An Ode To Confidentiality

In late February, I believe it was the 22nd, my phone rang. That would be my archaic, touch-tone, caller-ID-infused, non-digital land line. The ID said that the pursuant party was from Company X, for whom I had worked last autumn as a temp. The person on the other end of the line was Steve, the facility manager. He asked me what I was up to, and I replied that I was currently out of work, and still seeking employment. The gist of his text was that James, one of the regulars, was going to be on jury duty for a couple of weeks, and they needed someone to be there to help Clint, his partner-in-crime. It was only a couple of weeks, but it was work -- that pays. Thus, on February 23rd, at 7:00 AM, I was back on the job for " a couple of weeks."

The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.

So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.

In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.

For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.

But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.

One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.

Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.

And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.

Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.

Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.

Anybody need a date?

Stupid Advertising -- I

Before I begin, let me state that this will be my second effort at this post, as my fingers got twitchy yesterday and I deleted the original. That's what happens when a T-rex and his tiny upper appendages attempt to utilize modern technology. We also have real trouble with shoulder massages. However, let the reanimation commence.

My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.

A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.

Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.

Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.

First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.

Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.

Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.

After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.

"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."

At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"

Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.

Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.

Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.

Meeting New People

One day last week, I was returning from my continuing job as a temp at the Emerachem company, and I got off I-75 at Sugar Limb Road so that I could stop by the Loudon County Justice Center. My goal was to obtain a burn permit, so that I can turn some dead, lackluster brush that is lying about into ash -- legally.

Several years ago, when Clint Davis lived next door, he was burning some residual brush when a Sheriff's deputy showed up and demanded that he cease and desist. Clint was somewhat perturbed -- but, having not obtained the proper permission from the proper authorities -- he was forced to comply. I do not want to get myself into that kind of situation. This comes from the gift of learning from the mistakes of others that I was completely without in my youth. Now, as a curmudgeonly Old Guy, I pay better attention and apply -- with malice aforethought -- what I have learned.

Thus, I walked blindly into the Justice Center. I first strolled to the bullet-resistant window at the General Sessions Court office, where there was a line of rather young women in front of me who all seemed to be acquainted. One of them would exchange words with the woman behind the glass. They would form a gridiron huddle to make a decision, then the designated representative would announce said decision to the county employee, who would tell them something else. It was like watching Peyton Manning argue with a referee, with his teammates providing cannon fodder. This went on for a few minutes, so I strolled to the other side of the building, and walked into another office, whose name I have forgotten, 'cuz I'm a Guy, and it was unimportant to me.

In the other office, a woman at a desk asked if she could help me. I replied that I hoped she could, and told her of my need for a burn permit. She informed me that I could not get that from anyone there, but that the person with whom she was speaking (sitting there in front of me) worked in the General Sessions Court office, and SHE could provide me with the appropriate phone number of the folks in control of that sort of thing.

So back to the General Sessions office I went, where the young woman wrote two numbers on a Post-It (TM) note and gave it to me. I thanked her for her aid, and headed back outside to my truck, where I SHOULD have gotten in and headed home (foreshadowing, don't you know).

As I inserted my key to unlock my door (yes, Ol' Red is THAT old), I heard a voice that had a distressed intonation attached. I turned, and saw yet another young woman -- across the parking lot -- standing next to a car. She looked straight at me and screamed, "Somebody please help me!"

I looked back into Ol' Red, with his comfortable gray, unraveling vinyl upholstery, sighed heavily, removed my key and began walking toward the girl, the entire time saying to myself, "You're about to get into some shit from which you may not be able to extricate yourself."

As I approached the car in question, the girl inserted herself into the rear seat and disappeared. When I arrived, she was lying face-down, obviously crying. Again, at this point, I could have exited, but my paternal instincts are ugly and strong. My thoughts were along the lines of, "What if this were one of my progeny, and no one stopped to help?" So, I tapped on the glass. She looked, sat up, and opened the door. I asked, "Is there something I can do to help you?"

And she started to talk. Words and sentences tumbled out of her mouth one over another, as if she were completely incapable of stopping, which is a possibility. Some things made a semblance of sense, some, not so much. I'm thinking, "She's high as a kite, and I'm the only person with a semi-clear head within reach." From her long jumble of words, I gathered the following:

She had left her car in the Justice Center parking lot. She got a ride from the person whose car she was currently in to recover said vehicle. Said vehicle was no longer in the Justice Center parking lot. She believed she knew who had it. She had provided sex for said car-thief. She lived in Tellico Village, and she was better than this. She wanted to know if I would take her to find her car.

