When ducks attack!

We take Duchess the Wonder Dog to the park for her daily walk. She belongs to Lyndsay, but since my daughter has an erratic work schedule through the summer, I've been the designated dog walker recently. Duchess is very good at 'reminding' us that it's time to go, and she does this by prancing around in the house until we open the front door. The dog knows the word “walk” so it cannot be spoken without sending her into gyrations.

Last week, She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed wanted to go along and feed the ducks. Mary hasn't walked with us for a while because of the heat. It's hard on her, so she normally stays home. But there was stale bread in the kitchen and she hadn't been to the park for a couple of weeks. She wanted to visit the ducks. So Mary, Lyndsay, Duchess and I all piled into the car.

 

At the park, she walked to the edge of the pond where the ducks spotted the bag in her hands almost immediately. Every duck in the northern half of the county converged on her! Lyndsay, despite being an animal lover, was creeped out by the sudden crowd of ducks around her feet.

Duchess saw this as too much encroachment around her 'mom' and ran the ducks off. She raced toward them and they bolted into the water. Duchess would not pursue because getting into the water is entirely too much like getting a bath – something she avoids at all costs. But when she moved to the left, the ducks moved to the right and came back up on the bank looking for more bread. Meanwhile, Duchess was eating whatever bread she could find. This back-and-forth went on for a few minutes until one of the larger ducks tired of the game. The next time she lunged at them, he stood his ground and pecked at one of her front paws!

Duchess yipped and jumped back. She limped away holding the paw well off the ground. Lyndsay rushed over to look, thinking that she'd stepped on a fish hook or a thorn, but the dog was just being a drama queen. The duck called her bluff. Within a minute or two, she was walking normally again.

So be careful in our local park. There's a gang hanging out there, and they all quack.

I wanna be delusional for Christmas!

"for janis" by sheeshoo on Flickr

I'm watching the New Orleans Saints and New York Giants on Monday Night Football, and I find that my lust for a shiny new car under a huge red bow is increasing faster than the point count. Apparently, Lexus would have us believe that car payments and insurance premiums are the perfect Christmas gift. They may not be wrong. I can think of a couple of people I'd like to give one of these cars to over the holidays, provided I could stick them with the payments.

As for myself, I don't have to worry about finding a new car in the driveway on Christmas morning. It seems I ate the last of the left over black olives, a despicable act that I carried out without asking permission of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed. I didn't know when I married her that she's Italian by way of Ireland, which makes for occasional unpredictable displays of short temper. Squared.

I did have the temerity to ask for a new bike. It didn't go well.

Rule of Thumb

Any product labeled as "unbreakable" should first be tested by young children.

I'm reminded of this every time I use our step stool, a product which carried that "unbreakable" label. One of the pads on the bottom of a leg is broken off, and a cross member is likewise broken. We've had this since we moved into the house, as as "we" are painting just now, I...um, "we"...have cause to use the step stool once again.

The step stool was fine until the kids came along, then it developed these mysterious injuries. No one knows how they happened. It's quite possible that those pesky Libyan terrorists were responsible again. Like ninjas, they sneak in, do some damage and disappear.

The Quest

A voice came down from on high, saying in a loud and stern tone, "Thou hast displeased me, thou toad-like and surly husband, and there will be a reckoning! If thou should wish to be in my presence once again, thou must undertake a quest. Nothing less will bring my forebearance and prevent thy doom."

"What did I do now?" I whined. It was undoubtedly something I did, something I didn't do, or something I did poorly.

"Doest thou claim to not know the cause of my wrath?" the voice thundered. "How can you be so dumb?"

Sometimes I do play dumb. It's easier than trying to explain what I did, didn't, etc., and it avoids providing inadvertent clues to any misdeeds that haven't come to light yet. I did my best 'deer in the headlights' look and said nothing.

"Thou must bring a new peeler unto me!" she said. "In thy utter darkness and stupidity, thou hast lost the only good one in the kitchen."

This wasn't entirely true. I'd been assigned to potato peeling duty every night for a week, and I couldn't help it if the peeler went 'missing' -- although it did absolve me of the responsiblity of denuding helpless potatoes for awhile.

