Today we paid for all the mild weather we have been receiving. The Northeast, including Jersey, was clobbered by a blizzard. It closed the airports and kept just about everyone at home. Hell, you know it’s bad when we didn’t open the Post Bar.

It didn’t stop snowing until after 3 o’clock, leaving behind about 20 inches of snow and drifts high enough to literally frost one’s stindeens.

I spent several hours of quality time with Mr. Snowblower and now, after a hot shower, I feel not unlike a dishrag. I believe that I will retire to a comfy chair and nod off read a bit.

Later.

Demonstrating for once and for all his boundless sense of adventure, or his utter recklessness, my buddy Eric has taken on the task of putting this beast together. So far, the score is Nordic Beast-1, Eric-0. I suspect that, if he doesn’t shoot the thing while it is in a semi-assembled state, he will eventually prevail, although the job would probably go a bit easier with a tall drink of Mead.

One of the lessons I have learned the hard way is that if something “requires assembly,” or, worse yet, is advertised with the words “Some assembly required” it is to be avoided at all costs. It is why, for example, I am using a barbecue grill that is sorely in need of replacement. The assembly of that grill years ago took the better part of half a day, left me with a part that seemed to go nowhere and made for some nerve-jangling moments the first time I fired it up. Upon finishing such a task some do-it-yourselfers report feeling a great sense of accomplishment. I, on the other hand, look at the completed object that just stole a piece of my life with nothing by utter contempt.

Which brings me to the desk at which I am now sitting.

It is a fairly complicated bit of furniture. On the top it has a unit that contains vertical (two sizes) and horizontal cubbyholes and a two-door cabinet on the right, with spring-loaded doors held closed by magnets. On the left top is a diagonal shelf for the monitor. The body of the desk, on the right side, contains one of those pullout things you can write on and two drawers on auto-close sliders, one drawer being “file drawer” size. On the left is a rollout thing that is designed to look like three drawers, but is, as I said, a rollout thing in which one can, I suppose, place a scanner or a similar widget. I use mine to store paper. I am quite certain that it is an O’Sullivan product. The closest example of one that resembles this desk that I could find is here. Mind you, mine is considerably more complicated.

OK, got the picture?

Way back when I wanted to buy my first computer, Mrs. Parkway, being very supportive of my then new-found interest in things cyber, said, “If you want to buy that ridiculous thing, you better damned well figure out where you’re going to put it.”

We, therefore, took a trip to Office Max, or the other big box “office” store – I can’t remember which, where I saw this unit all assembled. Knowing that it would have to serve as a regular desk in addition to the place where I could set up “that stupid computer” it seemed to fit the bill.

I asked the sales guy when it could be delivered, and he said, “What kind of car do you have? We could bring it out now.” At the time, I had a station wagon that was roughly the size of Finland (used for hauling band equipment around), so I said, “I have a big wagon, but I think that the desk may be too tall to fit.” He said, “No problem, the top and the bottom are packaged separately.”

Sold.

So, I pulled the car into the Delivery Area with my receipt in hand waiting for someone to bring out a piece of furniture. You can imagine my surprise when this big bullyok of a kid rolled out two farookin’ huge boxes and called my name. I asked, “Is that the desk?” He checked my sales receipt and confirmed that those two farookin’ huge boxes were my “desk.”

He said, “Yes sir. You have to put it together.”

“What???”

“No problem, sir. They are easy to assemble.”

Mrs. Parkway, seeing the horror on my face, said, “Oh, I’ll help you. How hard can it be?”

With that, the big bullyok of a kid lifted each box into the back of the Wagon the size of Finland.

When I got home, I realized why the store had hired the big bullyok of a kid, because there was no way I could lift either of those bigass boxes. The only way we could get the thing into the house was to open each of the bigass boxes and bring the pieces in a few at a time. After about twenty minutes of back and forth between the house and the Wagon the size of Finland, my entire living room floor was covered with hundreds of pieces of wood, bags of screws, washers, springs, rollers, sliders, plastic thingies, magnets and God knows what else. It was horrifying.

