Mister Ornery's Corner

Where Do I Begin?

2012-02-23T12:15:00.000+13:00

Okay, the title is rather ambiguous and offers several answers in and of itself. Obviously I begin either at the top of my head or the soles of my feet. Pick a starting point, any starting point. But I am speaking of the strange week that was.

The week began with our Pedigree Pup, he of the formerly fractured scapula (healed nicely, thank you, although PP still will not heel, nicely or otherwise). This time around, with Mrs. O and I at our respective workplaces, a neighbor called Mrs. O to report that PP was out back of our house carrying on something terribly. So Mrs. O rushed home to find PP favoring his right front leg. (Last time it was the left.)
With effort, she managed to maneuver PP through the house and into the car, hurried to the vet's office, maneuvered PP out of the car, and soon learned that no, he had NOT fractured his right scapula. This time it was more of a shoulder sprain. The results, however, were the same. NO DOG SHOW ON THE WEEKEND. There were a host of other restrictions on his activities as well.

Needless to say, PP chafes at restrictions to his puppydom. Forget keeping him apart from Other Dog, from grand kids who visit, from delivery people, from life at large (or small). He will do what he will do, his only concession to the injury being that, while he can maneuver out through the pet door, he has trouble getting back in and so will utter a sort of YORP when he wants back inside.

(Aside here: both of our dogs may wish for the resurrection of Cheers, the bar "where everybody knows your name." Both are no doubt reasonably sure that they know their own. What they do not know is what yours truly will call them. The older has a name, Flynn; the younger is Imran. Over time, however,the older has been called Flynnstone, Augy Dog, Augally Dogally, Waggy Bit, Whip-Tail, and others. For some time, I called the younger "Sheep" on the grounds that he resembled one or at least resembled a Dali-esque - not Dolly the cloned sheep-esque - one. Of late though, I have begun calling him first Yorp - for his distinctive bark - and now Sergeant Yorp. Since both dogs respond mostly to tone of voice or to the smell of food, I figure "what's in a name?")

All of that as it may be, once Mrs. O copped an attitude about PP not being able to go a showing, I suggested to her that she begin entering him in 3-legged races. As I pointed out after watching him run from her while she tried to measure him for a snood (don't ask. Too late? Okay. A snood is a thingy Afghan dog owners use to keep their ears - the dog's ears, that is, and not the owner's -and hair up and away from their faces. This prevents Afghans from eating their own ears.)

Yes, I left a sentence hanging above. To finish the thought, I told Mrs. O that Imran/Sheep/Yorp/SergeantYorp could beat virtually anyone or anything in a 3-legged race. She was not amused. It seems that one does not invest in a Pedigreed Pup with the intention of winning 3-legged races. Stranger still, 3-legged racing is NOT an international sporting event for either accident-prone pooches or for people - accident prone, well hung, or otherwise. (Excuse me while I purge the image of an excessively-endowed man being employed as a support instrument for a machine gun. Never mind trying to envision him engaged in any sort of race.)

Okay, I'm back and ready to move on to the time clock at work. Actually, it is an electronic device into which one inserts a finger. Machine recognizes finger and having overcome the shock of being given the finger records an employee as "starting work". At shift's end, employee again gives machine the finger, machine acknowledges, and employee "ends work." The trouble is, the machine eventually or sometimes will not recognize the finger given.

Presumably this is not because the time clock is electronically offended but because the employee may have something on his/her finger that prevents recognition of the fingerprint. That is why it is calibrated to recognize and acknowledge a back up finger. Curiously, almost all employees have chosen the middle fingers as first and second choices. (Management wonders why?)

Sunday, I clocked in with difficulty. The device refused to recognize my right middle finger or my left. I repeated with my right and it was still no go. Finally, on try number four, it acknowledged some passing acquaintance with my left middle finger and let me "start work". But at shift's end came my "Hotel California" moment. (You can check in but you can never leave, right?) I gave the machine the finger and it recognized it/me, but then switched to the screen for "Start Work". I cancelled that and tried again - and again. Same result.

After a few more tries, I snarled, "you can't keep me here!" and substituted an arm gesture that involves the upthrust of a fist while slapping the inside of the upraised elbow. Someone told me long ago that this is an Italian gesture even more emphatic than giving the finger. The time clock did not recognize it but no matter. I felt better as I left -

- and arrived home to find an email message that did NOT say, "I know what you did at work" but rather promised to make a certain part of my anatomy longer while simultaneously granting it lasting rigidity. I would be tempted to try it, but at last check I still cannot find an International 3-Legged Racing organization. Besides, I can only imagine the injury or embarrassment that might occur if the effects wore off in mid-race. Nor can I shake the title of a book and movie: They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

Seems an awfully steep price to pay besides which Mrs. O would frown on me associating with 3-Legged race groupies. And I doubt that I could defeat Pedigree Pup in sprints across the back yard anyway. Wonder if there is any point in suggesting it as an alternative means of recognition for clocking in at work?

Driving Ms. Ornery

2012-02-12T00:26:00.000+13:00

The title here can be taken a couple of ways. I mean both of them. Mrs. O has determined that I should regain the driving privileges I once had. To do so, I will have to submit to the indignity of being classified "a learner". This in turn means that Mrs. O will serve as my "instructor". And if that doesn't make her ornery, nothing will.

Consider the task she faces, trying to instruct a man who spent countless hours and miles behind the wheel, albeit almost exclusively in the States. So I will have a "been there, done that" attitude toward matters vehicular. On the other hand, my matters vehicular involved mostly driving from the left front of said motorized transport and on the right-hand side of the road. Here, i will be seated in what my brain will equate to the passenger seat while driving on the left - or wrong - side of the road.

I already know from relatively limited past experience that I can do this thing physically. A clutch is a clutch, a brake a brake, and an accelerator is a long pedal that makes the car go. I also know that it requires little transitional thinking to learn to shift gears with the left instead of the right hand.

Brief diversion here. Probably 80 to 90% of vehicles here are manual transmission, quite unlike the US where the percentage tends to the reverse, automatic rather than manual. Why this is so, I have no idea, but it works for me. A manual or standard transmission to me equates to "real driving". An automatic is simply point and go.

So here I will sit, on the wrong side of a vehicle, driving on the wrong side of the road, and relearning while unlearning every rule of the road I once held dear, all the while trying to tune out a mental voice screaming: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER HERE?"

Nonetheless, Mrs. O believes that this will be a good thing for those times when we need to visit the Shaky City, aka: Christchurch so that she does not have to do all of the driving. She believes too that it will help when her artery goes into spasms, mimicking a heart attack, and she requires a visit to our public hospital. I have tried explaining to her that after several years of non-driving and having to relearn everything from the WRONG SIDE of both vehicle and roads, my driving may turn her imitation heart attack into a real one, but she is nothing if not persistent.

"All you have to do is pay attention to what I tell you when you're behind the wheel," I think is what she said. It was hard to hear her over the voice in my head screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TRYING TO DRIVE FROM THE PASSENGER SEAT?"

Wonder why, "we who are about to die salute you" seems so apt. Oh well. Wish one or both of us well. I will keep you apprised of my (lack of) progress.

Mister Ornery's Pocket Watch

2012-02-10T20:51:00.000+13:00

Yes, you read that correctly. I have a pocket watch. Okay, technically it is a cellphone but so far all I can do is turn it on and see the time . After that, I am lost.

Part of the problem is its size. The phone basically fits in the palm of my hand. I can cover its key pad with my thumb. Yet to perform any function other than turning it on requires me to hit the edges of a series of buttons and Satchel Paige I am not. (Paige famously honed control of his pitching by not only placing a matchbox on home plate but then pitching to the corners of said matchbox.)

I am trying to become the cellphoney version of Paige, but I am finding it difficult. Make that impossible. My eyesight is nowhere near what it was in the time before my third grade teacher found me sitting in the chalk tray in order to read what she had written on the blackboard. For me to see the cellphone keypad with my glasses on would require holding the instrument with my feet - and they are no more nimble than my hands. If I remove my glasses, there is hardly space between nose and keypad for my hand and fingers.

My stepson and grandson have tried to help. "See? You just do this and this and this and - PRESTO!" I was hoping to see that they had made the phone vanish. Instead, they had each in turn brought the screen to life, granting me a peek into the multifaceted world of cellphonery. "See? You've got a web browser, a camera, text messaging, ..."

"You can make calls on it, right?" I interrupted.

I saw eyes roll with the reply, "of course! It's a cellphone!" And they were off and away once more, explaining how I could add other phone numbers to my contact list or perform any of the other approximately 8 billion and 4 functions that the thing can handle. Somewhere in there, they probably did explain to me how to actually place a call, but once I had the phone back in hand, I discovered that Ornery not only needs be nimble but he needs be quick. Otherwise the phone shuts itself off.

Apparently this is a sort of safety feature designed exactly with idiots such as yours truly in mind. To keep the phone active, its user must hit three keys in proper sequence (I think.) And it is probably a good feature to have for someone such as I. A couple of nights ago, I took the thing to work with me, thinking to practice a bit. We got busy and I stuck the phone in my back pocket for safety - and forgot it was there until I sat down.

You guessed it. My ass managed to turn the thing on. Fortunately, my ass is no more adept at keying the instrument than are my hands. When I pulled the phone from my pocket, I learned that it was 1930 hours - 7:30 p.m. to you civilians. Otherwise I might have been left explaining to national security types that my ass speaks "fartsy" not Farsi.

That said, I plan to hang onto the thing. I believe that with practice I can master it so that when I want to contact someone, I will only have to throw it at their head. It will severely limit my calling area but I should save a fortune on roaming charges. Maybe even enough to pay for the inevitable lawsuit when I clonk the wrong person on the head. Or would the person possibly accept the old, "sorry, wrong number"?

The Ornerys Hold a Garage Sale

2012-02-05T07:37:00.000+13:00

And the strangest thing is, we do not even agree on how to say "garage". The Kiwi version is GAR-age, as rhymes with carriage or marriage. Mine (aka: the correct way, is ga-Rahge), but we have so far not even managed to compromise on ga-RaGe with a second hard G. I have no idea how we expect to conduct a successful sale if we cannot agree on what it is we are holding. Really though, it shouldn't matter because the structure is not for sale. What we put on display inside will be. This consists of:

women's clothing and women's shoes. No surprise here because unlike males of the species, women actually abandon clothes and shoes before they have been worn to nothing. Mrs. O gets tired of clothes or finds that some items no longer fit her. I, on the other hand, have a set of coveralls that more or less retain some semblance of their original shape but are increasingly made up of gaps. Knees, crotch - and no, I do not understand how the crotch ripped out. It is not as though I use my personal bits for excavation or other work. And though I am prone to exaggeration, the Truth In Advertising folks would probably swoop down on me if I tried to say it was because of the strain of holding back my private parts.

At any rate, not even another male of the species would offer good cash money for a set of coveralls that have been so badly used.

Our "stuff" for sale also included (because I am now writing post-sale): one oak bed, sans mattress; one wall unit (now with broken glass sliding doors); a desk; dishes, books, and figurines.

Mrs. O posted sale hours of 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. and it was an absolute shame that among our items for sale we had no working clocks. The first person arrived before 7 a.m. and if I had had a clock, along with a delivered newspaper, I could have pointed out the time discrepancy. Instead, I let civility rule and discovered that I have no knack at all for dickering or bartering before I have swallowed my first cup of coffee. Of course I knew this already but what we expected to get for items, even generally, was not and will never be what the sharks of this world are inclined to pay.

That is why secondhand dealers arrive early. No doubt they have long since figured out that an uncaffeinated person is really just a mark, ripe for the picking. So, while somewhere deep inside of me was a voice that wanted to burst forth in laughter or utter a pithy epithet (try saying that quickly, with or without caffeine - at the offers, there was another part, the one that spent most of his first day off preparing for the sale, that whined, "I do NOT want to have to pack up all of this stuff" - and began accepting just about any old offer.

Fortunately, there was still stuff to be sold and we may have actually come out with a few dollars to plug into the bank, but I am not inclined to repeat the process anytime soon. If we do though, know this. There will be a clock on prominent display and the hours posted in our ad will be the only hours of operation. I may even opt for a pair of jeans and a shirt instead of my coveralls. After all, a guy standing around in near-crotchless attire may as well be shouting, "HEY! I'M EASY!" And sharks in human form do notice such things.

Thought For Today

2012-01-29T10:14:00.003+13:00

I was working on a time machine but my future self beat me to it.

Simon Shits a Sombrero and Other Work Miscellany

2012-01-27T05:38:00.001+13:00

I have reported in the past that my workplace has a scale of - for want of a better word - poopery. That is, much as ancient soothsayers divined the intent of their gods from animal guts and the like, so apparently do their modern equivalents, doctors, divine things about residents of rest homes from the material waste they deposit in toilets. Hence we have something called The Bristol Stool Chart.

The Bristol folks, whoever they may be, claim that there are seven unique types of poop that emanate from humans - and I am here to tell both you and them that they don't know shit. (Brief aside as I conjure up an image of Jeopardy and a contestant saying, "I'll take poopery for fifty dollars, Alex." Trebec replies, "you mean potpourri." Contestant says, 'you don't know shit, Alex." Trebec counters, "sorry. That was not in the form of a question." Contestant says, "do you know shit, Alex?")

Our rest home residents either don't know or don't care about The Bristol Stool Chart and would probably think it a schematic of something one sits on while hand-milking a cow if they thought about it at all. And one thing is certain. They have never seen the cute diagrams of the sort of waste products they are supposed to produce.

So it was that the other day a resident I shall call Simon sat on the commode and created something that for all the world resembled a shit sombrero. Yes, I should have snapped a photo. Unfortunately, I still have not activated my cell phone, besides which it would likely constitute an invasion of his privacy if I had and did.

All of that aside, when he arose, there it was, a somewhat miniaturized sombrero residing in the bowl. And nothing on our Bristol Stool Chart covered someone shitting a sombrero. ("Is that a 4, do you think?" "I don't know; I was thinking maybe a 6.") It was even decorated with pieces of corn and bits of carrot.

(No, no, I don't mind at all. Go ahead and retch. I admit the imagery I have created is rather gross. But I must warn you. We have no Bristol Barf Chart so a physician will probably be unable to determine anything about your health except that you have a vivid imagination.)

Feel better? Good.I was going to cover more work-related matters but suffice it to say that about the only way my work shift today could be worse than last evening's would be if the powers-that-are decide to have me work my shift blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back.

Of Better Homes and Gardens

2012-01-20T10:32:00.001+13:00

We interrupt this post for a repeat complaint. Dear Blogger, Can you folks kindly pull crania out of anal orifices and get this site running smoothly? You keep bell and whistling it, "newing and improving" it, and it continues to malfunction. I select a typeface that suits and your program arbitrarily changes it back to "normal": normal being for someone with the eyesight of the late Ted Williams. For those of us who are older, it can be a strain to view what we have written when it is presented in microscopic text.

We return now to our regular post that is really not so regular given that nothing has appeared here since November of 2011.

That said, should anyone from Better Homes and Gardens, the magazine, ever drop by for a visit, (s)he will be hard-pressed to distinguish the Ornery home from the Ornery gardens. For this, blame the combination of pea straw and one rambunctious Afghan puppy/near-Shetland pony.

Seriously, the puppy is now roughly ten months old and stands taller than anything this side of a wolfhound. And his exuberance knows no bounds. He is most definitely an outdoor dog, probably because his coat is growing steadily, as Afghan hound coats will, and because he needs the room. Unfortunately, we use pea straw on the garden flower beds which are necessarily also outdoors, and the puppy loves nothing better than to take daily multiple romps through it and them. And either Afghan fur or pea straw - or the combination - has adhesive qualities that would do the Velcro people proud. So, puppy goes out into the great outdoors with clean coat and returns sometime later looking for all the world like a G.I. engaged in an infiltration/camouflage exercise.

