Presto Change-o!

Welcome to the new & improved blog!

I appreciate all of the thoughts and suggestions from the loyal readership (yes, you too, Erika *grin*) and I am very indebted to Cricket for her assistance in navigating the wilds of the Blogger tags.

The blog is formatted primarily for IE, but firefox users shouldn't have any difficulty with it.

Some of the older photo posts might not be as nicely formatted as I'd like, but I can live with it.

All comments welcome!

Technorati Tag: General

I just washed my blog and I can't do a thing with it

Okay, so its well into the new year, but I'm feeling a sense of visual fatigue when it comes to the look of my blog.

I need a change.

I also need your help.

I ask you, my loyal readership (yes, all 5 of you) to come up with some ideas for what Blog v2.0 should be.

No suggestion too outrageous. Do I change the title? Colours? Layout? Add a photo header?

Lay it on me, gang...

Anniversaries of Note...

All over Austria and across the music world, people are celebrating the 250th anniversary of the birth of Wolfang Amadeus Mozart. They sure don't write music like that anymore. If I actually owned a copy of Amadeus (and I'm really surprised that I don't) I'd be watching it tonight.

On a sadder note, it's also the 29th anniversary of the Apollo 1 fire which killed Ed White, Roger Chaffee and Gus Grissom.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA
(A ROUGH ROAD LEADS TO THE STARS)

Since everyone else is doin' it

Now that my ears have stopped ringing...

Bon Jovi definitely puts on a good show.

They performed for 2 and a half hours and kept the crowd (mostly female and swooning and screaming) at a fever pitch. We had absolutely amazing seats and we got to soak up the view from the totally kick-ass Video board above the stage.

I wasn't able to get the Blackberry out and blog during the show as I did with the opening act because I was thoroughly enjoying myself. And with all the screaming I would have been hard-pressed to form coherent sentences.

Penny and I noted that they really found a formula for good music and stuck with it while managing to balance a maturing approach to their work. Of all the "hair" bands that emerged around the same time, I'd say Bon Jovi was a smarter bunch because they wrote solid Rock Anthems but with a more intelligent feel.

Funny moments of the night included:

• seeing the groping Jon endured while walking around during different parts of the show
• seeing a lot of the home-made signs like "Shut up and Kiss Us" (displayed from the floor seats) "Hey Jon, Lay Your Hands on Me" from the opposide side of the ACC, "Born to Be YOUR Baby" (displayed from several sections over)
• Watching Penny bounce and scream and thoroughly enjoy herself (oh, and she did that at the concert, too)
• Seeing Tico Torres (drums) sneaking a smoke while playing

As for the band, Jon is....Jon. With less hair. Tico is still a ball of energy and raw power and one of the better drummers in the business. Dave Bryan (keyboards) looks unsettlingly like Peregrine Took after too much Ent water. Richie Sambora has not aged well. He looks like Tommy Lee but with fewer tattoos/piercings and more clothes. He can, however, still sing and his guitar work hasn't missed a lick.

I'd love to see them in a smaller venue just for fun, but I don't think I would have traded the arena experience for anything. Well, except maybe the chance to boot Tico off the kit for a set or two...

Penny remarks that she would have traded the arena experience for something too, but I cut her off before she could offer further details.

Some things a husband just doesn't need to know. *grin*

On With the Show!

Greetings from the 15th row of the Air Canada Centre where Penny and I are listening to the opening act for the Bon Jovi spectacle. These guys are The Luminols. A surprisingly good band with guitar tones reminiscent of Alex Lifeson's work on Moving Pictures.

So far so good, now bring on the boys so we can ROCK!!!!

Quiz from Kal

Apparently this is what lunch hours are for.


Numenorean


To which race of Middle Earth do you belong?
brought to you by Quizilla

Could be worse. At least I'm not a cave troll.

Random thoughts at 1AM

So Canada took a big shift to the right with the election results. Personally, I tend to lean a bit that way, but Stephen Harper scares the hell out of me.

Quite the reversal of fortune with the hockey game tonight. We posted an 8-1 win. I feel better.

I'm almost finished Short Story #2. Penny has been helping me with the edits. She's a far more talented writer than I am and very adept and finding the shortcomings in my prose. I'm wondering what I should do if I get a number of them going??

This beer I just finished tasted like another one. Dunno if I should.

1:08. Still not tired.

I will *not* have another snack. Even though my choice accompanied the beer quite nicely.

Tuesday will be another late night as Penny and I are off to the Bon Jovi concert. I'm pretty excited, but Penny and her friend 'Al' are beside themselves with giddiness. Me, I'm hoping for a rocking show. I think Penny and 'Al' are hoping to get onstage or backstage. ;-)

There is still window trim to be sanded and painted. I think that's Wednesday's task.

