliner.

The Wordscape of unknown Kadath

One of my recent suggestions to someone else, regarding what should be done with their blog, was to post the results of writing exercises. I've been thinking about that, and maybe I should do the same.

Starting tomorrow. The exercise will be "describe a favorite piece of furniture, whether from your past, present, or (in hopes) future."

Morton's is right

My father calls it our luck. Some would blame Murphy's Law. However you slice it, I'm beginning to rack up the challenges in a pace setting way.

I'm a student. It comes with a set of challenges, but it's a choice to take on the responsibilities that come with college. And I've put it off long enough.

I'm a full-time dad. This is a choice, but it's rare that anyone understands just how much has to be sacrificed for kids. I might've known better than some, but I didn't expect to only have 4 dates in as many years. But high school was far worse.

I've got an ex. She's crazy, but I suspect that's true with all exes. She says it of me, I'm sure. There's a number of people I've met. The only issues this raises is that one of my children is with her, and I have custody. Which leads, of course, to point #4.

I've a legal conflict with my ex (Satan) regarding my need to move in order to complete my education. We've been through an evaluation which didn't go as she wanted, so now we have to go to court. This whole procedure has been a headache.

Today I received a notice. My father got a draft notice beginning "you have been selected by your friends and neighbors..." I felt like that. Only mine was for jury duty.

Normally I'm an optimist, but this stuff is really beginning to push my limits.

Gigantor...

My son is working on the pinewood derby car for Cub Scouts. Last year he managed to get a splinter of wood into second place. It was really impressive. At the end of it all, and considering that I have multiple sons, I decided to invest in a Dremel kit.

For the unititiated, Dremels are rotary tools. That means that only Rotary clubs use them. No. They can be used as clubs, which officially gives them at least one use more than the manual suggests, possibly putting it in the 1001 uses category. It grinds, sands, cuts, screws, routes, dices, and has never (to my knowledge) been used as a murder weapon.

In short, Dremels rock. Especially for detailing and small projects (like the pinewood derby).

And it fits in your palm. I picked a rather large kit up at Wal-mart for about $25 last March, specifically for the pinewood derby. But all of my problems are beginning to look like small chunks of wood.

And the power is in my hand.

I want it all...

I recently went to the library, a place I've always loved. Well, not the local library. I've only loved that since I moved here almost 5 years ago. I checked out books on literature, anatomy, writing music, and chemistry. It was not a small stack I huffed up to the check-out counter.

Prior to this I've checked out books on physics, art (all of the art stuff), religion, and various other fields of study. I can find anything at the library it seems, which is why I love it.

My interests vary so widely and flicker from topic to topic. Mostly I shouldn't buy books, and it's not something one can rent (excepting the taxes that go to the library, and late fees). This is why I love the library. That and the smell. Wander over to the precious documents case and inhale.

Sometimes I write.

I'm gonna scream...

A while back I started telling the world at large that Satan is... well, quite disagreeable. I can prove that she lies, I can point at bad mothering, I watch her relationships dissolve from afar. None of this can be good for our son, who still remembers the bars she used to take him to.

One day, having failed my second computer science course (well, I got a 'D'), I decided that perhaps another field is better for me. Looking over the fields that have interested me most, I come up with "Biomedical Engineering." I want to work with neural interfaces. This stuff sounds top notch. There's some other work there that sounds great, and if things fall through I can get a degree in English. So where to turn for this kind of degree?

The next state over. I prepare for this and tell Satan of my plans. She screams bloody murder at me for trying to deprive her of contact with her son. I ask for her input on visitation and maybe other accomodations and get none.

We go to a hearing, in order to make sure that we aren't going to settle this out of court, and sure enough, we aren't.

Then, she hires an evaluator. I was willing to chip in some money, but she wanted to foot the bill herself. The evaluator's job is to form a good, solid, professional opinion on what is in the best interests of the child and create a recommendation. Nine times out of ten the court goes with that recommendation.

Well, the report (which has yet to be filed with the court) says that I'm a scum monkey. I'm a bad man with dreams of having my child all to myself and short changing Satan at every stop. It then proceeded to say that I should keep custody of my son, and we be allowed to move. This was mostly based on the obvious relationship that my children have with each other. My kids rock.

Maybe I am a scum monkey. I accept that I'm not perfect. I don't make an effort to do bad things to Satan, but maybe I could be nicer to her. I will make an effort, not that I expect it to help any.

Satan didn't like this. Nossir. Not good enough.

Now we are set for court, and by late February everything should be truly known.

I'm sure there's a lesson in all of this. A good "Charlie, you goober, pay attention" lesson. The only one I've figured out is that picking up women on street corners is the worst way to start a relationship. Especially if they're selling stuff.

Whistful

Here I am chiding myself for creating a blog. It can be defended. I'm opening up to the world, hearing my muse, and probably a bunch of other touchy-feely things.

The fact remains that it's a trendy means of expression. A few years back it was extremely trendy to write poetry. Badly. Regardless of whether it was meant to be bad, it was the trend. Am I destined to be one of those damned souls, screaming from my little hell into the abyss?

No.

I'm not showing any of you my poetry. Right now.

Of course, I'm also not likely to make any waves if I decide never to advertise my niche here. And, of course, come up with some meaningful content.

If you stick around, I'll do my impression of Cyndi Lauper.

Father knows best...

My dad, who comes across well (if repetitive), recently was on the phone with me while we discussed the escapades of one of my children. The conversation turned and meandered as it does when I talk with just about anyone, finally landing on whether I liked the South.

I was raised, more or less, in Jacksonville, Alabama. Many of my memories have that land as the setting. The atmosphere, however, was not terribly southern. Jacksonville sat at a weird crossroads of military, academic, and redneck worlds. I treasure few moments that I had there, mostly due to the rednecks. While I bare no ill-will to the folk that populate it currently, I don't have a particular fondness for the place I lived for 13 years.

My father disagrees. After all, how can one not love the land of one's birth? It's just natural.

First, as a firmly entrenched member of the Generation Ennui, let me offer the standard: "whatever." Second of all, I fail to see how one can get sentimental about dirt. I don't care how long I sit/stand/sleep on that dirt. And I worry that anyone can maintain nationalism as a good thing. It's only as good as the motivation it provokes, and even then I can probably think of better sticks to whack people with.