Mind you, pea straw is not the only substance he drags in. He also brings large quantities of dirt from his frequent excavations, grass, black current bits, hydrangea bits, and plant life we can not begin to identify. The net result is a kitchen floor that looks like something out of an early pioneering homestead or a 16th century cottage in Ireland. Indeed, if he continues his present trends through the end of our summer, we may decide to tile the flower beds and move out there for cooking, leaving the kitchen in all of its botanical splendor. The only trouble with that strategy is that said puppy might then become confused as to where he should do his business - and his leavings are sights to behold, rivaling anything yours truly here encounters at work.

More on that another time. Meanwhile, oh Better Homes and Gardens folk, should you decide to visit, please excuse the mess. And oh yes, you may wish to bring a machete. That should at least get you through the kitchen.

Mister O Gets Dragged Into the 21st Century

2011-11-26T09:11:00.000+13:00

If anyone has felt the ground shaking today, there is a reason. Mister Ornery now owns a cell phone. Please allow me to explain.

Until today, I was one of the last of a vanishing breed of technosaurs, one who believed that a by God phone should be attached by wire to a by God phone jack. So today I received a phone that not only attaches to nothing other than a charger but can be "My Buddy" ("goes everywhere that I go...")

In my defense, this was NOT my idea. I can honestly blame Mrs. O who, for my birthday, decided that I should join the era of modern communications. This is mainly because she often picks me up after work and equally as often has no idea whether or not I have gotten away on time or where I might be along the route home.

Many is the time she has said, "if you had a cell phone ..." and I replied, "if God had intended for me to have a portable phone He would have given me nimble fingers." No, actually I said, "when hell freezes over," so all of that ground shaking going on is those poor damned souls shivering down below.

I have yet to activate the thing but when I do I can only hope that it works better than Blogger's font selection which has once again kicked me from 'large" back to 'normal" I don't know why the rat fuckers can't cure so basic a problem but so it goes. Besides, I have other worries such as wading through the instruction booklets that accompanied my cell phone. I have already figured out even without the manuals that the one thingy is the battery, if only because its plastic wrapper said 'battery" on it. Trouble is, when I looked at the phone, I couldn't really see where it goes. And there's the slightly smaller matter of a SIM card as well. Has to be a place to cram it in too.

There is a charger in the package with the phone. I know what it is because I have at least observed several of those in operation. Unfortunately, there is another wire thingy that I cannot identify without cracking the manual. And assuming that I figure out all of the gizmos and gadgets, then the fun will truly begin as I attempt to decide what sort of plan I want. Mrs. O said that she snorted at the guy who sold her the phone when he suggested a plan allowing for 500 texts a month. She figures that is probably 496 more than I would ever use.

Oh well. We who are about to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century salute you who are already well versed in the use of such devices as cell phones. As for me, I have a feeling I already know what my first incoming message will be: "T-t-thanks-s-s a l-lot-t, yo-you b-b-b-bastard. S-s-signed, the f-f-f-freezing m-m-inions of hell.

Is This Any Way To Run An Election?

2011-11-22T06:58:00.000+13:00

For those not in the loop, this Saturday, 26 November, New Zealand will be holding its nationwide election. This is a triennial event in which voters choose: A) the person that they wish to represent their local parliamentary district and B) the political party with whom they most closely agree. And yes, it is possible to choose a candidate from one party while giving one's party vote to some other political party.

The two main parties are National, currently controlling government and Labor, the party that held sway for the previous nine years. There are, however, other parties involved in the campaign, several of which currently occupy one or more seats in the unicameral Parliament. Among these are: The Green Party, ACT, United Future, the Progressive Party, the Maori Party, and the Mana Party, Outside of Parliament but looking to get in - or back in - are the New Zealand First Party, Democrats for Social Credit, Christian Heritage, and possibly one or two others.

All of that is for another time because the point I wish to make here is that from start to finish, the actual campaigning lasts one month. You Americans read that correctly. The political campaign, from the running of a first ad and/or posting signs to the day that ballots are cast is ONE MONTH. Within that month, we see ads largely promoting the particular parties' policies, with perhaps a dig here or there at a major policy initiative of another party. What we fail to see are ads informing us what a low life, bottom feeding, scum-sucker someone's opponent is or may be.

Along the way, we also witness debates, at least three between the leaders of the two main parties and one or more featuring the leaders of the various minor parties. All of this - debates, television, radio, and print media ads, erection of billboards and distribution of flyers or placement of posters - occurs within that ONE MONTH window at the conclusion of which voters go to the polls and select the person they wish to represent them and the party with whom they most closely agree. Then they return home to view or to listen to election results to see in which direction the next government will take the country. And the most interesting dynamic in all of this is that since the introduction of MMP, Mixed Member Proportionate voting (a referendum for which is also up for vote this year) each of the major parties has been forced to enter into coalition agreements with one or more of the minor parties in order to advance their major policy initiatives.

So will we see a return to National and its center-right policies, with perhaps a greater lurch to the right, or might we see a return of a Labor-led government which would tend to go somewhat leftward? Polls had suggested that National might have enough party strength and strong enough candidates to achieve a Parliamentary majority and govern alone, but more recent results suggest enough voters are undecided that the results could go to yet another coalition agreement which can make for interesting legislation. The one certainty is that, where New Zealand politics is concerned, time does indeed fly.

Dogs Got Scapulas (Scapulae?) - Bones That Fracture = And Other Goings On

2011-11-18T09:22:00.000+13:00

Life has been rather busy here at Weed Central. Not the cannabis type of weed, mind you, but the garden-variety that grows completely independently of any assistance from humans. Along the way, our Afghan puppy managed to fracture a scapula which we have learned is a bone somewhat higher up the dog leg than our local veterinarian x-rayed, which was how we wound up spending something over $1,000 at a specialized vet in Christchurch. But at least for the over $1,000 we learned that our local vet had not x-rayed the pup’s leg high enough. (He only checked out the paw and – I guess I’ll call it the pup’s elbow. Had he x-rayed the shoulder, he would have found the fracture and we would have kept most of that over $1,000 in our bank account.)

That said, this injury restricted the pup’s movement in much the same way that a lasso will control a tornado, which is to say not at all. Pups, especially those that are the size of Shetland ponies, are possessed of an energy level the equal of their size and a game leg merely makes the attempts by humans of advancing years to control puppy-ish activity slightly more sporting. (I still lose, just not by as much.) He gambols and frolics up and down hillside with the agility of a mountain goat and bounds at speed across our back yard, somehow managing to miss the trenches and fox holes he was constructing pre-injury, the same constructions that, coupled with dormant grass, gave our yard at the start of spring all the ambiance of the Western Front in World War I.

Now it resembles a post World War front. Grass and weeds abound and I mistakenly loaned out our lawn mower. It was supposed to be temporary but if current trends persist, it will be returned around the Second Coming of Christ, at which point I figure lawn mowing will be far down the To-Do List. Meanwhile, there is plenty of other work to be done in our little patch of the Great Outdoors.

Mrs. Ornery, for example, makes regular trips through and around the flower beds, pulling weeds that, unlike”mine”, do not dare establish deep roots. My weeds are those that grow in and around yards and footpaths – and here I should divert for a moment to explain that our property sits atop an old, old quarry, as in rocky landscape. Dig down just so far and there are masses of rock. Yet “my” weeds, probably through use of secret botanical equipment, have managed to penetrate the rock layer and seemingly fuse their roots to it. When I attempt to pull one, it is as though I am in a tug of war with Planet Earth. Guess who wins. I may think that I have, pulling out something half my body length, but I know that I have not gotten all of it. Somewhere close to the very bowels of this planet, I know that a tendril remains. It may be the thickness of a human hair, but given time it will expand and grow and when next it pushes its head into view above the topsoil, it will be the size of a small tree.

This is quite disconcerting, especially when it causes shifts in the concrete blocks that make up our footpaths. Against these marvels of the plant kingdom, my various tools look puny indeed. And since Mrs. O informs me that I need specialized training before attempting to blast them out, I must look for alternate methods of removal. I have tried persuading our big-footed puppy to dig them up but he would much rather construct traps for any wildlife dumb enough to be attracted to our overgrown yard.

I have suggested to Mrs. O that we surrender to Mother Nature, wave the white flag, so to speak, but she says Mother Nature wouldn’t be able to see it above the grass tops anyway so I might as well get back to work. Besides, she again points out that we would need a special license to establish any sort of Nature Reserve, a clear sign to me that even New Zealand suffers from bloated bureaucracy. She counters by saying, “just pull the blasted weeds and go get the lawn mower back. There’s nothing here anyone would want to see anyway.”

I don’t know what she calls a mutant dandelion that is trying to shift the foundation of the house.

Oh Boy! Blogger Is Changing!

2011-11-05T09:54:00.000+13:00

We all know that change is the one constant in cyberspace, so it comes as no surprise that Blogger is changing to keep up with the times. I, however, am not so sure. I already have no idea what my blog looks like on anything other than a home PC, so how behind the times must I be? And now I can change to make it easier for people to view my blog by other means, without having any way of checking to see if I am satisfied with the results? I don't know about that.

What does anybody else think? How do you access your blog(s)? Do you use any of the hand-held devices? And how are those if you do?

For the moment, I am sticking with the cyber equivalent of stone tablet and primitive chisel.

This and That

2011-11-03T10:37:00.000+13:00

Assuming no further disruptions from the puppy, here is what else is happening.

Herman Cain understands that the Peoples Republic of China is developing nuclear weapons. Presumably he had his head in a pizza oven when they did so back in 1964. But can we really hold it against a serious presidential candidate that he's roughly 47 years behind the times?

I encourage one and all to check out the latest over at Miss Stang's, Stangzine

She has discovered some interesting goings on, including at the least wrongful death charges against the survivor who led authorities to Jeffrey Dahmer some 20 years ago. And then there was the South Carolina 10 year old who allegedly pulled a handgun on a woman who jokingly suggested that she might take his trick or treat candy. But where would a kid learn such behavior? we might ask. Perhaps from the four men arrested as part of an alleged terrorist plot to attack government institutions with a combination of explosives and ricin.

The four accused are: Frederick Thomas, age 73, Dan Roberts, age 67, Ray H. Adams, age 65, and Samuel J. Crump, age 68. The quartet are allegedly members of a fringe militia group and have obviously never heard of shuffleboard. Of course it could be that they got a look at their Social Security/Medicare benefits and said, "stuff this! There's gotta be a better way!" And so they hatched a plot to get arrested on federal charges so that they would never again have to worry about housing, food, clothing, or medical care.

Moving on, can anybody recall the last time a major US financial institution actually invested in or loaned money to a company trying to create jobs? Neither can I. For that matter, can anyone recall the last time Republicans in Congress voted in favor of something that might actually benefit 99% of Americans not named: Frederick Thomas, age 73, Dan Roberts, age 67, Ray H. Adams, age 65, and Samuel J. Crump, age 68?

Locally in Dunedin, New Zealand, some people are complaining that the Occupy Dunedin protesters are ruining the grass in the public reserve where they have been camping. If the city needs a solution to the problem and if I do not soon get my lawn mower back, I may invite the protesters to bivouac in our yard. Our 3 and1/2 legged puppy has been remiss lately in keeping the grass properly trampled.There is even grass growing in the holes he has dug, lending our lawn the look of Post-WW I Europe.

Ah, but the time has come to wrap up keyboard play for a time. I am on vacation which means I have work to do. (Checking on that speed-webbing spider in the garage is high on my to-do list. I suspect he is holding a web-spinning family reunion or is trying to devise something strong enough to restrain a human head the next time I blunder in. Assuming I survive that encounter, I shall return.)

We Interrupt the Interruption Already In Progress For This

2011-11-03T07:26:00.000+13:00

I was going to write about Guy Fawkes, the Gunpowder Treason Plot, and Guy Fawkes Day except that I had to go to the garage for firewood and ran into a spiderweb produced, I am convinced, by a mutant web slinger. So I started writing about that only to be disrupted again, this time by misbehaving dogs.

As some may know, Imran, the pedigreed Afghan hound, has a fractured scapula, basically a shoulder bone in his left front leg. As a result, a specialist veterinarian counsels restricted activity while the injury heals. Imran, of course, has other ideas. Three and a part legs or no, he thinks he should be able to romp and roughhouse with our pound puppy, actually a mature bulldozer in canine form named Flynn. Mornings are especially problematic, none more so than when yours truly sits down to write about mutant spiders that broke his powers of concentration upon Guy Fawkes.

I had barely started my spider piece when I heard the telltale sounds of play fighting. "The canine kids" were at it again. And the only way to stop the behavior before re-injury to Imran is a stern "YO!" (I have no idea why this works. Maybe the dogs are waiting for a second YO and expect to hear YO-YO.)

Unfortunately, this stern message has limited effect, not so much on Flynn as on an 8-month old puppy with the attention span of a gnat on speed. The advice in the old song, "just walk away, Renee" might have worked for her, but she was clearly not dealing with a hyperactive, 3 and 1/2 legged puppy. Try, "just walk away" here and in a matter of seconds, you hear, "grrrr, woof woof, grrr." Reinvestigation of the noise finds Flynn with a look sort of like, "I tried telling him, but what's a guy to do?", even as Imran gnaws on his ears to incite another round of rough and tumble.

With no other option, I haul Imran bodily into the lounge with me whereupon he figures, "oh, so you wanna play, huh?" and starts pawing at my leg/arm/other body parts. And I can tell you this. Afghan puppies can paw. In fact, it must be akin to getting mauled by a Sasquatch, except a Sasquatch would probably listen to reason - or at least sit still for a playing of "just walk away, Renee" after which we could discuss why it is that I can rarely remember more than the first line or two of old songs.

Imran, on the other hand, has no interest in discussions of musical memory fallibility and so can only be dealt with in carrot or stick manner. I can either give him a bone, with a second for Flynn, which only postpones the inevitable renewed burst of activity until both dogs decide that they want the same bone, or I can place Imran in the pen.

Yes, solitary confinement. And please spare me your outraged indignation, canine rights advocates. Sometimes even juvenile dogs need a time out, at least until the neighbors complain about the mournful howling.

At any rate, this is why you are not reading about Guy Fawkes, the Gunpowder Plot, or even mutant spiders that can spin webs across doorways faster than the Flash could run to the store for a morning paper. I am currently trying to figure out soundproofing for a dog pen. I simply cannot allow a puppy to have the upper paw.

EEPS! I Have No Klout

2011-10-30T08:58:00.000+13:00

This could be serious, or maybe not. I have no idea. It seems that there is a new - I have no idea what to call it other than its name which is Klout. Supposedly it measures a person's "social media influence". And by "social media influence", I assume it means something to do with Twitter, Facebook, and their ilk. I really don't know. I don't even know if you have to register with Klout to gain Klout. And this probably means I have none or next to none. Klout, that is.

This came to my attention via Twitter where someone posted a link to an article asking, in essence, "does your Klout score really matter?" And this pressing issue arose because Klout recently changed the algorithm that it uses to determine Klout scores, with the result that many saw their scores drop.

Oh, the humanity! Fortunately, there are people who can advise those whose scores have dropped on how to raise their scores and that advice is, in essence, hang out with the popular crowd.

Pardon my saying so but all of this hoopla about Klout sounds awfully high school-ish to me. And we all remember - or are experiencing - high school with its cliques. There were and are jocks and nerds and who-knows-what-all - and very little of it really matters. Oh, some of the jocks will go on to become professional athletes, some of the nerds will move into the business world, and some of this, that, or another group will sell their souls to the devil and become politicians or Wall Street traders. The rest of us will simply move on into adult life trying to do whatever we can to make our own corner of this world a bit better. And the great majority of us will find in so doing that we have very little Klout, except perhaps within our small spheres of influence.