Thanks to Miz Cricket, I have SuDoku on my blackberry. It rocks. Besides, I had to do something to deal with my Spider Solitaire addiction.

I'm not tired yet, but I'll wrap this one up.

(Hey Kal, your fly is open.)

Hockey Night in Ajax

Here's hoping I have a better night than last week. The above picture pretty much sums up the opinion of my play. ;-)

(All things considered, I'd rather be playing hockey than waiting for election results. I know its important and all, but I have a feeling we're in for a fundamental shift in Ottawa.)

Hockey Digit update

I heard from the Captain about our wounded warrior.

Steve had 10 stitches to re-attach the end of his finger and the tip is broken. He'll be out for 3 weeks. He said it was throbbing like hell, but the percs the doctor gave him were kicking in when I spoke to him Friday evening. He said he's doing OK.

Yikes. I had 5 when I opened my fingertip while slicing a bagel. I can't fathom 10.

Heal quick, Stevie. We'll need ya for the playoffs! :)

Happy Birthday, ltlme!

My DW reminded me this morning that it was ltlme's birthday.

(25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25)

Of course, discretion prevents me from revealing her age. I can say that she's not yet counting backwards. But I'm pretty sure I'd give it up for a quarter.

(25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25 25)

(Subliminal messages? Me?)

There was little joy in Iceville...

...for the Steve's Painting squad last night.

Late games are always tough to manage for some guys and we never really know how many bodies we'll have on the ice. Most of the guys I play with (good guys, all) are blue-collar/trades folks. There are a handful of Cube rats and IT geeks. Most of the team have shifts to manage or very early work hours, so being up late doesn't always work for them.

Last night we were putting out 8-8 record up against the top team in our division. Because of a re-alignment and an unbalanced schedule, we had not played them this season. We did our best with a short bench against a full team, and a fast-skating, hard-shooting one at that. I actually felt I played well but couldn't really do much to stop the goals that did go in.

Mid-way through the 3rd period, the Captain (a heart on his sleeve kind of guy....very emotional on the ice, but pretty calm when off it) came off the ice after a particularly frustrating shift and slammed the bench door pretty hard. I don't know if it was on the opening slam or the closing slam, but somehow the guy who was coming on to replace him got the top of his right ring finger caught in the door.

These doors, I mention, are metal framed and pretty heavy.

He was sliced pretty badly and there was much concern as play was stopped and Stevie raced off the ice with the Captain and one of our walking wounded who's already on the injured list. Paul, our Captain, felt absolutely dreadful because he feels a certain responsibility for Stevie getting his digit in the door. I dunno how that will shake out, but we're pretty concerned and we hope Steve needs nothing more than a few stitches and a couple of weeks off from the game to heal.

As for me, I actually felt good about the game and how I played (a rare thing, as you know) but a few minutes after that, I misjudged a slapshot coming towards my blocker and would up taking the brunt of the shot on the outside of my forearm.

Ow....

So I have a nice lump and a bruise as a reminder of the 5-2 loss.

But I'm certain Steve's reminder, to say nothing of Paul's, will linger longer than mine.

Short Story - Just Plane Lucky

Author's note: This is a fairly raw, almost unedited tale. It is published under the Creative Commons License.

Just Plane Lucky

So there I was. Crashed; and a lot farther from civilization than I was comfortable with. I didn't quite plan to spend the afternoon this way but then again, if my plane could talk, I'm sure it would offer a similar opinion.

My plane. Oh boy. I don't think she'll forgive me this time.

I know what you're thinking. A plane can't feel, right? I'm crazy, right? A little non compos mentis, perhaps? I beg to differ. Ask any cowboy about the bond he develops with a good horse. Ask any sailor about the connection they serve aboard a good ship. Likewise, just ask any pilot...a good plane can come to mean an awful lot to a pilot who has taken it to the edge, especially if it brings the pilot home safe and sound.

I was running my own air cargo business some years after I left the Air Force. I tell you, I got to fly some of the best stuff in those days. I started in Hurricanes, and then moved on to Spitfires and then Typhoons, until a rather nasty crash landing rendered me healthy enough to fly, just not healthy enough to take on the rigours of a fighter aircraft. After getting out of the hospital, I found myself transferred to a Transport squadron; the ultimate blow to a fighter pilot's ego and prestige. I mean, no self-respecting aerial warrior wants to be seen inside a cargo plane, let alone being seen at the controls of one of these lumbering beasts.

