Book Lust

I took a bunch of my mom's books to the school library yesterday, for donation. While I was there, I checked out a book. I felt strangely giddy as I carried it back to my office. On my way home at the end of the day, I almost started reading it as I walked (but I wanted to be home for the start of Are You Being Served?, and the reading might have slowed me down).

It wasn't a new book (unless you consider 16 months old new), and I have plenty of other books at home, so why did I feel strangely excited to have it? Maybe it was the fact that, after numerous other attempts, I managed to find it on the shelves before anyone else could check it out. (It is Columbine, by Dave Cullen, which the librarian says is very popular with both students and teachers.) Maybe I just like feeling the protective plastic that libraries wrap around their hardcovers. Maybe it was the right weight. Maybe it's the thrill of something new. (Isn't opening a new book, especially one wrapped in protective plastic, similar to unwrapping a gift?) Maybe I'm just that far gone over books, with no hope for redemption.

Holy adhesiveness, Batman!

Once I found out what it is, I felt really stupid. What does it say about me that, when I saw the empty package in the trash can, I started pondering what "multi-purpose bat tape" is for.

Splinting injured Chiropterans?

Shutting Robin's mouth to keep him from offering any more stupid interjections?

Taping up very small parcels?

Attaching notes to pigeons' legs?

I guess it being a trash can next to one of the campus baseball fields should've given me a clue.

A move is a move is a move...

Miss Kitty mentioned yesterday that the number of moves on campus this summer has grown from 27 to 30. The ones she added were an administrator moving from a large house outside the fence to a small apartment inside the fence, a food service manager moving from a small house outside the fence to a large house outside the fence, and a food service worker moving out of a small house outside the fence. Although each of them involves a school-owned residence, the school isn't paying for the moves because they aren't related to the employees' jobs.

"So why are you counting them as moves?" I asked her. She said it was because Froggy probably will have to make repairs and she will have to clean the houses. (Then, as often before, I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out that my school-owned apartment hadn't been cleaned before I moved in.) "But that's not a 'move'." I pointed out. "Yes, it is." Oh, that's right: I use a different dictionary than everyone else in The Noog.

I suppose I could've stolen from another poet and called this post "A Move by Any Other Name".

In the Pink

The students have been back less than a week, but I can already tell you what the fashion-concious preppy is wearing this season: pastels. Boys' shirts are white, carnation pink, powder blue, mint green, lemon yellow, lavender, or peach. Gone are bold colors. (That's so last year...) Ties, as always, range from conservative to ugly. (One kid must've raided the back of his dad's closet. I swear I haven't seen a tie like that since the 80's.)

Let's share the seafood entree.

On second thought, we might have to order separately. This plaice isn't big enough for the two of us.

Don't drink the water.

At first, I thought it was maybe a glitch in the system that sent a repeat e-mail. "Can that really be the third baby born to a staff member this summer?" I wondered.

Then it was, "Wait a minute. That's the fourth."

Now, "That's definitely the fifth."

We managers discussed this in yesterday's meeting. One asked if they drink the filtered water in the dining hall or tap water. Then Skippy warned Miss Kitty, who just turned 65, not to drink the water on campus.

I couldn't say it in the meeting, but I was wondering if there was some sort of wife-swapping game going on. How else can you have five spouses of faculty members give birth in a 3-4 month period?

On a completely unrelated note:

I could probably write a parody of this song to be played at minor-league baseball parks. I already have the title: "Mr. Baseman".

I could make 6 or 8 dozen tiny omelettes.

On my way home yesterday, I encountered the food service manager, who was carrying three egg cartons. She said that a coworker had given her quail eggs from the birds he raises. She asked if I would like some. I said, "Sure, they might make an interesting breakfast burrito." She said she would drop them off on my porch.

When I got home, I saw that she had left all three egg cartons. "What am I supposed to do with three dozen quail eggs?" I wondered -- until I opened one of the cartons. These eggs are tiny. There were at least two dozen quail eggs in each standard-chicken egg carton. (Note the two pictures comparing egg sizes in this Wikipedia link.) What am I supposed to do with that many little eggs?

Actually, the wiki image of the "soft-boiled quail eggs with potato galettes" looks kind of yummy. Now I just need to learn what a galette is (and how to make one).

A: Things that Have Yellow Backgrounds and Black Printing

Q: What is the latest category in The $10,000 Pyramid, Alex?

1) The dining hall was closed yesterday, so Froggy insisted we eat lunch at a local Waffle House. Be warned: don't eat there if you want haute cuisine. Both Skippy and Froggy ordered their hash browns "double smothered, double covered". Loosely translated, "smothered" means with onions mixed in, and "covered" came with a slice of processed cheese in the center of the hash browns, but not extending to the edge. (Obviously, this restaurant chain uses a different dictionary than I do.) The food was all right (I had a BLT and hash browns -- note: your order either comes with hash browns or nothing), but I certainly will never experience a craving for it. (We're tossing around various Chinese restaurants for today's lunch.)

2) As part of an e-mail conversation with Betty, I decided to look up bookstores in the local phone book. The first thing I noticed was a page heading "Bicycles-Blood". Now doesn't that help me feel better about being an inexperienced bike rider?