I was beginning to wonder how much I wanted the computer, after all.

“Let’s take a look at the instructions,” I sheepishly said.

Once unfolded, the instructions covered as much floor space as the average-sized bathroom. There were drawings that, to me, were as complicated as those for the Space Shuttle and text that was written by people who know how to assemble shit, but who will never win the Nobel Prize for clarity.

Being a complete jackass when it comes to these things, I wanted to pour over every step of the directions and carefully consider each and every move before it was made. By contrast, Mrs. Parkway has an innate sense about how things go together, (She used to put the Barbie Motor Homes and such together) would take a quick glance at the instructions and begin assembling shit.

This lead to more than a few heated words in a house where heated words are a rare as hen’s teeth. In fact, at one point in the proceedings, I figured that either this piece of shit (the desk, not Mrs. Parkway) was going in the garbage, or I would end up living in a motel and sending alimony payments home.

Two or three days, several scraped knuckles, forty or so man-hours, and unfathomable amounts of aggravation later, the job was finished.

Once I got the computer set up on the desk, my first act was to type out a letter to the O’Sullivan company in which I opined that the company must be staffed with sadistic bastards and suggested precisely what they could do with their “easy to assemble” furniture.

So, as far as I’m concerned, anything that “requires assembly” can stay in the farookin’ store.

I typically don’t pay attention to weather forecasts. I have no idea what a falling or rising barometer means, and I completely zone out when the local weather bunny weathermanperson talks about high pressure or low pressure troughs “sweeping in” to create some kind of front, whatever the Christ a “front’ is. I do, however, tend to listen when the talk is either of hurricanes or snowstorms, both of which tend to visit their seasonal charms on this state.

Sometime last night, the weather folks began to talk of us “maybe” getting a weekend snowstorm. I only half-paid attention, because the forecast was laced with “weatherspeak” — high-pressure this and low pressure that.

However, when I stepped outside the house this morning, I thought, ”It feels like snow.”

Those of you who don your snuggies when the temperature dips below sixty degrees probably don’t understand what “It feels like snow” means, but those of you who live in the parts of the country where it snows regularly know exactly what I mean, even if it is difficult to explain.

I suppose “feeling like snow” is a constellation of our perceptions of the temperature, the color of the sky, and the amount of moisture in the air. Hell, maybe, in the course of a lifetime, we have unconsciously developed a sense of barometric pressure (without knowing diddelysquat about barometric pressure) that tells us when snow is on the way.

All I know is that all day it “felt like snow,” and that by the time I arrived home tonight, the weather folks ceased saying that it “might” snow and have begun saying, without equivocation, that we will be clobbered tomorrow with snow and blizzard-level winds.

I could have told them that this morning.

P.S. I hope that tomorrow it doesn’t snow and that you will have the satisfaction of telling me that I am full of caca, but I doubt you’ll get the chance. Hell, it even smells like snow.

I was tagged by Cousin Jack, who, to my knowledge, has managed to remain meme-free until now. Jack is, as you know, my genuine, real cousin (and Blogfaddah), and, as such, there is no way I’m refusing. Seeing as how Jack is a details guy (Hell, he’s a Tax Lawyer), I will carefully follow all just about all of the directions, which are as follows:

The rules: List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to. (Via Knit, Purls & Curls.)

Like Jack, I’m a bit long in the tooth to be “into” specific songs these days, as I’ve spent my entire life waist deep in music. In fact, whenever I am asked to single out specific songs as favorites, I get a bit sideways – a Sophie’s Choice kind of thing. So, I’ve decided to think about the discs that I have been listening to lately and determine which tunes I always play more than once. With that, here we go (in no particular order).

1. Where or When – Dion (and Dion and the Belmonts) I thought this song was a killer centuries ago when I was in high school, and it still knocks me out. That’s staying power.

