Beans Sublime is an old family recipe. It is inexpensive to prepare and much, much more.
It's difficult to categorize this culinary creation. In fact, in addition to being a culinary creation, it may in fact be a scientific explanation for what happens when one ingests said culinary creation.
Alright. Your eyes are glazing over and an explanation may be in order. Let us start with "Beans."
A bean is a legume, a large plant seed that, depending on the type may or may not be edible. For purposes of this discourse, we shall be discussing only the edible type. The inedible type could be poisonous and any recommendations that this writer might make should not be considered fatal.
Edible beans come in many sizes and types...for example, Lima beans, Garbanzo beans, Navy beans and those ever-popular Pinto beans to name just a few. We will concern ourselves in this article with the "ever-popular."
Next, we should discuss "Sublime." The word has more than one meaning. In the case of "Beans Sublime," it has two. The first is fairly obvious. Beans Sublime, the dish, is a delicious mix of palate-pleasing essences than can only be described as "Sublime." In this reference, the word means a flavorful extravaganza to be enjoyed with every mouthful.
The other, the darker meaning has to do with the after effects.
To understand this, we need to briefly examine frozen carbon dioxide. Frozen CO2, more widely known as "Dry Ice" is a rather unique substance. It never melts into a liquid as does water-based ice. Instead, it moves directly from its solid state to a gaseous state, in a process called "subliming." It evaporates into gas, or "Sublimes."
Understanding this process, we can now apply it to our recipe. You see, in the human digestive tract, beans sublime, just like the dry ice. As the Beans Sublime, "Sublimes," that is, moves from the solid to the gaseous state, it expands, creating a pressure within the containing vessel...in this case the human digestive tract...to release. At this point Beans Sublime frequently becomes a shared experience that those present will not wish to repeat.
It is one of the great culinary ironies that such a simple to prepare dish, that tastes so wonderful can have such a poor finish. Therefore, it is recommended that Beans Sublime be served only in well ventilated venues, preferably outdoors...a picnic or back-yard barbecue in a large yard. (1/3 acre or more is considered a fairly safe margin.) It is further recommended that the event be held on a day with a light breeze as this may further mitigate the after effects of the meal, spreading it over the neighborhood at large. (Expect some complaints from the closer neighbors.) Also, if it is a swim party, those who over-indulge can usually be identified by surfacing bubbles as they swim. Additional pool chlorine is generally handy to keep around.
You may e-mail this writer for the recipe and the Surgeon General's warning.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Married To A Proximity Alert
I think all airline pilots should have wives, and the wives should be their co-pilots. This would be a good use of a widely available human resource, the back-seat driver.
I have found that it is nearly impossible for my wife and I to go anywhere without a variety of shrieks and epithets concerning my driving, the truck in the next lane, the center divider of the freeway and nearly all obstacles to our progress, real and imagined. That we get anywhere at all, is hardly worth the drive. Of what value is it to try to get to a doctor's appointment if I die from a nag attack along the way?
That aside, it is an odds-on presumption that engineers devising the current generation of collision avoidance devices are all single. If they were married, they would realize that the female gender has a radar system orders of magnitude more sensitive than the ones they are using today.
For example, my wife can see and hear a car threatening our vehicle before it's driver has started the engine, much less merged onto the freeway. She tells me to lock the doors when we approach an intersection in a seedy area, because she knows full well the threat inherent in the hooded indigent asleep on the bus bench. These threats all seem to sense, as well, our preparedness and never materialize because of that.
Also, no emotionless, digital voice can possibly convey the urgency that a real woman in fear for her life can. A shrieked, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" is infinitely more unnerving than a computer-generated "Collision alert."
This very human ability crosses all religious and cultural lines. And the sentiment is generally conveyed in all languages. In fact a major testing institute has determined that women who do not speak the language of the driver of the car, have no difficulty at all in scaring the living daylights out of said driver, with exclamations in whatever language they are screaming.
Therefore it is the recommendation of this writer that the airline industry consider the use of spouses in the cockpit. The incidence of mid-air collisions should be dramatically reduced...at least if the pilots will keep their hands on the controls and off their wives.