Lady Luck being my guardian angel, I was blessed with a new Squadron Leader who had suffered a similar fate. In his office he told me that when he was a young pilot, he had crashed a biplane fighter some years before the war, but had managed to convince the higher-ups that he could still fly, so he got a slot in a bomber squadron. Six months ago, he took command of this rather rag-tag Transport squadron. The greybeards at Group HQ figured that some of his "dash" might be just what the squadron needed. Their faith in him was rewarded when the squadron successfully flew some particularly hairy resupply missions in decidedly unfriendly skies. Looking back, I knew he did the right thing by me as I was leaving his office to go find my billet. He said, "I know you were a good fighter pilot. But not everyone can cut it flying a transport. Keep that in mind during your transition training."

Well, that did it. He went for my ego. In my naiveté, I figured I'd show the old boy.

I shouldn't have spoken too soon, because my initial experience with the venerable old 'Dakota' was somewhat below my usual standards. To be completely honest, my first landing had - in the immortal words of my instructor pilot - "...all the grace of a clumsy cow walking across a field of marbles." This was a somewhat humbling and galling comparison for a guy with more than his share of difficult flying under his belt. However, a fighter pilot doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit" and I slowly mastered the intricacies of flying the loveable "Gooney Bird".

As time went on, my experience flying fighters served me quite well as I flew some rather high-risk missions towards the end of the war. The squadron's unofficial motto was "no mission too dangerous" and we managed to nurse home some rather tattered and battered birds after some of these missions. I grew to understand that it was harder to fly the Dakota than it was to fly low-level missions in my beloved "Tiffie', because the Dakota couldn't shoot back.

So what does all of this have to do with the plane being mad at me? Well, for a lot of those 'high pucker factor' missions, I flew the same plane over and over again. When I think about it, I'm not sure how that happened, because we weren't really "assigned" to a particular aircraft like we would be in some fighter squadrons. In fact, I never even noticed it until my crew chief pointed it out to me. It seemed like every time he had his airframe gang patching up a large number of flak holes in an aircraft; invariably that aircraft was a Dakota with the tail number "303" with your truly being the most recent pilot-in-command.

The final half-dozen mission I flew before the end of the war were all in 303 and she never failed to bring me home safely. Allied air power might have had control of the skies, but ground fire was a real hazard on some of the resupply drops we had to do in those final days. My very final mission before I rotated home was through the worst storm experienced in over half a century. But I had a full load of wounded soldiers headed back from a forward hospital to a rest area and I was damned if I was going to let some storm prevent them from making it there safely. 303, bless her, carried us all there safely.

After the war ended, I found myself a little adrift. After being demobilized I kept up my pilot qualifications and took odd flying jobs here and there and I managed to make enough money to keep myself afloat and start some savings. When the air force finally got around to selling off surplus aircraft, I figured I could parlay some of my meagre savings into an air freight operation. Of course, making a bit of money doing the one thing I loved wouldn't hurt either. Unfortunately the airlines were also on the hunt for cheap, surplus planes now that air travel was the new big thing and I'd need to make sure that I got a bird I could maintain (mostly) on my own...so, no "hangar queens" for me. I'd flown a lot of different planes in the years since the war, but I figured that a surplus Dakota was just the thing for me.

Lady Luck was with me again when I was ready for the auction. The supply officer from my old squadron had managed to stay on in the air force after the war. He was a rogue, completely disdainful of higher authority and a first-class scrounge. In other words, he was my kind of rogue. We stayed in touch over the years and I knew he'd give me the inside track on the birds for sale. I knew he'd collect the marker later, but he told be which lot number to bid on. "If the paperwork can be believed," he told me over the phone, "she's not too high on airframe hours and the engines are almost new."

After I made a couple of mocking references to his creative accounting and paperwork skills, he responded with a vague comment about a certain squadron smoker and a certain Dakota pilot later discovered somewhat intoxicated in his favourite bird (minor no-no) giving a very personal cockpit tour to one of the local "birds" (major no-no.)

My faith in his information was immediately and miraculously restored.

We exchanged a few more good-natured barbs before we said good-bye. I knew he'd given me reliable information for the auction. One week and a substantial portion of my life savings later, I was walking down the rows of surplus Dakotas looking for my new bird. The aircraft had been mostly stripped of their air force markings but here and there you could still see some of the tail numbers and roundels. When I looked up to confirm that I had the right plane I dropped the papers I was carrying. There, just visible on the tail...but was it possible? I blinked and looked again.

It was 303.

