Dealing With Traffic II

Warning! The below was written when I was NOT in the Christmas spirit.

My young bride thinks I'm an odd duck. She is an introverted stage mistress who loves communicating with people as long as she doesn't have to face them. Stage acting and the internet (one again, thank you, Albert Gore Jr.) are the best things ever for her. She can bask in the adulation of an audience without having to actually speak to them directly, and she can communicate personally with people world-wide and never have to sit and drink coffee at The Brown Cup in Lenoir City with them.

I, on the other hand, am a semi-educated extrovert with a pretty good general knowledge of things historically and pop-culture-wise, and an opinion on just about everything. I have the ability to talk to just about anyone, from the intelligence-challenged to X Smith, PhD. I simply choose not to do so the bulk of the time. This is because -- based on my experience -- people are idiots. And many are narcissistic idiots who only ask one's opinion so one can agree with them.

Also, I do not totally absolve myself from this category, just so we're all clear on this. I have the capacity for self-centeredness just as any other person does. But I am aware of this, and do my utmost to keep in under control, along with my testosterone poisoning.

Another traffic example from my travels back and forth to West Knoxville for my job as an industrial temp: Recently, on a Sunday morning, I was making my way toward Emerachem for a day of labor. As I approached the Watt road exit from the west, there was an automobile coming up on me in the center lane, while I was in the right lane. There was no traffic of which one could have spoken. When I went beneath the underpass, I saw that a semi was making its way out toward the eastbound lane. Driving laws and common courtesy, at this point, direct that I make room for the truck to enter the roadway, so I engaged my signal and moved to the left. The car coming up on me was moving rapidly, but the driver had ample time to move into the far left lane, which was totally unoccupied.

Thus, the other car moved into the right lane to pass, causing the poor guy driving the truck (one can only hope that the car-driving donkey's Christmas present was on the truck, and is now sitting in a warehouse, lost to the point that delivery will be somewhere between never and 50 years from now) to have to slow his massive vehicle, then try to get back up to speed as he was climbing a hill.

I think most people are like Donkey-man. Of course, that's merely an opinion.

Thus, I will also give the next example, positing the questionable existence of good-will, and the concept of spreading it about.

On a recent trip to Bob's Package Store, to procure various and sundry bottles of ethanol as Christmas gifts, I was forced to position myself on Kingston Pike, in the middle of the holiday season, so I could then take my place on the interstate parking lot. I had moved from North Winston, and was behind a white Cadillac Escalade, the chosen SUV of the entitled, as far as I can tell. This is not to malign the folks who drive these vehicles because they enjoy them, it is merely an observation.

As traffic moved slowly toward Gallaher View Road, we found ourselves in front of a small strip mall -- behind a red light that was at least a quarter of a mile distant -- and Entitled Driver positioned his vehicle directly in front of the exit from the strip mall, which irritated myself and the young lady who was attempting to enter Kingston Pike from the strip mall lot.

The traffic light finally turned green, and -- ten minutes later, when the cars in front of me began to move -- I motioned the young lady to enter the Gordian Grid. She acknowledged my courtesy, and was then stuck with the rest of us. However, at the next opportunity, she allowed someone else to enter the trafficious puzzle. And that person passed the courtesy forward, and so on.

So, I could be wrong; perhaps the majority of people aren't idiots. I'll go into a holding pattern and wait to see.

El Magnifico

My kitty-cat died recently. We had been owned by Hector since 2003, when he adopted us at Super Petz in Farragut. I don't really remember what stupid name he had been tagged with there, but when we started home with the 23-pound lug, I decided on the way that he would be "Hector," named for the heroic Trojan prince who sacrificed himself to give his stupid king an opportunity to out-maneuver the Greeks who held siege at the gates.

Yes, his sacrifice was in vain, but that does not -- in any way -- diminish the spirit in which it was made. It is theorized that our cat was at least part Snowshoe, which is some really hooty-tooty breed about which neither of us could have cared less. Hector was an extraordinary animal, damn the heritage, full speed ahead; and I loved him dearly.

When we took him home, he was about six years old. He was also without front claws. Now, I am against this practice in general. It's like sending a soldier to the front lines with a broomstick and telling him/her to point it and say, "Bang!" But clawless he was, so there would be no going outside for the big boat anchor. He used his litterbox just fine, but had some trouble with coverage. Many times, I heard him tugging at the sides of his box trying to cover his "business," and he never figured out why it was still there.

The title for this particular missive comes from the fact that, Woodrow, my brain-damaged son, one day -- in an Hispanic accent -- tagged him "Hector, The Magnifico." It suited him, so it stuck.

Now, many of you cat-lovers will be reluctant to believe what I am about to propose; but it is, nonetheless, true. Hector was less trouble -- as a pet -- than any animal my young bride or I had ever owned. He never created a fuss; he did not complain. When we brought a puppy into his home last year, he dealt with it by totally avoiding and ignoring the ridiculous little thing. By the time of Hector's passing, the puppy was almost as big as he was (Doris is a Welsh Corgi).