I have found that it is nearly impossible for my wife and I to go anywhere without a variety of shrieks and epithets concerning my driving, the truck in the next lane, the center divider of the freeway and nearly all obstacles to our progress, real and imagined. That we get anywhere at all, is hardly worth the drive. Of what value is it to try to get to a doctor's appointment if I die from a nag attack along the way?
That aside, it is an odds-on presumption that engineers devising the current generation of collision avoidance devices are all single. If they were married, they would realize that the female gender has a radar system orders of magnitude more sensitive than the ones they are using today.
For example, my wife can see and hear a car threatening our vehicle before it's driver has started the engine, much less merged onto the freeway. She tells me to lock the doors when we approach an intersection in a seedy area, because she knows full well the threat inherent in the hooded indigent asleep on the bus bench. These threats all seem to sense, as well, our preparedness and never materialize because of that.
Also, no emotionless, digital voice can possibly convey the urgency that a real woman in fear for her life can. A shrieked, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" is infinitely more unnerving than a computer-generated "Collision alert."
This very human ability crosses all religious and cultural lines. And the sentiment is generally conveyed in all languages. In fact a major testing institute has determined that women who do not speak the language of the driver of the car, have no difficulty at all in scaring the living daylights out of said driver, with exclamations in whatever language they are screaming.
Therefore it is the recommendation of this writer that the airline industry consider the use of spouses in the cockpit. The incidence of mid-air collisions should be dramatically reduced...at least if the pilots will keep their hands on the controls and off their wives.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Movie Idea
FADE IN:
Our story opens on the slopes of Mammoth Mountain. Podiatrist, Amy Footfall has just taken a spill and severely wrenched the anterior talofibular ligament of her left pedal extremity. As she lies moaning in agony, a dashing skier carves a hockey stop into the side of the hill coming to her aid. He too cries out in pain. He has just aggravated the shin splints he has gotten from years of down-hilling off chair nine. But gamely, he helps her become vertical and they hobble their way down the mountain, laughing at their stupidity and occasionally shifting their weight to each other's strong side all the way to the lodge and first aid.
As they sit, feet exposed on examining tables across from each other, her swollen ankle arouses him in ways he never realized. This vision of bulbous-yet-intriguing pedal architecture has awakened a desire he's long repressed and never truly understood. He realized he had a burning desire for a swollen and distended podiatrist's foot! For her part, Amy too is smitten, though for reasons she is unable to quantify and extremities she is unable to see.
Thus begins a whirlwind romance, replete with visits to shoe museums, Nine West, the Easy Spirit factory, the Hush Puppies outlet and K-Swiss' R&D facility. (This will of course, be addressed as montage, with romantic marching music.)
But soon a more sinister turn of events. Amy's patients begin dying in weird and mysterious ways. One snags his Achilles tendon on a lawn sprinkler and it snaps, sending him hurtling into a wood chipper. Another stumbles on her tailor's bunion and falls down a sheer cliff face, impaling herself on the giant toe of a statue commemorating the famous running-on-the beach scene from Chariots of Fire. When the third mysterious death occurrs...a patient with athlete's foot, is run down and cleated to pieces by an entire football team running laps,...the coroner calls in the police. Just too many coincidences.
A knock at Amy's door. It is a swarthy Police detective of Greek extract. Detective Tibialis Tendonitis steps across the threshold. He introduces himself. .
"I can see you have a high instep detective."
"Yeah. I was born with it. Well look doc, I just need to axe you a few questions."
"Axe away, flatfoot."
"How'd you know my nickname?"
"Deductive reasoning."
"You'd best leave that to the professionals doc." But secretly, he was impressed with this podiatrist's natural abilty to sniff out a trail.
She nods, her auburn air catching a glint of sunlight from reflections off the 32 story glass tower across the street. The detective is impressed again.
With that, he begins an hour-long examination of the facts, with more than a few glances down at her shapely metatarsals. A few questions about her skier boyfriend and their relationship and finally, at the end of the interview, he asks one last question.