Me? As I said early on, I have no idea what my Klout score is or if I even have one. All I know is that I will continue to use such social media as I have in exactly the same way that I have been doing. And if that gives me, Klout, fine. If it doesn't, well, that's fine too.

Yahoo Email, New and Improved

2011-10-27T06:49:00.000+13:00

Yes, the Yahellians have been at it again, "newing and improving" my email experience. Only this time they have truly outdone themselves. The new and improved protection filter kicked two of Yahoo's own messages, the ones advising me of their "newing and improving", into the spam folder. To my way of thinking, they have finally got it right.

AGH! Or: Babysitting a Hopping Tripod

2011-10-26T09:42:00.000+13:00

If the title of this post is a bit confusing, I can explain.You see, I am now on holiday, aka: vacation, which was supposed to cover a Meat Loaf concert in Auckland, a wedding anniversary, and the marriage of my stepson. Instead, there is a good chance I will spend the next couple of weeks trying to keep our Afghan puppy, Imran, now 8 months old and about the size of a Shetland pony, from doing further injury to himself.

Yes, I said "further injury". Yes, he has already managed a fairly serious injury to himself. And no, Mrs. O and I do not know how he did what he did. All we know is that he is now the proud and limping owner of a fractured scapula in his left front leg that reduces him to tripodal movements and that, despite the fact that Afghan hounds have a pain tolerance of roughly zero, Imran has not heard this and would not care if he had. What he does know is that after repeat bouts with x-rays and poking, prodding veterinarians, he is back home. He is also eight months old with all of the energy and zest for living that such an age entails. So three-legged or no, he still wants to romp and play with our pound puppy, Flynn, (actually a mature dog - at least age-wise) and gambol about and do pretty much everything that the specialist veterinarian told us we should try to keep him from doing.

Tea Partiers forgive me, but I find this endeavor "taxing". I find it "taxing" because, pre-injury, Imran could come and go in the great outdoors as he pleased. Now, I am supposed to monitor his to-ing and fro-ing and restrict him from excessive boisterousness.

Ever try calming a two-year old human child after Grandma has given him enough sugar to support a Third World country's economy? It is about like that. For example, until I began monitoring his behavior closely, I did not realize that Imran goes out and back in the pet door roughly 347 times a day. (That figure may not be accurate because I may have missed one or two.) He goes out to poop and pee, naturally enough, but he also goes out when Flynn goes out lest he miss some sneaky canine trick that the older dog has acquired through experience. He also goes outside to bark at things both visible and invisible - at least to the human eye. He goes outside to chew bones that are scattered around the yard. And quite often he goes outside simply because he can. The one thing he does not accept is that, zero pain tolerance or no, three good legs or no, he is supposed to slow down. In fact, I have learned that a three-legged Afghan hound can easily outrun and outmaneuver a two-legged adult human.

The vet has said that the injury will heal in about a month. Thankfully, my vacation is not that long because I do not know if I could maintain the monitoring. The one thing of which I am certain is that once the next couple of weeks are done, I will be glad to return to work. By then I will need the break.

Updating

2011-10-24T11:19:00.000+13:00

Pardon the lapses between posts. What with Blogger insisting that I write posts in "normal" font, I.e. normal for people with micro-vision, and events in real life, I have not been much inclined nor had much time to write. For one thing, I have found it tough to concentrate with the whole of New Zealand caught up in Rugby World Cup 2011 fever. Speaking of which:

THE ALL BLACKS ARE WORLD CHAMPIONS!

There is a remote chance that the country can now return to a semblance of normal. I can only hope that this normal is easier to follow than is Blogger's normal font.

Rather lost in the hoopla surrounding the above has been the fact that the New Zealand Breakers - or rather the Whoever Their Main Sponsor May Be Breakers (last year they were the Burger King Breakers) - have opened their latest season in the Australian National Basketball League with three road victories on the trot or that the Wellington Phoenix soccer team (not sure if they have a major corporate sponsor) have opened with a draw and a win. In fact, I cannot even say without checking inside pages of the local sports section whether either team has played more games since I learned of those results.

This is what happens when a team, the All Blacks, wins the first Rugby World Cup, back in 1987, goes into other of these quadrennial tournaments as favorite or even heavy favorite, and comes away without the title. People become obsessed, especially people such as New Zealanders who are often mistaken for Australia's country cousins. In rugby, the All Blacks have always punched well above the weight of their country, rarely ranking outside the top two in the world. It is an identity thing. So I was unsurprised to open the morning paper and see the front page entirely covered with a headline and photo declaring that after a 24-year wander in titleless desert, THE ALL BLACKS ARE WORLD CHAMPIONS.

Now there is the small matter of an election in November, one that will set the course of the country for the next three years. And I suspect that the National Party (for Americans, think Republican Lite) will win easily, swept back in on a tide of euphoria as though it had anything to do with the fact that THE ALL BLACKS ARE WORLD CHAMPIONS.

The human psyche can be funny that way. We are WORLD CHAMPIONS in rugby so let's return the ruling party to power. Never mind that the average Kiwi has seen his or her standard of living suffer due to stagnating wages and a rising cost of living because, quite honestly, National's main opposition, the Labor Party, has failed to articulate much by way of better ideas. My main hope is that people come to their senses sufficiently to realize that National too lacks answers and that the best scenario is likely one in which the party has to seek and find support from minor parties in order to advance its agenda.

That is what I mean by Republican Lite. Thanks to the voting system here, minor parties - and there are several - can influence legislation by lending or withholding their support. And that fact, as much as anything, can keep the government holding to a more centrist policy.

Left to govern without need for minor party support, I am not sure but that National would veer decidedly to the right. Maybe not Tea Party, tear down the government right, but far enough that average Kiwis would suffer more. So I can only hope that voters do not mistake the National Party for the All Blacks and give them the keys to the country. It's enough that our current and probably next Prime Minister is already a Key, as in John Key. (Well, I suppose we could let National have the key to the john.)

On that bad punny note, I bid adieu.

World Cup Update

2011-10-10T13:25:00.000+13:00

The semi-finals of Rugby World Cup 2011 are set. It will be New Zealand - Australia in one, Wales - France in the other. The former occurs because it was impossible for Australia to play South Africa and both teams lose.

Interestingly, of the teams remaining, three - Wales, Australia, and New Zealand - have New Zealanders as head coaches. And these semi-finalists are the same four teams that comprised the field in the first World Cup back in 1987. Not so coincidentally, 1987 was also the first and only time that New Zealand won the title. Time will tell if history repeats.

A Post Script: As everyone will note, Blogger is up to its old tricks, allowing the font size to revert to "normal" despite having been set to "large." Apparently, correcting this flaw lies beyond reach of the programmers.

For Anyone Interested and For Those Who Aren't

2011-09-13T10:36:00.001+12:00

Some facts probably not widely reported in the USA:

- New Zealand is currently hosting the 2011 Rugby World Cup.
- The US has a team entered.
- That team is known as the Eagles.
- The Eagles lost their first game to Ireland.
- The Eagles will NOT make it out of pool play. to the quarter-finals.
- Almost nobody in the US cares because: A) this ain't the NFL and B) it has nothing to do with politics.

Bachmann and Palin's History Instructor Revealed

2011-07-06T08:06:00.000+12:00

And here he is:

Yes indeed. The dynamic duo of Tea Party sweethearts spent many an hour in their days of youth learning about history from that towering intellect, Mister Peabody (accompanied by his boy, Sherman.)

Tune in next time as Mister Ornery tracks the rumor that Sarah Palin took up moose hunting because of the little known Bullwinkle Syndrome, a condition that results from repeat viewings of a cartoon moose trying and failing to "pull a rabbit out of (his) hat."

An Ornery Week In Review

2011-06-26T17:40:00.000+12:00

Hello, Blogger. Larger font face, please. Thank you.

Our week actually began a week ago Friday when I discovered that my innards were rumbling. Shortly, matters shifted southward and demanded immediate exit. Since I was at work, this was an inconvenience. Worse, it meant departure from work and a ban from the premises for 48 hours. So much for a weekend.

On Monday, as planned, with my innards settled, Mrs. O and I headed northward. The puppy that our dog Flynn refers to as Poncy Snootypants was due in from Australia Tuesday morning. I was supposed to return for work on Wednesday so the battle plan held that we would overnight in Timaru on Monday night, drive to the suburbs of Christchurch Tuesday morning, leave Flynn with friends, and go retrieve the puppy from Christchurch airport, socialize the two dogs back at our friends', and then make a dash back to Dunedin so that I could return to work.

Of course the ash cloud from the Chilean volcano was circumnavigating the globe which meant a risk of flights being cancelled, but we proceeded on the optimistic assumption that all would be right above the world.

The trip to and stay in Timaru went as planned, but it was downhill from there. Upon arriving at our friends' home, we received word that Poncy (really Calahara Victory Parade or Imran, as Mrs. O calls him), had been bumped from the 11:35 a.m. arriving flight and would now be arriving at 11:35 P.M. But we still visited the airport to take care of matters with Customs, New Zealand Airlines air cargo, and MAF - the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries.

And what, you may ask, does a Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries have to do with a puppy? As nearly as we have ever determined, it is a dirty job checking imported domestic pets but somebody has to do it, so why not an organization that deals at least marginally with animals? Who knows? Maybe the government figured we were importing a dogfish.

At any rate, we dealt with the appropriate agencies. Mrs. O did, at any rate. My role was to shake my head and roll my eyes. Then it was back to the friends' home to wile away the hours until the 10:28 p.m. earthquake. Of course this was not on our itinerary but earthquakes are notorious for their failure to adhere to schedules. And this one went where most quakes had not gone before, to the airport power grid.

Now planes caryying puppies have trouble landing at airports that lack power. Seems pilots like runway lights and unshattered runways, not to mention accurate communications so Poncy/Victory/Imran spent the night in Auckland while Mrs. O and I, his erstwhile new owners, spent the night be shaken and somewhat stirred by aftershocks.

He arrived on a morning flight and the quakes decided they had had enough fun for one 24-hour period. So it was back to air cargo where Mrs. O and I were greeted by the sounds of an extremely unhappy puppy and the voice of an airline employee informing us that the MAF folks who had checked out the puppy in Auckland apparently had still not decided whether he was fish, fowl, or cloven-hoofed animal - or an exotic agricultural plant with fur.

Bureaucrat eventually decided that yes, he had the paperwork, yes, he could fax copies to Christchurch, and yes, we could free said exotic pet from his confines.

There followed a brief social interaction between one large dog and one smaller one in the parking lot of the air cargo terminal after which we stuck both dogs in the back seat of the car and said, "make the best of it."

To our amazement, they did, all the way to Dunedin, with a couple of stops for leg stretching and piddling in between and buckets of piddling since we arrived back in Dunedin. We are not certain how many Frequent Flier miles Imran racked up, but no matter. If he saw them, he would either chew them to shreds or pee on them, which is probably what many of his human fellow travelers would be tempted to do as well. And though he may be the more worldly-traveled of our two canines, if he gets too full of himself, Flynn can simply say, "yeah? Ever been in an earthquake? No? Well, I have, so welcome to the Shaky Islands, Pup."

Hello Your F@$%ing Self

2011-06-24T13:36:00.000+12:00

Absurdity, thy name is Blogger. I set out to write a rant - as opposed to righting a wrong - on another source of aggravation and you promptly step in to insure that my focus diverts to you and your mysterious penchant for shifting font sizes in mid-stream. I would think that with the boy and girl whizzes you have at your disposal you could solve this little annoyance but apparently not. Apparently bloggers are not a high priority or we are expected to settle for something less than your best. I, however, am nearly at my tipping point. So KINDLY FIX THE GODDAMN PROBLEM.

There. I feel ever so much better and can now turn my attention to a telecommunications company of my acquaintance. It trades as TelstraClear but I prefer to call it as I more commonly know it: The Robocaller Corporation. This is because every weekday for - I don't know how long now - I have found myself awaiting the ringing of our phone and the disembodied, female-sounding voice that says:

"Hello. This is a call from TelstraClear ..."

I dunno. Maybe Robocaller Woman just can't go a day without hearing my voice, but I digress.

She then launches into a listing of three options: one if I am the person responsible for paying our bill, two if I am not but the person responsible is available, and three if the person responsible is unavailable.

Frankly, I have no idea why they bother because just as in the old days: "all roads lead to Rome", in this day and age, all options lead to that same disembodied female-sounding voice saying, in essence, "PAY YOUR BILL OR ELSE!"

We - or I - could live with that if we were persistently late paying or were constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul or whatever, but we are not. What we are, Mrs. O and I, is increasingly and incredibly frustrated with a TELECOMMUNICATIONS company that cannot seem to grasp the fundamentals of COMMUNICATION.

Since the account is actually in her name, Mrs. O has tried repeatedly to get this matter resolved. She knows that Robocaller Woman is not destined for a place on my Christmas card list and she knows that it is I, not she, who receives these daily calls. So she has called their Customer Service number and asked them to do as other companies have done and do, namely send us a form that she can fill out and take to her bank for them to load, thereby setting up an automatic payment.

Their reply, "we don't do that."

No, what they do is send a form for her to fill out and return so that they can set up the automatic payment from their end. Mrs. O has so far done that thrice, in the interim sending along checks for payment of the account. Throughout this process, yours truly continues to receive phone calls from Robocaller Woman.

But wait! There's more! The checks Mrs. O has sent have been processed, the payments duly recorded, yet when she has called to find out what happened with the automatic payments, she has received variously:

- two claims that they never received the form, which she included in the envelope with the payment checks. Yet the checks were cashed???
- another claim that the form was sent to the wrong address, though it was the one given and confirmed - and contained a payment check that somehow got cashed.
- a hang up by a "customer service representative".

Unfortunately, we signed up with TelstraClear because of their all-in-one plan: phone service including national and international calls at reasonable rates plus broadband internet service that provided more monthly usage and faster connections than our former provider. What we did not realize was that the contract also apparently provides daily contact with Robocaller Woman and that she would place us on speed dial.

But I have a plan. I think I will introduce her to Blogger's "composer" feature. Maybe it can then alter her voice so that it breaks in mid-sentence and sounds for all the world like a teenage boy in the grip of puberty. Or maybe I will simply introduce her to Blogger in general. Given my past experiences here, I can easily picture her losing options, one by one, being instructed to first try FAQs, finding no answers there, being reduced to a sniveling, cringing mass of electronic circuitry incapable of performing her basic function, getting called into RoboBoss's office and handed her pink slip (which matches nothing in her entire wardrobe) (sorry for the aside) ...

Yep. Just be prepared, fellow bloggers. If Ornery manages this bit of matchmaking, this site here is likely to undergo some radical changes, not necessarily for the better. And I?

I will be sitting at home listening to the non-ringing of our phone. Of course I may have to check periodically to be sure it still connects to anything. After all, hell hath no fury like a Robocaller Woman scorned.

A Tribute Link

2011-06-22T18:24:00.000+12:00

In keeping with a promise to my brother, I am posting a link here to a site called: TRIBUTES

This specific link will lead to a couple of pieces that my brother himself penned. They are but a couple of verbal snapshots into the life of a very complex man, our dad. At some point, I will probably rewrite and post a couple of my own here.

