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.

The Eyes Have Had It

7/17/09

I will be forty-nine years old in October. Soon I will be so old that I'll begin typing the number instead of the word, because it takes less effort. At forty-nine, I will have been wearing glasses for over forty-three years (pardon me while I wipe away the sweat from operating my keyboard).

Because I wear glasses, I have to consult eye care professionals from time to time. Because I am diabetic, I have to see an ophthalmic physician, to make certain that my retinas are holding up under the pressure of my delicate condition.

My ophthalmologist is Dr. Leslie B. Cunningham, of Cunningham, Campbell and Taylor, a consortium of medical doctors (which makes me wonder if they ever have to knock on doors and loudly announce their status, as Dr. Agent Scully used to do on "The X-Files") who specialize in ocular care and maintenance. I went to the office in Dixie Lee Junction yesterday for a check-up. My young bride was forced to drive me there, because they must dilate my pupils. The last time I went, then drove home, it was quite an adventure... for all the people who were sharing the road with me.

In the last several years, I have been forced to remove my glasses for the purpose of reading, due to my advancing age (which we've already covered). My spectacles are now for watching ESPN and driving to our new local liquor store, The Grove Wine & Spirits. If I ever get that job in Oak Ridge that I want so badly, I'll wear my glasses to drive over there... and to watch sports and drive to the liquor store.

Anyway, we were sitting in the waiting area, and my young bride observed that the digs in this place were much nicer than the old place in Loudon, which is true. She then pointed out that the "Sports Illustrated" that she had picked up had nothing in it about fashion, decorating, or shoes. This was also true, but it was her first comment that got me to notice my surroundings.

I wonder if the physicians who inhabit the building did their own decorating. Or if, perhaps, they hired a former jock to do the decorating for them.

The office color scheme is a sort of muted green, somewhere between pea soup and olive drab. The walls are in squares of about 5" X 5" light, then dark, but all green. When I was in the examination area, I visited three rooms, which all had art prints on the walls. The colors in the prints were orange, brown, red, white and black. That was the entire color palette.

And none of the colors were pastels. They were stark and masculine. The place looks like an office space designed for an NFL coach. I, personally, was very comfortable there, with or without my glasses.

When Dr. Cunningham came to take a look at my eyebones, he was preoccupied with politics, which I am always willing to discuss with a reasonable person. I discovered that the good doctor is, like myself, a fiscal conservative, and a social liberal. What that means is that he believes everyone has rights, not just people who agree with him. However, he does not want the government to be a tax and spend machine.

He was, apparently, unimpressed with the previous administration's ways of cutting taxes and spending like there was no tomorrow. Nor is he very taken with the present administration's socialist tendency to demonize people simply because they are good enough at something to become wealthy.

We Libertarians have a high old time when we find each other, which is rare.

Soon enough, of course, we solved the world's problems with an agreement that minding one's own business was a good day-to-day policy.

Afterwards, my young bride and I passed through Lenoir City on the way home, and stopped by the Brown Cup Coffee Company yet again. This time I had a real, live macchiato, with the steamed milk-foam on top. The Boss had a Mochaccino and a piece of lemon-berry-something-or-other.

At forty-8, it's tough for me to remember everything.

New Hangout

7/16/09

I have a new favorite place to hang out in Loudon County. I realize that, before I was downsized, my favorite place to hang out was work, but there was a reason for that.

A. I liked my job.

2. My manager was a good person.

III. It was a purpose-driven environment for me.

Since my employment went away, however, my young bride has been on sort of a mission to find something to do with me, other than let me sit around feeling sorry for myself. And I don’t hang out in bars.

One afternoon, sort of by accident (before my downsizing event) we stopped in a place called the Brown Cup Coffee Company, just to see what went on there. We had seen the place several times in Lenoir City, sitting there facing 321 in front of Home Depot. We now found ourselves with a little time to kill, so in we went.

The interior is casual-nice, with a patterned tile floor, a variety of tables – some with chairs, others with stools – and an HDTV in the back corner surrounded by comfy-looking sittery. Across from the television area is the counter, where orders are placed, while the front has a small stage where music is provided on weekends.

Having been there several times since the first, my young bride and I are apparently “regulars” now, as we are recognized by the counter staff, and they know what I want before I order it.

Oddly, the first time we were there, I ordered the chai tea. For those who are unaware, I have, in recent years, become something of a tea person. There is, as always, a story.