Over the years, Hector -- who was obese when we brought him home -- had lost down to about 17 pounds, practically svelte for his enormous frame. He was never unable to jump wherever he needed/wanted to be, and he did not eat as much as one would expect. Also, his taste ran to the inexpensive in food. He preferred Friskies dry cat food, which can be had for nearly nothing. This is more evidence of his perfection, and complete disdain for complexity.

Hector made regular visits to the veterinarian, where he always got a clean bill of health. We carried him there in his dog crate, because they never made a cat crate big enough for him. I still remember his first vet visit after he adopted us. We were actually heading to Walt Disney World not long after he came to us. When we dropped him off in his crate, the look on his kitty-face said clearly, "Great. Here we go again."

When we brought him back home after our return, he kept walking around the house, not quite able to believe he wasn't a victim of foreclosure. Before the dog came and he gave up his rights to the front of the house, he spent a good deal of time lazing about on the couch and in my leather recliner.

Many times, when I would go to bed at night, kitty would jump onto the bed and lay down behind my head, then give me a neck massage. I have no idea what pleasure he got from this, but it felt fine, and we both were happy.

In the mornings, he would always come to the kitchen while I prepared coffee, and tell me all of the assignments he had accomplished while I was laying about after my massage. Then he would sit on the floor by the computer desk, making himself available for petting while I checked ESPN and my mail.

A couple of weeks ago, I got up to get ready for work. Hector came and jumped onto the bed, where I petted him, and he purred at me. I went to start coffee, then went back into the bedroom for something (I still don't remember what). As I stepped around the bed, I trod on a soft object, and thought, "That feels like the cat. Can't be the cat, he would have jumped." So I turned on the light. Of course, it was El Magnifico.

I picked him up and tried desperately to talk him awake. When it became clear that he was not going to wake up -- ever -- I shook The Boss awake and told her the news. To her credit, she handled everything extremely well while I cried like a beauty contestant who just wants world peace. She also observed that in death, he was still Hector. No muss, no fuss; just a quick cardio stoppage, and done. I got myself cleaned up and headed to work, though I didn't really want to go.

I know it seems ridiculous, but Hector was -- truly -- one of a kind. I miss him terribly.

Dealing WIth Traffic

I already realize that those of you who live and work in an urban setting are going to roll your eyes at my complaints in this post -- and I don't blame you -- but the current situation is fairly new to me, and this internet thing gives me an opportunity to vent. Thank God for Albert Gore, Jr. (snort)!

For the last sixteen years I have resided within just a few miles of my job. Really, it was to the point that going to work and putting in four hours, then going back home was no big deal. In light traffic, I could go from driveway to parking lot in ten minutes. In "heavy" traffic, it was a max of fifteen.

Now, however, after four months of unemployment and my acceptance of a temp job just to survive, I find myself driving daily to within a few miles of downtown Knoxville. According to Google Maps, it is 35.3 miles door to door. That translates to about 45 minutes in decent traffic. I have yet to experience an industrial strength tie-up on I-40/75, thank goodness.

But I have also discovered that I have fallen into a strange sort of driving pattern. When I am going to work, I keep my speed -- pretty much -- between 65 and 70 mph, and do little as far as lane-changes go, unless they are absolutely necessary. When I am on my way home, though, I am, apparently, in a God-awful hurry to get out of the Volunteer City.

I normally get on I-40/75 at the Papermill Drive ramp, because it is the closest one to Emerachem. This is one of those frustrating trafficious (I made that up) jigsaw puzzles that comes in two parts, with a cloverleaf involved. The first time one takes it, and one believes one is on the interstate, one discovers quickly that one must then enter traffic twice. For Country Bumpkins like myself, this can be overwhelmingly baffling the first time around, especially when one must deal with tentative drivers who don't have the first clue how to use an entrance ramp.

Please excuse me while I wipe away the sweat generated from simply thinking about the situation. I have driven -- periodically -- in heavy city traffic, in places like St. Louis, Atlanta and Miami. I just don't expect this kind of stupid abeyance close to home.

Anyway, I enter the Indianapolis Speedway at Papermill, and I immediately start moving left as quickly as I can go. This has its ups and downs, as I managed to lose the one side-view mirror that was on my truck years ago whilst driving in some woods. Honestly, there was a small pine sapling growing sideways in front of my truck on the trail. I was easing past it so I wouldn't damage the poor thing, and when it snapped back, my mirror went flying.

So, with a good deal of side-glancing, I move toward the far left lane, weaving as necessary, clutching, shifting, and punching the accelerator with authority. When I hit 70 mph, I ease up a bit and allow those moving faster to go past me as I am able. But I sit between 70 and 75 (barring one of those inexplicable slow-downs, which I have experienced a few times) all the way to the Watt Road exit, after which, having shed the traffic headed toward Nashville, I can relax enough to slow down to the actual speed limit, which is 65 mph.

And there I stay all the way to Philadelphiaburgh, excepting the necessity to stop off for something in Lenoir City or Loudon, which I do as little as possible. It would seem to be a convenience to have all of these opportunities to snag needed items on my way home, but I hate stopping. I really want to get home after a day at work.