Lalepop': Urs truley in preparation for the Queen. Posted this for Mr "O"

2011-06-13T13:04:00.000+12:00

Lalepop': Urs truley in preparation for the Queen. Posted this for Mr "O"

The only downside to the above - and I am sure the gentleman himself would disagree in his own, self-effacing way - is that we don't get to see a close up of Pop in his days of youth. He says the photos would have been from 1959 or 1960, meaning Queen Elizabeth II would have been British monarch for just a handful of years. Hard to believe that in 2 more years she will have been Monarch for 60 years.

For financial reference purposes, in 1960, according to one web site, the average new car price was $2,600. A new house would have cost on average $12,700. The average income per year was $5,315, and a gallon of gas cost .25 (yes, 25 cents). It is worth noting too that in 1960, Federal spending totaled $92.19 billion and federal debt stood at $290.5 billion. The Dow Jones average ranged from 586 to 685, inflation was 1.4% and unemployment stood at 5.5%. The US population was 180,671,158 and life expectancy was 69.7 years.

In 1960, Dwight D. Eisenhower was wrapping up his two terms in office with a guy by the name of Richard M. Nixon as his Vice President. People earning the average income paid 22% federal income tax and the top tax rate - for incomes of $400,000 and more - was 91%. That was NINETY-ONE PERCENT. This meant that, assuming no deductions, someone earning $400,000 cleared $36,000 AFTER federal income tax while someone earning the average income would have cleared $4,145.70 AFTER federal income tax.

Make of the above numbers what you will, but as long as we have traipsed this far down memory lane, consider a few other highlights from 1960. Of the top 5 television programs in the U.S., the top three were WESTERNS: Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, and Have Gun Will Travel. followed by two comedies: The Andy Griffith Show and The Real McCoys. Chubby Checker introduced a new dance, the Twist, at the Peppermint Lounge in New York City, Roy Orbison scored his first hit with "Only the Lonely", Motown Records released "Shop Around" which reached number one on the R&B charts, and the Ventures scored an instrumental hit with "Walk Don't Run". Oh yes. And a fellow by the name of Elvis Presley received his discharge from the Army and returned to music. 1960 was also the year that Xerox introduced its first production model paper copier, the Japanese introduced felt-tipped pens, and soft drinks were first brought out in aluminum cans, having previously been sold mostly in returnable bottles. And there were a grand total of 2,000 computers delivered in the whole of the United States.

In sports, which to an about-to-turn 9 Young Ornery were far more important and noteworthy than cootie-carrying girls, The Pittsburgh Pirates forever won a place in treasured memories by defeating the PERSONAL MOST HATED TEAM OF THAT OR ANY TIME IN ANY SPORT, THE NEW YORK YANKEES, 4 games to 3 in the World Series thanks to a dramatic home run in the bottom of the ninth inning by Bill Mazeroski. Curiously, a few short years later, cootie-carrying girls became simply girls and began to surpass sports in attracting the attention of still- Young Ornery, a fascination (some might say Fatal attraction) that has persisted alongside his HATRED OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES to this day.

Now for a Whit-style question. In addition to Pop, participating in the above-mentioned military performance for Queen Elizabeth II, would anyone else care to offer memories of the year 1960? (My younger sister may be excused from this exercise as she would only have reached her first birthday. So for her and others, let us make it "When I Was 9.")

Disappearing, Reappearing.

2011-06-10T11:55:00.000+12:00

Today on Blogger I learned that I am not following anybody. By the same token, also according to Blogger, no one is following me. There are no recent comments and in recent times, I have received email notifications of comments only to come to this site and find none. And when I start to write a new post, the font size changes at a whim. Its whim, not mine. Whether this post will appear when I hit the "publish post" button or not, who can say, but it would appear that with or without any effort at all on my part, this blog may soon vanish. If or when it does, I would just like to say that it has been unreal.

Happy Ear;y Belated Birthday, Your Majesty

2011-06-05T11:39:00.000+12:00

What I mean by "early belated" is, Monday, 6 June, we here in New Zealand will be celebrating the Queen's Birthday. Yes, that would be Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain, the same Monarch who was actually born on 21 April, 1926. Hence I am early for the holiday but late for the actual date of her birth.

So how come we're just getting around to celebrating it now? I think it's because New Zealand has kind of made up its calendar as it got along on the path to becoming a country. For example, most folks accept that the seasons "officially" change around the 21st or 22nd of given months - March, June, September, and December. Reality is invariably different, Mother Nature having little to no regard for when humans say something is so, but New Zealand can't be bothered messing about with equinoxes and solstices. No. Come the 1st of March, June, September, and December, and our seasons change - and Mother Nature be hanged. It's as simple as tearing a page off a calendar. There. May is done. Aha! First of June, IT'S WINTER. And sorry 'bout your luck, Mother Nature. Not our fault you decided to pipe in a mild day. Let's get those ski fields open!

First in daylight, first in season change. That could be our motto. None of which has a thing to do with why we celebrate the Queen's Birthday on the 6th of June instead of in April.

"So it has to do with the fact that Queen Elizabeth II won't be around forever? Or the fact that her actual ascent to the throne occurred on the 21st of June, 1953?" Not quite. And this is where it gets weird(er) for it seems that while the birthday is acknowledged throughout the former British Commonwealth of Nations and has been celebrated - well, sort of - in great Britain since 1748, it was King Edward VII (1901-1910) who shifted it in hopes of having better weather. (He was actually born on the 9th of November.) And even then he was rather vague, deciding that the official celebration would be on the first, second, or possibly third Saturday in June, thereby acknowledging that what mankind decrees, Mother Nature can screw up - shall we say - royally?

Confused so far? Excellent because it gets stranger still. In England, the Queen's Birthday is not really a public holiday, as in "oh boy! Time-and-a-half!" Instead, there is a Trooping the Colour or Queen's Birthday Parade and release of a Birthday Honours list for English citizens who have done something noteworthy in one field of endeavor or another. And that's about it whereas we here in New Zealand get a Public Holiday at time-and-a-half plus a day in lieu. And New Zealanders who qualify also get their names on a Queen's Honours list.

Almost makes it worth considering a move half way around the world, eh? I mean, there in England, people just go about their business except for Londoners who must endure traffic snarls resulting from that Parade while we here in New Zealand get an official holiday PLUS QUEEN'S BIRTHDAY SALES! We probably won't even endure traffic snarls. We might even get some of the decent weather King Edward hoped for just to irritate the powers-that-pretend-to-be who say we will be six days into winter. So,

HAPPY EARLY BELATED BIRTHDAY, YOUR MAJESTY.

Bizarro Blogger

2011-06-04T10:22:00.000+12:00

Go figure. I spend a week watching my blog disappear one piece at a time and reporting on same only to log in today and find the missing pieces restored. My next stops will be on the blogs where I have previously been unable to comment. Boy, do I have some catching up to do!

Misce-loony

2011-06-01T11:01:00.000+12:00

I seem to have solved my comment problem here, but it appears that I will have to re-do the blog format. Recent Comments still do not appear and when I checked the Blogger forum, I learned only that others are experiencing the same or similar problems and Blogger claims to have resolved the problems. Meanwhile, I visit other blogs and so far have only been able to leave a comment on Skinny Guy's blog. Elsewhere I get no block in which to write a comment.

The problem does not seem confined to the computer either. Mrs. O and I have a device that allows us to record favorite programs while we are at work so that we can view them at our leisure. The other night, we kicked back to relax and catch up, brought up the listing of shows, and discovered that the device recorded a nightly news show a couple of weeks ago and added episodes of some shows we do not watch or care anything about.

"Why did you tape a nightly news show from a couple of weeks ago?" we asked each other in near-unison. "I didn't. I thought you did," we added in Greek chorus fashion.

Since there was nothing of note that occurred that night, we deleted it and pressed on to those episodes of shows we care nothing about, repeating our harmonic questions-answers.

"Wonder what gives?" I mused aloud.

"I figured you had lost your mind," Mrs. O replied.

"Yeah, but that was long before we got this thing. Besides, you know I don't even try programming it to record anything."

"FLYNN!" we hollered in unison.

He ducked out through his pet door.

"Do you suppose Animal Planet has been teaching him about recording programs?" I wondered.

"I doubt it," was Mrs. O's reply.

"Then that leaves demon possession or gremlins," I said.

"Gremlins," Mrs. O decided. "You said you're having trouble with Blogger. Maybe they migrated to the tv. So what say we watch some of the French Open?"

I must confess that I am no great tennis fan. Oh, I do not mind admiring fit young women in form-fitting clothes that often leave little to the imagination no more than does Mrs. O mind when Rafael Nadal strips off his shirt for a change in mid-match. However, way back when, tennis was always a "stuffy sport" to me, too full of rules and regulations. Now, it is something else.

The aforementioned Nadal utters grunts that I equate to constipated residents seated on toilets. Other male players utter similar sounds. The women players are worse by far.

"WAH HEE!" shouted Francesca Schiavonne with each smack of the ball. At least that was what it sounded like. Victoria Azarenka sounds sort of like a wind-up banshee that runs down. The young Russian lady is now Maria Screamapova.

"Do they get coached on making weird annoying sounds?" I asked whereupon Mrs. O muted the volume. "Tell you what," i continued, "how about you try to figure out the demon-possessed program recording and I'll tackle the Blogger gremlins. If they don't want to give up, we'll unleash WAH HEE on 'em."

At least the threat has left me able to reply to comments here.

Maybe I Have Blocked Me

2011-05-31T10:07:00.000+12:00

Apparently I have blocked myself from commenting anywhere on Blogger, including replies to comments on my own blogs. It is that or someone else has blocked me. Similarly, the "recent comments" section here on the home page of The Corner will not populate. I have no idea why.

Before anyone asks, yes, I have checked blog settings even though I have not been back to them recently to change anything. And still the problem persists. I visit Sherry, Sarge, Yellow Fringe, Whit, and others. I read posts. Then I click "comments" and find ones left by others followed by "Post a Comment", with no space to do so. Frankly, this has me tearing at my hair in frustration - would anyway if I had hair to tear. It is as though I have been invited to a party, approached the house, and instead of finding a door was confronted with a blank wall. And me without the cyber equivalent of spray paint so I could at least tag it with: "Ornery Was Here."

Has anyone else experienced this phenomenon? Does anyone else have any suggestions for remedying the situation? If so, let me know, bearing in mind that I can read your comments here. I simply cannot reply at present.

Blogstream Gremlins Invade Blogger

2011-05-30T13:15:00.000+12:00

So I came to Blogger today to write, perchance to post, and I discovered comments for which I had received no notifications. And my Ornery sense started tingling. Awhile back, didn't you receive email notifications of comments only to find that the comments were missing? I did. And I discovered worse.

The format here is supposedly set up to show recent comments down the left-hand side. This lets other bloggers know that their comments have been recorded and it also provides a link from here to their blogs. Upon cursory examination, I noted that the header was still in place but the actual comments were missing. So i did what any rational blogger would do.

I hollered, "come out here, you little buggers! I know you're in there!"

Silence followed, broken at last by rustling, and then, one by one, familiar faces appeared.

"Hiya, Ornery," said the boldest of the lot.

My eyes swept over the assemblage of Blogstream gremlins in disbelief as I gasped, "what are you doing here?"

The lead gremlin rolled his eyes and replied, "now whatya think we're doin' here? We're doin' what gremlins do, creatin' mayhem 'n' mischief 'n' such. You know. Eatin' comments, sendin' fake messages, screwin' with links 'n' photos 'n' whole posts."

"I thought it was the trolls because of what I wrote about them over on Lone Wolf Chronicles."

"Ha!" the gremlin said with a snort. "Them name-callin' copy-'n'-pasters can hardly dress themselves without step by step instructions."

"A vast conspiracy then!" I persisted.

"Against a guy who calls himself Lone Wolf? Don't make me laugh."

"So you mean Sherry and Sarge and Scratch and everybody having problems here is just ..."

"You got it. Us Blogstream gremlins."

"AHEM!" said another, louder voice and I have to say the Blogstream gremlins paled.

In the next instant, a swarm of creatures resembling nothing so much as steroid-enhanced versions of the Blogstream gremlins only even more unstable swept into view, .

"Dare I ask who you are?" I asked anyway.

"WE ARE BLOGGER GREMLINS!" the seemingly lead creature roared. "AND WE CONTROL THE DISRUPTIONS AROUND HERE!"

I quickly turned down my speakers to avoid having to type in capital letters and said, "so you are responsible for the shenanigans we have been experiencing?"

"You don't really believe such puny creatures as these are capable of sending false email notifications, do you?"

"Well, no, now that you mention it, they never managed that over at Blogstream."

"Nor could they mess with the layout of your blogs, could they?"

Again I had to admit that they could not.

"Now if you will excuse us - and even if you won't - we have certain gremlin-y affairs to attend."

"Uh, you're not going to eat them, are you?"

Even with the speakers turned down, I could not mistake the tone. "DO WE LOOK LIKE CANNIBALS?"

"Mutant cannibals maybe," I muttered.

"We heard that! And we'll be back to deal with you after we take care of these intruders."

"How?"

"We will simply send them back to the place from whence they came."

"Hey! You can't do that!" the lead Blogstream gremlin protested. "We're all members of COG, the Confederation Of Gremlins."

"And as such you know that you have your assigned territory which is Blogstream. And don't try to say it is closed because it is still up and running. In fact there are people posting over there even now."

"Yeah, but the place is like a ghost town. An' the folks postin' over there don't even seem to notice their neighbors have moved out. What kinda fun is it disruptin' people that oblivious?"

"That is not our concern. Now be gone! We will escort you."

"You ain't heard the last of us, Ornery!" the lead Blogstream gremlin hollered. "We'll be back!"

Stupid gremlin.

QUICK! BEFORE THOSE STEROIDAL FREAK GREMLINS COME BACK! ANYBODY KNOW OF A GOOD ANTI-GREMLIN SOFTWARE PROGRAM? (No, no. Don't tell me here. Odds are they'll find the message.)

I would suggest smoke signals but I don't want you in trouble with the EPA, besides which wind can distort the messages. And I don't think signal mirrors will work. Last time I tried that an ornithologist with binoculars started bird watching right in the middle of communications.

I suppose we could try swapping comments, but I'm not sure how long the gremlins will be gone. Whatever, please hurry your suggestions.

Harold Campion: "It May Already Be Too Late"

2011-05-25T14:14:00.000+12:00

By now most people probably know that dommsayer Harold Campion is chalking up his failed prediction of The Rapture to something like an apocalyptic math error. The new date is October 21st. And contrary to the promise inherent in the words "may be" in the title of this post, in Campion's mind, that should be "it's already too late." Either you have already received a Get Out Of Hell Free card as one of the lucky 200 million winners in this spiritual game of Heaven's Monopoly or you are shit out of luck.

Meanwhile, here on earth, Campion is now saying, "return to living your life as before." Might as well. May the 21st was the day God apparently checked Twitter, Facebook, and other social media sites and tallied the names of the skeptics who scoffed at Campion's prediction, not to mention those who ignored the entire gloom-and-doom affair, and placed them on His heavenly "no fly" list. So come October 21st, either you go to heaven or you go BOOM.

Depressing news, it is true. Apparently, dommsayers such as Campion get second and even third chances at predicting an apocalypse, but if your name isn't already in the line up, you get a seat on the bench to witness up close and in person the destruction of earth. (Sorry to mix metaphors, board game to sporting event, but so it goes.)

Meanwhile, do NOT sell off or give away your earthly possessions. Campion is not and will not. After all, as he has said, he still needs a house to live in and a car to drive around in, nor has he or his ministry shed any assets such as stock portfolios. Of course if a bank or mortgage holder has already booted you from your home and if Republicans get their way and further slash unemployment benefits plus food programs, it won't count against you to be homeless and starving. Just don't expect to receive brownie points for circumstances not under Divine control.

