Got a call from Kay a while ago, she had just gone to pick up her check from work and put it in the bank.  (Still hard to get over her working and driving and all that!)

She’d gotten a block down the street.  A friend of my son, we’ll call him D, lives down there.  He’s kind of one of my adopted children.  D was home alone, and his house had caught fire.  I grabbed both house extinguishers and started to run down the street, hoping it was maybe a pot on the stove or something.

No.  When she said “on fire”, she meant “on fire”.  D was out and unhurt, spraying the garden hose in one of the front bedroom windows, but it was a battle he had no chance of winning.  At the very most he might have slowed the fire a little until the fire companies got there - except it was already in the ceiling and attic.  It was brave, if hopeless.

(More after the fold)

At least three volunteer fire departments were there within minutes, but even that was too long.  The flames were shooting out the window by the time they got there, heavy smoke was rolling out the vents in the soffits.  D’s dog Charlie is OK, too, and he’s in our back yard playing with Shakespeare as we speak.

D will be staying with us for a while, and Kay just took him and James out to go get something to eat and get D some clothes.  The boy owns nothing in the world but for the clothes on his back, and his dog.

Fortunately, I just got word that the house had great insurance on it, and everything that can be replaced, will be.  Parents and siblings and grandparents are all home (or what’s left of home) now, and we’ve invited them to our Independence Day cookout tomorrow.  I hope they come, and we’ve made it clear that we will help in any way we can.

It’s scary, y’know?  What if D had been sleeping and had not heard the strange bang from his sister’s room?  The thought sends a chill down my spine.  I’m just glad they’re all OK.

I got to bed fairly early last night, knowing that I was going to take the exams this morning.  Got up tired, hadn’t rested well, hit the shower, even shaved to look somewhat presentable.

On the way over, I pull up to a red light, and the car does something it’s never done before, something not good.  The RPMs drop, it starts to sputter and choke.  I’ve seen this behavior before, when I drove old beaters, so without thinking I react, slap it in park.  I can’t remember what the cause of it is, though.

The RPMs come back up and smooth out, but then climb to about 2500.  Yeah, that’s what I expected, but I still can’t remember what horrible thing is going on under the hood.  I kick the accelerator down, thinking “sticky throttle?”, but knowing as soon as the thought comes that this isn’t the problem.

The RPMs come back to where they should be, and the engine settles down, back to its normal hum.  I’m talking to my car, my baby.  “Please, not today.  I love you.  I love you more than my wife.  You’ve never given me a problem that was your fault.  Please.”

(More misery below the fold)

The light turns green and I put her in drive, and she’s happy all the way to the college.  Until I pull into the parking spot.  Then she does the exact same thing, and I can’t remember the cause.

Ok, no matter.  She got me here.  I’ll worry about it after the exams.  I kiss the dashboard and head for student services.  I’m early, but not as early as I had planned.  There’s no line at all.  That’s strange, I’d been expecting one.  Maybe the exams aren’t there, but elsewhere on campus.  I roam a little bit, but don’t see anyone queued up anywhere.

Oh right, tomorrow’s Independence Day.  I’ve probably just hit it right.  Still, I’m a little uneasy.  I wait for the doors to open at eight, and head in.  I hand in my application, so that it’s in their hands and they don’t have time to lose it before the exams.

“Have you done the other things on the list?  The exams and all?”  Something in her voice sets me to worrying again.

“No.  I came today to take them.  I guess the line’s too long to get in today by now, huh?”  I don’t want to tell her that I’m an idiot who just assumed they’d be … y’know… in the admissions office.

“No, actually.  There’s only one other person here so far.”  She nods over at the teenager and her mom and little brother on the couches.

The proctor has come to the desk and is filling out some forms and without looking up says, “No, you’re fine!  We’ll get you all taken care of in just a minute, plenty of room.  I just need to do something first.”

Hey, cool!  ‘tsall good.  I take a seat, and the lady comes over, having forgotton to give us our numbers.  It’s a little square laminated card, mine with a “2″ on it (because I’m second in line, duh), and says to give it to the proctor when going in for the exam.

Then she heads off in the direction the proctor went.

We wait there a few minutes, little brother fidgeting, teenager patient but obviously edgy, mom reading a magazine.

The lady comes back.  “I’m so sorry to you and you,” she says nodding her head at each of us two in turn.  “We’re not giving the tests on Thursdays now.  Here’s the new schedule.”

Shit.  I have to laugh, though.