I brightened a little. "Soooo you want a new peeler, a nice one? Maybe something that fits well in the hand and is easy to manipulate?" I had just the thing.

Image by Joanna8555 on Flickr.

"No! Not THAT kind of peeler!" she roared. "I may yet smite thee, thou scruffulous toad-dog! Hie thee to the kingdom of Kohl or the wizard-realm of Target and bring me a peeler. Pray I do not send thee to the bottomless depths of the benighted land of WalMart on a Sunday afternoon, though thou doest truly deserve it. Fetch unto me the Peeler of KitchenAid, and make it snappy 'cause it's on sale, bozo!"

The WalMart bit shook me. We're having the local tax-free holiday this weekend, and the approaches to the dark realm of low, low discount prices would be thronged with orcs, goblins, bawling children, and less-than-happy parents looking to do mayhem for a chance at a parking space.

I respectfully tugged my forelock and hied off to Kohls.

"What wizardry is this?" I thought as I immediately found a place to park. Off to the west, nearer to the all-consuming evil empire that is the blackened land of Wally World, I could hear the cries of the damned floating on the wind. Orcs, trolls, and lawyers were feeding on the hapless crowd in an orgy fueled by money and happy meals from the satanic empire of Ronald McDonald. I turned away, saddened by the loss of so many people, but powerless to overcome the corporate might unleashed on those doomed souls.

I entered the kingdom of Kohl via the front gate, astounded to find it unguarded. Shoppers streamed by, laden with large bags bearing countless treasures. A few toothsome young women streamed by as well, their bodies unencumbered by much in the way of clothing due to the summer heat. I bumped into the door.

Two KitchenAid peelers remained on the shelf. I grabbed one and hurried back to the checkout, expecting to find a crowd of ravenous orcs waiting to make their purchases. But no, I breezed up to the counter and paid a handsome sum for the most wanted of peelers, then booked for the parking lot and home.

It was truly an adventure, but not one that I'd care to repeat any time soon.

Thursday Musette

This was taken on my front porch yesterday afternoon.

First, a word about bicycle commuting! I've seen the same commuter several times in the morning, and it's painfully obvious that he's terrified of riding in traffic. Yet, like many fearful cyclists, he does things that may appear to be safer than riding in the travel lane, but in reality just make life more difficult for himself and the rest of us on the road.

I first saw him riding south along Mingo Road. He was in the right hand lane. I would be turning right at the south gate to the maintenance base. I slowed and tucked in behind him at a safe distance. To my surprise, he turned right at the gate, then turned left across the entrance just about where a pedestrian crosswalk would be. At the other side of the exit road, he turned twice again, looked over his shoulder for southbound traffic, and went back into the travel lane!

I muttered - okay - I yelled inside the car with the windows up - "Thou lumpish half-faced horn-beast!" or something similarly Olde English and Anglo-Saxonish. (My thanks to Chris Seildel and the Shakespearean Insult Generator for technical assistance.)

I saw him again this week, trying to cross the entrance at the main gate right before 6AM when the whole world is trying to get through that gate. Traffic arrives from north, south, and east - almost all of it turning west. My hapless commuter cyclist jumped the curb and punched the pedestrian crossing button. He wanted to go south across the gate entrance and continue south on Mingo but heavy traffic prevented him crossing like a pedestrian. Had he taken a place in the travel lane and waited his turn like any other traffic, he would have been under way in a minute or two.

I really want to catch up with this guy and give him my business card. He needs a mentor.

...

Have I mentioned that it's stinkin' hot? Oh, I have. There's an endless week of 100+ temperatures ahead. My grass is a nice brown color that crackles like potato chips when I walk on it. I'm worried about the trees, though. There's a redbud around the side. An oak tree stands over the south side of the driveway while a pine guards the north. The pine is shedding needles like crazy.

I had an idea to get water to the roots. I punched a couple of small holes in the bottom of a 5 gallon bucket and placed it next to each tree, filling the bucket repeatedly through the evening. The oak had about 25 gallons tonight and the pine has had 10 so far. The water trickles out the bottom of the bucket, soaking into the ground with minimal evaporation. I hope it's effective.

...