I stood in front of the plane absolutely dumbfounded. I uttered a quiet prayer of thanks to fate and I started my usual walk-around. For all the abuse she had taken, she was in remarkably good shape. The Air Force had certified all aircraft for auction as "flyable" but it was a relief to see that there wasn't much I'd have to do to get her completely ready for business. I finished my walkaround and opened the rear door so I could check out her insides. I could see that the main passenger/cargo area was more-or-less fitted out as I walked up to the cockpit. Pushing the curtain inside, I slipped into the pilot's seat and I closed my eyes and felt an almost tangible warmth come over me. It was like being reunited with a long-lost love. I opened my eyes to look around the cockpit, noting some familiar dents and scratches with a smile, a note taped to the back of the cockpit wall caught my eye.

Dear Flyboy,
I told you I'd find something. See if you can practice some of that "safe flying" we hear so much about. Try not to bend the bird. Now you really owe me.
- The Scrounge

Yeah, I owed him. I owed him big. I ran my hands over the controls, remembering missions and close calls and ferverent prayers to 303 if only she'd get me home one more time. Funny, there must have been something in my eye, because I was having trouble seeing clearly at the time.

Once word got out that I was running my own air cargo operation, a few familiar names and faces popped up wanting to be a part of the fun. I usually took whoever was available as a co-pilot, but my old crew chief and a couple of his wrench monkeys signed on with a handshake, all on the promise of a share of future profits. I was indebted to them for more than just their wages. They worked miracles keeping us in the air and operational. I couldn't imagine the fate of the business had it not been for them.

Over the first year, there was a lot more hard work and anguish than anyone expected, but we managed to make enough money to let everyone have a modest share of the profits and definitely enough to keeps us going for another year. Even after the success of that first year, I had to resist the urge to try and cash-in and grow. After all, I was running the operation because I wanted to fly, not just because I wanted to own and run an airline. If I owned an airline, it would seriously cut into my opportunities for flying. If it came down to a choice between flying and paperwork, well...it was pretty easy to see the decision I'd make. The Scrounge decided that he'd had enough of what he called the "world of fantasy" in the Air Force and packed it in. Of course, he landed on my doorstep and I was happy to give him all the administrative crap that came with the territory. As I said, I owed him and he was happy to use his god-given talents to keep us running without being bothered by what he once termed "becoming a trained seal, jumping through paperwork hoops for some wingless wonder who is only capable of flying a desk." You really did have to admire his ability to turn a phrase.

Of course, that admiration wasn't doing much to keep me warm in what was left of my plane as I took stock of the situation. I was returning, solo, from a supply flight up in the bush. I was a little unhappy for a couple of reasons. First, I had a heated discussion with one of the recipients of the cargo, complaining that he was short one barrel of bright orange paint. Second, my co-pilot for this trip came down with a spectacular case of the shits shortly after consuming something at the airstrip canteen. I did my best to enlighten him of the dangers of such culinary russian roulette. Sure, the men who worked out here were tough. They had to be, especially if they had to survive on whatever food stocks we could fly in. Sometimes, it was rumoured, the canteen cook took a chance with a can of something-or-other that might have been a little past its prime. Those were the risks of bush flying.

That was also why I packed a lunch. Sometimes you listen to the rumours.

As I sat, shivering in what was left of 303, I realized with perfect hindsight that I really should have listened to the camp doc. He told me if I waited out the night he could probably have my co-pilot well enough to fly, but I told him that I had to get back because I was pretty sure I had another load waiting for me to fly to some other wilderness Shangri-la. Besides, I could fly the bird solo if it came down to it. Sure, the Dakota was a handful for a lone pilot, but sometimes us bush flyers didn't have a choice. As I listened to the wind whistling by the cockpit windows across the tundra, I wondered if I might have used up all spots on Lady Luck's dance card. About one hour into my return flight, the port engine gave out and no amount of persuasive cursing was going to entice the engine to restart. I was in the middle of getting the cranky engine to shut down when something very large broke away, blew off the cowling and caused some damage to the controls.

That's when things got really exciting.

Control problems with a damaged Dakota were pretty standard fare on some of the missions I'd flown in wartime. Of course, some vague regulation requiring the presence of a competent, trained co-pilot probably made a difference. I was taking stock of exactly what was wrong with the bird when the other engine started to go. At that point I was pretty sure I wouldn't be back at my home field that night. I looked around for a place to set down, but I wasn't seeing a lot of options. This far into the tundra and the bush, you were lucky to find a relatively level space. From a few thousand feet it looked flat enough, but when you got closer all of those bumps and ruts and rocks and marshy spots looked like bad news for any airplane looking for a temporary home. I knew that a regular landing was out of the question, so I prepared myself, reluctantly, for a rough, wheels-up landing. As I ran through my mental crash landing checklist, I was muttering apologies to the plane.