The answer to that last question -- for those of you who don't really know me well -- was "No." In my head, I saw all of the ugly possibilities: she screams rape; we find her car and the gang of meth freaks around it; she pulls a (gun/knife), which I then have to shove down her throat, then justify said action to the authorities; she rubs all over me and I wreck my truck, then have to explain this to my young bride; etc. She repeatedly announced that she needed someone to help her, so I arrived at what I believed to be a workable solution. I ordered her to look at me; I pointed at the door only forty yards away, and said, "There is the Sheriff's Department. They can help you."

At this point, she started spewing random material again, the gist of which was, no one at the Sheriff's Department could help. She then shut the car door again. I was off the hook. I started back toward my good old, comfortable truck. Then the door opened again, and she said, "Maybe they can help me." So I went back, I positioned her toward the door, and said, "Go there."

She asked, "Will you go with me?"

Holy Jesus on a bicycle, riding backward down an interstate highway! What did I have to do to get away? But I said, "Yes," and she grabbed onto my right arm as if gravity had somehow doubled where she was standing. We walked, and she talked, non-stop.

I got her inside the door, where Sheriff Tim Guider was on his digital phone. The girl was still talking, and now gesticulating wildly. A woman who apparently works for the department came from behind her bullet-resistant glass to see is she could help. I explained as well as I could that I had found the damsel in the parking lot, and she was in some kind of distress. By the time I finished, Sheriff Guider had excused himself from his phone conversation to supervise the proceedings, thank God!

I got the girl into a seat, where she continued to talk, repeating herself vociferously. Sheriff Guider attempted to ask her a couple of questions, from which he received nothing of note or aid. At one point she said something that indicated that I was somehow involved in the trouble. For the record, I don't believe this was purposeful, it was simply more random talk bouncing from the inside of her head onto the walls around us.

The Sheriff turned to me and asked my name, which I provided, clearly and concisely. He then asked how I was involved. I explained that I was not involved; that I had found the young lady in question in his parking lot, clearly under some kind of strain. I was very careful not to imply or suggest any drug use; he's the Sheriff, it's likely he could figure that out without my help. He then turned to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "Young lady, do you know this gentleman?"

She, thank goodness, looked at me and said, "No." Whereupon Sheriff Guider turned to me; I said, "If you need my help, I'll stay and try to help. If you don't need my help, I'd be just as happy to leave." Good ol' Tim expressed his questionable thanks for my aid and said I could go, which was what I had been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes.

Ol' Red was waiting faithfully, with my iPod ready, and my cigar awaiting a re-light. Jackson Browne and I started up and headed for home.

Sometimes meeting new people isn't as productive, or as much fun as it should be.

Coaching Changes

Okay, let's just go ahead and get this out of the way. All of the folks who are upset about Lane Kiffin bolting the University Of Tennessee for USC -- huh? Are you nuts!? Here are my varied and sundry thoughts on the matter.

When Mike Hamilton tossed Phillip Fulmer aside like a dirty dishrag, I was of two minds about the whole thing. John Majors, not my favorite head coach ever, had achieved, at UT, a record of 116-62-8, then had been thrown out in a like manner in 1992. And while I was not a big fan, this was a dirty way to treat a guy who had attended, played for, and coached the Vols. The funny thing is, this had to have been done with Fulmer's knowledge and endorsement, as he was the replacement-in-waiting.

That having been said, the same scenario sixteen years later doesn't correct the mistake, although Coach Majors probably saw it as a rather spooky comeuppance. Let's face it, I refuse to root for the Dallas Cowboys ever since Jerry Jones showed Tom Landry the door in a very similar fashion.

Thus, Doug Dickey was wrong to treat Majors as he did, and Mike Hamilton -- who should have learned from a poor example -- was also wrong. In the first place, Fulmer was and is (merely opinion, folks) a much better representative of the university, and extends a better public image. Also, at 152-52, he was a better coach, because he won more and lost fewer games. And he won a national championship at UT.