I was doing a mod on a computer at work. This one is extensive. It called for the replacement of 6 SRAM chips - static random access memory - and they're kind of a PITA to do. One is nearly touching the lock bar that holds the card in place and it's neighbor is tight up against it, so there's mechanical disassembly to do. Then the card goes onto a hot air desoldering stage. It's cleaner and less stressful than cutting the ICs. After cleaning, the new ICs get soldered in place. They have J-leads that turn under the IC body, and combined with the tight quarters make soldering a pain too.

I thought I had it right when I finished and hooked it up to the test station. As it turned out, I'd managed to solder most of the chips in correctly, only missing a couple of joints.

It's entirely possible for a computer to develop Tourette's syndrome.

I learn something new every day.

Guns & Gardens

Yes, it's cheesy, low-budget video of the zombie apocalypse, but it has wonderful stuff like this:

"They're putting heads on sticks in the parking lot! Lord of the Flies ain't got nothing on Wal-Mart."

YouTube: Guns & Gardens

Ask Dr. Wally: Helmet cameras

Dear Dr. Wally,

I've been thinking about getting a helmet camera to document the encounters I've had with local motorists. Most of them are safe, courteous drivers, but a small percentage are either baffled when they meet cyclists on the road or they're angry. I had a nasty security guard at a local business tell me I couldn't lock my bike to the fence outside. I'd really like to document this. Do you have any advice regarding these cameras?

Photogenic in Poteau

Ah, security guards. They occupy a special place in the pantheon of small-minded demi-gods, chubby county sheriff's deputies, and my waspish English teacher from high school. Get a helmet camera and use it, Pho, but don't expect that your effort will bring positive results in every case.

First, some background. In Oklahoma as in most states, there's no expectation of privacy in a public place. That means you can photograph people without their consent - provided you're not using the photos for advertising or using someone's likeness in a malicious way. You can take photos on private property, but if the property owner objects, you must leave or you can be arrested for trespassing. The photos, however, are your property and they cannot be taken from you.

Some police agencies will be proactive and try to identify problem motorists using a cyclist's video. Other agencies, however, regard cyclists as a nuisance and will dismiss even the most egregious video of an abusive or dangerous motorist. Still, with the popularity of a public forum like YouTube, these benighted police departments can be dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty first century.

Dr. Wally

Next month: Collected recipes for county sheriff's deputies from the wild cannibals of Oklahoma

"We named the dog Indiana."

I bought a new hat, a classically styled fedora made of oil cloth. This is actually waxed cotton and it's the eighteenth century version of Goretex. The hat isn't dressy but it's certainly practical. The brim provides shade. When it's raining it keeps the water off my glasses. I hate having water droplets all over the lenses.

Number One Daughter says I look like Indiana Jones, assuming that Jones was nearsighted and walked with a limp due to a bad knee.

Given all that, this should be the prefect hat for an intrepid adventurer. So I set off to explore the deepest recesses of my Toshiba laptop. There was good reason to do so. Apparently some voodoo witch doctor laid a hex on it, or perhaps it was under the magic spell of an enchantress. On the other hand, since the kids have been using it regularly, it may just be gorfed.

'Gorfed' is a technical description of an electronic device that is not working at its full capacity - or any capacity - for that matter. It's a polite version of a somewhat more earthy, older term, but this is a family webpage after all.

Number One Son told me the computer wasn't working right. Sure enough, it wouldn't open various programs. The mouse pad was partially inoperative, and the clock indicated I was rapidly traveling both backward and forward in time.

After conversing, conferring, and otherwise hobnobbing with some fellow adventurers, the near universal advice was to replace the battery on the CMOS chip. This is the computer's internal clock and without it, bad voodoo happens. I could almost hear the drums.

I found a web page with instructions for disassembling the Toshiba, so with a jeweler's screwdriver in hand, I set off in pursuit of adventure. The first set back involved taking off the hat so I could wear binocular magnifiers. Those screws are tiny!