"Sorry, girl. I know your landings are supposed to equal your takeoffs, but get we'll get through this."

She started to get pretty sloppy as the airpseed dropped. I had the rudder full over to compensate for the lost engine and I was using every muscle I had on the control column just to keep her level enough to land. Just when I thought I had her all lined up, I yelled out "Atta girl! I knew you could do it!"

At that moment, the airplane just quit flying and I went from Pilot, to Passenger.

Mercifully, I don't remember the landing at all. I remember opening my eyes and immediately regretting it when a gargantuan headache assaulted me. I could hear the howl of a low wind emitting from holes in the plane that really shouldn't have been there. Forcing myself to take a look around, I was relieved to have been knocked out during the crash landing. The aircraft was facing the other way around, having spun at least twice. I could see part of the port wingtip off in the distance where it dug in (spin #1) and part of the port landing gear sitting for all the world like it had been ripped out by a giant hand (spin #2).

Somehow, I managed to get my belts unfastened and I rather shakily headed out of the cockpit. I could see that I was going to need more than just a wrench and a hammer to fix the old girl. The main cargo door was hanging by a single hinge and some of the skin panels had popped rivets from the frame members and at least 3 of the forward windows had popped out from the force of impact. I could smell a bit of fuel in the air, but it wasn't clear if I had managed to rupture a fuel tank or if I'd just blown a line when I hit. It was the missing engine which confirmed my suspicions that 303 was going to have a hard time getting off the ground any time soon. There was a rather ragged spot where the port engine had been ripped from its mountings which looked a lot like my head felt.

I headed back to the tail section where I kept some of my emergency supplies. It didn't look promising. The water barrel had burst open in the crash and there wasn't a lot left. A similar fate befell some of my canned rations. I did have my first aid kit relatively intact, even though it was strewn all over the tail section. At least the old parachute I kept was still there, so I could fashion some sort of shelter against the wind, if not from the plummeting temperatures. My biggest concern was that a lack of suitable wood meant that a fire might be out of the question. I wasn't so worried about signalling anyone, I just wanted to stay warm.

Doing my best to keep moving, I rigged up the 'chute over the cockpit and started with the business of survival. I tried to get a signal out on the radio, but I was pretty sure it was dead. I used the first aid kit to tend to a few cuts and scrapes that were begging for attention and I had to figure out where I was. I managed to find my charts, but the instrument panel compass didn't survive the crash, and I was damned if I could find the small compass from the wreckage of my survival gear. Using "dead reckoning", a navigation term that was increasingly ironic given my probable fate, I had a reasonably good idea where I was, and frankly, I didn't like the bottom line from my estimates. I was a good 200 miles from my take off point and at least 300 from my home airfield. At this time of year, it wouldn't get completely dark at night but it would be dark enough. The temperature was dropping and my supplies were limited. At least I had my health. For the moment.
I sat in the cockpit in the looming darkness, trying not to think about the situation at hand. For the first little while my own well-honed bravado kept me going. After all, I'd survived a war. I'd survived a couple of crashes, enemy gunfire and worse. I could make it through this, right? After all, 303 had been my guardian. Or so it had seemed when I looked back on it. But as time went on and bravado faded my thoughts got a little maudlin. I figured that 303 would pull me through, but reality started to creep in and I wondered how this wreck of a plane was going to save me this time.
Wreck. Plane. My plane.
My thoughts were rather rudely interrupted when something fell onto my head and then onto the cockpit floor with a clatter. While rubbing my head, I picked up a small metal clipboard I often kept stashed near an upper panel. I smiled to myself and hung the clipboard back in its usual place. After all, a tidy cockpit is a happy cockpit, I mused to myself. Even if that's pretty much all that's left of your plane. I figured I would grab some of my meagre food left in my emergency kit and settle in for the night.
As the night went on, time stopped having meaning and I was cold. Really cold. Colder than I had ever been before. My eyes wanted to close and I kept thinking about warm fires and hot food. Every so often I would shake myself awake when the little voice inside my head would shout, "No!" I would blink a couple of times and remember where I was and I'd find yet another measure of resolve to stay alive out here. But sleep beckoned. I was tired. I had lost all sense of time and my own being. I dreamed of the war, of home. I could see friends I'd lost along the way and the friends who stayed with me. They were all beckoning me to come with them, but I didn't know where they were going. I walked closer to them and I could hear the sound of an aircraft engine. Such a comforting sound. One I knew well. One I had...
OW!
I came to with a start and rubbed my head and picked that damned clipboard off the deck once again. I thought it would be a pretty sad thing to be killed by falling cockpit supplies before dying of exposure in the North. But then I heard a noise. Engine noise.
Aircraft engine noise!
For a moment I thought I was still dreaming, but the throbbing in my head told me I was wide awake. I grabbed the one useable flare remaining from my emergency kit quickly made my way out of the cockpit and out of the wreckage of 303 and tried to spot the plane. There it was...not too far away and heading more or less in my direction. So far, so good, but the pilot would have to be looking the right way if he was to spot me. I said a quick prayer and fired the flare. The plane didn't change direction. Didn't acknowledge my flare. It was still on its same course. I could see it clearer now. A single-engine bush plane like so many others up here. I wondered if I could yell or wave enough to be seen. As I was waving and yelling for my life, the plane circled overhead a few times and wagged its wings. At turned back the way it came, I saw a small object fall from the cockpit window. It had a rag or cloth tied to it and it fluttered down. I ran towards it as it fell.
As I got to the landing spot in the grassy tundra, I could see it was a small wrench with a note attached, along with a well used mechanic's rag. I was too elated to even note that the wrench was one of my own. I unfolded the note with trembling hands and read:

Dear Flyboy,

Figured I'd find you up here. Bernie is ferrying up in the chopper. Will take a
while because we've been dropping fuel for him since we got the radio message.
Almost missed you except for the big orange paint smear on the ground. Did you
forget to unload it?

You still owe me.

-The Scrounge

I don't know how, but I'm sure 303 knew when to drop that clipboard on my head to wake me.

At least I know what happened to the paint.

END


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Canada License.

My Heritage, what???

Callie mentioned on a recent post that she played around with some photo recognition application at My Heritage. The idea is that you can play with the Beta version and upload a picture of yourself to see what celebrities you look like.

I did mine, just for a laugh. Apparently I really look like this guy.
















*shrug* Could be, I guess...you decide.














Am I an ABBA love child?

Now I know I'm an old fart...

...I just got back from the license office where I finally picked up my Veteran plate.

(the number is, of course different than this sample)










Am I too young to be a "Veteran"? I know I'm "too young" to be in the Legion, at least to my own stereotypical view, but there I are anyway.

I have to say that I'm touched to see many provinces and states across North America adopting this trend.

So if you see a Veteran, give a honk and a wave.

...and so endeth the Drywalling

For a change, the planetary alignment was such that DW and I had an entire day to devote to the basement. We both admittedly had some difficulty seeing the finished 'body' of work when all we could see was the skeleton (i.e. the exposed studs.)

However, we treated ourselves to a bit of a sleep-in on Sunday morning, went out to fuel up at Rotten Ronnie's and went downstairs to tackle the remaining work. Yours truly had to finish a couple of sections of wall framing in a rather tricky alcove at the base of the stairs, and DW busied herself with plastering until we were ready to move on to the drywall, because that's definitely a two-person job when you have to move full sheets around.

One of the real "joys" of this place is the fact that the basement floor is anything but level, a fact which has really played hell with some of the cuts and measurements. It just makes for some interesting positioning of the drywall and the framing if you look at things too closely. If I had to do it all over again, I probably would have taken a different approach, even with having to complete someone else's work (which is what we're stuck with at the Shagwell-Stone manor.)

As an example, I was ready to cut the second-last piece of drywall for that pesky alcove and I decided to actually take a few moments with my measurements. When I checked, I saw that my top wall frame and my bottom wall frame measurements were about 2" off. Yikes. Now, I knew that my framing solution was dictated by that mass of poorly-planned ducting, but I wasn't quite prepared for that particular "oops". Fortunately, my choice of building materials totally saved my can. The advantage of steel track and studs is the ability to reposition things as required. I'll spare you the gory technical details, but suffice it to say, I took advantage of a well-placed joint in the top track and repositioned just about everything so that the framing was, well, almost square. We figured we could apply some strategic positioning and fastening of the drwall too handle the rest.

And, ya know...it actually worked.

We have WALLS!!

It's actually a pretty sizeable task off our shoulders. Granted, we still have to finish adding things like corner beading, then plastering everything to make sure it's ready for priming, but it's a hell of a lot closer to "done" than it was at 11AM on Sunday.

The larger tasks are getting the sub-floor in and deciding on flooring, as well as hanging the drop-ceiling. My smaller tasks include getting the door installed on the partition, adding the bi-fold to the pantry, and some other assorted carpentry jobs.

We got a whole pile of work done this weekend and it actually feels like we have a liveable basement.

Lurkers, reveal thyselves!