Some of the guys at Emerachem talk about going to a place called Ray's, near West Town Mall. While I'm certain this could be fun, I just don't see me going there without benefit of a shower after work, and I'm too lazy and cheap to go home, then turn around and head right back into the fray. Also, I haven't hung out in bars for so long, I wouldn't know what's what.

And, there I'd be, driving home afterward in the same damn traffic I deal with daily. Nah, not for me.

I have counted the exits I pass, and they are a paltry ten in number. Including my entrance and exit, we're talking about a total of a dozen exits between here and there. I feel stupid whining about it, 'cuz at least I have a job for now. Also, too (the Department of Redundancy Department sends greetings), I have the advantage of Papermill Drive being the Knoxville location of McKay Used Books and Cds, which everyone in the family loves. I often stop by after work to hunt my Young Bride's white whale -- "Dodgeball" -- in widescreen on DVD.

I have told her repeatedly that she can get a used copy from Amazon for a few dollars, but it has now become a challenge to find the movie at McKay, and she'll do it or go down on the Pequod, cursing Hollywood and Vince Vaughn. Ahab lives.

So, for now, I'll navigate traffic as I must, and try to see the positives as I am able. It's still better than unemployment, no matter what the traffic is like.

Employment Is Good

I got a job this week, and proved that I was right -- an extra bonus. I have said since I got canned at Ye Olde Tate & Lyle that if I could only get someone to interview me, I would find employment. I realize that sounds a bit egotistical and crass, but -- just the facts, ma'am -- I interview well.

I had sent an application and résumé in response to a HotJobs online advertisement for a chemical analyst to a site called ResourceMFG. Turns out ResourceMFG is a temp service that supplies people -- like myself -- who have industrial experience of various degrees to companies far and wide. Therefore, I am now a temp. I already hate myself. Everyone hates temps.

Also, where I am working, I am the new guy; so I doubly hate myself.

Some background: I had my last job for 27 years. When I met new technicians, I would shake their hands warmly, apologize and tell them, "It's not your fault, but I hate you." I would then explain that I hate all new people, because the new guys' main job is to complicate life for me and my co-workers. I would further elucidate that -- in 1982, when I was a new guy -- I hated myself. Most understood.

Anyhoo, I got the call from ResourceMFG telling me about the opportunity, and asking if I could interview Wednesday, 9/23 at 9:00 AM. I did just that, and Wednesday afternoon the temp agent called and said, "He wants you there at 7:00 AM tomorrow. I told him you hadn't taken your drug screen yet, but he said, 'I don't care, have him here in the morning,' are you okay with that?"

Duh.

So I got this temp job at a place called Emerachem. They manufacture industrial application catalytic convertors that turn carbon monoxide emissions into CO2 and steam; a very GREEN sort of thing to do. They have a huge contract for some power generation place in California, and they are hiring temps to help get the work done in the contracted amount of time. Therefore, I have employment until at least January 2010.

The work is not difficult. There's some chemical mixing, fork truck driving (probably my greatest skill for them is my ability to operate a fork truck in tight spaces), and assembly line-type work. Admittedly, it's not a QA laboratory, but it IS a damn job. I'd rather work forty hours for twice my unemployment check than sit on my dead ass and get gum'mint pay -- anytime.

I now have to get all of my medical junk straightened out (passed the drug screen Friday afternoon -- although there probably was some Kentucky bourbon in there), but that's another problem for another day.

Employment is good.

The Georgia Alps

Last week, the family all mounted our communal automobile and spent a couple of days in the Georgia Appalachians. This began as a request from my young bride, who has dealt rather well with my obsession with the salt waters of the earth for the past 22 years. Our normal vacation spots have been Walt Disney World and Edisto Beach, South Carolina. But since I currently have no job, and we have little cash to spare, a true vacation was pretty much out of the picture for this year.

A few weeks ago, The Boss said we should run down to Helen, Georgia and spend a night, then kill a day seeing the sights in and around town. If you have never been to Helen, it is a smallish tourist spot that was experiencing a slow and painful death until the late 1960s, when the town deciders opted to put some Bavarian cosmetics on the tiny burgh and remake it into a sort of false-front Alpine resort. The efforts paid off, and during the summers and Oktoberfest, it is a busy place full of people from foreign lands like New Hampshire and Oklahoma, who come to eat German delicacies such as Wienerschnitzel, and drink lots of beer.

Historically speaking, my young bride had spent her childhood summers on Lake Burton, near the town, attending Camp Cherokee For Girls (notice that there is no attached link; that's because the camp doesn't exist anymore). She made many friends there, up to and including Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls. I, on the other hand, visited Helen once in Oktober of 1982, where I first discovered Beck's Beer, the best mass-produced beverage on the planet.

We began our trip down by cutting through Cleveland, TN and hitting US 64. We stopped for lunch at a Subway between Cleveland and Benton, and bought the only gas we required for the entire journey (have I bragged about my hybrid lately?) at the attached fuel emporium. We then wound our way up the Ocoee River, stopping at one point near the dam just to browse and relax for a spell. We then went through Copper Basin, which is still recovering from the sulfuric acid poisoning of the old mining operation, then slowly made our way through northeast Georgia until we came to Helen.