Unfortunately, for those doing the math, Campion's new eve of destruction still leaves a five-month window of opportunity for Republicans wishing to enter or to leave the field of presidential hopefuls and to start running ads. On the brighter side, it provides Newt Gingrich 150 or so more days to shoot from the lip and then say, "I meant what I said when I said what I meant, but what I meant wasn't what I said I meant."

Here in New Zealand Campion's new date will have a far lesser impact on politics than it will in the States. Whereas, there candidates will be spending the remainder of 2011 jockeying for favorable position before the first vote is even cast in a primary to weed out pretenders from contenders (and trying to decide how much of any campaign contributions to expend prior to October 21st), here the political campaigns will scarcely have gathered steam ahead of the election date of November 26th. This means that all of the political parties here should be well-placed both pre- and post-apocalypse, not having wasted a bunch of their taxpayer-funded campaign monies either way.

Yes, you in the USA read that rightly. Active campaigning cannot begin yet and will not until 60 or perhaps 90 days out from Election Day. And yes, campaigns are publicly financed, which naturally begs the questions: "how do people know whom to vote against?" and, more importantly, "how does a major corporation or industry go about buying politicians then?" The answers are usually, "they don't" and "they can't." Instead voters have to decide more along the line of, "do I like what this person is peddling more than what that one is for?" And to throw an added clunker into the mix, it is actually possible to elect a local representative to parliament who is from a "minor party". More, it is possible to vote for a major party candidate for local representation but give party support to one of those minor parties.

Yes, this is all horrifically fascinating stuff to Americans who are probably already seeing campaign ads telling them why Candidate X is such a sleezebag. Fortunately, Campion's new Date of Boom, Doom, and Gloom should allow even a procrastinator to explore the subject in greater depth. Better still, for Americans at least, there is always a remote chance that Campion will have gotten it right. Armageddon will arrive on October 21st and they will be spared more than a year of relentless political campaign ads.

As a lesser consolation, they can consider the fact that Campion is now 89 years old. So on or before that date, an old Far Side cartoon may come into play. In it, a character was walking down the street even as a heavenly finger was about to press a keyboard button marked SMITE.

Frankly, New Zealanders are hoping Campion is wrong, not because it will mess up Election 2011 but because the country is hosting the Rugby World Cup. And that final is slated for October 23rd ...

Rapture Reviews

2011-05-23T14:25:00.000+12:00

It seems obvious now that Harold Campion's predicted Rapture is drawing less than stellar reviews. Many have said that they expected something at least different after the fact and so were naturally (unnaturally?) (supernaturally?) disappointed to awaken to a kitchen requiring clean up from the Rapture Party of the night before or a request from a spouse to "be sure to put out the trash."

Worse were the poor souls who shucked their clothing in anticipation of being borne aloft and instead found themselves cited for indecent exposure. On the plus side though, some enterprising sort has likely already contacted CafePress. Expect to see "I survived the Rapture and all I got was this lousy t shirt" t shirts momentarily.

Truth be told, this post- rapturous world is looking roughly the same as that before the event. Newt Gingrich is still running for President on a "Hope They've Got Really Really Short Attention Spans and/or Memories" platform whereas Harold Campion is probably just running for his eternal life in the event that they don't. Here in New Zealand, the government issued its latest budget before the 21st and reactions have been anything but rapturous from all quarters. The weather has served up its customary mixed bag, though Dunedin has seen more sun recently than it has over the past month, leading to suspicions that maybe this is a post-rapture world, just not as Campion envisioned.

In the everyday world, no doubt more than a few poor souls have had to swallow their pride and return to employers in hopes that some of the millions of previously unemployed have not already taken their places in the work force. With a bit of luck, many of these folks will be able to find at least temporary accommodation with parents, siblings, other relatives, or friends who were, shall we say, less rapt with Campion's prediction.

At that, there is still some hope for these Rapture/Apocalypse/Doomsdayers. They need only cross off May 21 as another day and reset their calendars for December 21, 2012. According to various sources, it is on that date that the Mayan Long Count calendar draws to a close and nobody need tell them what that means. It means that a people who were unable to maintain their domination over a considerable geographical area but did make advances in writing, mathematics, architecture, and art probably knew as much, if not more about the end of time on earth as does a retired professor in California, that or the rigors of daily living precluded concerns for such things as Long Count calendars.

It is probably safest to say, "time will tell."

Mister Ornery's Guide To THE RAPTURE

2011-05-21T15:45:00.000+12:00

With Harold Campion's predicted RAPTURE drawing nigh, no doubt many people have burning questions (is that appropriate terminology?) that they would like answered. So, working to a strict deadline Mister Ornery offers his Guide to the Rapture. Following are the most pressing questions and possible answers.

Q: I've never been "raptured" before? Is it going to be like formal, informal, or what?
A: Mister Ornery believes that The Rapture will be quite informal, more of a "come-as-you-are" sort of event. Yes, ladies, this means that if you do not wish to go through eternity with rollers in your hair, take them out.

Q: Will The Rapture have an effect on the Linkedin IPO?
A: There is an unsubstantiated rumor making the rounds that some Campion-istas believe Linkedin is/was some sort of code for those to be raptured and that this led to the rapid increase in its price per share. That being the case, Mister Ornery anticipates a decline in the share price come Monday.

Q: I have my mortgage set up on an automatic payment and I am thinking about canceling. Is this a good idea?
A: Mister Ornery hates to rain on that particular parade, but he counters with a question. Do you really believe financial officials will be raptured? He doesn't. Therefore he counsels strongly against stopping any automatic payments. Look for those SOBs to be at their desks Monday morning, looking for incoming payments, come hell, high water, or Rapture.

Q: What happens to people who aren't raptured?
A: Harold Campion has quoted a figure of 200 million people being raptured world-wide. This is likely to lead to 6 billion or so others scratching their heads and saying, "what the hell was that?" As an added note, Mister Ornery wishes to point out that air travel could become problematic if, say, the flight crew are among those being raptured while the passengers are not.

Q: In cases such as you describe above, what happens to those passengers?
A: The most probable is that those passengers would spend eternity waiting for their plane to crash.

Q: I am an inmate who was sentenced to life without parole. Any chance I'll get out?
A: Legal experts are sharply divided over this issue. Whereas virtually all agree that someone sentenced to, for example, "consecutive life sentences totaling 463 years" will have to be released at the end of that term, those same experts are sharply divided over whether or not "life" can be taken to mean "eternal life". The only thing that seems certain is that attorneys will be arguing back and forth to eternity.

Q: I don't think my insurance covers Rapture loss or damage. Will it be messy?
A: Mister Ornery is of the belief that so long as people do not get "raptured" through the roofs of their homes and the like, property damage should be minimal. For peace of mind though, check your insurance policies for any "acts of God" clauses. You may be covered.

Q: How will this affect those "lifetime warranties"?
A: Firstly, do not be surprised if companies stop issuing them. Secondly, expect much "wailing and gnashing of teeth" insofar as such warranties already exist.

Q: What about the time zone thing? How will that affect The Rapture?
A: Campion believes it will take place starting where day begins (New Zealand, for example) and moving westward hour by hour, sort of a Jesus' End of the World Tour. Experienced tour organizers are split over which will be the more effective, Christ adopting a Terminator voice to say, "told you I'd be back," or having an angel imitate the little girl in Poltergeist and say, "He's ba-a-a-ck."

Q: If The Rapture does occur as predicted, will there still be life on earth and if so, what might it be like?
A: Should The Rapture actually transpire, the likeliest scenario is that life on earth will continue but with Harold Campion on a world-wide PA system saying, "told you so<" for all eternity.

Q: Any chance Campion could be wrong?
A: Given that Campion previously predicted the end of the world back in 1994, it is entirely possible that he has gotten his calculations mixed up and earth will face nothing more than a plague of 17-year locusts.

Q: So should I or shouldn't I buy a lottery ticket since Campion predicts The rapture to occur at 6 p.m. and the lottery drawing is at 8?
A: Obviously it's a gamble either way.

Borrowing a Page From Sarge

2011-05-17T13:27:00.001+12:00

Minus the map and other graphics, here is the weather forecast for Dunedin, New Zealand: "rain, hail, snow, gale-force winds." Then it's supposed to turn nasty.

Two Links

2011-05-16T17:50:00.000+12:00

Remember, I warned you. The Mighty Flynn has finally dictated his first blog post, sort of a reply to the one Mrs. O just posted. Flynn's is at:

DOG DAZE

Mrs. O's post can be found at:

THE BRIDE WORE BLACK

Mister Ornery and the Quest For Fire

2011-05-12T07:16:00.000+12:00

In 1981, two movies with "Fire" in their titles appeared in cinemas. One was "Chariots of Fire", a British release now rated the 19th best British film of all time. Back then, it received critical acclaim, won Best Picture, and had a catchy theme that is still played today. Encapsulated, it told the story of two runners, one a devout Scottish Christian and the second an English Jew who first competed against each other and then became Olympic teammates.

Around that same time, there was a second "Fire" movie released, this one French-made, dealing with a tribe of Cro Magnons who relied upon nature as a source for fire. When an attack by another tribe left them fire-less, three of their number set out upon a titular "Quest For Fire". This movie received far less acclaim, won only an Academy Award for Best Make Up, and I could not begin to recall any associated music.

I can still remember thinking at the time: critically acclaimed movie with a deep theme and catchy music depicting Englishmen running around in old-fashioned, baggy track uniforms, and contrasting that with: Rae Dawn Chong running around wearing bluish body paint. It was no contest. Rae Dawn beat the baggy pants off the English guys and I went to see her movie.

Thirty years on, heading into winter here in New Zealand, I cannot help thinking that maybe I should have paid more attention to the fire making parts of the movie and less to Ms. Chong because we largely rely upon a wood-burning fireplace to heat our home. At least we would if the thing worked properly.

The formula for fire, as those cavemen in the movie eventually learned, is pretty basic. Man sees Rae Dawn Chong wearing body paint. Man overheats. Man spontaneously combusts. The remaining two then grab all the kindling they can and pack it around the combusted guy, all the while keeping their eyes averted lest they suffer a similar fate.

Now advance to the present and Rae Dawn Chong is nowhere near nor can I get Mrs. O to don body paint which is just as well since I have no desire to spontaneously combust anyway. Besides, I have tools that the cavemen lacked. I have a Bic lighter and newspaper, accompanied by pieces of kindling. Bic ignites paper. Paper ignites kindling. Ornery adds slightly larger bits of wood. Slightly larger bits of wood smolder and glow and go out. Ornery repeats process until: A) Bic lighter runs out of fluid; B) he is forced to mug newspaper delivery girl for all of her remaining newspapers; C) he begins to size up furniture for potential kindling materials; D) he wonders if watching "Chariots Of Fire" all those years ago would have enhanced his fire-making skills.

Can anybody tell me if old English track uniforms burn? If so, can anybody tell me where I can find some before we get too deeply into winter? Otherwise Mrs. O may start turning blue with cold, I will inadvertently look at her and think: Quest For Fire, and next thing I know she and Flynn will be shoving me into the fireplace. But at least the flames will go out before I suffer serious damage.

Doggone It!

2011-05-10T12:43:00.000+12:00

So I persuade Mrs. O to get her own blog and what happens? Well, it seems that we were both overlooking the effect this would have on our four-legged "child". Yes, now Flynn insists that he be given a blog.

We have tried as gently as we can to point out to him that keyboards are not conducive to pawing but he remains adamant. "if both of you can blog, then so can I. Besides, it's about time folks knew what it's really like around this place."

SIGH! It's hard to resist those big brown eyes, especially when he lets his ears droop and it appears that he has lost his last friend. So I have told him that we will try, but that since he may have trouble obtaining a gmail account, it might be best to set up his blog under the auspices of Mrs. O or me. His reaction has been predictable. "What? You haven't got it set up yet?"

Here goes.*

*Please take anything he says with a grain of salt. In fact, bring the entire canister. You may need it.

Another Day On $#)+ Creek

2011-05-08T09:45:00.000+12:00

Travel to the headwaters of that infamous creek up which people euphemistically find themselves without means of manual propulsion and I believe you will find the facility where I work. Yes, we are back around to the subject of the Bristol Stool Chart which, as former Blogstreamers know, has nothing at all to do with seats along a bar. Rather, it has to do with making poopy by numbers other than but also including 2 and our residents' repeated refusals to $#)+ by numbers.

According to Bristol (not Palin), seven types or varieties will suffice and still our residents produce byproducts that defy classification. Therefore, I am writing to the Bristol (not Palin) people asking them to consider adding to their list. My proposed additional categories are:

8) Peek-a-Boo Poo whose unique characteristic is to appear in unlikely places anywhere from hair to toes all but necessitating a trip to an automated car wash to insure complete removal. Peek-a-Boo Poo is especially prevalent on and around wrinkly people and their opposite numbers, those carrying excessive weight. (Imagine cleaning matter from the hide of a Shar Pei and that gives a fair idea of the degree of difficulty. Similarly, for those with expanded girth such that their private parts lie ever in shadow, Peek-a-Boo Poo may be found anywhere along and under that overhanging equator.) Clean and clean and clean still more and it is virtually guaranteed that the cleaner will find more when he turns around.

My suggested Category 9 - and yes, I know, hurricanes only reach category 5, but these $#)+ storms are as bad or worse - would be: Peanut Butter Poo. (May Jif and Skippy forgive me.) This substance is of a consistency that facilitates its spreading to the extent that wiping only broadens the affected area. Worse, it seems almost self-perpetuating, as though the resident is a dispenser. (Shift leg and more appears.) People who produce this variety are often on soft diets anyway and, incongruously, many do not seem to eat as much as they create byproduct, leading to a personal suspicion that they are $#)+ channelers for the Great Beyond. Nothing else really explains how a 75-pound man can eat a few ounces of pureed food and produce enough waste to fertilize an entire rice paddy.

I face one more day at what I have come to call The Headwaters, a day in which I fear a hairy AND wrinkly resident will produce a Category 9 $#)+ Storm. If so, that is likely where I will be, cleaning and cleaning, when the Bristol Stool people issue their reply. Only if/when they affirm my suggestions will I hit them with the ultimate mystery poo (not literally "hit them", mind you) the dry-on-the-outside-liquid-in-the-middle pellets I call Category 10: Paintball Poo. I have no doubt that if/when I do that, the Bristol (not Palin) people will say, "that ornery really knows his $#)+."

Can a fecal consultancy be - shall we say - far behind?

Mrs. O's Toe

2011-05-01T11:34:00.000+12:00

I believe a quick update is in order lest anyone think Mrs. O has no intention of replying to comments on her blog. She does; it is just that she has broken her little toe.

"And she types with her feet?" I hear you say.

Well, no. It is just that her toe is attached to the rest of her which is ordinarily not a problem except that it causes her pain when she sits in any position other than with her foot elevated. This means that by the quirk of fate of not having been born an orangutan, if she props her foot to the front, she cannot reach the keyboard. And I do not know if anyone has ever tried this, but typing while seated side-saddle is well nigh impossible.

"And how did she break her toe?" did someone ask? "Were the two of you dancing and she forgot to wear her steel-toed dance slippers?"

Hard as this is to believe, the answer is no. We were not dancing. Mrs. O knows from past experience to wear steel-toed shoes, shin guards, protective gloves, other padding, and a crash helmet before literally "tripping the light (not so) fantastic" with yours truly.

Rather, she was stacking firewood.

"And where were YOU, Ornery, that your wife had to stack firewood?"

Geez! Give a guy a break - and not a broken toe! I was at work. You know, Bedlam. And if you must know, I was here to help off load the five cubic meters of wood when it arrived. Furthermore, I told Mrs. O to leave it for me to handle. God knows there was plenty of other work she could get at, preparing her gardens for winter high on the list.

