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I read an interesting quote today while browsing through the usenet groups.

He who angers you, controls you.

Wow. When you think about it, how very true that is! Something for me to keep in my mind when I’m ready to lose my temper.

Last week I was working on an IT project at work which involved going around to different workstations through the building to do some reconfiguring. What I do is basically shove user X out of the way, let them know I’ll only be a few minutes while I click around on their desktop, do my magic and then move on to the next computer. This leaves the user little to do so they watch me do my voodoo, undoubtedly trying to learn my secrets. (“I shall never tell, NEVER!”)

While I was working on one user’s computer, we made the usual small talk. She then asked me why I shave my head.

I gave her my standard answer, “Because I don’t like being bald.” Her response was “Huh?”

Now I let me explain. When I have hair, I have very light fuzz left on top of my head, with a dark covering of fuzz around the sides and back. My days of a fierce red flattop are over. I don’t like the look of going bald. It makes me look old and makes me feel old. By shaving my head, I’m telling the world, I choose to be bald. I thumb my nose at the regression of my hair line. When the hairs started leaving, I evicted the rest of them. So there!

She then asked me the standard questions about maintenance and such. Do you have to shave your head every day (yes), does it take a long time (no), how do you do it (in the shower, without a mirror), have you ever cut yourself (never, and I’ve been shaving my head since ’97), what do you use (shaving cream and a Mach III), no electric razor? (in the shower?).

“Well, why do you have a beard? Especially since you have a shaved head.”, she then inquired.

“Because I hate shaving.”

Earl and I stopped by his office today to pick up his laptop, as he is headed out of town tomorrow morning and wanted to avoid a trip to the office on his way out. When we arrived, we noticed there was quite a bit of smoke behind the plant. So we investigated and found the heat treat chamber, which heat treats the pallets his manufacturing plant makes, was on fire.

We pulled around out front of the building and got inside. Earl then when into action. He pulled the fire alarm, just in case someone was in the building even though no one should have been. This also notified the alarm monitoring company. He then went to his office and dialed 911 and calmly explained the situation. We then went into the plant and assessed the situation. There was smoke pouring out of places of the chamber that should be emiting smoke, so Earl cut the power to the unit then went inside to disconnect the gas line that fires up the furnaces. By then, the firefighters arrived and put out the fire.

A fire at any manufacturing facility, let alone a wood-based manufacturing plant, is a dangerous and scary thing. I am very impressed by the calm, cool, collected manner in which Earl dealt with the situation. I would have never thought to pull the local alarm, I would have skipped that step. I also very impressed by the Utica Fire Department. It was a small fire. But they handled it very well and very thoroughly. Gage and Desoto would be very proud.

So Earl’s team will do some investigating tomorrow to find out what happened. What systems failed and what things worked well. They’re all very thorough like that. And the chamber wasn’t a loss, a little refurb and it’ll be up and running.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been doing some online research on a new car. I’ve narrowed my choice down to exactly what I want… an Acura RSX Type-S loaded.

We’ve had our 2001 Impala for over four years and at nearly 118,000 miles, it’s beginning to show signs of wear. Actually, truth be told, the car has been a money pit. It had a 36,000 mile warranty on it. At 900 miles the radio crapped out and had to be replaced. At 3,000 miles (during the first oil change), the “Service Engine Soon” light came on and wouldn’t go out. Come to find out, they wanted to replace the entire fuel system. This went on and on until we put $2K for transmission work January 2004 and then another $2,000 the past October for brakes (the fifth set) and various sensors and relays. While I was very excited when Chevy announced the return of the Impala back in 1999, I can’t say that I’m very happy with the whole American car thing. I know, it’s anti-American but we can’t afford to fund another American made car.

Anywyas, I let Earl know that I had decided on the Acura RSX Type-S loaded and gave him the details right down to the finest detail. Then I said that we had to start saving up some money so that we could buy it in a year or so. I figured he tell me that I’d have to settle for a Yugo, because quite honestly, the Acura was a “pie in the sky for me”, the bees knees of what I want at this stage of my life.

When I got home from work on Friday, he told me that he had been to the dealer, had worked it all out and we pick up the new car this coming week, probably on Wednesday. My mom works for a Cadillac/Acura dealer, and apparently Earl had spent the day with his mother-in-law.

I think I said something like “Holy shit”.

Wednesday can’t get here soon enough. I’ve found the track I want to bless the Acura with. Here’s a sample of for you to listen to.. Major points if you can name the artist and title, as it’s a relatively obscure dance track from 1996. It’s typical J.P. music.

Here’s one facet of my personality that I haven’t gabbed about lately and that’s my financial responsibility, or quite honestly, lack there of. Earl and I have an unspoken understanding regarding our financial affairs in our little household. All of *our* money goes into one checking account and *I* spend it. It’s always been that way. I don’t know why. But it works for me.

I like to buy little things. A clock for the collection here. A piece of software there. Here an Apple, there an Apple, everywhere an Apple Apple. When Earl spends money, he goes for gold. Nothing for months, and then wham, they’re delivering a whole new dining room set complete with a naked waiter. He knows how to spend with the best of them. I strive to be the same way, but I’m too caught up in buying these little things instead. A Martha Stewart water pitcher, complete with prison stripes. A Carol Burnett mop, complete with a cartoon face. A Rip Taylor bag of confetti, complete with wig.

It’s not that I find comfort in these little doo-dads or anything. One time we were at Eaton’s in Toronto. They were going out of business, preparing for their take over from Sears. Everything in the store was marked down with deep, deep discounts (forget “Deep Throat”, show me “Deep Discounts” if you want to get me hot and bothered.) Most of it had been picked over, pawed and perused, but I didn’t care, there was something in that six floors of goodness that was just screaming out my name. And then I saw it. A cookie jar. A black and white cat cookie jar with a fish on the cat’s back. The fish looks mildly amused, the cat, while trying to look happy looks slightly jarring. He has this wild look in his eyes and mildly alarming grin on his face. But for some reason he looked lonely, so I snatched him up and nearly ran to the register to pay $16.00 for him, marked down from $30.00. Since we were in Toronto, we were using Canadian money, which by the way, is much more fun as I’m always a sucker for colorful paper and women with tiaras. I threw a blue bill, a green bill, a red bill and a few coins in the direction of the cashier hoping for the best. Apparently I got it right because she smiled and said thank you and wrapped up my cookie jar.

Mind you, I’ve never filled a cookie jar in my life. I believe anything baked should be consumed immediately, so nothing is going to be stored in a cookie jar. But nevertheless, this mildly jarring cat cookie jar is sitting on our kitchen counter, having survived the trip from the old house to the new house, fish on the back intact. Sometimes I put tea bags in him. The kind of tea nobody drinks, like dandelion tea or something.

Had Earl been making the purchase, I’m sure that Eaton’s would still be called “Earl’s” to this day.

The past couple of days I’ve found myself daydreaming about becoming a private pilot. I think it’s the spring in the air or something, but I’ve really had the urge to get myself into a flying school and get that pilot’s license I’ve dreamed of.

Flying is in my blood, I suppose. My grandfather is a pilot (or at least he was, now he’s content on his motorcycle at nearly 90 years old). My dad is a private pilot and is in the process of building his second airplane. When I was a teenager he restored a 1940 Piper J5-A (nothing bonds a family better than getting high on airplane glue together when we’re all reassembling dad’s airplane!). He later built an Acrosport, which he flies during the nice weather.

I just have these wonderful dreams of Earl and I jumping into our brand new Cessna Skyhawk and flying off to his dad’s house in half the time. Or for a fun-filled weekend getaway. Or heck, to a pancake breakfast at a little airport in the middle of nowhere.

We used to do that when I was a kid. Dad and I would jump into the J-5A and head off to a little airport in Weedsport on a summer Sunday morning for breakfast. Grandpa would go ahead of us in his faster, home-built Jungster.

Some of my fondest memories of growing up took place at the local airport, a less than a mile strip of mowed grass in the middle of nowhere, with a gravel pit at one end and a string of utility wires at the other. There’s several hangers at one end to make it all look official. That and the “16” and “34” on their respective ends of the runway. Whenever we heard a plane fly over the house, we’d always look up to see who was flying. We’d have picnics at the airport with the rest of the pilots association. Dad would give rides. Heck, I’ve even flown a couple of times.

Earl has never flown in a private plane before. I’d love to have the honor of giving him his virgin voyage.

I see a goal forming… to become a pilot before I’m 40.

I did a mean thing today. I normally don’t try to go out and do mean things, but for some reason I just felt like I had to do something, so I chose mean.

Driving home from lunch this afternoon, I took one of our local expressways. It’s a three lane deal. The downtown exit uses two lanes, the rightmost lane exits in the right lane, the middle lane can either use the left lane of the exit or continue straight ahead on the expressway.