Luckily, The Boss had done some research before she planned the trip, and found an inexpensive place for us to sleep. The Quality Inn, on Yonah Street, snuck up on me such that I passed it and two more streets before I could turn back. But I finally found the parking lot, and we got checked in. Before I forget to mention it, I'll add now that we took The Boss's puppy, Doris Daylily, our Welsh Corgi. While she can be a handful sometimes, she is a sweet dog, and the motel is pet friendly. The people who work there were all very homey, and they -- to a person -- went on over the dog, and rubbed her tummy to make her feel special.

We got our bags unloaded, and I got settled in to watch the Bones re-runs on USA. Afterward, we walked about and found where we would eat dinner. The Café International serves a variety of foods, but mostly it's Bavarian fare with outdoor seating. This is my favorite eatery in Helen, although there are better places. I enjoy the dining over the Chatahoochee River, and the general atmosphere. I had the Wurst Platter that evening, with knockwurst, bauernwurst, and German potato salad. My young bride found the potato salad too vinegary, but I really liked mine. If it weren't for acetic acid and cayenne pepper, I'd probably stop eating.

After dinner, we walked for a bit, though most of the stores were closed. I also visited the local grocer, Betty's IGA, which was right next door to our motel. There I found some ear plugs which, after years of working swing shift and sleeping during the daylight hours, I now require just to feel comfortable enough to sleep at all.

The next morning, the first thing I discovered was that a major event had taken place in the space/time continuum. My young bride was already awake, and had taken the puppy for her morning walk. This is not so much abnormal as it is freaky; I kept waiting for Herr Einstein to show up, strolling upside down along the ceiling, counting the black holes in the universe while humming Rocky Top. But I recovered, took a shower, and partook of the Continental Breakfast that was available at no charge in the Motel lobby.

The breakfast was better than many. There were individually packaged Lender's Bagels, as well as fruit danishes, bear claws, various cereals, margarine, cream cheese, a microwave and a toaster. I didn't know where to start. But again, I recovered, and chose a bagel and some microwavable oatmeal. I took my selections back to my room where we had a microwave also, and The Boss had brought our personal coffee maker so we could have our Coffee AM Kenya AA.

After that I took Doris for another walk, The Boy and Emily explored, and The Boss planned our day; our first move was to book another night at the motel, for which I had been lobbying since we had discovered that the word Quality in the title was not wasted.

We then headed for The Old Sautee Store, which appears to have been there since man has walked upright. My young bride had me purchase some Swedish Hushallsost Farmer Cheese with flat bread to accompany it. The cheese went into the cooler which had conveniently found its way into our trunk. There is a small sandwich shop next door that advertised frozen cider, of which I took note.

Our next leg was to head toward Lake Burton and the former site of the revered Camp Cherokees For Boys and Girls. The Boss drove around the area, lamenting the loss of such quality entertainment and education for young people. I'm fairly certain one cannot experience the same lessons via XBox 360 or PS3. There is now a collection of McMansions along the shore of Lake Burton where the boys camp used to be.

Money talks. I'm not against the concept, but sometimes the spirit is applied poorly.

We next headed up to Wildcat Creek to take a gander at what was always called "sliding rock" by the campers. This is a small falls area on the creek, with a place that serves as a perfect water slide (about an eight foot drop) from the upper area into a deep pool below. We were going to slide there, but there were a couple of gentlemen fishing, and it was a tad chillier than we had anticipated. We walked about, however, and Doris enjoyed smelling everything up and down the dirt road along the creek.

Our next stop was an old pottery vendor. The Boss says that for her mother, The Old Sautee Store was an absolute when she was in the area; for Amos, it was Mark Of The Potter. The shop is on the banks of the Soque River, where gigantic trout hang out to be fed at $0.25 per handful, and the owners don't allow anyone to fish for the piggish icthians. We admired some of the wares (I, especially, am taken with pottery mixing bowls, of which I have many, acquired through years of hanging out at yard sales and flea markets), and I eventually bought a new butter bell for our kitchen, which is a good deal larger and prettier than the old one. It will hold a whole stick of our creamy, unsalted butter.

After that visit, we made our way back to Helen, where we ate lunch at the Hofer Café and Bakery, which smells like Heaven ought'a. I had the Schnitzel Delight, a breaded pork cutlet, fried and served with Hofer German potato salad and steamed broccoli. -- and a Beck's beer, natch.

After lunch The Boss and I napped while my children did whatever it is they do these days. When we had recovered from our morning activities, we walked up into town again and bought some fudge at the Hansel And Gretel Candy Kitchen. I tried some immediately and found it to be fairly good, especially the plain chocolate. We walked about some more, looking at all the shops that were totally uninteresting. I postulated to my young bride that -- if I were a photographer -- I would have a tintype shop with Heidi costumes and lederhosen instead of all the cowboy fare that has nothing to do with the Alpine part of the world.

We decided to try dinner that evening at The Farmer's Market Café, which promised traditional southern foods. They were right, and we ain't talkin' Cracker Barrel, neither. I had a homemade chicken pot pie, the crust of which was flaky and crisp. The go-withs were fried okra and fried green tomatoes, and both were very good. Our waitress was attentive without being bothersome, and I had absolutely no room for dessert. After returning to our motel, I fell asleep very early.