So, I did not endorse the firing of Coach Fulmer. But that did not cause me to be against Coach Kiffin when he was hired. Kiffin had been hired and fired by the ancient and demented Al Davis, the worst owner in the history of the NFL. The Oakland Raiders' bad-boy image is a direct extension of their owner thinking he's king of all he sees. Davis is a bully who hides behind his money, and that's the mentality he wants in his players. Of them all, Howie Long has escaped that image more quickly and efficiently than any. Most Raiders and ex-Raiders are of the same ilk as Lyle Alzedo, who broke rules regularly, depended on steroids to make him stronger and faster, then wanted sympathy when he came up with cancer due to his stupidity. I never root for the Raiders. I root for Dallas when the two teams are playing, because Jerry Jones is merely the 2nd worst owner in NFL history.

Therefore, the firing of Lane Kiffin by Davis was -- in my opinion -- a ringing endorsement. One of the contentious issues between Davis and Kiffin was Lane's attempt to fire Randy Hanson, an assistant who is, apparently, one of Al's lap dogs. This was brought to the fore when Hanson got his jaw broken because he couldn't shut his yap in the presence of Tom Cable, Kiffin's replacement. Cable handled Hanson less delicately than Kiffin, and I'm okay with that. If Davis gets rid of Cable, maybe UT should give him a look (that's a joke, folks).

So, I was not against the hiring of Kiffin, I was against the firing of Phillip Fulmer. I waited to see what Lane would do, though my young bride was against him from the start, just 'cuz she loves Fulmer and his public image, and he coached her sweetheart, Peyton Manning.

Lane-boy arrived in Knoxville, and the first thing he did was shoot off his half-cocked, adolescent mouth, trash-talking Urban Meyer and UF. All right, here's another thing we need to get out in front. I am a Florida fan. I root against them one game per year, and that's when they're playing UT. I root for them against UGA, and Alabama, and I was happy when they squashed Cincinnati and taught them a lesson about playing with the big boys.

But I wasn't upset about the WHOM, I was upset about the WHAT. Honestly, could he not do his talking on the field? Did Fulmer ever respond to Spurrier's jabs other than by coaching and playing the game? No! So, I wasn't happy with Kiffy, though I wouldn't go so far as to root against the team, as The Boss did. I even got tickets (through my brother-in-law, Paul Turner -- thanks again) to the South Carolina game last year, which was played on my birthday. Paul and I sat/stood in the rain for most of the game as UT thrashed a team that had been ranked in the top 25 only a couple of weeks before. It was glorious.

Here's what I predicted would happen after the first time Kiffy ran his stupid mouth. Over a few years, he would be exposed as the trash-talking, 13-year-old that he is, and UT trustees would call for his head. At that time, Hamilton would be let go, 'cuz he's a moron, and Fulmer -- who still hasn't taken another coaching position -- would be installed as AD, and he would hire David Cutcliffe to be head coach, who would re-hire John Chavis as defensive coordinator.

That was my prediction, and I was willing to wait it out. Then Pete Carroll left USC, and Los Angeles came calling on Coach Kiffy, and the dumb young people on campus gave the local news something to yak about for days on end. I contend that the frat boys were protesting simply because they didn't want Coach's hot wife to leave with him.

Hamilton (I still believe his hiring of Bruce Pearl to be an extremely happy accident), scrambled quickly, doing a very good impression of Johnathon Crompton exiting the pocket. Trustees were already beginning to situate themselves on Fulmer's doorstep, the AD job in their little paws, and Hamilton needed to find a receiver, fast. He looked to Texas for Will Muschamp, covered. He looked to Cutcliffe at Duke University, but ol' Davey is one of Phil's boys, and he waved Hamilton off. He even looked at Jon Gruden -- another former Raider coach, who had taken Tony Dungy's team in Tampa and won a Super Bowl, then began making them one of the worst franchises in the league. None of them bit.

So Derek Dooley wound up with the football. The Boss is all upset because she -- like everyone in Tuscaloosa before Saban showed up -- thinks we should hire someone with a history at UT. She was a history major, and I understand her position.

But, as I was willing to give Kiffy an opportunity, I am willing to give Coach Dooley an opportunity also. Coach could have attended the University of Georgia, where his father is a legend, and been assured of a place on the team. But he went to the University Of Virginia, where he walked on, and earned a scholarship with his play. I admire that mentality.

One of ESPN's Pat Forde's comments about Kiffy was that he "was born on third base, and acts like he hit a triple all the time." Mixed metaphors aside, Derek Dooley doesn't seem that way. From appearances, he hasn't tried to trade on his famous father's name to make it in coaching. The best thing we can do -- again, opinion -- is to sit back and see what he's made of, on and off the field.

He could begin by hiring John Chavis, who crafted the #3 defense in the NCAA in 2008, away from LSU. It would be a start.

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.