...Happy Indeppendix Day! See the post from last year for an explanation.
Sadly in the spirit of journalistic integrity, I must disclose that my streak of "days without a technicolor yawn" ended a few months ago. I'm thinking of filing an appeal to disqualify this as a streak breaker because it was the side effect of an especially bothersome sinus drainage episode.
And that's all I have to say about that.
So celebrate Indeppendix Day with me by going out and eating way too much of your favorite food.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Robot Alert: He's Outside Your Front Door!
...oooooohhhh grab your Jello! Set the sofa on fire! He won't come near smoke and fire and Jello! Friends, when you see this video, you'll understand why I had to come back.
Note to the scientific community: WILL YOU CUT IT OUT ALREADY?
That wasn't creepy enough for you? Check out this video that "they" have titled, "The Shadow Hand making use of its fingernails to scratch a head."
I think a more accurate title would be, "Checking for Weak Spots."
If you just haven't had enough, go to http://www.shadowrobot.com/ to see more uplifting videos of "the hand" and other interesting topics like "air muscles" and "finger units".
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Working, working, working...
SomeGoat has been working his tail off for the last week. I know I owe a few blog entries, I'll try to get to them soon.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Magic Strawberry
I am an awful brother! I completely missed Somegoat’s birthday, by about two weeks. I think, however, he is of an age that he would probably rather they be forgotten. I know I would if I was as old as he is. Maybe for a period of two weeks he thought he had escaped a true Threegoat roasting. As he reads this there is sweat beading up on his furrowed brow, “The Hairbrush?”, he agonizes, “The toilet and the hammer?” he anticipates with dread. No, as some bit of an amends to my gross oversight I will go easy on him, …this time. So sit back and read…
The Magic Strawberry
Mom and Dad had a strawberry patch growing in a bed in the front of the house, and it fell to Somegoat and me to pick the weeds and remove the dead, bug infested, or rotten strawberries from the patch. Perhaps in hindsight they should also have told us how, and more importantly, where to discard these dried husks of fruit. We, as I recall, did not eat the strawberries and were somewhat indignant that we were the ones to perform this miserable task. (Much the same way we felt about the okra, cucumber, tomato, and squash in the back yard.)
So what else were we to do really? Any one in our position would surely have done the same. We threw them. We threw them at the passing cars. I know I have explained how I was lacking that little voice as a child, but I am somewhat certain that Somegoat had a perfectly functioning little voice. It didn’t necessarily tell him not to do things, it just worked out in advance a well-conceived escape plan and then made sure it was executed precisely.
About this time my best friend walked up, “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Cleaning out the strawberry patch”, I replied, “Want to help?”
“Nope, I’ll just watch”
“We are throwing them at cars”
“Okay”, he said as he reached into the fray. So now there were three of us, picking and throwing, …and missing every time. While my friend and I were looking down into the thicket Somegoat made contact, dead center in the windshield. His little voice kicked in, “Alright, we’ve gone over this, around to the back yard and don’t stop until you are in the ditch!
I stood up to find that my brother, and now my friend, were gone. The car made a u-turn in time to see me standing there, alone, with a strawberry in my hand. As I rounded the house I overcame my friend and we ran through the back yards to hide out at his house. Somegoat was nowhere to be seen, good going Little Voice.
Just a few minutes later, from our hiding place five houses away I heard Dad bellowing my name. Of course it was me, I was the one standing alone and past experiences gave them little reason to doubt it. The driver of the car had told Mom and Dad that their little boy (notice the singular) had thrown a big juicy tomato that exploded blindingly on the windshield of his car. That’s right, the shriveled brown strawberry that Somegoat had thrown magically transformed in mid-air into a plump tomato bomb. By now Somegoat had made his way out of the ditch, his little voice probably told him that a longer wait would only result in greater punishment. Dad sent my friend home and banished us to our rooms for the rest of the day. We got off pretty easy, but I suspect we were removed from Dad’s sight so we could not see him laughing.
Happy Birthday Somegoat, and your little voice too!