But no. Mrs. O had this strange notion that our garage was for parking the car out of the elements and not for a huge pile of firewood, unstacked. So while Ornery was off dealing to and with the Bedlamites, she was busily engaged in her own version of creating order from chaos.

One chunk of wood resisted being categorized and stuck with its brethren. It did leap from the pile and smite Mrs. O upon her right little toe. (If only she had been wearing her steel-toed dance slippers instead of sneakers.)

I have no idea what Mrs. O said to or did with the offending wood chunk, but I know what I would have said to and done with it. Since there were no toothpick-sized splinters and since the air inside the garage was not blue, I can only assume she reacted differently.

Unfortunately, as anyone knows who has ever endured similar fate, there is little that can be done for such in injury save to keep it on ice, keep it elevated, and rest it, none of which is conducive to blogging or replying to comments. And since I am a poor stenographer, I fear one and all will have to wait until such time as Mrs. O's toe gives the word "go" so that she can return.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must seek out the offending piece of wood and reduce it to kindling. You may want to cover your ears.

Welcome to Burger King

2011-04-30T07:29:00.000+12:00

I stand corrected. For these past several years I have been claiming to live in New Zealand, despite what my spell checker has to say about it. Obviously I have been wrong.

In my prior post, I mentioned that this country has one team entered in the Australian National Basketball League (plus one in the Australian A - soccer - League and one in the National Rugby League). Last night, the basketball team made history by becoming the first team from this country to take a championship in an Australian-based professional sports league and I learned the true country name, courtesy of Auckland-based Yahoo/Xtra. I quote: "The Burger King Breakers have created history by becoming the first New Zealand sports team to win a major Australian competition."

"The Burger King Breakers." At last the truth wins out! Better still, my spell check approves. Unfortunately, I cannot allow the matter to rest there. I will be contacting our government (as soon as I figure out who that really is) to point out that our country should more properly be called The Burger Kingdom. I just hope His Royal Highness, the Burger King, will commit anew to public appearances throughout his land. I hope too that he has been at work upon his wardrobe during his absence from the public eye. We have image problems enough abroad without our ruler looking like a clown wanna-be.

Royally F-(&ed

2011-04-29T14:18:00.000+12:00

Leaving aside that it seems to be NFL draft day in the US (yes, I committed the sacrilege of saying "leaving aside"), we New Zealanders, especially Otagoans, and most particularly sports fans are on the horns of a dilemma. Firstly, our Super 15 rugby Highlanders find themselves playing for a spot at or very near the top of the standings. Almost simultaneously, our New Zealand Basketball League Nuggets are playing a game in which they will be trying to break a 2-season losing streak - and with at least a chance of accomplishing the feat. Thirdly, New Zealand's entry in the Australian Basketball League, the Breakers, will be seeking to become the first Kiwi entrant in any Australian-based professional sports league to lift the title and trophy. And the odds are poor that we male fans will be able to enjoy any of the three events on live broadcast because, well, it seems that Wills and Kate are getting married.

The Royal Wedding. That would be Prince William and the commoner, Kate Middleton. And don't pretend like you haven't heard about it in the US. It features prominently on US-based news sites, all of which is neither here nor there. (It is in England.)

(Un)fortunately for me, I have to work while all of this is going on which saves engaging in an arm wrestle with Mrs. O over which sporting event to watch. In fact, sports fan that she is, I have a sneaking suspicion that she may forgo our teams in favor of checking in to see - and to critique - the bridal outfit.

No, no, no. Mrs. Ornery does NOT expect the Royal Bride to wear black. Heaven forbid! There is, after all, custom, not to mention vast amounts of pomp and circumstance. Yet I suspect that Mrs. O, as does many a woman, intends to watch the event because it appeals to many a fantasy, of being royalty even while thinking: so she gets a prince and I got a frog

Be that as it may, I have pointed out to her, "you've seen one Royal Wedding, you've seen them all." As clinchers, I have reminded her of our above sporting legacy, that NO Kiwi entrant in soccer, rugby league, or basketball - netball either, when it comes to that - has ever lifted a league trophy. I have mentioned that the Nuggets, our entrant in the New Zealand basketball league, have lost 29 straight games plus missed an entire season - and wouldn't it be great to witness the end of that losing streak?

Then there are our beloved rugby union Highlanders, once-proud members of the Super 15, a franchise that has fallen on hard times over the past too many seasons and a team we have grown used to seeing somewhere near the bottom of the heap. They were picked down there again at season's start, but under their new coach, a strange thing has occurred. The team has won 7 of 9 (conjures up memories of Jerri Ryan's character on Star Trek Voyager) - where was I? No, not Voyager. Highlanders! That was it.

For once, the team is playing a game well into a season with meaning. Win tonight and they could well be sitting atop the New Zealand division of the Super 15. (There are also Australian and South African divisions.) I tell you, this is near sporting nirvana for Kiwi/Otago fans which is why I begged Wills and Kate either to reschedule their nuptials or at least postpone them to a later hour so as not to conflict with the starting times for our various games here. Unfortunately, the invitations had already gone out, the Archbishop was already committed, the caterers ... and the blasted media. Against all that pressure, what could Wills do other than wilt? And I really cannot blame him. Marriage is fraught with perils enough without starting it with a Bridezilla. So I wish the young gentleman well. Just wish Harry had given into the temptation of front row seats for the Highlanders and lots of beer. I'm betting for his absence Wills would have postponed.

Mrs. O Doesn't Have a Corner

2011-04-22T15:54:00.000+12:00

Erks! I didn't mean it that way! What I mean is, her blog isn't called Mrs. Ornery's Corner - for obvious reasons. Instead, she is following Whit's suggestion and calling her blog:

The Bride Wore Black

Remember: You Can't Spell Assembly Without an ASS

2011-04-22T08:52:00.000+12:00

Okay, I'm lazy. This is another post transferred from Blogstream.

I will be assembling a floor lamp today. Wish me well for you who have read previous posts know my manual abilities. They do not exist.

Speaking of manual, I hope there is one in the box and that it was written by someone who has at least a nodding acquaintance with the English language. The manual for that electric chainsaw awhile back nearly did in my brain. (Wasled oil? Ling hair? Pamp?) I hope too that if there are diagrams, they were not done by a hyperactive third grader with anger management issues. Nothing quite says frustration like the illustration of a disassembled lamp that looks more like the Death Star explosion from Star Wars. For that matter, I hope quality control was not having an off day when the lamp materials were packed, else I may find that there are too many or too few pieces to put together.

Or do companies put closet sadists in their packaging departments? I can almost hear their mental wheels turning. Toss in these couple of extra screws. No, wait. Just ONE extra screw. That oughta give the sucker fits, trying to figure out what he missed. Wonder if Sadowski in Illustrations could add an extra arrow to the diagram, aiming at a non-existent hole? That would really make somebody's head spin.
I also have a stereo to set up but that should be child's play, so long as the child is not that deranged third grader. All I have to do is attach the speakers and plug it in. With a bit of luck, there will actually be holes for the speaker wires and the plug will not be twice as large as the outlet.

Assuming those two projects do not set me on a course to drink, drugs, and mental ruin and provided that our weather clears, my project for tomorrow is to reassemble the pre-assembled gates that I put up sometime back to fence in the dog. As nearly as I can determine, those gates were put together with headless push pins and not with anything as basic as nails. This explains why they have blown nearly to bits in the latest wind storm. Maybe the gates were meant for display, not for actual opening and closing while exposed to weather.

The gates looked and felt solid enough when we bought them and were certainly heavy and awkward enough for anyone with only two hands to try to set up and hold in place while attaching the hinges. In fact, they were substantial enough to set the dog to exploring alternate escape routes from the back yard, at least at first. Now a chihuahua would raise his leg to water them in disdain on his way by; they are that useless.

Fortunately, I will not need a manual to reassemble them. I already know how they are supposed to look. Of course by the time I have finished with them, I may be ready to consider a career in Manual Illustration AND Product Packaging. Any manufacturers out there interested in a manual for Easy Assemble Gates? I could even bastardize the English language to make it realistic. Something like:

"take from gate assembly the package (not included.)"

(Post script: Despite the previous sentence, offers have NOT been pouring in from Chinese companies. Apparently they can bastardize the English language more cheaply than I can.)

(Second post script: after I originally posted this piece, I did manage to assemble both floor lamp and stereo despite illustrations drawn by a chimpanzee with an Etch-a-Sketch. I also reassembled the gates which the wind promptly blew apart again. As a result, Mrs. O and I are weighing our options for confining the dog. She favors a crocodile-infested moat. I am arguing for barbed wire and machine guns. We will see which option the Dunedin City Council approves since it was their dog warden who insisted we confine our critter.)

Mrs. O

2011-04-20T08:33:00.000+12:00


Honest! This is Mrs. O. On our wedding day. It is NOT an image I swiped from a "single women seeking love and marriage" dating site. Yes, the bride wore black. No, that is NOT the dress she will wear to my funeral when one of my blog "buddies" bumps me off. She has promised to dress more conservatively. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to notify New Zealand Customs officials to be on the lookout for wild-eyed, suspicious-acting male bloggers and/or their hitmen.

Could Be Trouble

2011-04-20T00:20:00.000+12:00

Don't know if I should mention this or not but Mrs. O is thinking of starting her own blog. If so, gone will be my dashing, debonair, man of the world image as blogging friends learn what life is really like with me under roof - or foot. Fortunately, Mrs. O has not yet decided upon a title, though I fear she will accept worthy (to her anyway) suggestions, so there is yet hope. But that thing about the newspaper ...

See If This Shows Up

2011-04-19T00:00:00.001+12:00

This is supposed to create the link to my other blog:

Lone Wolf Chronicles

Still Undecided

2011-04-17T06:07:00.000+12:00

I am trying to decide whether it is worth the time and aggravation to do here as I did no Blogstream and create a second blog. There, I always wanted to make Mister Ornery's Corner a fun sort of place. It didn't always work out, but that was the idea. Let my creative energies flow in the direction of provoking and promoting laughs. At the same time, I looked around at this fractured world of ours and found myself chafing against my self-imposed restriction on letting go with my thoughts, opinions, and beliefs. So I created Lone Wolf Chronicles as an outlet for all of that. And now I find myself tempted anew. I read current events, news, and opinions and I want to add my voice to the clamor. Will it make a difference? Doubtful, except to me. So maybe I am not as undecided as I originally thought. Maybe it is time to see if I can establish a Lone Wolf here. I'll let you know.

Headline News?

2011-04-16T09:00:00.000+12:00

I have read it repeatedly in the last day or so. "World's Oldest Man Dies". And I say again, "NO HE DIDN'T!" The former "world's oldest man died". Now somebody else holds the title. It's a succession thing. When the current oldest dies, there will always be someone to take his place. Same with the "world's oldest woman". She dies, she's replaced, and life goes on. I'm not even sure why it's such a big deal except that maybe we all secretly hope we'll one day ascend to that throne. Kind of put off the Grim Reaper longer than anyone else. The point being? I have no idea. All I do know is that if God, fate, destiny, call it whatever you will decrees that I should be so "lucky", then I hope my mental faculties stay sharp and that my body cooperates as well. Otherwise, I repeat, what's the point?

Look What I (New)Found(Land)

2011-04-15T20:59:00.000+12:00

Here is another Blogstream transfer.

I guess the weather in Canada does strange things to inhabitants - or did anyway. Consider some of the place names. There is actually a place called Dildo, Newfoundland.

Perhaps I should re-phrase that. Put that way, it sounds rather like the Special of the Day. "We'll have the Dildo Newfoundland." Maybe it's ordered like at Subway.

"Would you like the six-inch?"

"Oh, what the heck! Give me a foot-long."

I think those Newfoundlanders are having us on. Supposedly there is also a place called: Come-By-Chance though I can't recall if it's anywhere near Dildo. Then there is what can only be Popeye's hometown: Blow-Me-Down, although that could be a byproduct of a sneeze from Jerry's Nose or Nick's Nose Cove or even Calves Nose.

Joe Batt's Arm is there too, with no explanation at all what happened to the rest of poor Joe. Possibly he lost the limb at Hatchet Cove. If so, he would have had cause to complain at Gripe Point if not for the fact that blood loss might have led him first to Confusion Bay and ultimately to Dead Man's Bay. Newfoundlanders also discovered a Too Good Arm, though 'too good' for whom or for what, they have not bothered to explain. (Joe Batt might like to know why his arm wasn't even good enough.)

Those are far from the only body parts lying around the landscape. Visitors may run across a Little Cat Arm, which most of us would call a leg, or some Cat Gut, Hare’s Ears Point, even a Cow Head, despite which Newfoundlanders might expect one to sit down to a nice pile of Horse Chops.

Moving right along, a person not wishing to get caught up in an Abbot and Costello routine would do well to avoid Run-by-guess.

'Run by whom?'
'Run-by-guess.'
'I don't know.'
'Third base!'

Strangely, there is no Third Base, Newfoundland, but there is a Plate Cove. There is also a Traytown which probably must be ‘returned to the full upright position’, or at least folded and put away somewhere.

Visitors to Newfoundland most likely stay in Rooms too., if only to avoid Lushes Bight, or a Snake’s Bight, though a tetanus shot might protect against the former and a basic kit against the latter.

Sadly, there is Little Paradise to be found in Newfoundland and readers must now decide whether to consign this post to Bleak Joke Cove or Ha Ha Bay. As for me, those Horse Chops are looking mighty good because I am about at my Famine Point. You may have trouble finding me because they tell me I am at Nameless Cove. If I'm not there, check Misery Point because I'd love the company.

The Chinese Chainsaw (Instruction) Massacre

2011-04-13T14:23:00.000+12:00

Note: this is a re-post of a Blogstream piece from a couple of years ago.

Mister Ornery bought a new chainsaw. Free Trade and international relations may never be the same.

RING, RING. Some sort of answer phone menu. All I want is to speak to someone human - I think. I push buttons. There is a brief bit of music. Then: RING RING. At last there is an accented voice saying something.

I say, "Hello. Is this the _________ autnortsed service center?"

"Service center, yes. What means the other word?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me. Maybe I didn't pronounce it correctly. It's spelled: A-U-T-N-O-R-T-S-E-D."

"I do not know that word, Sir."

"Neither do I. But this is the ________ company, right?"

"Yes."

"So I guess you're one of the stulff?"

"Stulff?"

"S-T-U-L-F-F. That's about the only way I can pronounce it. Stulff."

"Are you drunk, Sir?"

"I wish I was. Maybe then this instruction manual would make sense."

"You have one of our products, Sir?"

"Yes. An electric chain saw."

"There is a problem with it?"

"I'll say! My sides are still hurting."

"Sir, there are instructions to avoid injuring yourself."

"Yeah, but what happens if you laugh so hard at the instructions your ribs hurt?"

"Sir, I am going to hang up - "

"No, wait! I really do have a problem! See, when we were putting the chainsaw together, maybe we didn't 'offer the bar/chain assemblly up to the locking pin and tensioning screw' correctly. Is that like a religious ritual? 'Offering up'? And what the devil is an A-S-S-E-M-B-L-L-Y? Some kind of belly?"

CLICK!

Rats! They won't take my follow up calls and I have more questions. For one, I want to know what a "dry pace" is. Funereal? How do I make sure the chainsaw is "discormected"? What is a "safe and comfortable p-e-s-i-t-i-o-n" and what does it mean to have both feet "firmly p-i-a-n-t-e-d? Painted on a piano, maybe?

What does it mean when they say: "The chainsaw is suitable for the only in the premises ..."? How about those "branches under left should be cut from the bottom up"? What is "wasled oil" and how might it damage the "pamp"? Do either of those have anything to do with the "lubricanon" or "slopping the chain"? How does "NOt cutting with the danger area at the Up of the saw" reduce kickback?