The battery was immediately revealed under a cover for the modem. I could see it, but I couldn't get to it. There were a few extra steps involved, like removing the battery, CD/DVD drive, hard drive, modem, memory sticks, myriad cables, and a partridge in a pear tree. The keyboard bezel had to come off, along with the keyboard, and top cover. I evicted a family of illegal Swedish immigrants, which explained all that late night singing and the rapid disappearance of my vodka. Finally, I arrived at the mother board. The instructions said to remove just the four screws holding it in place, but there were about a dozen in view. I was certain that if I chose incorrectly, arrows would spew from the walls or a boulder would crush me. Decisions, decisions.



By carefully prying up the motherboard, I was able to determine which screws to remove. The board popped out, and there, in all its glory, was the button cell battery. The damned thing has welded leads, not a clip, so I have to go find a replacement to solder onto the board!

I'm going to put my hat back on and trek off into the wilderness of Radio Shack! First, however, there was a minor plumbing disaster to take care of in the kid's bathroom, but that's another tale of adventure and mayhem.

Ask Dr Wally...

Dear Dr. Wally

I read an article that urged readers to try nude photography. I enjoy both bicycling and photography. Since it was a relatively warm winter day, I stripped off my clothes, rolled the bike out of the garage, and set off for the park to take some photos.

One of my neighbors screamed and fled into her house. Some people are just overwhelmed by artistic freedom.

Some motorists honked and waved, or at least the ones that didn't rear-end the car ahead of them did.

But I do have some questions for you. Have you tried nude cycling and would you have any advice for potential nude cyclists? And can you recommend an attorney?

Incarcerated in Inola

Dear Jailbird

I have to admit that I have little experience with nude cycling. It's only happened once and it involved copious amounts of alcohol, a bachelor party where I met the woman destined to become my third or fourth ex-wife, and an ill-advised bet. I lost. Let's just leave it at that.

But I can recommend the very best attorney in Broken Elbow, and that's Chester Niebelung. He's the town bicycle and pedestrian coordinator, heads the planning and zoning commission, and sits on the school board. Remarkably, he's never been elected to any position. Instead, he's been appointed to them by a succession of public officials who owed him some favors. Chester's brother, Armand, runs the local paving company among other businesses, and it's rumored that the two brothers know where all the bodies are buried. Literally. If you hire Chester as your attorney, be sure to pay your bill on time!

Dr. Wally

Next time: Bicycling blood-sucking monkeys invade West Mifflin, Pennsylvania.

I had this dream, see....

I've reached the age that precludes those dreams of exotic women. And my nightmares generally revolve around zombies, werewolves, Russian paratroopers, and plumbing disasters. I come by the later honestly because Mary has had occasion to shake me awake in the middle of the night because water is streaming across a floor somewhere.

But this one was different. It involves simple greed. I was driving through Catoosa when I noticed a couple of bicycles on the sidewalk in front of a church. They caught my eye because the brake cables sprang directly from the tops of the levers, making a pair of graceful arcs toward their respective anchor points. It's one easy way to spot a vintage bike. Furthermore, they had distinctive contrasting paint panels typical of bikes from the seventies.

Inside the church were more bikes! They were having a rummage sale. There were Falcons, Raleighs, a Condor, and even a couple of Motobecanes!

But I stopped and stared in amazement at a pair of display cases stuffed with old cameras. There were the usual assortment of Brownies and box cameras, but I spotted a Pentax Spotmatic, a Praktica, and 4x5 Speed Graphic among other classics.

I just knew I'd need more money.

Someone started talking and my eyes creaked open. The clock radio said it was 4:20 - time to get up - and the BBC was doing a story on a plane crash. The dream evaporated, replaced by morning reality.

Phooey.

Coffee: The wonder drug

Ive given up on drinking coffee the old fashioned way, diluted down with copious amounts of hot water. I've stopped grinding it to powder and snorting the stuff. In short, I've been mainlining for a while now.


This is a close up of my works. It's an Aeropress fitted with a large veterinary needle in order to pass the occasional grains or silt that gets by the filter. In operation, it's exactly like making regular coffee in the Aeropress. Install a new filter, add ground coffee and water, wait about 30 seconds, and then find a suitable vein for injection.

Next thing you know, I'll be shuffling around outside the local coffee shop, hoping to score another bag of Guatemala-Antigua for my habit.

