Ach, if not for the non-life-sized ship….

One of my favorite places at the County Fair is the Fine Arts building, where all entrants pertaining to the Fine Arts are displayed. Paintings, photographs, quilting, topiaries, costumery, cultivation of African violets and other flowers, et cetera, all in one building. We usually spend quite a bit of time in this building.

There’s always a section of the building given over to dioramas like this. I suppose a couple of themes are assigned and then entrants craft their entries around one of them; this year, one of the themes was “Treasure Island”, so there were three different dioramas devoted to all things piratical. Every diorama further sports a card on which the judges’ comments are noted. This one cracked me up, because if you click through to the large size, you can read it:

“Ship not life size.”

So, apparently this diorama would have been perfect if the artist had erected the Black Pearl behind it. Hmmmm.

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The Midway at Night, I


The Midway at Night, I, originally uploaded by Jaquandor.

I don’t know if my little Kodak digital point-and-shoot is equipped to take good night photos and I just haven’t figured it out, or not, but I’m usually slightly disappointed that I can’t get the Midway at night to look as bright in photos as it is in person. Nevertheless I like the way this turned out. I took this from about one-quarter of the way up while we rode the Giant Wheel.

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Yorick!


Yorick!, originally uploaded by Jaquandor.

From one of the more famous scenes in one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, to the indignity of being used thusly at the Erie County Fair! For shame, for shame.

This was a booth selling all kinds of knick-knacks in this vein: place settings and decor for the goth set, I suppose.

(More County Fair photo posts will follow.)

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An odd observation….

I’m watching an old episode of The A-Team right now, and a character, referring to the episode’s villain, just said: “Yeah, he’s a real scuzz.”

Wow. I remember the noun “scuzz” and its adjective, “scuzzy”, from my youth. I haven’t heard the word “scuzz” in probably twenty-five years.

No, I have no point here.

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Is there NOTHING it can’t do?!

One of the great inventions of the Industrial Age comes for sale in a little blue can and a red cap and a little straw attached to the side by a piece of tape. I’m talking, obviously, about WD-40, that amazing uber-lubricant that penetrates and displaces water and gets rusted-together parts to free up and move again. WD-40 saves my life on the job on a nearly weekly basis. (Well, not literally, but it ends up allowing me to fix things that would otherwise be unfixable. How awesome is WD-40? Well, here’s a contrast for you: when I tell people I’m a maintenance/handyman guy by trade, they will usually say something speculative about how often I use duct tape. In all honesty, I almost never use duct tape – I remember using it one time in the last six months – but I use WD almost weekly.

I used to always lose the little straw that came with it (I suspect that future alien archeologists, when digging up the remains of our civilization, will be baffled when they find thousands of WD-40 straws in the places where our cities used to lie), until I realized that WD’s cap now comes equipped with two little divots, not unlike the indentations in the side of an ash tray, into which one is supposed to snap the little straw. But even that’s no longer an issue because a while back the fine folks at WD redesigned their can so that the straw is now attached to a separate nozzle so it can’t come off; and what’s more, that nozzle can be flipped up into position to use the straw, or it can be flipped down so you get the “wide dispersal” spray pattern, if that’s what you want.

I’ve got WD-40 on the mind right now because I just got done fixing the hood latch on my car with it. At some point the latch trigger mechanism – the business end of the little cord that is tensioned when you pull on the hood release in the passenger compartment – became so rusty that it wouldn’t spring back into place when I opened the hood once, earlier in the year. So I was in the unenviable position of having my hood secured by nothing but the secondary latch, the one you reach under to open the hood the rest of the way after you’ve popped the hood release from inside. I tried coating that mechanism with WD, to no avail, but my problem there was that I needed fairly specific application of WD, and wouldn’t you know it – my WD can at home was missing the damned straw! So I made a mental note to pick up one of the new-fangled cans of the stuff (I have a few at work, but none at home) for fixing at some point, and in the meantime, I secured my hood with three bungee cords. Ouch. That’s how it went until I finally remembered to grab one of those nifty straw-forever-attached cans of WD; earlier today I got outside and liberally applied the stuff to the moving parts of my hood latch, and after letting it penetrate while I checked my oil (which was fine), I just reached in with a long screwdriver and presto change-o! got the hood latch moving again. I gave it a few opens and closes just to make sure it keeps working, and now I’m back to my hood staying shut the way it’s supposed to and not using the bungee cords. This is big, as I have actually had the experience of having my hood fly open while driving before. I don’t want to repeat that.

So anyway, the WD lore that always appeals to me is that its name simply comes from the fact that it was the 40th attempt at making a product that did what it was supposed to. And I end up thinking: well, geez! If WD-40 is so awesome, can you imagine what they might have had on their hands if they’d made a few more attempts? We’d have products like this:

WD-41: No mechanical effects, but when consumed counteracts the effects of alcohol in the human bloodstream.