2. Mona Lisa – Nat King Cole The man could sing his ass off, and make sure to pay special attention to the strings in the background. Beautiful.

3. Walkin’ Cane – Robert Earl Keen Thanks to Christina for sending me this disc and turning me on to this tune. It is always a multiple listen.

4. Scotch and Soda – Kingston Trio This has become a signature guitar-pickin’ tune. I probably have played and sung it as many times as the Kingston Trio has.

5. Bridge Over Trouble Water – Simon and Garfunkel No denying it. Art Garfunkel is one gorilla stompin’ singer.

6. Running on Empty – Jackson Browne Frighteningly biographical, this.

7. Let it Be Me – Everly Brothers Don and Phil. ‘Nuf said.

Here’s where I break the rules. Rather than tagging seven people (some peeps get cranky when tagged) I invite everyone who reads this to play.

I see that radical Muslims who are offended by cartoons have taken to burning buildings and engaging in other forms of violent protest, which have resulted in the deaths of about a dozen people so far. Imams are busy issuing fatwas that call for the killing of those responsible for offending their sensibilities.

Well, let me tell you that sometimes my sensibilities are offended as well. However, because I live in a relatively civilized country, I don’t have the option of issuing fatwas calling for the death of people who have managed to deliver unto me a case of the ass on any given day. I, therefore, have decided that, henceforth, I will be issuing fartwas, which call for bowel windage to be directed at such people.

As such, I am issuing the following two fartwas:

Rev. Joseph Lowery. Reverend Lowery (Is he an Al Sharpton – type Reverend, or does he have a church somewhere?) took advantage of the memorial service for Coretta Scott King to take a couple political shots at the President, who sat with Mrs. Bush on the stage behind Reverend Lowery. He said, “We know now there were no weapons of mass destruction over there, but Coretta knew and we knew that there are weapons of misdirection right down here.”

“Reverend” my ass.

Former President Jimmy Carter: Jimah, the worst president in my lifetime, also opted to play politics to the crowd at Mrs. King’s memorial service when he referred to Dr. and Mrs. King as having been the target of “secret government wiretaps”. This brought the Bush-hating hooping and hollering audience to its feet. Speaking of “misdirection,” Jimah failed to mention to the hooters and hollerers that the wiretapping of Dr. and Mrs. King was the work of the Kennedys (Bobby, the Attorney General and his brother Jack, the President) and Lyndon Johnson, all bright stars in the democrat galaxy.

So, if you have the occasion to be in the presence of either of these two ill-mannered swine, turn your posterior toward their general direction and fart proudly.

Given that my Content Meter shows that I am running on fumes, I thought I would share the following, which I received in the mail from a colleague.

One Question IQ Test
Here’s a one question IQ Test to help you decide how you should spend the rest of your day……

There is a mute who wants to buy a toothbrush. By imitating the action of brushing one’s teeth, he successfully expresses himself to the shopkeeper, and the purchase is done.

Now if there is a blind man who wishes to buy a pair of sunglasses, how should he express himself?

Think about it first before seeking out the answer in the Extended Entry Section.
(more…)

I picked up the New Wheels (a/k/a The Big, Fat, Black, Capitalist Car) today. I’m happy to say that the deal I originally made stuck, and I even ended up getting some additional bells and whistles. What I also received is a New Car Manuel that is roughly the size of a small-town phone book.

If you don’t hear any more from me today, it’s because I am trying to figure out some of the cockpit controls and how to get the buttons in the car to open my garage door.

If I owned a digital camera (Remember, I’m computer stupid and I don’t even have an ATM card), I’d post pictures. However, I don’t and, therefore, I cannot. But, you can use your imagination. Think big and black, with a ragtop and a pinstripe, and it is named after a President who was shot in Ford’s Theater.