"Doc. Do you mind if I call you doc?"
"Not at all Flatfoot."
And with that, he departs to follow the leads. He interviews the plantar fasciitis patient. She seems to wince with every mention of heel pain. The detective takes note. Next, he calls on a seedy bag-man for a local bookie, "Hammertoes Wilkins." But Hammertoes clams up.
"He's covering his tracks", thinks Flatfoot. He notes that Hammertoes walks on the balls of his feet and asks him why.
"Uh...uhh that's uh..how it's most comfortable for me. I got..you know..h..h..heel spurs too!"
"Heel spurs too?" The detective mulls this. It may be significant. In fact, it is. The next day Hammertoes Wilkins' body is found by scuba divers off the coast of Palos Verdes, his feet encased in concrete overshoes, in an area brimming with arthropods.
In desperation, the detective runs down the list. He's missing something...corns, callouses, diabetic gangrene, gout. Nothing..Nada...Zilch. Capezio, Nike, Adidas, Dr. Scholl's, Thom McAn, Buster Brown. Damn! Nothing fits!
He heads for home. In this case, a run-down shoe-box of a room in a seedy hotel near the Elysian Park jogging trails. As he climbs from his car, another car careens around the corner and rips the door right out of his hand. If he'd had his foot on the ground, it'd have been that other car's hood ornament. It was pretty obvious he was getting too close. He was just missing something, but what?
The detective decides to retrace his steps to track the killer's. Suddenly, the other shoe drops. If it'd been a snake, it'd have bit his ankle! It's as clear as the polish on his toes! It can only mean one thing. A fetishist! Everything tracks back to the doc's downhill-skier boyfriend! He decides to hold the number one suspect's feet to the fire.
Toeing the mark for hours, the skier finally breaks down and admits everything. He wanted Amy all to himself. He couldn't help himself. He couldn't bear the thought of her feet being in close proximity to those FREAKS!
"But how did you figure it out? How did you know it was me?
The detective turns on his heels. And as he leaves, the guards shackle the skier in leg-irons. The detective pauses, whirls to face the skier and says: "Deductive reasoning. Just like the Chinese proverb about the Fou bird...If the shoe fits. I learned it from the doc. "
With that, he strides away down the long hall of justice, his Fry boots holding his head just a bit higher today.
The skier groans and bows HIS head in shame. As the camera pans down to his feet, we...
FADE OUT
ROLL CREDITS
Our story opens on the slopes of Mammoth Mountain. Podiatrist, Amy Footfall has just taken a spill and severely wrenched the anterior talofibular ligament of her left pedal extremity. As she lies moaning in agony, a dashing skier carves a hockey stop into the side of the hill coming to her aid. He too cries out in pain. He has just aggravated the shin splints he has gotten from years of down-hilling off chair nine. But gamely, he helps her become vertical and they hobble their way down the mountain, laughing at their stupidity and occasionally shifting their weight to each other's strong side all the way to the lodge and first aid.
As they sit, feet exposed on examining tables across from each other, her swollen ankle arouses him in ways he never realized. This vision of bulbous-yet-intriguing pedal architecture has awakened a desire he's long repressed and never truly understood. He realized he had a burning desire for a swollen and distended podiatrist's foot! For her part, Amy too is smitten, though for reasons she is unable to quantify and extremities she is unable to see.
Thus begins a whirlwind romance, replete with visits to shoe museums, Nine West, the Easy Spirit factory, the Hush Puppies outlet and K-Swiss' R&D facility. (This will of course, be addressed as montage, with romantic marching music.)
But soon a more sinister turn of events. Amy's patients begin dying in weird and mysterious ways. One snags his Achilles tendon on a lawn sprinkler and it snaps, sending him hurtling into a wood chipper. Another stumbles on her tailor's bunion and falls down a sheer cliff face, impaling herself on the giant toe of a statue commemorating the famous running-on-the beach scene from Chariots of Fire. When the third mysterious death occurrs...a patient with athlete's foot, is run down and cleated to pieces by an entire football team running laps,...the coroner calls in the police. Just too many coincidences.