From whence came the art:

That image it titled Laugh-Out-Loud Cats #539, by Ape Lad, and is licenced under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 license.

Lesson 1:  Pay Attention

Several weeks ago I went and got the study packets when I was finding out about returning to school.  The lady at the admissions desk was very kind, I was my usual charming self (not flirtatious, but charming in that Southern Way I’ve picked up over my adult life), exchanging pleasantries, blah blah, she gets the packets, writes a note at the top of the math packet, highlights some stuff up there, gives me the English packet, explains that I don’t need an appointment, take the exams by the 27th, blah blah, transcripts, blah.

Lesson 2: Read the Instructions

I bring the pile of papers home, set them on my desk, fetch all my old math texts, fold the cover page and the introductions over  to open the math packet to the first problems and start diving in.  First five pages is elementary school/ middle school math, no problems, then some very basic algebra, some geometry, nothing I don’t still master, ’bout page 20 I start seeing secants and quadratics and irrational numbers and radicals, and I start working and referencing, and looking up and trying to remember, and working sample problems.  I’ve been working at getting enough of a handle on enough of the material that even if parts of it escape me, I can come back to it over the summer and give it my full attention, and in the meantime still get enough questions right to pass the test.

Fast Forward to today.

(Continued below the fold)

I’m thinking I’ve got maybe a 50/50 shot at hitting around 80%, depending on what escapes me during the exam.  I prepare for the worst, hope for the best.  I finally fold the packet closed, content to roll with the punches, I’ve done what I can.

Remember the little note and highlighting on the cover?

Study these pages:

MAT 50 - pages 1-5
MAT 60 - pages 5-14
MAT 70 - pages 14-19 and 21
MAT 80 - pages 20-29

Go to math lab for HELP

Lesson 3:  I am an idiot.

From whence came the art:

That image is titled I Thought We Were Supposed To Get Answers, by Cayusa, and is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.0 license.

In a cosmic coincidence of large enough proportion to raise the eyebrows of friends and neighbors, today is Kevin’s birthday.  It’s also the birthday of  the Lady at the Gate, pictured here.

She’s somewhat sexier than Kevin (no hard feelings, mate), and a little curvier in all the right places.  She doesn’t blog, so I can’t give her any link love.

I thought I’d have a lot to say for this post, and have spent several weeks putting it together in the back of my head.  As it turns out, It’s all just gilding the lily, and I don’t want to share it.  (Some of it would have probably gotten me a divorce anyway, ’cause she’s somewhat more private than I tend to be.)

Happy Birthday, Lady.  I love you, and that is all that needs be said, in the end.

From whence came the art:

That image is titled Lady at the Gate, and was taken my me at the gates of Windsor Castle, UK.  You can click it to embiggen it.

At least he’s given up barking for attention. That drove me nuts for a while.

When he wants attention now, he’s big enough to just take it. Here I sit, minding my own damned business, probably writing some drivel or other, and suddenly my arm is ripped away from the keyboard.

Shakespeare.

He wriggles his nose up under my arm, pushing upwards. As soon as he sees daylight, he pushes through the hole like an NFL power running back through a Pop Warner defense until he’s got all 80 pounds of his golden haired body across my lap, keyboard drawer pushed unceremoniously out of the way, keyboard and mouse wherever they land, tail of destruction wagging frantically, smashing whatever is in the way.

“Scratch my back, or I’ll head-butt you and give you a wet willy,” he says with eyes looking up and back to me, smiling cockily.

I comply.

I’m no idiot, and I’m well trained. Plus, getting two gallons of dog slobber out of my ear takes like forever.

From whence came the art:

That cameraphone snapshot is of Shakespeare, and was taken by Little John.

So I’m speaking to my wife, and the subject of her father comes up. It’s a little touchy, understandably, so I’m gently joking a bit.

I mentioned that I re-read Thanks for All the Squirrels yesterday, and I made myself cry a little. (Ok, I did have to wipe a few tears, to be perfectly honest.)

“I’m a big sissy,” I say.

John pipes up:

“Well just because you got a dick between your legs don’t mean you can’t cry.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Dad would have been proud, I think.

I’m a coffee addict. I drink a couple pots a day, which probably isn’t terribly healthy. With that kind of (over)usage, I tend to go through coffee pots fairly quickly. Usually, I’m happy to get a year or two out of them, so I don’t bother spending a great deal of money on them.