The next morning I had another bagel along with blueberry muffins from the continental fare. After gadding about the downtown area some more, we got checked out of our quarters and headed for the Anna Ruby Falls trail. This is a short 0.4 mile hike to the waters that form Smith Creek in the Unicoi State Park on Trey mountain. Smith creek comes forth at the falls where Curtis Creek -- a 153 foot drop -- and York Creek -- a 50 foot drop, join together. It is not a difficult hike at all, and the weather was cool and pleasant. Doris seemed to enjoy her part of the activities, which consisted of keeping her nose glued to the Earth so she could smell all of the dogs, 'coons, and other critters that had recently passed by.

After our morning hike, we found our way back to The Old Sautee Store. The Boss had them play the Nickelodeon for us, and a woman at the "jewelry" counter nearly drove her to distraction with her prattling. I, personally, took the opportunity to acquire one of the frozen ciders at the market next door. It was a muscadine combo of some kind and was delicious and refreshing. I sat on the porch with Doris Daylily, lording it over the rest of the planet until time for lunch.

We inquired at the Hofer Café about sitting outdoors so that we could have the dog accompany us. They were very accomodating, and took our order, then knocked on the front window when it was ready. This time I had a Brat on a bun, with brown mustard and sauerkraut, the way God intended Bratwurst to be eaten. I highly recommend this place to folks who visit.

After lunch, everyone walked about town some more, though we had seen everything more than once. Honestly -- speaking for myself -- there's not a lot to do in Helen, other than eat. For entertainment, I recommend getting out of town. Most of the shops are T-shirt and hat vendors, and, let's face it, it's not really Germany, after all. I enjoyed the trip, but mostly because The Boss knew where to go and what to do.

And now we're home, and I'm back to the reality of unemployment and looking for anyone who might hire a person of my background and temperamental nature. But yes, it was good to get away for a few days. I am refreshed, and less negative in my outlook. I think it was the beer.

Public Service

For any who are unaware, my favorite radio station on the planet is WUOT. They are the NPR affiliate that is associated with the University of Tennessee. There are a number of reasons why I enjoy them so much, but I'll only list a few here:

1. They play classical music, which, while I know little about it, I still enjoy.
2. I like the hosts, my favorite of whom is Chrissy Keuper, the host of Morning Edition. She has a very soothing tone, and helps me relax, even during world crises.
   
3. I am afforded the opportunity, at least twice a year, to hang out at the station during the fund drives. The food is excellent, and the company better, while the conversation subject matter can range from Keirkegaard to Pamela Anderson, and all places in between.
4. For some inexplicable reason, they seem to appreciate my rather meager efforts on their behalf.

WUOT will be celebrating its 60th anniversary this year, and to celebrate, they are holding an open house on Tuesday, August 18th. To aid in preparation, I sojourned to the the station a couple of days ago to perform slave duty for Lisa Beckman, the Membership Coordinator (which is business-ese for "the one who deals with the unemployed nuts who want to help"). Most of the labor was of the manual variety, with which I am uncannily familiar.

When I first arrived, I fully intended to store my truck -- for the duration -- in Circle Park Drive. What I should have done was tell the attendant that I would be going to the McClung Museum, so that he would provide me a two hour pass. Being a guy, however, I'm not gifted with that kind of foresight. When I arrived at Circle Park, the conversation went thusly:

Me: "I'm going to WUOT to work for a couple of hours. Can I get a two hour pass?"

Attendant: "I can only give you a 45-minute pass."

Me: "What if I tell you I'm going to the museum?"

Attendant: "But you're not."

There were a few more limited sentences, but I could see that the young man took his job much more seriously than I, so I accepted the 45-minute pass, and resolved to move my truck every hour or so.

When I first arrived in the station proper, Lisa wasn't quite prepared, which I attribute to two phenomena: I was a tad early; and, she's probably used to being stiffed by volunteers who make empty promises. After it was established that I was on site and ready for work, she got her station map, and dragged me back, forth, east and west, moving and hefting.

As a guy, I expected to perform most of the actual labor, 'cuz, hey, I'm a guy. But every time I turned my back, Lisa was lifting and moving things that were bigger than she is. At one point, we had moved some new, as yet uninstalled, electronic equipment into a particular spot, and cousin David Williamson (his mother -- of Irish heritage -- was burdened with the maiden name "Loftis") expressed -- rather sternly -- that the servers would have to be moved into an area under lock and key. I believe he would have preferred an armed guard, also, except he's one of those left-wing-lunatic-anti-gun-nuts.

I razzed L'il Davey some about his serious attitude, then later, I thought, "You shouldn't have been such a derriere; he's just trying to protect a rather significant investment." So I stopped in his cubbyhole to express my understanding about the fact that, at some point, somebody always has to be the hardass. David began to explain his position, whereupon I elucidated, telling him that there was no need for him to explain; he was, obviously, just doing his job.

He looked a little puzzled, and I wondered if he had ever had a volunteer who expressed the understanding that business is business.

After the second time that I had to go move my truck, Lisa suggested that I park it in the staff parking lot behind the Communications Building. Since it was already 4:30 PM, and it is legal for me to be there after 5:00 PM, I took her suggestion -- more on that later.

After a while, I told Lisa that I needed to check my blood glucose level. I'm still acclimating to having an insulin pump, and sometimes I don't do things the right way. I was perspiring too much for the work I was doing, and I was more fatigued than was warranted. So my blood sugar was -- um -- low, and I inquired with Louise Higman about the nearest drink machine, to which she directed me with unerring efficiency.

I sat in Cindy Hassil's office, drinking my Coke while the three of us passed the time. After several minutes, I felt back to normal, and Lisa and I began generating more perspiration. At some point, we began hanging signs that set newbies in the proper direction, and told people not to eat and drink in the control areas. Now, Lisa is a little -- how shall I say this -- particular. She was attempting to hang signs from the suspended ceiling using only 8 1/2 X 11 sheets of copy paper and Scotch tape. And she wanted them to be perfectly straight. Girls are funny, aren't they?

She would stand on a chair to adjust a sign, hop down and eyeball it from ten feet. Back up into the chair; down; eyeball, repeat.

After another little while, all the tables that could be moved had been, all the signs that could be hung were, and we had rolled a grand piano across the performance studio and into a corner out of the way. Also, David, if you read this, the servers are locked in Dan's office.

Lisa expressed her appreciation for the minimal work I had performed, and sent me on my way. When I got back to my truck, which was now in the staff parking lot, I found a ticket from my favorite law enforcement officers, the UT cops. It was generated at 17:01, which, for the uninitiated, is 5:01 PM.

It is legal to park there after 17:00, and the ticket said 17:01. Hmmmmm. So I did what I normally do with them. I wadded it up and threw it into the nearest trash receptacle. What are they gonna do, come to Philadelphia and impound my truck? They haven't yet.

I was glad for this opportunity, because, though I have conquered a number of tasks here at home over the last few weeks, helping someone else gives me a different sense of accomplishment; more satisfying somehow. And it makes me feel useful again, which is different.

Safety First

I have to get a job. Soon. If not, I will have to shoot myself in the foot to keep from doing things around the house.

I am a notoriously bad handyman. In the last couple of weeks, however, I have replaced our bathroom vent fan, put a new motor on the air conditioner fan (had to re-wire it -- not too sharp with electricity, it scares me; more on that later), and installed a new microwave above the stove.

The really frightening part is, all of these jobs were completed with relative success. The vent fan is obnoxiously efficient, the air conditioner works as well as it is going to in this heat, and the microwave is still on the wall -- and operating.

I started with the vent fan. I figured, "If I bugger this simple job up, that will keep me from doing anything else. Safety first."

I found the breaker for the bathroom fan and light switches, which are on the same circuit. Got that turned off. Then I started trying to take the back of the fan off the wall in the back hallway. This is not correct procedure, but at least I learned something. After several minutes of not being able to budge the fan housing, I decided to try from the vent side.

Enter Mr. Flashlight, because the breaker for the bathroom light was turned off. I took the vent cover off, which I had done before for cleaning purposes. Enter my stupidity (with all these entrances, the bathroom was starting to get crowded). The fan was right there in front of me, had I ever bothered to pay any attention all the times I had cleaned the vent cover. And it was plugged into an outlet!

So I unplugged the fan and turned the breaker back on so people could see to pee. I then removed the two screws that held the fan and motor in place, and -- voila. Being experienced in things like this, I patiently waited for the roof to collapse, as the removal had been much too simple.

Then off The Boy and I go to Home Depot. I do not prefer one over the other when it comes to Home Depot vs. Lowe's, but for me, Home Depot is closer. I took The Boy with me because we had been there recently and researched the whole vent fan issue, and I was hoping that he would remember anything I had forgotten. As it turns out, this was a pretty good move.

We walk into the store, and I head for the area where I believed we had looked at fans. When I looked back to find The Boy, he asked, "Where are you going?" I replied that I was trying to find the vent fans that we had perused recently. He then said, "They're in the back of the store."

He showed me where I needed to be, and we began the search in earnest. The big thing, of course, was making certain that the wattage and voltage were of equal value. So I found one that was $14.99, and while checking the details on the sticker, I noticed that it said 50 cfm, as did the old one that resided in my hand. Now, I'm not a genius, but I figured out very quickly that "cfm" does not mean "coffee for me." It actually means "cubic feet per minute," which is the amount of air that the fan can move.

So I checked one that was $24.99. Its sticker said 70 cfm. I knew for a fact that the vent fan that had punked out sometimes had difficulty keeping the bathroom clear of the fog generated by a hot shower, especially in winter. So for $10 more I got a fan with the same motor, but a bigger blade.

Next we went through self check-out (which sounds eerily narcissistic), then stopped by the Brown Cup Coffee Company so The Boy could have some Chai, and I could have a double espresso (I'm a 2 cfm guy, at best). Then back home we went, where The Boy installed the new fan, which runs like a champ (and with me giving instructions, The Boy, Mr. Flashlight and my stupidity, it was starting to feel like a meeting in a phone booth -- young people, ask your parents about those). And there is no residual mist in the air after a shower; and the breaker didn't give out from the bigger fan; and the roof didn't collapse.