As far as "Book Dealers Used & Rare", there are two I already know about, two not listed which I know about, one I won't go to unless you send me on a quest for an out-of-print Christian book, one I won't be able to visit because it's open only during typical, weekday work hours, and two others. I need to go to Grumpy's just because of the name. I won't bother with H and M because it sells college textbooks. (I wouldn't bother with a bookstore called "S and M" either, but for an entirely different reason.)

3) I recently went miniature golfing at Sir Goony's. It was very dull: only one or two moving obstacles on each of the two, 18-hole courses. (Plus, the sun-faded decorations hadn't been painted in the past few years, either.) They charge an exorbitant $7.25 for one round and $8.00 for two. Or, you can be like me and use a coupon and play both rounds anyway because the 18th hole doesn't eat your ball. You have to go to a separate area (which does eat your ball) to try for a free game. Maybe the high price is to replace the number of golf balls they must lose to customers each year. Even I was tempted to "liberate" one because there are so many colors from which to choose. I selected pink because I'd never seen a pink golf ball before. (If I go back, I want purple.) My golfing partner chose sky blue -- and I was a good boy and didn't make any jokes about his blue ball.

Common theme:
1) Restaurant sign
2) Yellow pages
3) Score card

My, what a hairy noog.

Some of you have asked me why I say "The Noog" instead of Chattanooga. (Other than the obviously easier spelling.) I got it from a bumper sticker (which can be purchased here). As I told my coworkers in an e-mail about the other bumper stickers for sale on the aforementioned site, I live in The Noog; I've seen Rock City; I have an employee who says "pre-she-ate-cha", but... what's a "momenen"?

At first, I thought the word was pronounced with a long "O", such as in "moment". Then, in a flash of brilliance (yes, I have them occasionally), I changed the pronunciation to a short "o" and pondered it might be prounced similarly to, "How's your mom and them?"

It turns out I was right. Could this be the first step in understanding Noog logic? (Is it too late to turn back?)

Then I wondered how prevalent the word "Noog" could be, so I did a web search and found this page, which offers ten (well, eight, since two are duplicated) definitions. I'd quite prefer to be #1 rather than #7, thank you very much.

Interested in some wild, hot, monkey sex?

Not I. The last time someone asked me that, I nearly got a banana shoved where it doesn't belong.

I'm too sexy for my blog.

I found another mirror I like. It's in the varsity swimmers' locker room. It makes me look like I'm losing weight. I want to marry it and take it home, but then what would the boys do without a mirror to style their hair? (A better question is, "What are you doing naked in a boys' locker room?")

Actually, I am losing weight. The mirror agrees with the official scale outside the training room. I started to notice a difference when I was putting anti-itch lotion on the poison ivy rashes on my legs. I thought my legs felt less fat. Plus, I kinda-sorta thought I was getting a bit thinner based on my mirror at home.

Maybe by this time next year, I'll be wearing speedos for swimming instead of the boxer-style trunks I have now. So what if I'm not racing for reduced time? It'll be less annoying than rubbing my hand against the pocket that keeps floating out of my swimsuit now. I suppose the good Captain would have to wear green, but should I choose forest green? Leaf green? How about fluorescent green buttfloss? If you're focusing on that, maybe you won't notice I can't swim straight. (Plus, I could shake my little tush on the catwalk.)

I feel a little like that old Soloflex commercial with the muscular guy who said he was in better shape than when he was in college. It's true for me, but I'm nowhere near the shape he was in. Maybe by this time next year, I'll be able to post headless shots of myself on the internet, with the caption, "This is what 40 can look like."

Oh, and in case the song isn't already stuck in your head, here:

Pussy Galore

1) Sub (the traitorous coworker of whom I haven't thought in quite a while, thank you very much) popped into a dream last night. He thanked me for asking after him and said, "I can fend for myself, thanks." Fine by me. I left him behind a long time ago (and I certainly didn't ask after him).

2) I keep forgetting to tell you what happened on my way from bowling to cheesesteak last Friday: I learned where a fire station is -- the hard way. Just as I was driving in front of it, a fire engine started its siren and blew its horn to go out on a call. I used a religious person's name in vain. I tend to save my cursing in the car for when I'm alone, but that was so darn loud and surprising, I probably would've done the same even if my mom were in the passenger seat. Normally, I think of sirens as coming from a distance, passing, and going on into the opposite distance, so it was... interesting... to experience one in a different way.

3) Arrgh! I can't remember the name of the soundtrack to my dream this morning (a piano song, I think containing the word "Kat" in the title), so have this song instead.

Sorry I couldn't give you the original video or any of the live performances (arrgh #2), but embedding was blocked for them. (You can search Youtube for them if you really care.)

If my butt hurts in the winter, you'll know why.

I thought of three completely unrelated things this morning.

1) The theme music of one of my dreams last night was "Kokomo" by The Beach Boys. So, what better video of it to show you than this one by The Muppets?