WD-42: No mechanical effects, but when sprayed around the edges of a garden, leaves behind a residual odor undetectable by humans but which completely repels rabbits and groundhogs.

WD-43: No mechanical effects, but you know those beer commercials on teevee that show a humdrum suburban backyard morphing a tropical party paradise at the mere opening of one can of a certain brand of beer? WD-43 does that.

WD-44: Spray it into water, and it turns into wine cooler. (More research is needed on this one, obviously.)

WD-45: Spray it into water, and it turns into Zima. (This formulation was laughed out of the laboratory.)

WD-46: Spray it into wine, and it turns the wine into wine that tastes like it’s been sprayed with mechanical lubricant. (Not every formulation does something useful.)

WD-47: When sprayed onto human skin, skin becomes very sticky for about ten minutes or so, but when sprayed onto cloth, the cloth becomes extremely slippery. (This formulation is secretly used by NFL wide receivers for two seasons before the league catches on and outlaws it.)

WD-48: Its only effect is to make Fran Drescher’s voice sound like Kathleen Turner’s.

WD-49: Spritzed onto a book, it dissolves all but the good parts. (Copies of Twilight and Atlas Shrugged are, of course, completely destroyed.)

WD-50: Makes any man’s voice sound like Morgan Freeman’s.

WD-51: Brings boring blog posts to a screeching halt before the blogger can finish typing his sente

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MY son realized!!!

There’s a blog called Texts From Last Night which solicits the submission of text messages, which are then posted bereft of identifying marks or context. The result is often humorous, but sometimes creepy or head-scratching in nature. One recent entry put me in mind of something:

(206): Sometimes I get depressed that my son is too young to understand how hot his babysitter is.

This reminded me of Little Quinn. With his degree of disability, Medicare provided for in-home nursing care for him. This care, while accompanied by more than a few headaches in getting it all set up (since we were literally turning our home into a workplace, there were certain OSHA-related concerns we had to think about, for example), was a lifesaver for us, allowing me to work my full work schedule along with The Wife working hers. We had several nurses, provided by an independent agency with their charges paid by Medicare, who would come into the apartment and care for Little Quinn for several hours each day.

Each of the nurses loved Little Quinn; it helped that he was a cute little guy. (Man, did a lot of girls who will be eighteen in 2022 get screwed by Little Quinn’s lot in life; he would have been a heartbreaker.) The nurses were all older women, mostly in their 40s, except for one: she was a young woman in her 20s, with long blonde hair and a figure that…well, let’s just say that she was not unpleasant to behold, OK? I honestly don’t recall her name (in fact, I only recall one nurse by name, although one whose name I just don’t recall for the life of me does shop in The Store from time to time) so for our purposes we’ll call her “Krissy”.

Many days when I would get home, if any of the other nurses was in charge, Little Quinn would either be on the floor sleeping or sitting in his chair receiving a feeding or something similar. However, on the days when Krissy was our nurse-on-duty, every time I got home, Little Quinn would be in her arms, and invariably she would tell me how she could not go more than five minutes without holding him because that was literally the only way she could get him to not fuss for her. The other nurses? He’d hang out in his chair and be quiet as a clam. Krissy the cute blonde who looked nice in jeans and had a tattoo in the small of her back? Little Quinn insisted on being held by her.

Yeah. I think that kid knew exactly how hot his babysitter was.

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Drivers – I could do without ’em.

Several times in recent weeks I’ve posted over on my Facebook profile about goofy habits people seem to have nowadays when driving, things that people didn’t always do and actually wouldn’t do at all if they would just remember the fairly simple rules of Right of Way that we all learned way back in Driver’s Ed class. It’s starting to get maddening. Maddening, I say!

First off, take the four-way intersection. It’s well-established that when multiple cars arrive at such a place, they go in order by who got there first. This is usually easy enough, although I do occasionally see the idiot who thinks that stopping behind someone who has stopped at a stop sign actually constitutes stopping at the stop sign himself, and thus, he goes as soon as the guy in front of him goes, so the person who should be next starts moving forward and then has to slam on the brakes again because Mr. Thinks He’s Next In Line is going of his own volition. I’ve blogged about this before, I think.

But the real problem comes when two cars arrive at an intersection at the same time. Oh noes! What are we to do? Well, the Driver’s Ed teacher told us, didn’t he? The car on the right goes first. So: assume a four-way intersection where the streets correspond to the compass points. I’m going north; Driver #2 is going West. We arrive at the same time. Picturing this scenario, Driver #2 goes first, because of the two of us, he’s on the right. But if we flip this around – I’m going south and he’s going west – then I go first, because now I am on the right. (This is from the perspective of the drivers, obviously.) This should be easy enough – but not anymore. I don’t know if we’ve forgotten basic Right of Way in this country, or if we’re just trying too hard to be polite, but what seems to always happen now in these types of cases is instead of the person on the right going first, we now engage in an annoying ritual. See, I know my Right of Way, so I know that I have to wait until Driver #2 goes – but I see that Driver #2 isn’t going. Instead, he’s sitting in his car, staring at me, until he finally waves at me to go.

Even worse is when Driver #2 waves for me to go when they stopped first! Yes, this happens too. So commonplace has the annoying “No, you go!” approach to Right of Way become that if I see I’m going to arrive at an intersection at the same time as another driver, I will actually exaggerate my braking on purpose just so I arrive there second, in hopes of avoiding the whole “I’m on the right” thing and instead triggering the “You go because you got there first” rule. And you know what almost always happens when I do this? No dice. Driver #2 starts the “No, you go!” hand waving.

Well, I used to just shake my head and go, but no longer. My new approach is to refuse to go, no matter how much hand-waving Driver #2 goes. If he’s got the Right of Way, I am going to sit there motionless until he goes, whether he realizes he’s got Right of Way or, more likely, decides that I’m being a jerk and resumes driving, wondering why I spurned his magnanimous behavior. Maybe I am being a jerk, but we came up with those rules for a reason: so intersections don’t become morasses of drivers staring at each other in an effort to determine who’s going first. My last straw on the “No, you go!” approach to determining intersection Right of Way came a week or two ago when I guy actually arrived first at the intersection, indisputably first, as in, he was first by four or five seconds. He still waved insistently at me, and as I finally conceded and pulled through, I glanced over and saw that he was intently studying a piece of paper which probably contained directions from MapQuest or something. And I thought, “Yeah, stopped at an intersection is where you want to be doing that.”

This sort of nonsense is one reason why I have become an even bigger fan of roundabouts (or rotaries, or traffic circles, or whatever they call them where you are) of late. I’ve always loved them, but now, I think they are supremely fantastic and I can’t believe there isn’t more of a drive to replace every single four-way stop in the country with a circle. Even those rural four-ways in the back country of Texas, where you can go six years without seeing two cars arrive at the same time. Roundabouts are awesome because they remove nearly all of the guesswork; traffic tends to keep moving, and drivers arriving at the roundabout only have to concern themselves with the cars in the circle. They are so much easier, so much more intuitive, so much less time-consuming, and so much safer. Whoever invented the first roundabout should be on the dollar bill of some large Western country.

My other big complaint of late? Yield signs, and the fact that people insist on treating them as full stop signs. At a number of suburban shopping plazas I tend to frequent around the environs of Casa Jaquandor I find spots where I have a Stop sign where the other drivers have Yields. This seems pretty obvious to me: I stay stopped until everyone’s through the intersection and I can go. But no – there’s always someone who thinks that they must stop at their Yield sign, look over at me, and start with the “No, you go!” handwaving nonsense again. Now, sometimes this isn’t total jerkiness at play; I realize that. One such plaza has an eighteen-screen multiplex next door to Target, so if you’re trying to leave the Target lot in the period after the weekend’s big blockbuster has let out, frequently the Yield-stoppers are really being nice because otherwise you’d be sitting there forever. (I myself tend to always err on the side of letting people out of their intersections if it’s clear they’re never getting out unless someone actually lets them.)

But what happens so often is that it’s not an effort to let me into an otherwise steady stream of traffic; what’s clear is that people are simply treating Yield signs as Stop signs. Just today I arrived at an intersection in a parking lot/service road at the same time as another car; I was on the right, so had we both had Stop signs, I would have had Right of Way. But while I had a stop, he had a Yield, so all he really had to do was slow down and proceed through the intersection. Instead, he came to a full stop himself and, you guessed it, gave me the “No, you go!” bit. This annoyed me on several levels: first, he obviously didn’t know what he was really supposed to do at a Yield, and second, he didn’t even notice that he was in the right lane of the wide-enough-for-two-lanes driveway, so the two or three cars behind him just swung over, went around him on his left, and proceeded through the intersection! Had I obliged his “No, you go!” waving, I’d have been T-boned by the people he never saw because he was too busy trying to be magnanimous to me. Ugh!

Other annoying things I’ve noticed lately haven’t fallen into the “Right of Way” category, but a more general “How to be a dick when driving” thing. Case in point: last week I’m approaching a big intersection near Casa Jaquandor, where two different four-lane roads come together, plus another two-lane road off to one side. (For those familiar with the area, it’s Southwestern Blvd. and Orchard Park Road; Lake Ave. also goes off from there.) I’m northbound on Orchard Park Rd, but I’m going to be turning right onto Southwestern, so I’m in the righthand lane. This was Sunday morning, so the traffic was pretty light; only one car was in front of me, a guy about five or six car lengths ahead of me, in the left lane because he’s going straight. So I’m almost at the intersection; I’ve even got me turn signal on already, as do the two or three cars behind me that will also be making right turns on Southwestern. Easy, right? I’ll be able to make a simple right-on-red and go on my way.

Except that the guy in front of me, the guy in the left-hand lane who isn’t turning right, at the very last second swerves over into the right lane and stops at the red light, thus preventing any of us behind him from going right-on-red. We had to wait for the full cycle of traffic lights before we could go, and at that intersection, this takes five minutes. I spent those minutes trying to shoot laser beams from my eyes such that they would hit his rear-view mirror and burn the flesh from his head. (This failed. Stupid laser eyes…never work when I want them to….) Now, it’s possible that he had a right-hand turn of his own to make after the intersection (there’s a large gas station there), but I’ve been in that situation myself, and it’s just not that hard to get from the left lane into the right to make the turn; especially given that most cars in the right-hand lane are turning at the intersection and not after it, thus creating natural openings in traffic to move into, and given that this particular gas station’s entrance is about two hundred feet past the intersection and not immediately after it, so this guy really gained nothing by suddenly cutting me off. Other words? He was being a dick.

So that’s what it boils down to: learn your Rights-of-way, and don’t be a dick on the road. Please oh please.

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The pipes still work!

Sorry for the radio silence the last few days, but Real Life got pretty busy for a few days, so busy that in the few moments I had where I could conceivably have posted something, I just didn’t feel like it. No, nothing bad happened; in fact, it was all good stuff. The Daughter had her first concerts as part of a couple of school music groups: she was in chorus Wednesday night, and then the orchestra (she plays the double bass) the second. The first concert ended up being quite long, as the program featured a number of groups from two different elementary schools in the district; the second was shorter, but there was an ice cream outing afterwards. Curse you, Cold Stone Creamery! (And the cute teenager who was making our sundaes that night said several times while making mine how much she loves whipped cream. I think she was flirting. Yay, me! I still got it!*)

We also had to finally get finished up on our teevee viewing, by knocking off the Grey’s Anatomy season finale. Wow, I love that show. The finale featured one of the more effective “OMG!!” moments I’ve seen on a teevee show the last few years, when the identity of the horribly-injured-in-a-disfiguring-way-if-he-even-survives John Doe was revealed. (I realized who he was about a minute before the actual reveal happened.) And the show had me thinking, “Oh, don’t die, Izzie! Don’t die!” Which is amazing because I can’t stand Izzie. There’s some good writing, there.

But anyway, that’s why there was a profound lack of blogging the last few days. Normal posting will resume…soon. Heh.

* OK, I know, not really. She was just happy and bubbly with all the customers. Yeesh.

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Twelve


Pumpkinville 07 027, originally uploaded by Jaquandor.

Twelve years ago today, the woman pictured here voluntarily became my wife. I’m not entirely sure what possessed her to do that, but I’m glad she did, because it spared me the trouble of kidnapping some woman and holding her captive in my basement. Thanks, Dear!

Kidding aside, I’m glad I had her to walk beside me, and for me to walk beside, over these years — both the good times and the bad. I’m luckier than I deserve, I suspect. Hoping for twelve more years, and twelve more after that, and twelve more after that….

(And a few months ago, on her birthday, I posted 100 things I love about her. Always a good post to revisit!)

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Whoops! Our bad!

What am embarrassing gaffe that whole “Air Force One flying over New York City” thing turned out to be, huh? And how avoidable — they could have just put out a news release on the thing, say, a week before, letting New Yorker know what was going on. If that had been the case, I’ll bet a lot of people would have been excitedly looking for the plane, instead of looking up and thinking, “OMG a plane where there shouldn’t be one! AIEEE!” Because, you know, New Yorkers have reason to be a bit skittish on looking up and seeing planes where they don’t usually see them. So, on balance, a big “Oops” on the White House on this one. At least the guy responsible resigned, and hey, the resulting photo is actually very nice:

I’ve mentioned this before, I’m sure, but back in 2004 President Bush was coming to Buffalo to give a speech or take part in a town hall or something like that. On the morning he arrived, I just happened to be in the parking lot at The Store when I heard an airplane overhead. This is not unusual, since The Store is about ten miles, as the plane flies, from Buffalo Niagara International Airport, which means that planes are usually visible and quite low at that from our parking lot. But this one was even lower than usual, and it was coming from a different path than most commercial planes take over The Store. It took me a few seconds of watching that plane before I recognized it as Air Force One. There’s something thrilling about seeing that plane in flight. I’ll bet New Yorkers wouldn’t have minded, if someone had simply said, “Hey, we’re gonna fly low over your city so we can take some new pix of the plane. Everybody OK with that?”

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