Voting for the Lesser Evil

I just got home from the polls. Did my Civic Duty. Felt like a schmuck.

There are 300 million people living in the United States, and I got to choose between Granholm (seen at left with my buddy Brandon F.) or DeVos as my state's next governor.

Those were the best offerings the Repelicans and Democraps could come up with. I, personally, know at least three people who could do the job better than either of them.

And if you believe their television commercials (I do not) then they are both either: a) baby-killing abortion lovers; b) criminally negligent business people who value dollars over lives; c)anti-Americans; or d) haters of mom and apple pie.

Actually, both candidates aired numerous commercials designed to exaggerate what they laughingly call "the truth." Their televised accusations and comments are the political equivalent of a made-for-TV movie. There may be some aspects of their stories which almost resemble the facts, but then again, there may not be.

The real message of those political commercials is this: "I sure hope the voters are stupid and lazy enough to buy into this dreck!" And sadly, most of us probably are.

Through my job as a reporter, I've met both Granholm and DeVos and had the chance to talk with them one-to-one at length. You wanna know the truth? They're both fairly nice folks. And I think they both have an honest desire to serve We The People.

It's a shame our political system is such that they've both been forced to stoop so low to grub for votes. It really is.

I like both of 'em personally. But neither got my vote. I voted for the Libertarian candidate, whom I've never met or interviewed. I figure, what the hell.

These days, the less I know about a candidate, the better I like him.

Squirrel Wars!

It has come down to this at last: me vs. the squirrels. And the squirrels are winning. They're not just normal brown or red squirrels; they're black, insidious, Darth Vader-esque squirrels, deep in the councils of the Dark Side of The Force

And they won't get the hell out of my house!

Now, before you hit the SPCA speed dial button, let me explain. I like squirrels. I really do. This despite the fact that squirrels are - when you get right down to it - nothing but slightly cuter versions of rats. Still, they frolic, they play, they sit in my maples and natter away as if they really have something important to share with the rest of the world, some bit of squirrel philosophy that - if we could only understand - would end war, stop hunger and ring in a golden age for all mankind.

Or maybe they're just pissed at the blue jays raiding the feeders in the back yard and are expressing their displeasure in the only way they know.

Either way, I like 'em, okay? But every fall, they decide I should like them more. I shouldn't simply put out food for them, bits of apple, nuts, seeds; I also should provide them with a place to hole up through the cold, winter months.

I don't open the door for the little rodents, God knows, but they find their way into my 100-year-old house anyway, through cracks and missing bits of mortar, maybe. At first, they're quiet and stealthy, moving cautiously in the space between the walls, working their way steadily toward the attic.

After they've taken up residence for a while, they no longer even bother to hide their passage from the outside to the inside. I'm almost sure they're throwing parties! I woke up last night to the sound of the Alvin and the Chipmunks version of "Louie Louie" coming from the attic. But when I opened the door they were gone.

The floor was littered with peanut shells and half-chewed acorns.

I could put up with it, I guess, if for no other reason than it's easier to live with 'em than do something about it. But The Lovely Mrs. Taylor - a noted xenophobe - has other ideas. She will not share her home with bugs, mice, snakes or bats. And she will absolutely not share it with what are - as I mentioned earlier - cute rats.

I volunteered to stand guard in the attic, armed only with a .22 and box of cashews (for bait, and in case I get hungry). But Mrs. T has seen me use a gun before and according to the terms of my probation ... well ... that's a story for another time.

Instead, I've gotten hold of a "live trap," which I intend to bait with peanut butter or corn or whatever the hell it is cute rats like to eat. What I'm going to do with a live squirrel - assuming I catch one - I have no idea. Take it out in the woods, I guess, and let it go.

I'm a little worried that a squirrel needs more time to prepare a nest - or shelter, or condo, or whatever it is they usually hole up in for the winter - than he (or she) will have in the scant weeks remaining before the snow flies.

But I can't let that be my problem. As the kid in "Red Dawn" said just before he blew the Russian away: "He doesn't live here!"

If my trap works, neither will the squirrels.

Come in Tokyo!

Got a new wireless headset for my cell phone yesterday. I've resisted buying one in the past, mostly because the sort of people who feel comfortable wearing them also feel comfortable at Star Trek conventions and Dungeons and Dragons tournaments.

I won't use the "N" word, but you know who I mean. No, not that "N" word, dummy ... Nerd. There, you forced me to use the word, after all.

Anyway, I'm still not comfortable talking on my cell phone while in public. So I'm really not comfortable tooling around town with a little Bluetooth gizmo hanging out of my left ear.

But since I started my new job working out of the home office, it's important that I'm available for incoming calls. And much of the time, those calls turn into interviews which require me to have my hands free to type while talking.

Hence, my purchase of the Official Lt. Ohura Ear Gizmo.

Will it improve my life, the way the lady at the phone store said it would? After wasting two hours trying to get the damnable thing up and running, it seems unlikely.