(Seriously, I'd never consider injecting anything into my body, particularly anything that could be depended upon to shorten my life. But you have to admit that the Aeropress looks remarkably like an over-sized syringe.)

Le Chateau CycleDog

What you are about to read is actually true, except for those parts that were simply made up. Names, places, and facts have been changed just for the hell of it.

Steve over on DFW P2P opined that perhaps I was re-locating Chateau CycleDog further south, like south of the Red River into Texican territory. I'm sorry if any of you were confused by that scurrilous rumor. Nothing could be further from the truth. Given the CycleDog clan's long and storied history here in Oklahoma, we would be loathe to leave the ancestral lands and journey to new ones, especially in Texas.



This is the familial manse originally erected by Clan CycleDog in the early days, just after we'd arrived here in the New World about 900 years ago. Oh, you thought it was Columbus who discovered America! Wrong. It was us. We traveled here from parts of northern and eastern Europe in an effort to escape the marauding Huns and Vikings. It was only partly successful. The bloody Vikings followed us here as can be seen from the rune stones they left behind.

Rune stone near Heavener, Oklahoma. Really.

It was tough in the early days, but my ancestors adapted to the harsh life by inventing hot tubs and air condidtioning. Almost immediately afterward, they discovered iced alcoholic beverages with chunks of fruit and little umbrellas on top. Their's was a hard scrabble existence.

But then all these other people showed up. First, Native Americans arrived, followed by waves of palefaces, including Yankees, refugees from Arkansas, and the odd alien from outer space, though in all honesty, the latter are more greenish than pale.

Naturally enough, like all conquerers they wanted to change the names of everything. Rustic but original place names, like Rocky Flat or Dead Horse Creek, gave way to frou-frou names as the invaders plunked down endless expanses of subdivisions. Prairie Village became Stonebridge Mansions. Buckingham Limited grew atop the old Cow Flop Flats. Stinky Creek became Nouveau Esprit. The list gets longer, more pretentious, and more depressing every year. I can't wait to see what they do next to the Superfund site up by Collinsville. That'll take some imagination.

Still, it can be fun to mess with these new names and the kind of people who like them. I was walking down the street a few days ago when a woman in a car stopped and asked, "Excuse me, sir, but how do I get to Nottingham Woods?"

"Oh, that's easy," I replied. "You just stay on this road until you reach Ye Olde Sexe Shoppe, and then turn right. But if you reach the Marquis de Sade Book Store and Smut Emporium, you've gone too far...or maybe not." I grinned.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. Tires squealed as she did a u-turn and headed out of town at double the speed limit.

Damn foreigners.

Mmmmm! Coffee!

How to make coffee at 5 AM.

There's nothing quite as nice as fresh, hot coffee on an early morning commute. Here's how it's made.



First, locate the kitchen. It's a large room equipped with a refrigerator, stove, sink, microwave, and a whole lot of gadgets that serve no known function. Somewhere in that room there should be a lightswitch. Turn it on.



Locate the tea kettle, a large closed vessel meant for boiling water. Put fresh water inside it from the sink, then place the tea kettle atop the stove. Turn on the burner, being careful to see that it's really burning and not merely filling the room with natural gas. Ignoring this step can lead to a powerful explosion or slow asphyxiation. If something smells funny and it's not you, double check to see that the burner is truly on.



While the water heats, get an insulated water bottle from the cupboard. Place it on the countertop next to the stove. Be sure the open end of the bottle is facing up.

Find the Melitta one-cup drip coffee maker. It may be in the cupboard next to the coffee cups or it may be in the dishwasher. Place it on top of the water bottle which should still be sitting on the countertop with the open end facing up.



Find the No.2 coffee filters in the cupboard next to the stove. It says No.2 on the box. There are some No.4 filters in there too, but they're reserved for an advanced lesson in coffee making.



Put the filter in the drip coffee maker.



Find the coffee. It may be beans or it may already be ground. If it's ground, add 2 teaspoons to the filter. That's 2 teaspoons of coffee, not 2 teaspoons from the drawer.



If only coffee beans are available, add about 3 teaspoons to the coffee grinder. They'll be more compact once they've been ground. Turn the grinder on and after the beans are finished, put the coffee in the Melitta filter.