So my next project was the air conditioner fan motor. This is the motor that pushes air into the house, draws it out of the house, and recycles it to make it a more efficient system. And if we didn't have a POS Rheem air conditioner/heater, this would probably work okay.

Mr. Wilkerson, who installed the unit, has been to my house no fewer than three times every summer since the Rheem was installed (a new gas heat unit, about a year before 9/11; $$$$$$$). He has been here often enough that I have learned how to do a number of things myself to keep the thing running. Earlier in the summer, I replaced the fan rotor, which moves the air. This involves removing the entire unit, taking the fan apart, installing the new blade, then reversing the removal. The old motor had wires that plugged into it, then ran hither and yon through the space/time continuum, moving electrons back and forth. All one had to do was write down the order in which the wires were plugged, left to right. "Easy, peasy," as Sam Axe would say.

A week after the motor quit -- and two different suppliers later -- I went to Mr. Wilkerson's shop, and there was a new motor. There was no plug unit on it, and it had loose wires running everywhere. So I got a lesson in electric motor wiring, and brought the new beast home. Now, Mr. Wilkerson made the wiring sound easy, but that's with his 50+ years of experience. As mentioned before, I am afraid of electricity, and avoid it when possible, other than turning switches on and off.

But somebody had to do it; Four of the wires that were pointed out were actually plugged into one another. Part of the lesson was thus: this motor is reversible; if it rotates the wrong way when first started, plug the wires in the opposite way. So I put the fan back together, new motor ready to go; then it started raining -- check that -- pouring. This summer shower was similar to the ones they get in central Florida. It rains buckets for about twenty minutes, then the sun comes out, and everyone gets a steam bath.

So, with water vapor going up and sweat pouring down, I went through at least three telephone inquiries to poor Mr. Wilkerson, several tiny screws, six or seven wire nuts of various sizes, and a number of colorful phrases learned over years in industry. I then crossed every phalangial digit available, plugged the breaker back in (which, yes, had been removed -- safety first), and the fan started to rotate in the correct direction. I couldn't believe it. By the next morning, the heat was nearly back to the bearable stage, and the air was way less humid throughout the house.

And the roof didn't collapse. Therefore, after about a week's rest, I decided to install the microwave that had been sitting here for a year, with me waiting for it to magically leap onto the wall above the stove.

Removing the old microwave turned out to be a breeze, comparatively speaking. After some close and rather uncomfortable inspection, I discovered the method used for holding it up (not including the twenty years of cooking oil, which had hardened to epoxy-like consistency). Then, The Boy found a schematic which clearly stated that yes, these two giant screws are your gravity-denial system. A screwdriver, however, did not do the trick (did I mention it had been there for twenty years?).

I then employed my small Robo-Grip pliers to loosen the screws, and The Boy removed them while I held onto the oven. When they were out, it only took a shake and a rattle to get the thing loose, and it was down. It has since been taken to the recycle center, where, hopefully, some of its parts can be used in service 'bots of the future, who will eventually rebel, and Neo and Morpheus will have purpose in their lives.

I looked over the installation manual for the new unit, and discovered that the vent fan needed to be removed and redirected, such that the air blew out the top. This had never been done on the old microwave, 'cuz the previous homeowner is lazier and more useless, even, than myself.

I won't bore you with a lot of detail, but installing the new oven was not simple. Better planning would have made it so, but that's for smarter people than I. I will simply relate that I was required to drill six holes -- according to the instructions, which I followed. Luckily, I only had to double that number to get the holes where they were needed (note to manufacturer: a template for the two suspension screws in the top would be a great help).

After hours, loads of sweating, and The Boy learning a couple of my colorful industrial phrases, I plugged the stupid thing in and turned on the vent fan, which blew out the top, as it was meant to do. I then turned on the lights, which burned dim and bright. Lastly, I put a cup of water inside the oven, and started it. It ran, and the turntable rotated.

And the roof didn't collapse; so I had a drink.

As a postscript, I will state that -- in the middle of the first night, apparently -- the vent fan developed a rattle. When I was made aware of it, I pondered, off and on, the trouble of removing the oven and the fan for the simple purpose of discovering the origination of the irritating noise.

I had not gotten around to acting on these thoughts, when, a few days later, potatoes were being boiled on the stove, and I turned on the vent to keep moisture from collecting above the pot. The rattle started, then stopped, and I had a small piece of white plastic on the front of my shirt. I should have saved it for framing, because it is trouble like that which will keep me from doing things for which I am -- ultimately -- unqualified.

Safety first. I don't want the roof to collapse on anyone's head.

A Golf Lesson

My continuing education hit a nasty "S" in the learning curve last week. Now that I am unemployed, my son (who will, hereafter, be referred to as "The Boy") has taken a more than casual interest in golf. For those of you who are unaware, golf can be an expensive hobby, like photography with Haaselblad cameras, or collecting Fabergé eggs.