It turns out there's quite a bit of button pushing, fine tuning and battery charging to be done before you can even turn the thing on. And once it is working, it does so in only the loosest possible interpretation of that word.

My first (and only) call was to my daughter. It went a little like this

ME: Hey, kiddo! How's it going?

D: What? No, it's not snowing. Who is this?

M: It's me, dad.

D: Mad? At who? What?

M: (shouting) No! It's me! Dad!

D: What? I can hardly hear you.

M: (screaming and turning an alarming shade of blue) I'm trying to get my new headset thing to work.

D: I don't think so. Maybe on Tuesday.

M: Tuesday? What are you talking about?

D: No, you know I don't like trout. What?

M: What?
D: What?
M: What?
D: What?

And so on for about ten minutes. Finally I gave up, unplugged headset and finished up the conversation in a more or less normal manner.

According to the lady at the phone store, this headset is the last word in cell phone headset technology. If so, the previous word must have been transmitted between two tin cans via a piece of taut string.

If Only I Were Smarter...

For my new job at the newspaper, I had to shoot a "mugshot," something to run with my weekly column. So, figured I, I'll touch it up heavily, take off 20 years and 30 pounds, and post it here at my blog, as well.

Great plan, eh? Unfortunately, I spent two hours dorking around with the damn thing and couldn't figure out how to upload the photo from within the blog itself. Therefore, I'm blogging it in from Picassa, then working the programming voodoo from there.

Wish me luck. By the way, I look pretty damn good in this photo, don't I? What they need to invent is Photoshop for real life. 

The Home Office and Self-Discipline

Started my new job Thursday. Mostly, I'll be working from my home office, which is not especially roomy (see life-sized photo, left).

I went through and cleaned the place from top to bottom prior to my first day of work. In the past few months, it had gotten pretty cluttered. At one point, in fact, I considered applying for Hurricane Katrina relief money. I'm almost certain I would have qualified.

Due to a temporary personnel shortage at the home office - about an hour's drive from my place - I was thrust into the deep end of the pool on my first day. Basically, I was show my desk, my computer and the phone system, then set loose to do my worst.

I'll only be visiting Galactic Central Point maybe once a week. The rest of the time I'll be here at home trying to convince myself that deadlines still matter even if I don't have an editor looking over my shoulder to make sure I'm interviewing congressmen instead of downloading porn.

Fortunately, I have the self-discipline of a Marine drill sergeant. Yup. That's what I've got alrighty.

I wonder what's on Oprah this afternoon.

Full Circle at the Apple Orchard

Went picking apples with my daughter and grandbabbies (see cute granddaughter, left) late last week. Apples and pumpkins ... they're both available for picking at the orchard I visit every fall.

I first went to the orchard over 15 years ago. Back then it was nothing but apple trees, pumpkins and a hay-wagon to transport city folk in search of a rural experience.

Now it's friggin' Disneyland. Go-cart rides, a petting zoo, pumpkin carriages, a gift shop to rival The Mall of The Americas, inflatable "jump houses," a corn maze, a fence maze ... the list goes on. What was once a pleasant two hours of quiet, agrarian pleasure has morphed into an over-crowded, stressful, tire-your-ass-out extravaganza of hectic activity.

Fortunately, we went during the week, when the crowds are at a minimum and (mercifully) half the "attractions" are not up and running.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I went back again Sunday, this time with the intention of doing a little "guord shopping" in the aforementioned gift store. Our plans changed abruptly, however, when we discovered the nearest parking space was in another time zone. Mrs. T picked up the guords she needed for her annual Halloween display at a nice, little gardening shop down the road instead.

It may sound as though I begrudge the apple people their chance to turn their quiet little orchard into a mega-buck cash cow, but I don't. It's the American way. More power to 'em, I say.

But next year I think I'll go to this other apple orchard a friend recently told me about. It's a small-time operation; one horse-drawn hay-wagon, a bonfire and a gift shop smaller than my living room.

I figure I'd better give it a visit before they get around to installling the monorail and Magic Kingdom.

Life Without Mark

Tonight's the band's first gig without Brother Mark.

Mark and I have been playing together in the same band - The Guinness Brothers - for about six years, I think. Before that, Mark and I worked together in various bands for 15 years or so. So we've been sharing a stage for 20 years, at the very least.

And tonight, at Harvard Tavern, for the first time, I'll be flying solo.

Oh, the rest of the band will be there, sure ... but not Mark. And it's gonna be wired. I'll miss his playing, of course, and his vocal work. But more importantly, I'll miss - I miss already - all the "business stuff" Mark took care of.

He booked the band, he handled disgruntled bar owners, he haggled with managers trying to stiff us, he took care of payroll, taxes ... all the hassle stuff. All I had to do was show up and play. From here on out, I'll be doing it all.

Mark told me he's retiring from the band because he's getting too old to rock and roll. I'm not sure I believe that, but I've been wrong before.

Whatever his reasons, he's going to be missed.