I was reading Ed's blog this morning and I was inspired by his post about lurking. I know that some of the folks in my daily canon have some neato-o tools that let them see, for example, types of visits and duration and even where they show up in Google/Yahoo searches (some of the criteria that trigger duff's site as a result are really hilarious.)

But it's safe to say that on any blog there is a bit of an imbalance between lurkers and commenters. Normally, this isn't an issue. I know that I lurk sometimes on some blogs. As ltlme has observed sometimes you either have nothing to say, or sometimes the comment you thought was brilliant in its originality has already been posted. Ed summed it up nicely: "sometimes my comment mojo is gone." He's right. Sometimes there really is nothing to be said and there are times when you might only have time for a quick read/update of someone's latest blog but no time for comments. In other cases, I read the blog but I'm not sure that a comment is appropriate. Motherdear has been writing her "Big Girl" series for a while and I admit that it leaves me at a loss for comment. Maybe its one of those stories where a comment simply isn't required.

However, I wish to announce the start of Mossy's de-Lurking Week. Yes, for this entire week, lurkers and visitors old and new are invited to comment and make their presence known. I place no restrictions on comments at all. If you don't have anything to say, even a comment like "Hi, Mossy. [bloggername] was here." would be acceptable.

Take a moment and show yourselves!!

Friday the 13th? So what?

It wasn't until the Deejay mentioned it that I clued in.

Of course, you'd think that with yesterday being the 12th I might have had some semblance of awareness, but....well, such is life.

I knew all sorts of people in places I worked in who got right twitchy when the dreaded day rolled around. Personally, I figured it was because there might be a run on the movies of the same name at Blockbuster moreso than any superstitious worry.

Despite some of my own superstitions, I don't worry about this day. It happens and I'm not going to spend the day second-guessing myself.

Yeah I know it's a short post. At least I didn't pull a Kal.

Tag: Changing the rules

With apologies to duff, I couldn't figure out a way to articulate my 5 bad habits. I know I have bad habits, but since they're a little difficult to encapsulate and because I didn't feel up to a treatise on my personal shortcomings, it languished in draft mode for a while before being binned permanently.

Besides, those who know me already know my bad habits.

I did, however, come across an interesting Meme from Frank and Ava and it appealed to me, so I decided to do it.

Four Jobs I've Had:

1. Picture Framer
2. Graphic Artist
3. Headhunter
4. Corporate Trainer

Four Movies I Would Watch Over and Over:

1. Anything Monty Python
2. Das Boot
3. Star Wars (series)
4. Star Trek (series)

Four Places I've Lived:

1. North Bay
2. Toronto
3. Ottawa
4. Whitby

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch:

1. StarTrek/M*A*S*H (tie)
2. CSI
3. American Chopper
4. Insert cool history/technology Dicovery Channel program here

Four Websites I visit Daily:

Apart from my daily canon of blog reads, I can usually be found reading any of the following:

• TSN.ca
• The Toronto Star
• The Globe and Mail
• CANOE.ca

Four Favourite Foods:

1. Virtually any pasta with a rich, home-made sauce
2. Ribs
3. My Aunt's mandarin-cashew salad
4. KD (nothing like comfort food)

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now:

1. Scotland
2. Santorini
3. Rome
4. In a higher salary bracket

Dispatches from the Wee Smalls (original)

As I write this it is around half-past twelve...

Astounding...this email post took 48+ hours to deliver. Wonder where the slow-down was?

Dispatches from the Wee Smalls (repost)

*Note: This blog was originally emailed from my blackberry, but for some reason it never showed up.*

As I write this it is around half-past twelve and I'm recently home from a rather late hockey game (a 2-1 win for the good guys, btw) and I am, as is usual with these late games, wide awake.

DW is fast asleep, although I know she hoped to be awake when I returned and there was a very sweet note on my pillow to give me a late night smile.So, in the absence of any real fatigue I sit here in Penny's rocker/glider with a well-chilled can of Tuborg watching a re-run of Voyager and sending out a note to my blog readership. (I've babbled on ad nauseum about the disadvantages of late hockey games so I'll spare you the needless diatribe/crying jag.)

Life just feels 'good' these days but I can't necessarily put my finger on a reason why. God knows that work has been a bit of a drag (no disclosure here for fear of getting 'dooced') so I know that's not it, but I'm just feeling happy about me, life, love and all that sort of thing. I admit to being a bit of an early bloomer when it comes to my curmudgeon skills, so I can't really fight it when I feel one of these moods. My inner cynic is, of course, clawing to get out but I'll keep the beast at bay for a while.

Times like this, I don't have a care in the world. Actually, I have 'em. But they seem to matter a little less.