Then there is my approach to the game. I bought a used set of clubs in 1988. For the clubs and bag, I paid $100. The woods were actual persimmon, and had been lovingly used for a number of years by the former football coach at Loudon High, the late Henry Blackburn. Around 2003, a co-worker ran into a deal on some new Northwestern clubs in Etowah, TN. So I bought that set for $100, and I'm still using Henry's old bag. The course I normally play costs $30 for eighteen holes (that's cheap for golf), which I never play. I am a "nine and done" golfer, especially in the heat.

I also have a sort of Zen method of playing golf. For years, at my former place of employment, every time a golf tournament came up, someone would ask me if I planned to play. My reply was always: "Nobody wants to play tournament golf with me." The inquirer would then make an assumption, and ask: "Are you that good?"

Whereupon I would reply, "No, I simply don't care who wins; and people who play tournaments are competitive, whereas I am not."

The rules I follow while playing are fairly simple:

1. While it is okay to celebrate a good shot, never bother being upset over a bad one. These come much more frequently, and are to be accepted.
2. I am not now, nor will I ever be a professional golfer. Therefore I don't have to follow PGA rules. If my ball is lying in rocks, I can damn well kick it into the grass if I please. I am also one of those guys who will dig my ball out of the deep rough and "tee it up" on a patch of sturdy Johnson grass.
3. Never keep score.
4. I paid the greens fee, I will watch the ball go into the cup.
5. If I am alone, and the course is not mobbed, I walk.

Yeah, and walking and my ego are what recently got me into that learning curve problem.

There is an annual amateur golf tournament called the Women's Trans National Golf Championship that recently celebrated its 79th anniversary right here in East Tennessee. The 2009 WTNGC was played at the Tennessee National Golf Club in Loudon, TN on a course designed by none other than Greg Norman, my favorite player from my generation of professional golfers.

I used to watch in agony every year as The Great White Shark would make his charge on Friday or Saturday at August National, only to melt down in some new and creative way -- annually -- on Sunday afternoon at The Masters Championship. He never won The Masters, and, as a fan, it is one of my greatest regrets.

So on Friday, July 24th, The Boy and I wandered through the mostly empty Tennessee National residential area, where it is approximately $100,000 just to acquire a section of grass on which one can put a caddyshack of minimal proportions ("which I am certain is regulated by a board of directors," he observed haughtily). We stopped at the guardhouse at the golf course area, announced our intentions to watch the ladies play, and were given directions to the clubhouse -- very courteously, I might add.

First, let me say that the golf course itself is a work of art. The layout is well done, the fairways pristine, and the bunkers are a mix of your standard American monsters, with a few decidedly European-looking beachheads having a good deal of depth to them. The Boy couldn't stop talking about how pretty the course is, and the way Watts Bar Lake and its inlets are worked into and out of the rolling landscape. As a confirmed cheapskate golfer, I'm not even used to having bunkers with sand in them, much less ones that are perfectly laid, manicured, and maintained.

The tournament is match-play, such that every day players went head to head and were eliminated according to who won the round. By the time we arrived on Friday afternoon, only four players were left. We followed the pairing of Stacey Keating -- a young Australian who is at least 5'10" based on the fact that she was looking down at me when we shook hands -- and a teenager who just finished her freshman year at Wake Forest who goes by the name Cheyenne Woods (she has a famous golf-playing uncle of whom you may have heard).

Watching those girls play was truly a revelation. I watch a lot of golf on television, but being able to see their steady, even swings and watching the balls fly straight, true, and land nearly every time in the fairways and on the greens was awe-inspiring. I believe Ms. Keating missed one fairway in eighteen holes, and Ms. Woods missed three. And we're talking about missing by a couple of feet, not digging through poison-ivy, missed-the-fairway efforts such as yours truly consistently concocts.

By the way, for you guys who are wondering, they weren't hard to look at, either. Both were very attractive young ladies who conducted themselves admirably all day.

Now, let's get to the part where I feel superior -- as we unemployed, blue-collar types are wont to do. When The Boy and I first began our tour of the grounds, there were eight people in four carts following the action, and the two of us were walking. After a while, there were another couple of folks who were also walking and a few more carts. By the time the match finished, there were at least ten carts of people following the action.

The Boy and I walked the whole way, and I -- as mentioned above -- felt entirely above all the people in their electric transports. Taking into account that I had minor surgery on my left foot only a couple of months ago, I felt justified in my aforementioned haughtiness.

However...

Later in the evening, hours after returning home, I started to get out of my recliner. That was when the feeling of superiority was replaced by a burning pain in my feet. Eighteen holes is a lot of golf course to walk, even if you aren't swinging a club, and my lazy, unemployed extremities were now paying the price for my earlier determination and over-aggressive ego.

But you know what? It was totally worth the discomfort. The Boy got to watch some superior golf; we both congratulated the young players (Ms. Keating won the match 2-up), and it was a day spent outdoors without either of us doing a lick of actual work.

Everyone at the clubhouse was courteous and helpful, all of our questions were answered and when we bought a couple of Cokes at the bar after the match, they cost $2 -- total. This, of course, appealed to the cheapskate in me.

On the way home, I asked The Boy if he had noticed young Ms. Woods' diamond nose-stud, and his reply was, "Huh? No, I was looking at her eyes. They were really pretty."

Uh-huh.