Cripes! I never even got to ask about "catting down trees" or what "slopjng ground" is, or "notch cutes" (although I figure those look better than "notch uglies"). I don't know why I would want to "make downward cut hallway ..." and I still don't know how to "sharpen the bledes". And why the devil would I have an infant around while I am using a chainsaw. I quote:

"Avoid baby contact with earthed or grounded surfaces ..." Having a baby around makes about as much sense as "wear(ing) jewelers".

So many mysteries remain unexplained. I may never know why I should "Never carry the tool by the work. It is safer than using your hand and it frees both bands to operate the tool."

At least the manual isn't a complete waste. I know to "... contain ling hair" while using the chainsaw, even if I have no idea what a "ling" is. And above all, I have learned: "Do not use the tool if the switch does not turn it on".

Good thing to know. I do a lousy chainsaw imitation.

Gee Ography

2011-04-13T09:54:00.000+12:00

How come your folks named you Ography?

Sorry. Bad joke there. But it's no worse than the joke Kentucky.com is playing on me. My spell check too, for that matter. Kentucky.com keeps trying to tell me that I live in Alberta, presumably Canada, since I know of none other. My spell check is more vague. Either it does not think I spell Zealand correctly, as in New Zealand, or it is trying to deny that this country even exists.

In the former matter, I have an account with Kentucky.com so that I can stay abreast of events where my younger son now lives (and also so that I can make comments and offer opinions from afar to annoy people there.) Unfortunately, the powers that be (in charge) seem to be geographically challenged. When I filled out my account information, I entered "non-US" in the block for "state or territory" then filled in New Zealand for "country". I clicked 'save", checked to be sure that all information was correct -
- and in the time it took the page to reload, I learned that I had moved to Alberta.

I have no idea why this is, but at least Kentucky.com accepts that New Zealand is a country. It exists in the drop-down menu and here I wish to assure any and all Canadians that New Zealand has absolutely NO intention of trying to take over Alberta. Oh, we probably could, if we had more than a three-ship navy and only about 5,000 soldiers, but it seems an awful lot of bother just to stake a claim to an NHL franchise. Besides, our government has trouble enough taking care of its people here without having to rack up frequent flier miles to oversee a territory several thousand miles away.

Exactly what Spell Check's hassle is with New Zealand, I have no idea. Perhaps it is run by an old Dutchman who prefers Zeeland. It accepts that I can spell New so maybe it would rather I shifted to New Caledonia. At least it accepts that name. But I don't think New Caledonia has any interest in Alberta either. The NHL is not a big draw in the tropical Pacific and I'm not sure they even have a navy.

Condom Hints

2011-04-11T14:22:00.000+12:00

Blogstreamers may remember a post I did sometime back on a German inventor's attempts to create spray-on condoms. The idea was that a man could simply insert his, er, organ into a device that would then spray it with latex. Custom fitting, as it were. No more of this "one size fits all" nonsense.

When I first read the report, I could not help noticing that the inspiration for the idea came from automated car washes and so could not help thinking: hot wax. And no way could I ever see subjecting myself to that. (Hot Wax, cool ardor, to my mind.) (And if it had some of those scrubbing brushes, the guy could be gone before he gets properly protected.)

Will the device be coin-operated? Surely they wouldn't be installed in gas station rest rooms! But would they have something like a limited term licensing agreement for the operating system and if the guy doesn't renew he runs the risk of it shutting down halfway through the latexing process leaving him only half protected?

No matter because it seems the inventor has not so far managed to advance his idea for the simple reason that latex takes two to three minutes to dry. And depending on the partner involved, "here, blow on this" could definitely alter the mood as would the partner having to watch the guy wave his willy around in the manner of women trying to dry nail polish.

At that though, assuming someone manages to create fast-drying latex, such equipment would open up an endless array of possibilities: Scotsmen in tartan plaids, fanatics sporting favorite team colors, perhaps even glow-in-the-dark or strobing effects. (Hey, Baby. Wanna see my light saber?) (With or without weird sound effects.)

Meanwhile, the German inventor is at work producing a line of condoms available in six sizes insead of the usual two, everything from "Why bother? You buy this size and your chances of scoring are nil" to: "Can I get a police escort so I can get away from this crazed mob?"

If there are any updates, I promise to keep everyone informed. And I would personally recommend the Vulcan "live long and prosper" item for men who wish to impress. Just beware running afoul of Truth In Advertising laws.

Today We Would Be Terrorists, Part 2: Rocket Bug or Fly Me To the Cows

2011-04-09T11:01:00.000+12:00

(If you read the last (re-)post, you now know that Ornery and company were childhood mad scientists. And the chemistry set was only the beginning. Here is what else we never told our parents.)

My brother, friends, and I used to create small-scale IEDs. This was during our transition from chemistry to rocketry, I believe.

Folks in my age bracket may recall the ink refills that could be broken off to fit pens of different length. They came in packages complete with a small aluminum tube that fit over the refill. All it required was to slide tube over refill, line up with the demarcation line that would fit the pen needing a refill and snap off the excess.

The aluminum tubes, however, served a better purpose for a group of boys fascinated with fireworks and things that went BOOM. I cannot recall who first came up with the idea, but we used to take the tubes, shave the heads and tips off kitchen matches, pack them inside the tubes, poke matchsticks in either end, prop up the tube on a forked stick, douse it with lighter fluid, ignite, and run. (Running was big when I was a kid, usually away from our latest project.)

The tube would heat, match tips and heads would ignite, and the matchsticks poked in the ends would fly out, or the tube would be turned into a small bit of twisted metal. We could never be sure which would happen. Eventually, I believe my mom caught us performing our bomb-making experiments and confiscated the can of lighter fluid and matches. She probably reported us to the other parents too, so as to restrict our access to our bomb-making materials. But we youthful scientists simply shifted our focus to the model rocket ads in comic books, dreaming of building the things and sending them aloft.

Of course, given the local economy and the fact that we competed with each other to wash windows, trim hedges, mow lawns, and all the rest, we were forced to pool our resources when we sent away for the kits. And we never could see the point to ordering the fancy launch platform or the official ignition device. Heck no! All we wanted were the rockets that blasted skyward, in as many different forms as we could buy. So we ordered up the rockets and, since we were not sure how the rockets would work packed with match tips and heads, we ordered the 'rocket engines' too, figuring we would work out the ignition problems when we got that far.

(As for the 'launch platform', well, we figured that was why God created flat rocks.)

The kits arrived and we set to work. Our first was a 'tumble recovery' number that only went 650 feet up and was then supposed to drift to earth. Our solution to the ignition problem was to poke fuse into the end of the rocket engine and light it. And since we had the attention spans of hyperactive gnats, but less money, we figured just a short length of fuse.We lit the sucker and ran. (Always with the running.)

We only had to chase the tumble recovery rocket about a block to get it back.

Emboldened by our success, we moved on to a three-stage rocket. The first stage would ignite the second and drop away and then the second would ignite a chute charge, by which point the rocket would be 1500 feet in the air, at least according to theory.

Ours had not read that theory. When the second stage ignited, the first dropped away readily enough, but somehow the rocket arced a bit off course, over a farm pasture, and there was a delay with the chute charge. And I am here to tell you that dairy cows do NOT like small objects that go pop or bang and fling out bright red parachutes at nearly eye level. In fact, they showed their disapproval by trampling the nose cone, second stage, and parachute into the mud.

Did that discourage us? No more than did the rocket that blew over on the launch rock so that when we peeked from down over the bank it was aimed in our direction. Fortunately, on that occasion, all of the fleeing from our experiments had made me fleet enough afoot to run at the rocket from an angle and yank the fuse out, still with an inch or two of fizzing fuse to spare.

Undaunted and still amazingly unscathed, we shifted the launch of our next two projects to the high school. One guy caught a bug that we put into the capsule of our rocket on a bed of cotton. We sent the rocket aloft, recovered same, and the bug staggered around in circles for a bit before crawling home to tell his disbelieving friends and family about his alien abduction and trip into space.

Then came out grandest trial. We had one rocket-plane combination that, according to the ads, would take off to a height of 300 feet and perform a descending, circular flight before landing for re-use.

Not quite. Ours ignited, rose to maybe 30 feet, and launched into a drunken descending spiral, loop-the-loop path that sent it crashing into the solid brick wall of the school.

Now rocket-less, we headed homeward, and the combination of having to pool money, send away, and wait to receive more must have deflated our budding rocketry careers. After the Great Spiral Splat, I don't believe we ever launched another rocket.

Today We Would Be Terrorists - Part 1

2011-04-09T10:40:00.000+12:00

(Note: this is another re-post or more compost from Blogstream.)

Today we would be terrorists or at least 'persons of interest' to law enforcement, but reality is, it's a wonder my brother, some of our friends, and I reached adulthood still in possession of our physical faculties. I don't know if we were a mutant bunch of kids or if the things we used to get up to were more widespread than the confines of my little home town, but when I look back on those days from an adult perspective, I cannot help thinking:

WERE WE NUTS????

(This will be my last 'trip down memory lane', albeit in two parts and at least for now.)

I cannot recall how old I was the Christmas my folks finally gave in to my pestering and bought me a chemistry set, but I do recall their numerous caveats. 'Follow the instructions, make sure you keep a window open, don't breathe in the fumes, keep the stuff out of your eyes, and do NOT mix things you aren't supposed to.'

I never did, at least not while they were looking on. I even showed them some of the tame experiments performed by following the instructions. But my brother and I and some of our friends were curious so, at the first opportunity, we carried the chemistry set - in its neat blue case - into the great outdoors in an effort to determine exactly what would happen if we mixed, say, substance x with substance y.

In my mind anyway, I figured somebody had to have tried it before and lived to tell about it, if only to write, 'DON'T MIX X AND Y TOGETHER', but in retrospect, I can see that the DON'T was probably written by Mad Doctor Smythe's faithful assistant after watching his mentor keel over from the fumes after doing exactly that.

So what resulted from our Mad Scientific experiments? you ask.

Not much. The only thing I seem to recall is putting stuff together in a mayonnaise jar that turned frothy and purple and looked for all the world like we were boiling the hide off Barney the Dinosaur even if we didn't have a clue that such a creature would ever exist. We did figure that one day we might accidentally create a cocktail of chemicals that would eat a hole in the ground clear down to the center of the earth and we were always a bit leery of causing an explosion, so perhaps we weren't quite as mad as I now suspect. Still, seeing a bunch of kids huddled around a chemistry set would probably bring down Homeland security in modern times - and our model rocketry experiments were wilder still.

(Next: Rocket Bug or Fly Me To the Cows.)

Quick Thought

2011-04-08T13:37:00.000+12:00

I think "birthers" should be covered under the Americans With Disabilities Act.

Whither the Weather

2011-04-07T12:36:00.000+12:00

I am sorry to harp on an old topic but we have been experiencing weather here of late. Yes, yes, I know. All of you have been experiencing weather as well. Ours, however, has been bleak and gloomy enough that an Englishman - yes, an Englishman, for God's sake - has complained about it.

It seems to me that is akin to Muammar Gaddafi questioning anyone else's sanity. (Speaking of ol' Daffy, does anyone's spell check approve of any spelling of the madm- , er, dicta-, I mean, Libyan leader's last name? And by anyone, I mean even those whose sanity Daffy may have called into question. To my way of thinking, it is no wonder the guy acts nutty, seeing his name in print spelled any old which-way and not a one of the spellings accepted by an English spell check. Then too, I bet the Englishman who has complained about Dunedin's weather approves of Libyan weather. Or not. He would probably think it was too hot.)

Anyway, Dunedin is currently enduring a spell of cold, wet weather much more suited to winter - or to England. Speaking of which, with the latest royal wedding fast approaching, it is with deepest regret that I inform everyone (including anyone whose sanity Daffy has questioned) that Mrs. O and I will not be attending the nuptials. Not only can we not take the time off from work, but it seems Wills and Kate - as we like to call them - have lost our address. At least we have not so far received our invitation. I did suggest to Mrs. O that it may have been in that sodden lump of envelope marked "Official" but she countered that it probably contained her notice of a parking violation.It was really difficult to tell what with horizontal rain blowing in through the slot and turning everything to a mixed up mush, though it seems the city of Dunedin is running a special on beer, provided we list our home with the right realtor.

So what Englishman complained about Dunedin's weather? Would you believe he is a sports journalist whose mission it will be to follow the English national team when it arrives for the Rugby World Cup and that since the earthquake in Christchurch has forced a rejiggering of scheduled matches, he will be forced to come to Dunedin? It's true. Apparently, unlike players who can and will adapt to any conditions, rugby journalists cannot - even if there is a distinct possibility that England will play one or more of its pool games in our new, domed stadium. (It is possible though that said journalist has heard about the under-supply of restroom facilities currently in stadium plans and the unknown quantity - not to mention quality - of whatever food and drink will be on offer since those same stadium construction plans left out funding for a kitchen fit out at the facility.)

All of that aside, simply because our current weather is more suited to a Dunedin winter day than to autumn anywhere in the civilized world is not to say that it will be this way come October, when we will be into spring. It could be the same - or worse. Besides, with rooms hereabouts likely to be in short supply, I have no doubt that the Dunedin City Council might extend offers to journalists such as he to bunk at the stadium pre- and post-matches. He may even find by then that there are actually enough restroom and kitchen facilities to go around so that he never has to leave those cozy confines. Of course he may want to bring a computer and/or a portable television because stadium plans do not include a scorebaord or large screen tvs either.

It would be a shame if his impressions of our fair city were then blighted by having to brave the elements.

Here Is a Recapping of Recent Events

2011-04-05T07:59:00.000+12:00

No, no, no. NOT KNEEcapping! (Knock-knee capping? No, not that either.) Rather, these are the reasons for my not being here-ness of late.

Mrs. O and I have a smallish house (2-bedroom, one bathroom, and not a heck of a lot of storage space.) This works well for - as online surveys refer to us - an "older couple with no children living in the home." Add her son, his pregnant partner, and two children under the age of four, however, and space becomes not "the final frontier" but damned hard to find. Need I add that this quartet was with us off and on (more on than off) since Christmas because the pregnancy posed risks and complications?

Computer time, especially over the past month, became something of a pipe dream which was no surprise since even for going to the bathroom we had to adopt a modified Baskin-Robbins "take a number" approach. (I completely lost count of the number of "WHOOPSIES!" that arose from one person attempting to answer Nature's call only to discover that Nature's call had been a public address announcement for the masses. In fact, one WHOOPSIER collided with a would-be WHOOPSIER in the process of retreating from the already-occupied bathroom during rush hour.)

Sleeping arrangements were less problematic, at least for the adults. Two per bed and bedroom with no chance of mix up. The troublesome two were the kids who, because of those accursed space limitations, had to be divided equally between bedrooms. Mrs. O and I wound up with one cot containing one 14-month old child. And contrary to what "experts" may say, little children do NOT require an abundance of sleep.

A typical scenario was as follows: while the Ornerys worked - usually 3-11 shifts, young mom and dad would put the children to bed. Mr. and Mrs. O would arrive home from work to the sounds of sleeping - muttering, snorts, snores, shifting bodies.. After a couple of hours of decompression, we would head off to bed. Our heads would hit pillows and we would inevitably hear: "WAHHHHHHH!" (Translated, this meant: "oh goody, grandparental persons. You are home and I have missed you so-o-o-o much." That or, "YO! I just crapped my nappie here. And as long as you're up, I sure could use a refill of the old bottle.") We alternated at alleviating these conditions and putting said child back to bed whereupon she would fall promptly asleep -

- to awaken when Dad left the house around 6 a.m. for work. Since yours truly here is more of a morning person than is Mrs. O, meaning I do not burst into flames with the rising of the sun, (not that Mrs. O does burst into flames, mind you) I would pluck said child from her cot and set about entertaining/feeding/clothing her until such time as older child awakened pregnant mom, who needed all the rest she could get. Often as not, Mom would have a pregnancy-related appointment with someone, leaving me to provide entertainment/more food/toileting/nappie change(s)..Luckily for me, my maturity level is nearly on a par with theirs, the chief difference being that I don't accidentally "make poopy in my pants", so I was able to survive until either Mom returned or Mrs. O arose from her slumber.