Last year, on Mother’s Day, my $10 Sunbeam decided it had had enough, and just stared angrily at me, rather than make my damned coffee. Recalcitrant jerk. It was Sunday, it was Mother’s Day, it was 6 A Fracking M. How terribly rude and inconvenient. Fortunately, Wal-Mart is open, even on Sunday, even on Mother’s Day, even at 6 A Fracking M.

It took some time, and was somewhat later in the morning before I actually got out the door, but I came home with my very first Mother’s Day present (from myself). I decided I’d splurge, and see if I could get more life out of something more expensive. It was sleek, black, and had a cappuccino / espresso maker attached. It was awesome, and I looked forward to the occasional chokalokacappuccino mocha latte ramalamadingdong.

Sadly, by Father’s Day, the thing would take like an hour to brew a pot of coffee, and gurgled and wheezed and caused the windows to rattle and I got the occasional complaint from the neighbors. I could always tell when they had planned on sleeping late in the morning by the evil stares across the yard in the afternoon. I had brewed too early. Still, I was determined to get my fifty bucks worth, and I’ve put up with the rattling, groaning, overpriced piece of garbage for over a year now.

This morning, the neighbors are happy. They are asleep in their beds, contentedly dreaming of JanieBelle and Kate and Lilith and Lucifer, whilst I sit here writing nonsense, enjoying freshly and quietly brewed joe. Little John, his own father now a permanent resident of California, surprised me with a beautiful white cheapo coffee pot for Father’s Day, and I love it dearly already.

But this Father’s Day brings me strange and sad news already as well.

(Continued below the fold)

There was a horrific and fatal wreck yesterday morning, with improbable connections to our family. My wife and son and Little John just delivered it to me.

“I received a call I hoped I’d never get,” Onslow County Sheriff Ed Brown said.

Gene Thomas, 51, a volunteer fireman with the Verona Volunteer Fire Department and Steve Boehm, 36, a deputy with the Onslow County Sheriff’s Department died Saturday after a northbound truck struck them as the two responded to an early morning traffic accident on U.S. 17. Deputy Bill Hall, who was also injured, was taken to New Hanover County for treatment and was later released.

Deputy Steve lived just down the street from us, but we never actually met. We only ever exchanged waves as he passed by.

He was also the SRO at the high school Kay (and J.P. as well, beginning this fall) attends, and by all accounts was very well loved by the students, staff, and faculty. I’ve had many friendly conversations with the Deputy at the middle school, but hadn’t ever bumped into the ones at the high school.

He was also one of the Offensive Coordinators for the High School Football team, and James, now trying out for the team, had just met him the other day at the first practice. A practice I had skipped.

And in yet one more odd connection, his step-daughter used to work for my wife. I had met her there, but never happened in at the same time as Deputy Steve.

My first cup of coffee this morning from the new pot I raise to Deputy Steve Boehm, a man whose life touched my own in multiple ways without us ever having met.

From whence came the art:

The first image is titled I made this cup of coffe and it danced for me, by waɪ.ti.

The second image is a photograph of Deputy Steve Boehm, from Officer Down.

Fine words and fine sentiments. Goals for which we strive, and rightly so, I think.

I tend to see things in black and white. Sometimes I forget we are just humans, and humans are messy creatures. There is always the constant struggle between what we want and desire for ourselves and what is right for us and those around us. Life is not always right and wrong, but sometimes a sliding scale of amorphous choices, in which nobility and honor and honesty and integrity are a subjective judgement of actions or character, imposed by history in retrospect.

Who is more noble, Ashley Wilkes or Lancelot? Who had more honor, in the end? Which was more honest, and which had integrity? Can we fairly judge, not having been in either of their shoes exactly? Are we hypocrites all? Are these questions just philosophical masturbation?

Perhaps, just perhaps, they were both just human after all.

Or perhaps, you’re just reading the ravings of a sleep deprived mad man.

The one is as likely as the other, I think.

Click the pic to go read more xkcd. Great comic strip.

HT: Berlzebub

In the shade. Not a cloud in the sky.

Brutal to be at my son’s block party at school, but sometimes, a Dad’s job is never done…

My wife and I went and volunteered to chaperon. We lasted about an hour and a half, and fortunately, they were sending the kids back inside early because of the heat. I don’t think I could have taken much more.

I like it hot, but this was withering, without a sea breeze.

Got home and Shakespeare needed to go out. I took him out, he did his thing, he said out loud, “Dude. Fuck this.” He’s lying on the cool carpet under my desk.

I’m just going to cool off with Shakespeare under the desk for the rest of the day. The lawn needs mowing, but I just don’t care right now.

The end.