Hopefully today smiles upon you all.I must go.

My cat has decided that my chest is a good spot to occupy.

Ya know, its just not fair.

You'd think that after a full day of household construction and a weekend of errands that DW and I would have dropped off to sleep quickly.

Not so.

We each had a fitful, restless sleep...trading snoring sessions and waking frequently. Of course today is the first day back for the Wondertwins so sleep was needed by all with none to be had.

Maybe I'll sleep when I'm dead?

Basement Updates

For those of you in the studio audience who were anxiously awaiting news on the state of the basement work, I can provide the following update:

a) Ducting was capped, re-routed, removed, taped, fixed over the Christmas break. (pictures to follow
b) More plastering and taping was performed today with amazing deftness by DW.
c) The wall by the Breaker panel had its remaining studs put in, and the wall by the water main was completely installed this evening by yours truly.

Of course, this work did involve one trip to Home Despot to grab a few things (steel stud track, end/edge trim, corner beading and a few non-basement items. Purchase of the week was a laser level, complete with tripod, from Canadian Tire. Saved my bacon on the wall by the water main and will be an absolute godsend when we finally get to the drop-ceiling.

We're both insufferably pleased with ourselves for today's work.

Keep smilin'!

...but what to Blog?

Sometimes there's a lot to say and no good way to start, other times you're staring at a blank posting form wondering whether or not you should even add something.

However, I think I need to pay tribute to today's idiot. I heard this little gem from the radio as I was driving to the train this morning.

It does indeed make you wonder what your kids might have stashed in their bedrooms. Freakin' disturbing, if you ask me.

Having said all that, I am NOT making a call for "gun control". Better policing, better customs investigations....that works better than an knee-jerk reaction I've seen. Although I think the parent in question might be wondering whether or not she could have done something different.

Not judging...just speculating.

Kudos to her for taking the right step and going to the police right away.

In case you missed it...

...DW has responded to Motherdear's warning to Larry about his prolonged absence.

Thank heavens for an open and unfettered celebrity media machine, otherwise we could never have learned about his fate.

Personally, I'm just hoping for a postcard.

All M*A*S*H-ed out, or How I Spent My Christmas Vacation

When it comes right down to it, there's something to be said for owning the DVDs of a favourite TV series.

Now I know that some of you don't bother watching re-runs. Some of you do watch re-runs but you won't watch a movie twice or read a book twice. Me, I don't get that. I watch re-runs. I'll watch movies over and over and I'll re-read books ad infinitum (much to DW's everlasting confusion...okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but she admits that she doesn't "get" my book thing.)

Of the many things DW and I have in common is an appreciation for the brilliance of M*A*S*H, so we were really excited when the series started coming out on DVD a few years back. We started collecting and re-enjoying the series. We had both forgotten how many little tidbits had been removed from the show in the name of increased advertising. In fact, some of the best bits of the storylines were lost to syndication, but fortunately they remained on the DVDs.

With DW working though the bulk of the holiday week, I decided to give myself a little marathon. I'd pop in a season of the show and sit and enjoy while indulging my scale model habit and drink in all the humour and subtle commentary without the vulgar interruption of commercials. I tell ya, it was a great time to be had. I could watch in near-perfect solitude and bide my time until my DW came home.

M*A*S*H.....great for what ails ya over a quiet holiday week.

Happy 2006!

Hello and Happy New Year to all!

DW and I are having a rather relaxed start to the year after seeing '05 off in good fashion. Dtrini, Bonnie, Big Guy from work and his wife were over at the Stone/Shagwell residence for a fun evening. Much food was consumed and a lively game of Balderdash was had. DW and I finally got to bed around 3:30 after cleaning up in the kitchen. Unfortunately for her, she's been dealing with a very sore neck and upper back, so she drugged herself into unconsciousness with a suitable painkiller and we crashed for the night.

I was up a couple of times but finally was awake around 10. DW was still fast asleep and since I was loathe to wake her, I settled in with a book and enjoyed the time to relax. DW finally stirred, rolled over and asked what time it was. I gazed at the alarm clock.

"Oh, its about five to twelve."

DW: *pause* It is NOT...

Me: yes, its 11:54.

DW: *groan* oh my GOD....I thought it was around 8:30 and I was about to kill you for being up so early.

Nothing quite like a near-noon sleep in to start the New Year off right.

So here we sit in our jammies, noshing on the leftovers from last night and watching 'The Fellowship of The Ring' and just relaxing until The Wondertwins come home sometime this afternoon.

Its a brief solitude, but we'll take it.

May your New Year start just as well.