When the water is almost boiling, pour it over the coffee in the filter. Be sure the Melitta device is still sitting atop the water bottle and that the water bottle has its open end facing up. Add just a little bit of water at first in order to settle the grounds. Once they're saturated, add the rest of the water.

This is sometimes a tricky judgment call. If you add too much water, the bottle overfills and it slops over the side onto the counter top. One way to prevent a mess is to put a saucer under the bottle. If you add too little water, however, the coffee will be very strong and roughly the same viscosity as used motor oil.

After the water finishes dripping through the Melitta device, remove the coffee maker from atop the water bottle. Dump the filter and grounds into the trash and place the coffee maker in the sink.

Add sugar and creamer to taste - in the coffee - not in the sink. Place the bottle into its holder on the bike and prepare to leave the house. One on the street, promptly fumble the bottle, spilling the very hot contents down onto your jersey and legs. Stop and use some colorful language to express your dismay before turning around for a change of clothing.

At this point, you should be fully awake.

The art of urban camoflage

Floppy straw hat? Check. Black framed 'birth control' glasses? Check. Loud Hawaiian shirt that some may find offensive? Check. De rigueur camera around neck? Check. Not shown: Plaid Bermuda shorts, black socks and Converse Chuck Taylors? Check, check, and check.

This is how you can disappear in a crowd. You can stand there taking photos and people will quite literally never see you. If you inadvertently walk into a men's wear store, the entire staff will break and run like a covey of quail. And if you're somehow Shanghai'd into going shopping with your significant other, you can follow her around and stand nearby while she shops. Very shortly, she'll get an attack of the vapors and insist that you go home.

I only look like an idiot.

How to fix an air conditioner

The unstately Wagner manor was getting gawdawful hot. I walked down the master hallway (when you only have one, it gets to be the master hall) to the thermostat and pushed the button to lower the temperature setting. Nothing happened. The air conditioner remained silent. But the digital display flashed on and off. Something was up. Sighing at yet another gadget to fix, I removed the front plate to get the model number. Then I was off to the computer to download a copy of the manual. Minutes later, I was back at the thermostat with the manual in hand. I tried to enter the programming sequence, but the device stubbornly refused to allow any changes. Right about then, I noticed that the master switch was set to the oh-eff-eff position. Yes, it was off. The air conditioner works now.

...and yes, it's true that I'm a professional electronics technician. Why did you ask?

Now with added chickens!

As a service to long-time readers, I'm pleased to announce that CycleDog will be upgraded from that tired money-for-positive-reviews format. In keeping with the latest, cutting-edge thinking emanating from Sue Lowden, who is challenging Harry Reid for his seat in the United States Senate, I've decided to take bribes incentive pay in the form of poultry from now on. Yes, who needs quaint, old fashioned money or PayPal when you can have live chickens running around in the house?

From now on, if a manufacturer wants a glowing review of their latest over-priced, under-engineered bicycling contraption, it's chicken on the barrel head, baby.

Partly, this is due to my medical condition. I'm not supposed to have beef, cheese, red wine, or beer. The proteins found in these foods causes my joints to swell up and become extremely painful. So I've been eating mostly chicken and fish. Who knew that I'd like fish tacos? But I've had so much chicken, I may sprout feathers any minute now. Still, I figure having them around the house may be better for me. If I want to eat, I'll have to chase them down first, and as anyone who's had to chase chickens knows, this is a high-calorie, aerobic exercise all by itself.

I live in a cat house

I live in a cat house. No, no, not THAT kind of cat house! Mine simply has too many cats in it. They sharpen their claws on the furniture. Their greedy little eyes watch my ham sandwich at lunchtime. They trip me in the pre-dawn darkness as I get ready for work. The cute little fur balls are trying to kill me.

It wasn't always like this. Somehow, that lovely woman I married turned into a crazy cat lady. First we took in a couple of strays. Then a feral cat dropped a litter of kittens in our garage. The next thing I knew, I could hardly take a step without setting off some screeching feline. Even that was OK. But I crossed the line when I began questioning the expenses involved in all the food, litter, and vet bills. I pointed out that the cats cost far more than any of my bicycles. That's when the fur balls started plotting my demise.