The Magic Strawberry
Mom and Dad had a strawberry patch growing in a bed in the front of the house, and it fell to Somegoat and me to pick the weeds and remove the dead, bug infested, or rotten strawberries from the patch. Perhaps in hindsight they should also have told us how, and more importantly, where to discard these dried husks of fruit. We, as I recall, did not eat the strawberries and were somewhat indignant that we were the ones to perform this miserable task. (Much the same way we felt about the okra, cucumber, tomato, and squash in the back yard.)
So what else were we to do really? Any one in our position would surely have done the same. We threw them. We threw them at the passing cars. I know I have explained how I was lacking that little voice as a child, but I am somewhat certain that Somegoat had a perfectly functioning little voice. It didn’t necessarily tell him not to do things, it just worked out in advance a well-conceived escape plan and then made sure it was executed precisely.
About this time my best friend walked up, “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Cleaning out the strawberry patch”, I replied, “Want to help?”
“Nope, I’ll just watch”
“We are throwing them at cars”
“Okay”, he said as he reached into the fray. So now there were three of us, picking and throwing, …and missing every time. While my friend and I were looking down into the thicket Somegoat made contact, dead center in the windshield. His little voice kicked in, “Alright, we’ve gone over this, around to the back yard and don’t stop until you are in the ditch!
I stood up to find that my brother, and now my friend, were gone. The car made a u-turn in time to see me standing there, alone, with a strawberry in my hand. As I rounded the house I overcame my friend and we ran through the back yards to hide out at his house. Somegoat was nowhere to be seen, good going Little Voice.
Just a few minutes later, from our hiding place five houses away I heard Dad bellowing my name. Of course it was me, I was the one standing alone and past experiences gave them little reason to doubt it. The driver of the car had told Mom and Dad that their little boy (notice the singular) had thrown a big juicy tomato that exploded blindingly on the windshield of his car. That’s right, the shriveled brown strawberry that Somegoat had thrown magically transformed in mid-air into a plump tomato bomb. By now Somegoat had made his way out of the ditch, his little voice probably told him that a longer wait would only result in greater punishment. Dad sent my friend home and banished us to our rooms for the rest of the day. We got off pretty easy, but I suspect we were removed from Dad’s sight so we could not see him laughing.
Happy Birthday Somegoat, and your little voice too!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
You're Gonna Smile...
...as soon as you start watching this video. As the Tour de France riders pass by, a horse gets caught up in the moment and just can't stand by and watch.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Milk Money II
Here are a few milk money pictures from the end of the year that I didn't have with me when I posted the first installment.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Crazy Sac
As some of you may know, my job affords me the opportunity to travel throughout these great states of ours. This week finds me in the very capital of the golden state, Sacramento. The locals refer to their town as Sac, then there is Old Sac, and I even picked up the local magazine about the city called Sactown. But what I want to talk about are the crazy sacs. Don't get me wrong, my beloved home, Memphis, has it's fair share of crazy (sometimes I even feel gifted with more than my fair share) it's just that the sac brand of crazy is a refreshing change from my mundane local flavor.
I was walking down "J" street in the middle of the day when I noticed a girl, probably in her early twenties, riding toward me on her bike. From about half a block away this unbathed crazy sac yelled out, "You know what sucks?" At first I didn't realize that she was talking to me and if I had I was not about to answer that loaded question. So I kept walking and she kept riding toward me, and when she got right in front of me she said,"I crashed my bike", and I did what any person would do with crazy experience (which is all of us), I kept walking and acted like nothing ever happened.
So come to NorCal and say hello to the crazy sacs while you are here.
I was walking down "J" street in the middle of the day when I noticed a girl, probably in her early twenties, riding toward me on her bike. From about half a block away this unbathed crazy sac yelled out, "You know what sucks?" At first I didn't realize that she was talking to me and if I had I was not about to answer that loaded question. So I kept walking and she kept riding toward me, and when she got right in front of me she said,"I crashed my bike", and I did what any person would do with crazy experience (which is all of us), I kept walking and acted like nothing ever happened.
So come to NorCal and say hello to the crazy sacs while you are here.
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