I started passing a Hummer while in the middle lane. It was your typical scene. The only thing bigger than the vehicle was the driver’s hair. She was yakking on her cell phone, which she was holding in her left hand and steering with her right hand. I could see her glancing to the left, looking to move to the middle lane, so she could presumably continue on the expressway. Since she was yakking on her phone, which is illegal in New York State by the way, she didn’t turn on her turn signal, she just kept trying to move to the left. Problem was, I was there. And I wasn’t moving.

Now, I know that I contributed to road rage and all that. I know that. And for what it’s worth, I think that the whole “driver can’t use a hand held cell phone” law is absolutely ridiculous, but in our society its about controlling the sheep as much as possible, not letting them make decisions on their own. But the thing was she didn’t signal to move over and the OCD in me kicked into gear. She wasn’t following the letter of the law. She wasn’t about to ding up her precious Hummer, so I wasn’t really concerned about an accident. So I herded her off the exit ramp.

I then gunned it and watched her do a U-turn back up the exit ramp to get back on the expressway. She couldn’t flip me off. She was too busy talking on her cell phone.

When did talking on the telephone become so damn important, anyways? If I hear one more blip, bleep, bloop or tinny rendition of the William Tell Overture in the middle of K-Mart, I’m going to lose my mind and flush the closest Motorola down the toilet. I mean really. Good manners? Forget it! It wasn’t a month ago that Earl and I had to listen to Miss One Tooth hold a custody battle with someone on the other end of her cell phone in the middle of Housewares at Target. “It’s YOUR turn to take the kids!”, she screamed, amongst the spittle. Why should the American public be subject to that?

“I want a large pie with pepperoni and sausage”, Mr. Yuppie demanded over his cell phone in the middle of the doctors office.

“Did you move your bowels yet?”, Mrs. Concerned asked of someone via cell phone in the middle of produce at Price Chopper.

How did we, the American People, survive without cell phones for so long? Why, we went over 200 years without cell phones and over 100 years with nothing but pay phones on a corner. What’s changed? I long for the days when our fingers would do the walking, in the privacy of our own home.

Now everyone’s fingers are walking on my last nerve. Hang up the fscking phone so I can mind my own business.

I currently have four computers sitting on my workbench, all in need of my geek abilities. All four of these machines run a variation of Microsoft Windows. I’m almost done with the first computer, which is less than six months old.

It currently has 126 spyware/adware files and 21 virii infecting it.

I’ve created a little web page with the tools I use to clean up computers. Feel free to use them as well.

Today I learned that Debralee Scott passed away on April 5 from natural causes. She was 52 years old.

You may remember Debralee from a handful of television shows in the 70s… she was Hotsie Totsie, the female Sweathog on “Welcome Back, Kotter”. She played Donna Pescow’s sister on “Angie”. She was on “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman”. And she was a semi-present fixture on that old game show “Match Game.” Believe it or not, she was also on an episode of “Isis”!

I always thought Debralee Scott rocked. She had that 70s appeal and the 70s hair. She worked what she had and always had a street-smarts vibe.

May you enjoy your return Home. Blessed Be.

During lunch today I decided to head home and play around with the music studio a little bit. I’m still getting to know my way around the equipment and over the next week or so I’m going to have a lot of reading to do, familiarizing myself with Garage Band and the various settings on my vocal processing equipment. It’s all very fun and exciting and a challenge that I’m eager to tackle.

So today I thought I’d break up the day and sing a little bit during my lunch break. I popped in an instrumental version of “Could It Be Magic” by Barry Manilow. I cranked up the mic, passed the vocals to my headphones, turned up the speakers and for the first time in a very long time, I sang in full voice, completely uninhibited. And in doing so, I broke a sweat while singing.

It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been able to expend so much energy singing that I was able to get all hot and bothered doing so. The last time I sang on a mic was in 2000 when I sang the National Anthem for the local minor league hockey team. While I did sing full voice and with lots of conviction, I didn’t really break a sweat doing so. Not that I’m a calm, cool and collected performer. Quite the contrary. I get lots of butterflies in my stomach when I’m performing in front of others. But I usually have a very small touch of “timid” on the performance that keeps me from singing really hard.

Being in the comfort of our home and our studio, I was able to sing like I haven’t sung since my days at SUNY Fredonia.

So while I may being a bit more stinky at work this afternoon, at least I was able to break out of my shell and share a little music. Now if I could just get this stuff into the Mac Mini so I could share it! 🙂