They're sneaky and secretive about it, of course, because they're cats. Rather than being overtly physical they prefer stealthy psychological attacks. They steal my pencil when I'm trying to write. They attack the cursor on the computer screen. The kittens are inordinately fond of sinking sharp claws into unprotected feet. But the one thing that makes me absolutely insane is waking up to a loud purr at 3AM, only to discover a pair of large, yellow eyes peering at me from inches away. It's entirely possible to go from sound asleep to stark raving mad in about ten milliseconds.

One of them took a liking to my cycling shoes. She sleeps atop them in my closet. Worse, she also sleeps in the small hamper with my used cycling jerseys, shorts, and socks. When she's feeling affectionate, it's like having a purring sweat sock climb in my lap. As part of their nefarious plot, she usually does this right before dinner. My appetite is much reduced.

So I'm not getting enough sleep and I'm not eating right. After the last 3AM session, I told the offending cat, “If you do this again, you're off to the vet's office to be neutered. Mess with me, buddy, and see what happens!” Actually, he was already scheduled, something which Mary had tried to explain to him without success. She's a crazy cat lady for good reason.

She gave me that level stare, the one that all husbands know and dread. In an icy, malice-tinged voice, she said, “Mess with my cats, buddy boy, and see what happens.”

I was awake for the rest of the night, my legs carefully crossed. Cats pranced gleefully in the hallway, danced along the kitchen counter tops, and snorted long lines of finely-ground catnip. The racket faded as the sun came up. I crept down the hall to find cats snoring raucously on the couch, the end tables, the kitchen table, and even on top of my computer. They'd won. I'd moved down at least one rung on the household pecking order.

Layoffs at CycleDog

I deeply regret being forced to make this announcement, but given the downturn in the economy and the cutbacks we all have to endure, I'll have to let some of you go. Layoffs are always painful. There's no way around it. The family budget simply will not permit the current state to continue indefinitely. Shrinking revenues lead to shrinking groceries. We have to cut the fat, so the very first layoff will involve my own adipose tissues.

I'm well aware of your years of service, providing buoyancy in rough waters, an insulating layer against the cold, and the potential to see us through lean times. Unfortunately, those lean times are upon us as we've cut back on both groceries and restaurant food. You've served well and it's my fondest hope you find another position soon. Wally says that several of his ex-wives have posteriors which could readily accommodate all of you.

In a way, this situation is a two-edged sword. Budget cuts have also forced the reduction of alcohol consumption in the CycleDog homestead. Normally, this would be cause for celebration as it's well known that brain cells and booze do not co-exist well. Booze is the ultimate winner in any contest involving the two. In this instance, however, both alcohol and brain cells will be cut back. Obviously, the budget forces the booze reduction. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed insists that the majority of my brain cells are unused anyway, and She could use the storage space.

So far, the muscles are not facing imminent furlough. They're needed for shoveling snow, lifting sacks of groceries, and once spring arrives, pushing the lawn mower to and fro. For the moment, the distal muscles, particularly those that operate the remote control, are essential to further operations. In all honesty, due to the reduction in brain cells and the booze budget, those muscles working the remote control are likely to retain regular employment. Still, since the reduced number of brain cells might lead to increased consumption of daytime television and prime time 'reality' shows, the cutbacks in the alcohol budget may need to be reconsidered.

Thank you for your years of service, and good luck in the future.

Job opening

Muse wanted at CycleDog

Thalia, the Muse of comedy, abruptly resigned from her unpaid intern assignment here at CycleDog, citing the lack of pay as a reason. Thalia is certainly sweet, but she's not the brightest Muse. Her resignation has created an opening for a qualified individual, gifted in humor and satire. The job requires some light sarcasm, typing, filing, and answering the telephone.

Some less than stellar Muses have applied for the position. Given the current economy and the high level of unemployment, competition for this opening has been unusually keen.

Phartra - the Muse of embarrassing bodily noises - was the first candidate. She was rejected for obvious reasons as this is a very small office.