So it went, with stepson transferring back to Dunedin for his employer, the young couple house-hunting, house-finding, mortgage-obtaining, and the ongoing pregnancy until, on March 29, granddaughter number 3 arrived, thereby removing Mom from the rotation watching over the other two. By April 1st, she and newest arrival were ready to come home, except that on that same date stepson began the move into their new home.

Came April 2nd and the Ornerys were left to wander through the wreckage, marveling at how twenty busy fingers could, on a regular basis turn clear glass tabletops opaque, how the dog appears to have gained 5 kilograms simpy by stationing himself near the children at mealtimes, how we wound up with a veritable grocery store of damaged goods crammed down in couch cushions - you get the idea.

Suddenly, I said to Mrs. O, "you hear that?"

She listened closely and said, "what? I don't hear anything."

"Exactly!"

The silence is deafening.

Not Even Time

2011-03-28T12:25:00.000+13:00

Not able to post at present. Not even able to transfer posts from old blog. Latest grandchild seems determined to be early. Confusing but can explain if ever given chance.

Mstr Rnry Snds a Txt

2011-03-25T01:35:00.000+13:00

(Note: As promised/threatened, this is the second re-post from Blogstream regarding my (lack of) success with cell phones.)

People who know me know that I am something of a telephone-ophobe. Nothing much good has ever come my way via that infernal contraption. Rather, it has brought death notices or worse, sales calls and invitations to participate in surveys and/or opinion polls, along with the occasional call from a creditor reminding me that my payment is 3 minutes and 42 seconds overdue. Add in that the damn thing only rings at home when I have barely settled myself for a grunt-and-read bathroom session and the reasons for my animus become clear.

Why then, I have long wondered, would I want to carry a phone around with me? (Oh, I could perhaps make a case for convenience to myself by not having to re-gather in the bathroom and rush to answer, except that I refuse to do that anyway. I figure if the call has to do with a death, well, the deceased will still be so when I have finished my constitutional and if it is one of those others, then the world will just have to meander along sans my input or the salesperson will have to earn a commission elsewhere.)

(On the other hand, having a phone available in the porcelain room could come in handy in the event of a political polling-type call.

“What do you think of Candidate Y’s view on the subject?” “

SPLASH! “Ahhhh!”

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Shit.”

“I never …”

“I’ll bet you do … Hello?”)

The point is, aside from annoying or grossing someone out with toilet activities, I have never seen any use for a portable phone. (I can hear it now. “Yeah, but, Ornery, what if there’s an emergency?” In that case and IF I did have a cell phone, I would have the same or worse luck as I have with cordless models. Either I would get, “NO NETWORK” or reception would fade in and out worse than an AM radio in a tunnel.)

All of this is by convoluted way of explaining then that when Mrs. Ornery handed me her cell phone during our recent trip, I said, “what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Chuck it out the window?”

“You’re going to send a text message,” she replied.

“Yeah, right,” I snorted.

She was not to be denied. “I’ll give you instructions,”

The message she wanted to convey to her son was simply that we were arriving at a town about half way to his home. Over the next several minutes, I managed to turn the phone on and off and back on, scrolled through the menu of options, backed up through the menu options, found the supposed right one, and either disabled a spy satellite or ordered a pizza. One message I keyed looked like one of those “substitute one letter for another” secret codes.

At last I cried, “GOT IT!”

Mrs. O replied, “and there’s their house.”

I would have hand-delivered the phone and message to Richard only it was already out of date. But I did manage to delete it. And the pizza was good. Shame about the satellite though.

The Day the Cell Phone Died

2011-03-25T01:22:00.000+13:00

(Note: this a re-post from Blogstream that, along with another I will be posting from there to here, will precede an astonishing announcement.)

Relax, technophiles. Mister Ornery still does not own a cell phone so worldwide mobile communication networks are not imperiled. At least I do not think they are.

The cell phone in this particular instance belongs to my grandson who left it behind when he went home yesterday after his most recent visit. Unfortunately, he left it on. Even more unfortunately, it began to ring this morning, albeit not in a Lily Tomlin-ish "that's one ringy dingy ..." manner. Instead, as seems to be the rage with cell phones, it began to play some tune or another.

No, I could not "name that tune" and I don't care how many notes you gave me. All I can say is that it was bright, bouncy, energetic - and damned annoying, given that Mrs. O was still asleep and I was alone with it.

I located the phone, snatched it up, and scanned quickly for the "OFF" button. (Hadn't somebody told me it was a pretty basic cell phone? They had.) No such luck. Apparently, "pretty basic" does NOT mean it has a button clearly labeled OFF.

The phone jingle, jangle, jingled on. Of course from my past foray into the world of cell phonery, I had learned that a user could spell out words or abbreviated words. So my first instinct was to spell out the word O-F-F.

That effort died aborning when up popped the message: "To unlock key pad, press Unlock and the * key."

"Unlock?" I muttered scanning the keypad.

"Wha's zat?" came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.

"Mister J's cell phone," I replied quickly.

"Shut it off!"

I muffled it beneath a couch cushion long enough to close bedroom and lounge doors. The phone rang on.

I returned to it and in the manner of a bomb disposal technician cautiously raised the cushion. Once more I looked for "Unlock", though I did briefly debate trying to type in "SHUT THE F@(! UP", At last, I opted for mashing buttons at random. (Hence the "worldwide mobile communication networks are not imperiled" message at the start of this post. If they are, I'm sorry. Really.)

SILENCE. I don't mean the phone commanded it. I mean there was SILENCE. I patted myself on the back, sat down - and the sprightly tune recommenced.

This time I mashed buttons and somehow unlocked the phone. More to the point, I learned what it was trying to tell me. Up popped the message: Low Battery -

- and the screen went blank.

I remain unconvinced that it is well and truly dead. Mrs. O has assured me that the battery is flat and the phone will need a recharge. Still, it will remain under the cushion until my grandson picks it up. And I'll try to persuade him to change to Don McLean's "The Day The Music Died." I figure that will be appropriate if he ever leaves it here again.

Inspector Gadgets

2011-03-22T14:01:00.000+13:00

Does anybody else expect the worst when you go to the template design here and see "gadgets"? "Add a gadget". For some reason I can't shake the voice of Don Adams saying, "go go gadget teeth" only to have them bite him in the ass. I don't know if that ever actually happened but it wouldn't surprise me if it did.

Here I just know that I'll add a gadget and experience the law of unintended consequences - and me with no dog or kid to bail me out. Well, both are around at present but the dog can't master typing with one or two toes of his forepaws and the kids are a bit young to say danger, much less recognize it. All of this is by way of saying this blog will probably ever and always be a work in progress, mostly resembling an implosion with faulty explosives and bad timing.

That said, "go go gadget gadgets!"

A Curling Iron For the Mind???

2011-03-21T12:55:00.000+13:00

Just found this advertisement for "your free brain wave CD". But suppose I don't want a wavy mind? What if I want a mullet mind? Or a curly one. Or a good ol' brush cut.

Okay, I know. It isn't that kind of wave at all. These are brain wave patterns so I'm gonna grab the board and go mind surfing. Just wish it wasn't to the tune of Wipe Out.

Brain Go BOINNGGG!

2011-03-21T10:51:00.000+13:00

All of this following and being followed makes me wonder if I am a cyberstalker or a cyberstalkee - or both. Contemplate it too much and my thinky part starts hurting. I'm following him and he's following me and we're both following her only she's following us and if we're all following each other, who's leading us and where the heck are we going? Does the leader use GPS? Do we even have a leader? Suppose we're all following each other and nobody has a clue where we're heading because we haven't reached Sherry's Security word: clusday (Clues day) so we can figure it out. What then?

Worse for me is the fact that I am following me here and neither one of us has a clue.

Is it any wonder I am tempted to adopt Snoopy's prescription for a troubled mind and go soak my head in a water dish for a couple of hours?

(Tried Snoopy's solution and now the dog is following me, wanting to lick my hair. Is that what all of you are doing?! EEK!)

Security Words

2011-03-21T01:40:00.001+13:00

One thing I notice here on blogger is the use of security "words" to be entered in order to post comments. On Whit's blog, I had to enter "flaspa" to leave a comment while on Sarge's the "word" was "loothips". So for entertainment, I tried creating sentences using these new-found words and came up with: "flaspa, the friendly ghost" and "loothips sthink sthips". In fact, I may start a blogtionary of such "words." Please feel free to add any you find in your wanderings through blogger.

A late addition: I was just over at Skinny Guy's blog and the word was: "ricycli" as in: "I'm gonna ride my ricycli ..."

A Little Word Play

2011-03-20T10:50:00.000+13:00

Behavior MEDification: the use of prescription drugs to control unruly behavior.

Mister Ornery Really Knows S#!+

2011-03-19T09:25:00.000+13:00

Really I do. Becoming quite the expert, I am. (Sound like Yoda, I do.)

Anyway, those who "followed" me on Blogstream may recall my post regarding the poop obsession at my workplace. In fact, employees received official poop cards that detailed seven varieties of human waste, rear exit variety. I probably should not refer to this as a "refresher course" but the varieties of poop, so we were told, are:

Type 1: Separate hard lumps, like nuts (hard to pass);
Type 2: Sausage-shaped but lumpy;
Type 3: Like a sausage but with cracks on its surface;
Type 4: Like a sausage or snake, smooth and soft;
Type 5: Soft blobs with clear-cut edges (passes easily);
Type 6: Fluffy pieces with ragged edges, a mushy stool;
Type 7: Watery, no solid pieces. ENTIRELY LIQUID. (Note: Emphasis theirs.)

At the time, I thought: can't get weirder than this, a poop chart that even has an official name. The name, by the way, is: The Bristol Stool Chart. (Great, eh, to hail from a city famed for its "stool chart". Bristool anyone?)

Today I learned that fecal matters can indeed get weirder.

"We have to record this information now," said the nurse, showing me the latest form.

I glanced at it, did a double take, and blurted, "you're s#!++in' me!"

Unfortunately, she was not. To the above descriptions, we must now add "Date. Time. Color. Type. Amount."

Apparently I was not so far off when I wrote that original post and said we were to become amateur Crap Scene Investigators. The date is easy enough, but TIME? Perhaps we will be given thermometers and some sort of time/temperature chart so that if we are not there immediately at the event we can determine this. ("Temperature is 96.5 which means Mr. X has been sitting on it for at least an hour.") (Note: I have no idea what a temperature scale for feces would look like, though I am afraid I may soon learn.)

COLOR is a bit much. I mean, how many shades of S#!+ brown can there be? Will we be given the fecal equivalent of wallpaper swatches? Should we try to match the stool sample to curtains and carpet? ("How's this for comparison? Looks beige-y, don't you think? Ought to go with most anything.")

We have already been through TYPEs above and if nothing else, the fact that three of the seven make some sort of reference to sausage is enough to put me off ground pork products for all time.

Then we have: AMOUNT and I still don't know how to quantify it unless we are to ask residents to kindly crap in measuring cups. ("He laid out about a cup-and-a-half ... Whaddya mean, you want it in liters?") Besides, I think we could and should base "AMOUNT" on the size of the resident. A tiny resident might produce something that looks like he crapped out a log whereas for a large resident, a similar-sized poop would be no more than an anal sweat bead.

If this continues, I fear outsiders will start calling us "Stoolies" - though not Bristoolies. Deservedly so for we are ratting out our residents on quite a personal matter. And at risk of giving some anal retentive paper-pusher ideas, I almost expect to report for work one day to find that we are now expected to describe ODOR.

1) Smells like poorly-deodorized armpit.
2) Slightly offensive, as of a distant sweat sock.
3) Similar in odor to green moldy item found during refrigerator clean out.
4) Smells like factory pig farm.
5) Would knock a maggot off a gut wagon.
6) May burn out olfactory senses on contact.
7) Should only be approached within biohazard containment unit while wearing rebreathing apparatus.

Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I shall fortify myself with a sniffer, er, snifter of brandy.

Most Strange

2011-03-18T13:19:00.001+13:00

As blogging goes, you follow me, I follow you seems fair enough. So what happens? I try to follow James and end up following myself. (A paranoid nightmare. "Excuse me, Officer, but I think I'm following me." "Su-u-u-r-e, Buddy. You just come along and we'll take care of that little problem.")

I hesitate to try following Scratch or rMarshall lest I find three of me following me. ( "Officer! They're - I mean, I'm multiplying!") I would awfully hate to see my next email address listed as: MisterOrnery@paddedroom.com

Weirdness (A Re-Post or Compost, Depending on Perspective)

2011-03-18T11:57:00.000+13:00

This is my fourth blog. The other three were elsewhere.

Correct that. This is my fifth and the other four were elsewhere. Or maybe sixth. Or eighth ...

I used to have a couple of web sites too and if I wanted to mess with html, I could go that route again. Time and Life - not the magazines either - preclude that, which finally brings me to my point.

I work in a health care profession and work occupies a major portion of my life when I am out of the house. Unfortunately or fortunately, confidentiality is a biggie in health care. Add the two facts together and what this means is that there is a large chunk of my life that is off limits to reporting or recording in a blog.

Sound weird? A blogging friend of mine, an RN, learned the hard way how gun shy, or I should say, how LAWSUIT-shy health care employers are. She ran a blog, with photo in her profile, and used her blog to vent about her workplace. Mind you, that wasn't her primary focus. It probably didn't even comprise 10% of what she posted. Even so ...

People do vent about their workplaces. Always have and always will. Just not, apparently, in a health care profession. Someone told the RN's bosses that she had a blog. She got called on the carpet for it and got canned. Why?

The logic was thus. Someone who knew her might find her blog from among thousands and might recognize her from her photo. And while she NEVER named names, someone might recognize him or herself from the writing and SUE.

Oh dear, oh dear. So an idiot might recognize this RN and then recognize him or herself in the writing, go to the RN's employer, and say, 'see this idiot here? That's ME!' Then that idiot might stand up in court and repeat the claim that he or she was the anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, sociopathic bedwetter described.

Net result, the idiots won without ever having to reveal their idiocy, most likely because the employers themselves were idiots and could identify. (Had to protect their own, don't you know?)

What this means then is that I will refrain for the most part from recording personal observations about a large chunk of my waking life. After all, there may be idiots out there who will find my blog, figure out who I am and where I work, read what I write, recognize themselves (despite the fact that they probably don't read anything more complex than tv listings), and threaten to sue.

Those other idiots, however, are fair game.

Starting All Over Again

2011-03-17T22:17:00.000+13:00

I had a blog called Mister Ornery's Corner on Blogstream for roughly five years, off and on. More off than on. This will probably prove to be the same. Or not if the editor keeps reverting to the default type size. Such matters aggravate hell out of me and that could drive me away.

That said and should I stick around this time, I advise anyone to follow at your own risk because I may start one or another story line and abandon it. I call that a product of my Short Attention Span Theater Syndrome, an adult version of ADHD. Mister Miyagi from The Karate Kid would have gone bug whump trying to get me to "focus power."

For the time being, I'll probably transfer posts from Blogstream to here. That should give visitors an indication of what to expect. And away we go.