A knock at Amy's door. It is a swarthy Police detective of Greek extract. Detective Tibialis Tendonitis steps across the threshold. He introduces himself. .
"I can see you have a high instep detective."
"Yeah. I was born with it. Well look doc, I just need to axe you a few questions."
"Axe away, flatfoot."
"How'd you know my nickname?"
"Deductive reasoning."
"You'd best leave that to the professionals doc." But secretly, he was impressed with this podiatrist's natural abilty to sniff out a trail.
She nods, her auburn air catching a glint of sunlight from reflections off the 32 story glass tower across the street. The detective is impressed again.
With that, he begins an hour-long examination of the facts, with more than a few glances down at her shapely metatarsals. A few questions about her skier boyfriend and their relationship and finally, at the end of the interview, he asks one last question.
"Doc. Do you mind if I call you doc?"
"Not at all Flatfoot."
And with that, he departs to follow the leads. He interviews the plantar fasciitis patient. She seems to wince with every mention of heel pain. The detective takes note. Next, he calls on a seedy bag-man for a local bookie, "Hammertoes Wilkins." But Hammertoes clams up.
"He's covering his tracks", thinks Flatfoot. He notes that Hammertoes walks on the balls of his feet and asks him why.
"Uh...uhh that's uh..how it's most comfortable for me. I got..you know..h..h..heel spurs too!"
"Heel spurs too?" The detective mulls this. It may be significant. In fact, it is. The next day Hammertoes Wilkins' body is found by scuba divers off the coast of Palos Verdes, his feet encased in concrete overshoes, in an area brimming with arthropods.
In desperation, the detective runs down the list. He's missing something...corns, callouses, diabetic gangrene, gout. Nothing..Nada...Zilch. Capezio, Nike, Adidas, Dr. Scholl's, Thom McAn, Buster Brown. Damn! Nothing fits!
He heads for home. In this case, a run-down shoe-box of a room in a seedy hotel near the Elysian Park jogging trails. As he climbs from his car, another car careens around the corner and rips the door right out of his hand. If he'd had his foot on the ground, it'd have been that other car's hood ornament. It was pretty obvious he was getting too close. He was just missing something, but what?
The detective decides to retrace his steps to track the killer's. Suddenly, the other shoe drops. If it'd been a snake, it'd have bit his ankle! It's as clear as the polish on his toes! It can only mean one thing. A fetishist! Everything tracks back to the doc's downhill-skier boyfriend! He decides to hold the number one suspect's feet to the fire.
Toeing the mark for hours, the skier finally breaks down and admits everything. He wanted Amy all to himself. He couldn't help himself. He couldn't bear the thought of her feet being in close proximity to those FREAKS!
"But how did you figure it out? How did you know it was me?
The detective turns on his heels. And as he leaves, the guards shackle the skier in leg-irons. The detective pauses, whirls to face the skier and says: "Deductive reasoning. Just like the Chinese proverb about the Fou bird...If the shoe fits. I learned it from the doc. "
With that, he strides away down the long hall of justice, his Fry boots holding his head just a bit higher today.
The skier groans and bows HIS head in shame. As the camera pans down to his feet, we...
FADE OUT
ROLL CREDITS
Friday, March 23, 2007
Pot-bellied Autism
Gastro-intestinal issues and immune system deficiencies have been statistically linked to Autism. This has gotten me to thinking, which as my many readers know is fraught with peril. (The number of readers I have has also been statistically linked to Autism.)
But I couldn't help noticing the symptomatic similarities between autistics and pregnant women. Both have distended abdomens. Both have serious communications issues. Autistics are frequently withdrawn into little worlds of their own. Pregnant women...in fact, women in general... frequently are as well. A pregnant woman has all same the symptoms as an Autistic. I mean seriously, how many of you men out there have been successful communicating with your wife or girlfriend when she was pregnant? For that matter, a show of hands here, how many of you have had any success even when your wife or girlfriend wasn't pregnant?