2) The St. Bernard (our client) bought snow shovels at the very end of last winter, so we never used them. Well, because it was too late and because he left them outside Froggy's office door -- where I left them because no one actually told me that they were for my crew's use. Well, they're not actually shovels, either. According to the label, they are Manplows (an unfortunate name, which invites all sort of innuendo). Anyway, Froggy got sick of looking at them every time he walked into or out of his office, so he carted them over here into mine. Now where am I going to stick them?

3) It kinda-sorta-but-not-really rhymes with "Kokomo", but I think it's strong enough to stand on its own. Here's a video of Yo-Yo Man.

Monsoon Season

I know it's not my fault, but I wonder if some of my effect on the weather has lingered. After hot (for the Noog) days, we've had evening thunderstorms. Considering the time of year, I wonder if New Mexico's "monsoon season" is being felt here in the South.

I heard thunder and saw lightning between my apartment and the bowling alley, but it didn't start raining until I got inside -- and got stuck next to the student body of a private high school from a Nashville suburb. (As if I don't get enough of that the rest of the year?) As you might expect, the spoiled brats didn't bother racking their balls after they finished, but the brighter side (warning: irony ahead) was the two times the power went out while we were there. When's the last time that happened to you -- twice?

After that, I ate dinner at Gollywhoppers, the sandwich shop with the great name but the nothing-special food. Then I returned to Idiotville so I could exchange the male-end hose connection I bought for a smaller size. (Note that when I bought one in NM, I had to exchange it for a larger size, so I apparently am incapable of judging the size of a hose if it's not labeled.)

While I was at the big-box home store, I did my good deed for the day. A customer ahead of me was trying to return four, five-gallon size Leyland Cypress, one of which was dead. (That is not your esteemed Capn C. in the photo.) She naively asked if I knew anything about plants. "Why, yes! I got my degree in horticulture." After she left, satisfied with my answers, I told the clerk she most likely didn't water the trees enough.

To finish off this post, why not enjoy a song about last night's thunderstorm?



If you're so inclined (or from the South), you can search Youtube for a line dance video of this song, or even an anime-style linedance video.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

...who's the studliest one of all?

On second thought, don't answer that -- unless the answer is me, of course. ;)

I found another mirror I like. The one in the former ladies' room in my building flatters me. It makes me look like the current weights routine I'm doing is working. Of course, it might be not eating in the dining hall the past couple of weeks.

I tried duplicating the effect at home, but it didn't work. Maybe it's the lighting? Maybe it's the glass itself? Maybe I shouldn't concern myself about my physical appearance and focus solely on my physical well-being?

What's in a (middle) name?

I got an e-mail from the business office, asking me to verify if my employees currently covered by the school's auto insurance policy are to remain on the list. I have now learned the middle names of some of my crew.

I have a Nathaniel, a Baine, and (so help the poor guy) a Mickey. I also learned that my crispiest Jesus Krispie is named John Joseph; that explains a heck of a lot.

What's that? You want to know my middle name? Yeah, well, so does the school, because all they have is my middle initial, and it is wrong.

It's like walking and chewing gum at the same time.

I have mentioned before how irritated I get when I hear Cold Miser whistling the "hymn of the day" over and over again. So, when he's around but not whistling, I tend to notice.

That's why I discovered that he does not (can not?) whistle and urinate at the same time. (If your office were directly across the hall from the men's room, you'd notice, too.) Maybe he believes touching himself "down there" isn't a holy act, so he won't whistle a holy song while he does it.

I don't know. A lot of guys would probably prefer to whistle while they touch themselves.

Whistle while you work, maybe?

I thought the saying was, "He who dies with the most toys wins".

I need to talk to our uniform deliveryman today. I thought his company had fixed the problem themselves, but last week they reverted to old behavior.

Every week for the past year, my uniform pants have arrived on wire hangers with a cardboard tube to keep the pants from creasing. All of my crew's pants are on plain wire hangers. (I guess I'm special because I'm the manager.)

Every so often, I noticed that my pants hangers were removed from the "return your hangers here" rack and put in the trash can. I would take them from the trash can and put them back in the rack.

The uniform guy informed me several months ago that the company doesn't accept the cardboard hangers back for reuse and that he was the one throwing them away. (I agree; it doesn't make sense for them to issue the hangers but not take them back. But, this is The Noog, after all.) I have been accumulating the hangers in my living room closet and forgetting to call local dry cleaners to see if they would like any of them.

Two weeks ago, my pants were on plain wire hangers. I thought the company had realized its folly. Last week, they were back to using cardboard hangers. I want to see the uniform guy today and specifically request that they not use cardboard hangers for my pants any more.

Just for you guys, I counted the hangers this morning before I left for work. I might have missed a few, but I counted an even 100 hangers. So, if you ever come to my apartment and take off your pants, there are plenty of places to hang them.

If I called in sick that often, I'd be dead.

'Tis Monday again, and you know what that means: one (or more) employee(s) has phoned in sick. Sounds like it's time for me to pull the attendance records and "counsel" the one that has called in just about every other Monday for the past two months. Gee, and I just wrote him up for goofing off during work hours, too. Poor guy.

Why doesn't anyone get sick on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday?