Coffee heat rising

Stop the World…

i wanna get off!

Actually, I am about to get off, if only for the rest of this afternoon. It being 3:26 as this scribble starts, that’s not much of a rest of an afternoon. But it’s better than nothing.

We have no choir practice this evening. That’s good, because I intend to use the remains of the day to drink myself silly and to return to writing about the lives of the worthies who inhabit the imagined world of Okan, A’o, and Socalia.

We — my doughty co-editor and I — have finished shoveling some of the stupidest sh!t I’ve seen in my life back to our client editor. Honest to God…it’s impossible to believe this stuff was ever passed under the nose of a peer reviewer. Two (count’em, 2) of half a dozen articles have been pretty good.

The rest…hevvin help us.

I can’t bear it. Nor of course can I go into any detail, except perhaps to reproduce a remark to The Kid and our mutual mentor, The Doyenne of Scholarly Publishing:

As an editor, part of your job is to keep your author from making a fool of himself. Let his bêtises through, and his foolishness becomes all too evident to one and all….including some academic reviewers (or trade press reviewers, depending on your venue) who will be more than happy to amplify his foolishness to the highest possible volume.

But then you have your own publishing enterprise to consider: if a journal or a publishing entity presents a piece of shit like this to the world, it reflects as badly on the journal or publisher as it does on the author. Worse, maybe: an author may be forgiven for falling victim to the hypnosis of his own words, but a publisher with an editor should know better.

For the love of God. As piss-poor as colleges of education are, there’s NO excuse for granting a doctorate to a guy who writes on the freshman level.

Saith the Doyenne:

The editor has a divided responsibility: to the author, to the publisher/journal editor, to the readers, and to her own professional standards. I think the best course is to challenge the author to do the best he can. If that’s good enough for the journal editor even though it isn’t good enough for you, it’s their funeral.

Please, Dear Lord: pass me another bottle of wine…

 

Stuff Wears Out…

socks …Obviously. But here’s the question: Why does all Stuff always wear out at the same time?

First, we have the socks. Admittedly, these are not young socks. They came from Costco, among many pairs purchased over the course of several seasons. Though they weren’t all bought at once, interestingly they all fell apart at once!

I darned three pair of them the other day.  This works to extract a few more wearings, but frankly, darning socks is a ditzy chore and not something I feel like doing when I’m tired and can hardly hold my eyes open at the end of a long workday.

Costco  no longer carries women’s socks, leastwise not that I can find. What could they be trying to say to us?

Amazon does, though. And they’re cheap and cute.

I like to wear socks to bed at night, because when it’s cold and the heat is off by way of saving a few pennies, you feel a lot warmer when your feet are warm. They also function as slippers…which may explain the holes in the bottom. 🙂

Here’s something less goddamnably explicable:

redshoeheel

That is the (former) heel of a pair of expensive Clark’s shoes. The heels on both shoes suddenly crumbled apart. I discovered this when I came home from the Christmas Eve songfest services and noticed something that looked like little pieces of charcoal tracked all over the floor.

And I have another pair, exact same design, in black. The heels on those are also beginning to fall apart!

redshoetopThe tops of both pairs are in perfect condition — they look brand-new.

If indeed they were brand-new, I would be absolutely furious. As it develops, this is what we call a “known issue” with Clark’s: consumer after consumer describes  disintegrating heels. Several people say that if you call their consumer service number, they’ll ask you to produce photos and the shoe’s model number and size, in return for which they will send you a new pair of Clark’s.

Thought about that. Then thought…more hassle than it’s worth. These are not new shoes. They’re at least several years old, and between you ‘n’ me, I think the operative term is “a lot of years old.” I don’t even  remember when I bought them, but believe it was during a shopping expedition with my friend VickyC, whereinat we raided a Clark’s outlet in what was then a halfway decent mall on the east side that was just starting to decline.

Said mall is now in full decline, no longer a place where you would feel safe parking and leaving your car or one that harbors stores of much interest. So that gives you a clue to how long it’s been since I bought those two pairs of shoes.

I need a pair of black, presentable flats. My favorite shoe store is having a frenzy of sales. They carry Naots and Mephistos and Pikkolinos, among many other high-quality, attractive pain-frees. Right now they have a sale going until the 31st. I may drive out there today, come to think of it.

Yeah. I probably will. We’re almost done with the current client’s first raft of copy — The Kid has the last two pieces on her end right now. That means…hallelujah, brothers and sisters! No paying work sitting on the desk right this minute.

Absolutely. Get in car. Drive to Tempe. Get shoes. Drive home. Try not to get killed on the way.

🙂

How to unlock a Toyota…and other small miseries

sickdogdepositphotos_90817268_m-2015All you need is a small Allen wrench. Our friend Mike the Ukrainian Contractor, a co-conspirator at the Scottsdale Bidness Assn, locked himself out of his Toyota truck a couple days ago. After waiting an hour & a half for someone to come get him back in, he started to rummage around the Toyota’s bed. There he found a fairly small-sized Allen wrench. Stuck it in the lock, turned it, et voilà! the lock popped open.

Furthermore, this morning we discovered that my two-year-old Toyota key, which is cut exactly the same way his is cut, also will unlock his seventeen-year-old truck’s door. Noooo problem: just as if the key were made for the lock.

He bet that his key would open my Venza, but given the damned alarm system and all the wacky electronic stuff on the thing, I declined to test it. All I need is to be stuck in Scottsdale with a car alarm screaming and not be able to get into the damn vehicle.

Ruby is suffering from some kind of enteritis. It doesn’t appear to be distemper, because right this moment she’s flying around the house like a racehorse at full speed, leaping over rocks and running circles around Cassie. If she were seriously sick, she wouldn’t be up for that. I think the last batch of food I made contained too much rice and that’s what’s done her in.

Night before last, she barfed off the side of the bed. Despite her care to avoid listening to me bitch about having to strip and launder the bedding at three in the morning, she did manage to get a few drops of barf on the comforter and a sheet. Since that’s my thickest feather comforter, getting it clean is a chore even with the new washer. Took all day to get the damn thing dry.

Last night she and Cassie woke me twice. After the second elevator trip to the floor, I left them off the bed. Don’t like to do that, because I don’t run the heat at this time of year (by way of making up for the astronomical summertime air-conditioning bills), so if you’re not on or under the heated throw that tops the comforter, you’re very cold, indeed. Especially if you’re camping out on bare tile. But up-down-up-down-up-down all night long doesn’t make it.

So, mighty bleary-eyed when the alarm went off as dawn cracked, I ran off to the wee-hour meeting without my purse.

That meant I couldn’t run the errands I’d planned to do on the way home. And that means I now have to go out again and drive from here to Hell and back to buy gasoline and groceries. I was pissed about this and pissed about having to listen to more depressing bellyaching about our new fake President and REALLY pissed about having screwed up a manuscript so that I have to re-index 425 pages, a job I’ve already performed twice thanks to a prior screw-up.

As you can imagine, then, I was not pleased to come home to find Ruby’s rear end covered in dried-on dog sh!t.

She nests behind the toilet in the back bathroom. So the wall, the baseboard, the shower frame, the floor, and the toilet base were all smeared in dog sh!t, too.

Shee-ut. To coin a term…

So now in addition to feeling tired, cranky, and incompetent, I had to carry the dog into the bathtub and scrub her butt and thick furry “panties” clean, dry her off as best as possible (it’s still damn cold in the house), get out the disinfectant, and scrub down the walls, baseboard, shower frame, floor, and toilet in the back bathroom. Then open the windows back there and set up a fan at full blast to blow out the noxious disinfectant fumes.

This was really not how I wanted to start my day.

Admittedly, I did not want to make an extra trip out to shop for groceries and gasoline. In a car that anyone can open with an Allen wrench. Nor did I look forward to the first of four or five days of re-indexing chores. But this, I wanted to do even less.

Image: Depositphotos, © tigatelu

Didn’t b’lieve me, didja?

Think I’m kidding about my fellow homicidal drivers? Check out this story: some nitwit taking potshots at a man and his son, on a busy freeway passing through crowded suburbs. The vic’ was a former cop and so had the wherewithal to follow the broad — she must’ve been surprised! Wonder how many other people she’s shot at and gotten away with it.

This kind of thing goes on here all the time — only usually the weapon of choice is not a BB gun…it’s an automatic of one variety or another.

That’s why I generally stay off the freeways. Especially the I-10. They’re not safe.

interstate_17_southern_terminus_in_phoenix
Scenic drive in lovely downtown Phoenix…

Image: Interstate-10 terminus in Phoenix. By Patriarca12.  BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10873679

You Doubt Me…?

…when I talk about my fellow homicidal drivers?

Check this one out! Great photos. At freeway speeds, the woman managed to wedge her SUV at a right angle (!) underneath an 18-wheeler.

Think of that! Really, it’s hard to imagine. How on earth did she do that?  And then…that semi rig is a TANKER TRUCK! It did not blow up, which says something about safety design in newer trucks. I guess. Or else God was on her or the truck driver’s side.

And that lady is why I want an armored tank to drive the fine streets of Phoenix.

Rumination: Of Appliances and Politics

So the politically correct “high”-efficiency top-loading Samsung is now history, replaced by a new inefficient, water-guzzling, irresponsible right-wing-crazy Made-in-America Speed Queen agitator-driven washer.

Just took the first load out. The Speed Queen took exactly 30 minutes to run a medium-sized load on a cycle that took the hateful Samsung an hour and ten minutes to complete. The clothes look clean. They actually got wet, if you can imagine, without my having to pour a pailful of water in on top of them. And they did not come out in a wad or in a braid.

That is to say, the inefficient, water-guzzling, irresponsible right-wing-crazy Made-in-America Speed Queen agitator-driven washer works the way a washer is supposed to work: it washes your clothes, gets them clean, and does it in a reasonable amount of time.

Yesterday while I was sitting here waiting for the repairman to show up to fix the oven (again!), so that it can be turned off (again!) at the breaker switch and left that way permanently, so that if and when I want to sell this house or I croak over and my son decides to sell, the house will have a working double oven and will not require a $2,500 replacement before the place can be put on the market, it occurred to me that Americans have pretty good reason, overall, to be mad enough to sweep out the old, endlessly politically correct regime, even if the new regime is led by a narcissistic bigot who has no clue what he’s doing.

The choice is bad; the reasoning is….not altogether unreasonable.

There I was, after all, sitting in an (expensively) paid-off house that had no functioning oven and no believably functioning clothes washer. Stumbling across a brand of washer that is made in America with American-made parts felt like some kind of freaking miracle. Discovering rave consumer reviews of the things made me feel a) beside myself with joy that I may(!) have found a washing machine that works and b) mad as hell that I got suckered into buying the useless (exploding) high-(in)efficiency Samsung.

And I thought…god damn it! Here I am in the (supposedly) greatest country in the world, sliding into Third-World conditions. If I want to bake a loaf of bread, I’ll have to do it outside over an open fire in the grill. To get my clothes clean, I have to wash them by hand — all of them, including jeans and T-shirts. I might as well be washing the damn things in the Ganges. And for the privilege, I’ve paid through the wazoo. What’s next?

Much as I believe Donald Trump is not the man to do the job, nevertheless I could in theory buy into the idea that it’s past time for a change of direction.

We have politically correct foreign-made wash machines that take almost two hours to not get our clothes clean;
we have household appliances with, across the board, life expectancy of seven years (if you’re lucky);
we’ve seen toilets that don’t flush and faucets that take half your lifetime to dispense a potful of water and showers that don’t shower, all in the name of environmental correctness;
we have health insurance that costs a king’s ransom and covers nothing;
we have Gloria Vanderbilt jeans made in African countries with pants-leg lengths that don’t match;
we have bras made in China whose Dixie-cup design fits no one (and NO OTHER CHOICES in any store you can find);
we have clothing made in China that falls apart within a few weeks or months;
we have trade agreements that have allowed greedy, socially and environmentally uncaring US corporations to send jobs and production overseas to countries that have no safety regulations and no quality control, where a skilled carpenter thinks he’s lucky to earn $7.50 a day;
we have copper plumbing that comes from the seller with pinhole leaks in it, made in China;
we’ve had dog food that poisoned our pets, no matter what the cost and purported quality, because all brands are made in the same few Chinese factories;
we’ve had toothpaste that poisoned its users, made in China;
we have high-end, brain-bangingly expensive air conditioners that work no better and last no longer than the cheapest model, because they’re all made in the same place, China…

Don’t worry, be happy, we’re told: Americans whose highest and best skills qualified them to work on assembly lines can land great jobs in IT and medical care!

Right.

Then we have the nanny-state effect:

wherein we can’t buy a package of Sudafed without signing for it, lest we decide to turn it into meth (does it occur to any of our Governmental Parents that maybe people who choose to consume meth deserve what they get?);
we can’t buy a bottle of cough medicine lest we decide to drink it and get high;
we can’t get a bottle of anything, from cough drops to cleanser, that doesn’t have caps that are impossible to open, so that we end up having to leave most household products sitting in our cabinets with no lids on, or else transferring everything to other containers;
we can’t open the lid on a running washing machine lest we stupidly stick our hands into the spinning tub and mangle our arms;
we can’t start a car without our seatbelts on, unless we wish to be bonged at nonstop;
we can’t order a steak at a restaurant without being told eating rare meat could make us sick;
we surely can’t order a plate of sushi without hearing or reading the same dire warning;
we can’t buy a bottle of wine without being told the risk to a pregnant woman’s fetus is so dire she probably should go to jail for even thinking about swilling a glass of Beaujolais with dinner;
and speaking of fetuses, children are no longer allowed to walk to school or play in the neighborhood park lest they be kidnapped by bogeymen; dare to let yours do so and you’ll be arrested for neglect and child abuse…

And then we have the oppressive political correctness, in which Those Who Are Our Betters tell us what we are and what we are not allowed to say, since we’re such ill-mannered troglodytes we don’t know how to function in polite society.

You know, I consider myself a civil grown-up, and so I have no objection to welcoming people of all genetic and ethnic persuasions into the human race; I do not go around calling homosexuals and lesbians nasty names (nor do I concern myself with their bedroom life); I do not care what your religious calling is, as long as you don’t foist it on me. And so most of the politically correct bullshit doesn’t apply here.

But…there are moments.

The moment when I lost patience with political correctness came some years ago, when I was teaching full-time at the Great Desert University’s westside campus. This was before I migrated to the main campus to found and operate an editorial office.

It was coming on to Christmastime when a memo came down from the Dean of Liberal (heh) Arts, informing us that we were not to utter the words “Merry Christmas” when exchanging holiday greetings in the office. We could say “Happy Holidays.” We could say “Happy Kwanzaa.” We could even say “Happy Chanukka.” But we were not, absolutely positively NOT to say “Merry Christmas.”

Furthermore, we were not to exchange greeting cards that had any kind of religious imagery on them. No babies dozing in mangers. No angels singing. No old guys traipsing across the desert following a star. No haloes. None of that. And of course, no “Merry Christmas” emblazoned upon any such greeting card. Acceptable: peace doves, wintry landscapes, and the “Happy Holidays” slogan.

You think I exaggerate?

No.

Academia can get ridiculous. But this took the cake.

Eventually the oven repair guy showed up. He’s an independent contractor, has his own business…not an employee of Sears. He turned on the breaker and discovered…lo! the control panel was working. I explained that it was showing the F7 error, which Sears had twice told me meant the control panel was shot and had to be replaced, to the tune of $500.

Quoth he: not quite so. It also can indicate loose wiring somewhere. Wiring can work loose, he said, through expansion and contraction caused by the heating and cooling inside the oven.

He took the panel apart, tightened all the wiring, pulled the oven out of the wall and checked to see that the fan was working (if not, he suggested, the heat could be damaging the control panel), found the fan was working fine, put the thing back together, and charged me $81.

He did agree that the control panel on these ovens has a limited life expectancy, and he confirmed that the part is no longer made. And he did suggest that if I didn’t want to buy a new oven ($2000+) in the near future, I shouldn’t use it at all.

No wonder Sears is going out of business, hm?

So the oven is returned to its best and highest use: holding pots, pans, and cutting boards. But at least now I have a washer that works. For the time being.