Hurlotta - the Muse of drunken frat parties - was next on the list, but she showed up three and a half hours late with her clothing slightly askew and with eyes as red as stop lights.

Snap-On-Ica - the Muse of lost tools - managed to lose her pen, her purse, and even the job application, and did all this within ten feet of the front door.

Erotica - the Muse of porn - arrived wearing a trench coat and nothing else. Unfortunately, I was out at the time. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed gave Erotica the heave-ho.

Bellowica - the Muse of German opera - showed up but she gave me a headache. I have to admit, she was thorough and punctual, but she was very loud and the spear kept poking holes in the wallpaper.

Barrista and Cafe Latte both arrived at the same time, which was a little awkward. Barrista is the Muse of espresso, while Cafe Latte is the muse of skinny-decaf-no-foam-cappuccinos. They immediately traded verbal barbs that quickly devolved to fisticuffs in the alley out back. Personally, my money is on Espresso Girl as Cafe Latte doesn't look strong enough to defend herself.

Bubba Ignatowski, the Muse of the NFL draft and former Chippendale, is perfectly qualified according to She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed and I had to think deeply about getting rid of him. She was positively glowing. His rock-hard six pack compares unfavorably to my more buoyant one. I told him that Erotica and Hurlotta were down at Larry's Cafe drowning their sorrows and he was gone within seconds. She-Who-etc. lost the glow and shifted back to her usual glare leveled in my direction.

Wally offered to be a part-time Muse, but I declined his offer. He'd just drink all my beer and spend the rest of the time snoring on the couch. I can do that myself.

The interviews haven't turned up a suitable candidate, so if you know any out of work Muses, feel free to inform them of this available job.

Is it still only Tuesday?

Here's the source of much frustration.  This is the Yashica Electro 35 GT that has an intermittent electrical problem.  In looking at the schematic, I concluded that the only point in common with both problems (exposure and battery check circuits) was the negative battery terminal.  It's buried under the rangefinder assembly inside the top cover.  

Notice the cute little pigs on my bandana.  I'd prefer a solid color in case I dropped a small part.  It's easier to find that way.  But this was the only one I had on hand.  Also, notice the paint tray from Hobby Lobby.  These are very useful for holding and organizing small parts, but I can't use it at work because it's not safe in an electromagnetic discharge environment.    

This is the rangefinder assembly.  It's held in place by two small screws, one of them inside the assembly where you have to be careful about touching or scratching the parts.  It comes out as a unit, revealing the negative battery terminal in all it's pristine glory.  Yep, it appears to be just fine.  No corrosion.  No frayed wires.  And of course, I don't have a probe that will allow me to check it here at home.  Grrr.

Worse, I don't want to take it into work because the FAA is out and about this week.  I've never had problems with one of their inspectors (knock on wood) and I don't want to start now.

The Kodak has a high ISO setting that automatically chooses a very fast speed in low light conditions.  I haven't really played with it much, so before leaving for work I shot these two images.  And naturally, I forgot to disable the flash when I took the first one!   It's slightly creepy since the flash washed out all the color.

This one actually looks better reduced than it did in the full-size version.  The noise is very apparent in the bigger one.  I'll try this again with the tripod and a much lower ISO.  It would have been interesting to do that this morning, but first, I was in a hurry to get to work and second, we had freezing fog out there.  Honestly, it was just below freezing and a mist hung in the air.  The cold and damp seemed to go straight to my bones.  I've been chilled all day.

As I said yesterday, this would be another busy day.  Two of our cats were to go to the vets to be neutered this morning, so they were not allowed anything to eat or drink after midnight.  That meant Mary picked up all the food and water.  At 3AM, a crowd of hungry, thirsty cats stormed the bedroom door carrying torches and pitchforks.  OK, they really didn't do that.  They just sat in the hallway meowing.  Mittens - the geriatric female - sat out there and howled.  I was ready to kill all of them.  

At mid-morning, I came home to take the toms to the vets.  Mary doesn't drive, so it was my responsibility.  "Yeah, see what happens when you guys piss me off?  Snip, snip, snip!" I chortled.

Mary gave me a level stare.  "Just see what happens when you piss ME off!" she said.

I'm staying out of her way tonight.