This link is so obvious, that it may just qualify as a scientific breakthrough. Corollaries to this line of reasoning open up vast new vistas for scientific rationale. (Scientific Rationale is a new discipline which requires neither Empirical proof nor a sound thesis.*)
One must wonder what it is like to live within the head of a pregnant Autistic woman. For that matter, one must wonder what it is like to live within the abdomen of a pregnant Autistic woman. Of course the latter might be a more normal experience unless the abnormality is a dominant trait that expresses itself in the next generation. This is a real possibility.
There is only anecdotal evidence for this, and oddly, it comes not from Autistic women, but from pregnant women in general. Pregnant women who give birth to supposedly normal female offspring, generally have girls who grow up to carry an unspecified amount of genetic irrationality within their own psyches. This trait usually begins presenting around the age of 12 and remains with the female in one form or another throughout the individual's lifetime.
This subject has, of late, been at the center of a greater debate on the question of whether ANYONE with a pot-belly, a beer belly or even love handles may be Autistic to some degree. The fact that men account for the largest number of pot and beer bellies, while remaining statistically less deranged than their female counterparts weighs heavily in favor of males and against the thesis. An article published recently in a major supermarket checkout tabloid bears out this finding. It can be found on page 23, just below the photo of the three-headed chicken's wedding.
This writer recognizes that there may be some difference of opinion on the conclusions expressed in this publication. All proofs to the contrary are welcome, Next up, I will discuss a newly extrapolated rationale for the link between Alzheimer's and blond hair in old people.
*Scientific rationale is a natural outgrowth of the underlying concepts found in creationism and intelligent design, well-reasoned, carefully rationalized pseudo-sciences.
But I couldn't help noticing the symptomatic similarities between autistics and pregnant women. Both have distended abdomens. Both have serious communications issues. Autistics are frequently withdrawn into little worlds of their own. Pregnant women...in fact, women in general... frequently are as well. A pregnant woman has all same the symptoms as an Autistic. I mean seriously, how many of you men out there have been successful communicating with your wife or girlfriend when she was pregnant? For that matter, a show of hands here, how many of you have had any success even when your wife or girlfriend wasn't pregnant?
This link is so obvious, that it may just qualify as a scientific breakthrough. Corollaries to this line of reasoning open up vast new vistas for scientific rationale. (Scientific Rationale is a new discipline which requires neither Empirical proof nor a sound thesis.*)
One must wonder what it is like to live within the head of a pregnant Autistic woman. For that matter, one must wonder what it is like to live within the abdomen of a pregnant Autistic woman. Of course the latter might be a more normal experience unless the abnormality is a dominant trait that expresses itself in the next generation. This is a real possibility.
There is only anecdotal evidence for this, and oddly, it comes not from Autistic women, but from pregnant women in general. Pregnant women who give birth to supposedly normal female offspring, generally have girls who grow up to carry an unspecified amount of genetic irrationality within their own psyches. This trait usually begins presenting around the age of 12 and remains with the female in one form or another throughout the individual's lifetime.
This subject has, of late, been at the center of a greater debate on the question of whether ANYONE with a pot-belly, a beer belly or even love handles may be Autistic to some degree. The fact that men account for the largest number of pot and beer bellies, while remaining statistically less deranged than their female counterparts weighs heavily in favor of males and against the thesis. An article published recently in a major supermarket checkout tabloid bears out this finding. It can be found on page 23, just below the photo of the three-headed chicken's wedding.
This writer recognizes that there may be some difference of opinion on the conclusions expressed in this publication. All proofs to the contrary are welcome, Next up, I will discuss a newly extrapolated rationale for the link between Alzheimer's and blond hair in old people.
*Scientific rationale is a natural outgrowth of the underlying concepts found in creationism and intelligent design, well-reasoned, carefully rationalized pseudo-sciences.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Do-It-Yourself-Drama
I feel a lot of creative energy today; just not particularly comedic. So rather than trying to be funny, I've decided to pour my energies forth upon a dramatic effort. It will be a powerful drama staged against the backdrop of the nothingness of deep space.
