Some days, I blog because something's on my mind. Some days, I blog because I'm bored. Some days, I blog because it's either blog, or punch someone in the head. I love you all. Really. Except you, (insert name TBD).
Said this week, and in no particular order:
1. I would like some of the Moose Knuckle ice cream. (Dessert request gone awry)
2. I've discovered five speedwalking geriatrics can be downright terrifying when they're headed your direction.
3. It burns my ass something fierce.
4. If I have to pony up blood or buy Avon, they're getting Funyuns and Diet Dr Pepper, and they'll like it.
5. MJ and Farrah are not only merely dead, they're really most sincerely dead.
6. In honor of MJ, any rumbling I do in parking garages or subway stations will include the use of jazz hands.
7. That squirrel is looking at me again.
8. Dueling asshats? AWE.some.
9. Hee! Anal Fissures.
10. Is having a raging case of the stupids. I think it might be contagious.
Ah, yes. The digital conversion. When we first started hearing about it, it was kind of like Armageddon - you heard about it, heard it was approaching, but it was always far enough away that it didn't seem like something to really worry about.
And, despite the flurry of information in the past year about it, apparently some people emerged from beneath their rocks, twiddle their antennas, and realize they could no longer see Troy Dungan - never you mind Troy hasn't been on in more than a year. They couldn't see him, nor Tracy Rowlett, and it was nigh to upsetting.
Now we find out that people all over the DFW area are having the same trouble. People that prepared for the impending Digipocalypse by getting the converter box. People that know how to program VCRs and work iPods. People who read newspapers. People who read newspapers on the Internet.
In other words, fairly technically astute individuals with a modicum of ability were unable to procure the channel 8 or the channel 11 digital signal via antenna and converter box (or antenna and HD television).
As we scanned and rescanned the antenna channels the day after the switch - mind you, we have Uverse, so this was just for back up - we couldn't help but wonder if other people were having the same difficulty.
Judging from the comments on this post over at Uncle Barky's site, they are. And judging from early numbers after the switch, this difficulty could - possibly - be really screwing with the two channel's ratings.
People are essentially lazy. Sorry people, but we are. I know. I mean, I'm sitting here, on the couch, in my pajamas, and have been since 6 p.m. or so. We're lazy. If we can't get a channel in via a set top antenna, and we don't already have a roof antenna up, what's the over/under on one of us lazy SOB's actually carting our keisters to Target or wherever to pick up an antenna, then climbing up on the roof to install it and aim it and whatever the heck else you have to do to get a stupid signal?
Yeah. I thought so.
New feature. Maybe a little narcissistic. But here goes: basically, I compile things that I've either said in e-mail, out loud, in an instant message, or whatever other form of communication I can't think of right now, and then on Friday, I show you this list. You can comment if you wish. Or if you want to tell the class the weirdest/funniest thing you've said all week, you can do that, too.
In no particular order:
1. I mean, surely someone's looked at this shit by now and gone, "Goddamn, this woman couldn't be more batshit if she lived in a cave and wore mosquito pants."
2. whip it up with a rage.
3. Scary. I have popcorn down my shirt. Only, I haven't eaten any popcorn today.
4. If I give you a cookie and a medal, will you simmah down?
5. you are one pair of acid washed jeans and a bon jovi tshirt away from 1990.
6. thinks eric nadel's eyepatch would make a good band name.
7. Hung like an unwired light switch. Small, and unable to turn anything on.
8. "That's what SHE said." - Loudly, in The Mecca, after a hostess assured a waitress that there was money "in her box."
9.Like that you can get drunk on homeopathic medicine while at your desk at work, because it doesn't look like beer?
10. I can still taste it in my mouth, and I love it so much.
11. I would like to take your fine work out for a steak dinner.
12. So there I was, in Wal-Mart, right? Doing the Pee Pee Dance, and waiting on the slowest cashier in the world to quit gawking at the sheer volume of batteries I was buying. If I hadn't been concentrating on not wetting my britches, I woulda said, "Hey, do I have the world's largest sex toy collection ever, or is my power out? Wanna hazard a guess?" But instead I paid and then peed.
13. Let's see ... do I jiggle the thingamagig boocoo times until golly, gee, it flushes, or do I leave this foot-long turd here for everyone to see? Oh wait, I gotta go to Sunnyvale by 3. Option two it is!
Now, I realize that Minnesota is not that big a deal, so really, it probably should just be thought of as one big city. I get that.
But it's not. Yet. Maybe someone can put that idea out there. But in the meantime, it's not a city.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled program.
So Wednesday night, a storm rolled through - in case those of you playing the home version of The Eleventy Billionth Blog didn't know. A big storm, apparently, although the only evidence of it in my neighborhood was a few limbs - nay, large branches - laying in yards, and the colossal darkness that enveloped the neighborhood when the power went out.
The first night wasn't so bad. Apparently the router dealie thingie that Uverse gives you to power your Internets has a battery on it. That battery lasts about three, four hours. I didn't even really notice the first hour of darkness go by - I mean, I could still sit there and make fun of the dog, and simultaneously play Farkle. I was fine. F.I.N.E. fine.
Then the laptop battery died. But I was still OK with that. We'd get power soon, right? It was fun to sit on the front porch, watching the kids run around outside. Normally, they'd be inside, watching TV. This power outage forced them to do what we old people used to call "playing outside." We'd do it all day in the summer, and beg to stay out just an hour more when our mothers called us in for dinner. We amused ourselves with endless games of tag, hide-and-seek, and fort building.
Wave after wave of stormy goodness cascaded over the DFW area that night, and on into Thursday. Our neighborhood regained power sometime in the night Wednesday, only to have it ripped from the clutches of a few of us.
In other words, my side of the street? DARK. Other side of the street? Lights.
When Thursday morning rolled around, the sky still roiled and churned with angry looking clouds, ready to dump rain and mayhem without any provocation whatsoever. It was fun getting dressed in the dark, and praying I put on black pants, not brown, with my definitely black shirt. Makeup by candlelight? Well, that just forces you to go down to the bare basics - a little powder, some lipstick, mascara.
I did my hair by the dome light in my car.
Thursday, after work, I stopped at Wal-Mart to rape and pillage the sporting goods department. I picked up some LED lights, and a battery-powered fan. That, and some prodigious help from Boston Market, helped Thursday night pass.
I was still feeling rather Zen about it at that point. It's like camping. I goofed off with the LED lights for a while after I discovered that if you move them around, you can make it look like the ceiling fan is moving. I read a book. I thanked Jeebus that "The Digital Transformation" hadn't happened yet, and we could still get local television broadcasts - the audio, at least - on our nifty battery-powered radio.
And as I drifted off into sleep Thursday night, with the cool air coming through the windows, scented by some sort of flower outside, I thought, "You know, this isn't THAT bad. I can deal."
And then I looked over. I saw, on my bedside table, a bar of soap I bought at Thomas Jefferson's Monticello a couple weeks ago. Wildflower scented. I sniffed it. I realized, at that point, that there was no magical floral scented air wafting through my window. IT WAS REGULAR AIR, and not having electricity sucks.
And at that point, I became not OK with having no electricity. I was pissed. The air suddenly wasn't cool enough, in fact it was sticky. The dog was breathing too loud. I couldn't find a cool side on my pillow.
And when I awoke this morning to find that there was still no electricity, I seethed - both inwardly and outwardly. When I sat on the front porch, where it was cooler, and saw the TV on in the house across the street, I gritted my teeth.
And the object of most of my vitriol became the Oncor confirmation number. See, when you call Oncor to report an outage - and it's always Oncor that repairs this stuff - they tell give you this confirmation number.
Now, the first time you call and get this number, you carefully make note of it. I mean, it's a confirmation number! This surely means that the next time you call, you will get an opportunity to enter it, and something will happen.
Then you call again, 12 hours later, when you still don't have electricity, and find out there is no opportunity to enter it, and they give you the exact same confirmation number as last time.
So Oncor, you suck. I mean, I understand there were/are a lot of outages, but you could at least attach some sort of function to your cotton-pickin' confirmation number. Let us enter it, and the computers can tell us an estimated time the power will be back on. By the fourth time we've called, maybe you could connect us to a live human being?
And while I realize there were, according to you, 500,000 people without power and you've knocked that down to 120,000 as of this morning, there's really no way for the media to verify this. I know you say there's extra crews, but given that last night you said there were 180,000 without power, and today it's 120,000, and yesterday it was supposed to be 500,000, I'm thinking the math doesn't add up. You managed, in the hours between say, 5 p.m. Wednesday and Thursday at 10 p.m. to knock out 320,000, yet between 10 p.m. last night and 8 a.m. this morning, you could only manage 60,000? Really?
Do you know what's a pain in the posterior? Approving comments on a cell phone. And truthfully, if I had known that before I hopped a plane to Virginia Friday, I might have written about cute puppies and rainbow farts instead of Frank Larison vs. HOA fascism.
But I have to say, many of you who provided the 50 comments to date - 61 or so if you count the comments on the follow up - were polite, engaged, stuck to fact and to the topic at hand.
But then there are you other guys. The ones who wrangle Obama into it even though this HOA and it's leadership has probably been around since well before Obama took office. That particular leap of logic (remember, a Frisco community had a similiar HOA amuck situation, and Collin County = majority GOP) is tolerable in small doses, however. What was worrisome? The ones who get scary and imply they're gonna do something violent and/or weird to the HOA president.
How does that make any situation better, I don't know. How does it make you the better person in this situation? I don't know. But responding to this situation with anything other than a desire to voice - by mail or e-mail - your disapproval is just as bad - no, worse - than what this HOA has done.
So chill out. As you see in the comments in the original thread, there are lawyers involved now. This thing will get settled in a way that makes sense. But don't make a head-shaker of a situation something else.
And stay on subject. Anything other than that makes me want to kick things.