You’ve Got Questions? I’ve got Answers.
Because I’m Very Smart, and You’re … Very Not.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I know that you are a very important person with a very busy schedule, but I was wondering if you plan on watching the Super Bowl today?

Sincerely,
Buffy Janeway

Dear Buffy,

You know it!! I am a New Yorker, and what New Yorker doesn’t LOVE football? Oh yeah. I whipped up a batch of gnarly nachos, and I have a couple six packs of brewskies all iced down. I’ll be glued to the TV, watching my Giants kick ass and take names. Go Giants!!

Dear Senator Clinton:

What is it like to attend the President’s State of the Union Address?

Best regards,
Martha Wilcox

Dear Martha,

Then we listened to the President. He is soooooooooo stooooooooopid!!! LOL!!! What a hoot!

Dear Senator:

The other day, the press reported that Julian Bond said that Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice is a “token” in the Bush Administration. Do you agree with Mr. Bond’s statement?

Shaniqua Jones

Dear Sista,

Peace, out.

I know that it may be difficult to believe that the following incident took place on the very day after I posted the blog about the curse of cell phones. But, I booshit you not. This happened to me this morning.

I was doing the morning walk and I was passing over the portion of sidewalk that crosses one of the entrance driveways into a convenience store parking lot. A large truck started to zoom directly into the convenience store driveway from the street and had to suddenly stop about two feet away from me in order to keep from sending me to the hereafter. I damned near shit myself. There were two women in the truck and one of them (the driver) was blabbing on a hand-held cell phone.

Here’s the best part.

It was one of the local ambulances!

The ambulance was obviously not “on call,” as its lights were not flashing and the siren was not blaring. Nope. I’m quite certain that they were making the morning coffee and bun run, as their headquarters is just down the street from the convenience store. The driver was probably taking last minute orders (three coffees, light, no sugar – that kind of thing).

Either that or the paramedics occasionally run down someone on purpose just to stay sharp. I suppose if I have to be hit by a truck, having the truck be an ambulance is probably a good thing.

Farookin’ cell phones. They just may be the death of me. Literally.

I could not help but notice that an ABC poll concerning behaviors that people thought to be particularly rude identified taliking loudly on cell phones in public places as the number one form of rudeness. I was not at all surprised at the results of the poll, and, indeed, I have previously written about Cell Phone Vulgarians.

The poll results reminded me of a new form of Cell Phone Vulgarianism I experienced a few days ago, which I hope is not the beginning of a trend. Here’ the story:

I found myself in a nationally known pharmacy, specifically in the small area that is set aside for people waiting for prescriptions. It is not anything like a separate room. Rather, it consists of about a half dozen chairs situated approximately seven or eight feet from the counter.

The store was extremely busy, and the counter people were doing their best to deal with the onslaught of customers, many of whom had to sort out the confusion resulting from their participation in the governmental prescription plan thing. Suffice it to say that it would have been a stressful place to be, even if everyone in the “waiting area” was quietly waiting. However, that was not the case on the day in question.

Three of the six seats in the “waiting area” were occupied by late-teen-aged dizzball girls. One of them (the Main Dizzball) decided that calling a couple of their friends might be a swell way to pass the time. It would have been bad enough to have to suffer the loud-talking Main Dizzball’s half of the conversation, but we were not so lucky.

The Main Dizzball had one of those Nextel-type walkie-talkie phones, and she proceeded to turn it up to max volume so that her two friends in the store and everyone else within fifty feet of her could hear both sides of their absolutely inane conversation. The Main Dizzball and her two friends were all talking at the same time to the idiot on the other end of the line, who also had a friend with her. It was a regular farookin’ conference call, only with subject matter appropriate for someone with brain damage.

Judging from their smirks and giggles, they were obviously loving the looks that could kill attention they were getting from me and the other poor slobs in the “waiting area”.

I could not help but wonder whether a jury of my peers would convict me if I were to shove her nifty walkie-talkie cell phone up her ass.