But I'm finding that I need a little help with a few story points. I've taken the liberty of leaving spaces open...oh my, spaces in a play about deep space...I believe I've inadvertantly made a joke. Well be that as it may. If you, dear reader and perhaps a few accomplices, will kindly fill in the blank spaces and read it aloud to friends and family, perhaps I will gain the inspiration to write the next act. Heck. make a party of it! Oh. And invite me.
"A Lust For Power In The Dark Matter"
Narrator: The setting? Deep Space (noun) number (number). Captain (name) and
his (verb) sidekick, (name of pet), are concerned about the sighting of a
(verb) (noun) on a collision course with the (noun). The time, is
(number) hours before the event. The situation is (verb).
Captain: (name of pet), report on the (noun).
Sidekick: Well, Captain (name), the (noun) is advancing on our position at (number)
inter-spatial knots per (noun). A disastrous (noun) is very (adverb).
Captain: Do we have a battle-(noun), (name of pet)?
Sidekick: Yessir. I'm having Lieutenant (name of reptile) fire up the atomic (noun).
A direct (noun) before it reaches the (adverb) point should do the (noun).
But now we have another (noun).
Captain: And what would that be, (name of pet).
Narrator: The (verb) sidekick winces. (Plural gender) from (choose: his or her)
(verb) planet, are forbidden the use of proper (plural noun). And for the
Captain to use it so (adverb) makes (choose: him or her) very (verb).
Sidekick: Captain! I keep asking you not to call me (name of reptile). You know it
makes me (verb). How would you like it if I called you (verb) (person's name)?
Captain: Why I would be (verb) and (verb). Yes. I see your (noun), spunky (noun).
I will try to be more of a (noun) in the future. But what of the other (noun)?
Sidekick: The (name of planet) (noun) is protesting the use of (verb) weapons in
outer (noun). If we (verb) the (noun) it will (verb) the existing treaty. And
they threaten (noun).
Captain: Tell (choose: him/her/it) that this is a mission of (noun) and we have no
intention of violating the (noun). But also tell (choose: him/her/it) that we will
(verb) our planet with the last (noun) of strength in our mighty (noun).
And you can (verb) me on that.
Narrator: With his (verb) speech delivered, the (noun) turns and stares (adverb)
out the space port-(noun) deeply immersed in (a liquid). The (verb)
sidekick leaves the Captain to his (plural noun) and heads off to deliver the
(noun).
Curtain
End of Act (number)
But I'm finding that I need a little help with a few story points. I've taken the liberty of leaving spaces open...oh my, spaces in a play about deep space...I believe I've inadvertantly made a joke. Well be that as it may. If you, dear reader and perhaps a few accomplices, will kindly fill in the blank spaces and read it aloud to friends and family, perhaps I will gain the inspiration to write the next act. Heck. make a party of it! Oh. And invite me.
The piece is titled:
"A Lust For Power In The Dark Matter"
The Curtain Rises: The stage is dark. Slowly, the lights come up to reveal a futuristic setting. Dials and meters of indeterminate usage line the walls. A man in a futuristic spandex uniform is seated at a desk, staring thoughtfully out at a nearby nebula. A second man, a younger one enters through a door that slides aside to allow him entry.
Narrator: The setting? Deep Space (noun) number (number). Captain (name) and
his (verb) sidekick, (name of pet), are concerned about the sighting of a
(verb) (noun) on a collision course with the (noun). The time, is
(number) hours before the event. The situation is (verb).
Captain: (name of pet), report on the (noun).
Sidekick: Well, Captain (name), the (noun) is advancing on our position at (number)
inter-spatial knots per (noun). A disastrous (noun) is very (adverb).
Captain: Do we have a battle-(noun), (name of pet)?
Sidekick: Yessir. I'm having Lieutenant (name of reptile) fire up the atomic (noun).
A direct (noun) before it reaches the (adverb) point should do the (noun).
But now we have another (noun).
Captain: And what would that be, (name of pet).
Narrator: The (verb) sidekick winces. (Plural gender) from (choose: his or her)
(verb) planet, are forbidden the use of proper (plural noun). And for the
Captain to use it so (adverb) makes (choose: him or her) very (verb).
Sidekick: Captain! I keep asking you not to call me (name of reptile). You know it
makes me (verb). How would you like it if I called you (verb) (person's name)?
Captain: Why I would be (verb) and (verb). Yes. I see your (noun), spunky (noun).
I will try to be more of a (noun) in the future. But what of the other (noun)?
Sidekick: The (name of planet) (noun) is protesting the use of (verb) weapons in
outer (noun). If we (verb) the (noun) it will (verb) the existing treaty. And
they threaten (noun).
Captain: Tell (choose: him/her/it) that this is a mission of (noun) and we have no
intention of violating the (noun). But also tell (choose: him/her/it) that we will
(verb) our planet with the last (noun) of strength in our mighty (noun).
And you can (verb) me on that.
Narrator: With his (verb) speech delivered, the (noun) turns and stares (adverb)
out the space port-(noun) deeply immersed in (a liquid). The (verb)
sidekick leaves the Captain to his (plural noun) and heads off to deliver the
(noun).
Curtain
End of Act (number)
Saturday, March 17, 2007
A Few Thoughts About Windows
It's no wonder I feel cheated! We paid thousands and by that, I mean THOUSANDS of dollars for new windows in our house. And more than half the work was already there! When we bought our house, it had windows. And if you believe the dictionary, when we replaced them, all we got was the glass! See for yourself. Here's the definition.
window, noun
1.
an opening in the wall of a building, the side of a vehicle, etc., for the admission of air or light, or both.
I mean if they were just going to sell us the stuff to fill the opening, shouldn't we have paid less? Okay. I know that to some, the window is the thing that fills the hole. And If I'd specified a "Stained-glass" window, I could see being on the hook for that. But I just wanted windows. And if they'd filled in the openings and carefully cut new ones for the "windows," I suppose I'd be on the hook for that too. But they only made new frames with double glass to fill the openings. I mean...I could've done that!
But they were on sale. And the salesman was so charming and disarming with his little joke about the end of the sale. He said we only had a small "window" of opportunity. We thought that was so cute. He practically had the little woman eating out of the palm of his hand. And that's another thing. He didn't have a Palm in his hand. It was an HP and it used mobile XP, yet another kind of Window! And when I looked at it, I could see the photo of our living room with the new window overlaid. It was a powerful selling tool. If only it weren't part of the bigger lie!
I remember it as though it were October. (which it was) We had been watching a launch of the shuttle. And the launch window was about to close. It was now or never. That damned launch "window" got us so excited, that we'd have bought just about anything from that smooth-talking salesguy. It felt like Karma. We had a small window of opportunity to buy our windows as demonstrated on his Windows XP, HP, with only a small window of opportunity. Fate was making us sign the deal. And the clincher was that he wasn't going to deposit the check until Tuesday, giving us a "window" of time in which we could make sure it was covered.
We were so naive...which by the way, is Evian spelled backwards. So if you overpay for your water the way we did for windows, you deserve what's coming to you.
So the next time you need your windows replaced, heed this warning. Make certain you are getting everything you paid for. Ours are double-paned and double hung, but I swear they only did it once. And what about the sash? There's no sash! (What the hell is the sash?!?) There's just some double-hung, double-paned, hole-filling ripoffs that I bet I could've found for less at the Home Depot if only fate hadn't intervened.
One final thought. They say "the eyes are the windows of the soul." Well. I wear glasses. You know, little window frames around glass? My windows to the soul have windows and I probably overpaid for those too. And buyer beware, God uses the old sills!
window, noun
1.
an opening in the wall of a building, the side of a vehicle, etc., for the admission of air or light, or both.
I mean if they were just going to sell us the stuff to fill the opening, shouldn't we have paid less? Okay. I know that to some, the window is the thing that fills the hole. And If I'd specified a "Stained-glass" window, I could see being on the hook for that. But I just wanted windows. And if they'd filled in the openings and carefully cut new ones for the "windows," I suppose I'd be on the hook for that too. But they only made new frames with double glass to fill the openings. I mean...I could've done that!
But they were on sale. And the salesman was so charming and disarming with his little joke about the end of the sale. He said we only had a small "window" of opportunity. We thought that was so cute. He practically had the little woman eating out of the palm of his hand. And that's another thing. He didn't have a Palm in his hand. It was an HP and it used mobile XP, yet another kind of Window! And when I looked at it, I could see the photo of our living room with the new window overlaid. It was a powerful selling tool. If only it weren't part of the bigger lie!
I remember it as though it were October. (which it was) We had been watching a launch of the shuttle. And the launch window was about to close. It was now or never. That damned launch "window" got us so excited, that we'd have bought just about anything from that smooth-talking salesguy. It felt like Karma. We had a small window of opportunity to buy our windows as demonstrated on his Windows XP, HP, with only a small window of opportunity. Fate was making us sign the deal. And the clincher was that he wasn't going to deposit the check until Tuesday, giving us a "window" of time in which we could make sure it was covered.
We were so naive...which by the way, is Evian spelled backwards. So if you overpay for your water the way we did for windows, you deserve what's coming to you.
So the next time you need your windows replaced, heed this warning. Make certain you are getting everything you paid for. Ours are double-paned and double hung, but I swear they only did it once. And what about the sash? There's no sash! (What the hell is the sash?!?) There's just some double-hung, double-paned, hole-filling ripoffs that I bet I could've found for less at the Home Depot if only fate hadn't intervened.
One final thought. They say "the eyes are the windows of the soul." Well. I wear glasses. You know, little window frames around glass? My windows to the soul have windows and I probably overpaid for those too. And buyer beware, God uses the old sills!
An Explanation and Apology
I have been asked, "Why do you want to blog?" Well, actually, that's not an entirely accurate quote. More precisely, it went something like: "You blog? Hah!" I feel that I must respond in the most rational of ways, something with which I am not entirely familiar.
I have chosen the 'blog' format, because most of my friends (and I have at last count, more than a very few) would probably not respond well to the 'rant' format.
As most of you...or rather BOTH of you are aware, I seldom know what I'm going to say next. Consequently, most of my friends...again, I speak in the plural here, since at least two of you have indicated a willingness to cop to it...what was I talking about?
Oh yes. I tend to free-associate. And all of my readers...so far numbering myself and a few alter-egos...are well aware of and accepting of that tendency. So, if I 'rant,' I might be judged a typical mad-person. But if I 'blog,' my opinion counts for something. Or so I've been told by my myriad admirer.
Therefore, I will blog, as do many of my more clear-thinking associates. But you may consider it a rant when you consider the source. It will tend to be humorous, because I truly think I'm funny...though some say funny in the head. I say, "Where else?" I will likely be a bit spotty with my posts, since I always wait for inspiration. And as we all know, inspiration arrives on the Metrolink at 6:09 and I generally miss it. For all this and the more to come, I apologize in advance.
I have chosen the 'blog' format, because most of my friends (and I have at last count, more than a very few) would probably not respond well to the 'rant' format.
As most of you...or rather BOTH of you are aware, I seldom know what I'm going to say next. Consequently, most of my friends...again, I speak in the plural here, since at least two of you have indicated a willingness to cop to it...what was I talking about?
Oh yes. I tend to free-associate. And all of my readers...so far numbering myself and a few alter-egos...are well aware of and accepting of that tendency. So, if I 'rant,' I might be judged a typical mad-person. But if I 'blog,' my opinion counts for something. Or so I've been told by my myriad admirer.
Therefore, I will blog, as do many of my more clear-thinking associates. But you may consider it a rant when you consider the source. It will tend to be humorous, because I truly think I'm funny...though some say funny in the head. I say, "Where else?" I will likely be a bit spotty with my posts, since I always wait for inspiration. And as we all know, inspiration arrives on the Metrolink at 6:09 and I generally miss it. For all this and the more to come, I apologize in advance.
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