Around a decade ago, I decided to try some Earl Grey tea. I did this because that’s what Captain Picard drinks, and, with his educated British accent (didn’t you guys ever wonder why he didn’t have a French accent? I did.) he always made it sound like a real treat. So, on a whim one day, I bought some Bigelow Earl Grey.

Speaking editorially: GGGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAGGGKKKKKK!

At that point I decided that I must not be an Earl Grey tea kind of guy. I was, as normal, mistaken. In 2006, we were vacationing in Walt Disney World and staying at the Beach Club. Being a deluxe resort, it has all the little bells and whistles that make people with expendable funds comfortable (understand, it takes me an entire earth cycle around the sun to accrue the necessary funds to stay at a place like that – and that’s with an employee discount from an incredibly generous person). Some of those things are a coffee maker, a variety of coffees and teas, and a small microwave oven.

One of the teas was Twinings Earl Grey. Since it had been a number of years, I decided to give it another go.

Speaking, once again, editorially: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

I really liked the Twinings tea. Since that time, I have also partaken of their Lady Grey, English Breakfast, and Irish Breakfast teas. The latter is my favorite flavor (or should I spell it “flavour?”). I have also acquired a small, two-cup tea press (a generous Christmas gift from my mother) for the making of these excellent drinks.

So, with all that taken into consideration, I decided to try Brown Cup’s chai tea on the recommendation of Dr. Peter Lloyd-Jones, one of my British co-workers in better days.

Allow me to qualify this. I do not, in general, sweeten tea. I got this trait from my father, and it has been a hard and fast with me all of my life. I did not, when I ordered the chai, realize that it is sweetened. But, oh, my lord! With all the other flavors involved, hooo, boy, that’s some good tea!

However, the second time I went there, I had a shot of espresso (all of you who want to put an “x” in that word, bite me). This shot of concentrated coffee made my whole day better. Now, when I walk through the door, they know that I am going to order a double shot of espresso. Last time, I had the barista warm the cup for me ahead of time, and that was even better.

At some point, I will be obliged to stretch a little. They do, after all, have a variety of teas available, as well as espresso off-shoots like machiatto and cappuccino.

If you are a local, and want to check out the menu, you can do so at the Brown Cup Coffee Company's website. They also have a number of baked treats, and will talk coffee and tea with patrons as long as one wishes. The last time I was there, the barista even invited me backstage so I could see how the espresso is prepared.

Local artists are promoted by the display of their wares on the walls monthly, and giving musicians a place to play. It is comfortable there, the drinks and treats are of good quality, the baristas are friendly, and there’s a television. Who wouldn’t want to be a regular?

6/24/09

I apologize if I make stupid mistakes, but I have never blogged before. It’s my first time, so please, be gentle.

Welcome to my new world – here on the internet.

My name is Wesley Loftis. As of this date, I am 48 years old. Until May of 2009, I was an employee of Tate & Lyle, Loudon, TN, at which time I was downsized after 27 years of employment. At this time I am seeking work as a Quality Assurance Specialist.

Things I am good at:

*Flinging a football – even with one finger on my right hand partially gone, I can still throw nearly 50 yard spirals.

*Chemistry – though I faced challenges in my educational institution, practical application changed everything. I can follow written procedures, write new procedures, mix and standardize reagents, and run and maintain lab instrumentation like nobody’s business.

*Writing – not only can I write, I can also spell better than most college-educated journalists. Who knew?

*Drinking – I prefer good whiskeys, vodkas, and gins. For beer, I am a Budweiser man, though the best mass-produced beer I ever tasted was Beck’s Dark. Wines – well, it depends on what I’m eating. My favorite red is Concha Y Toro’s Cassillero Del Diablo – Carmenère; my favorite white is Clos Du Bois – Chardonnay.

*Biscuits & Gravy – Best ever – guaranteed. It took years for me to perfect my sausage gravy.

*Grilling – ½ pound burgers, pork chops, chicken, fish… whatever you like.

Things I enjoy, though I’m not particularly good at them:

*EA Sports Tiger Woods Golf ’09 – My Boy is teaching me. He’s better than I am, though my form is prettier.

*Following recipes – I have a tendency to wander in different and untried directions. I am not afraid to go with un-recommended herbs if I think they may taste good. I am especially fond of lemon basil.

*Vacations – our best family vacations have been to Walt Disney World (1996, ’98, 2000, ’01, ’03 & ’06) and to Edisto Beach (2002, ’04, ’05, & ’08). The frenetic pace of WDW is offset by the calm of Edisto. Also, we enjoy the historic tours around the Charleston, SC area. I cannot plan a vacation to save my ass. That is my young bride’s job. I execute the plan. If I stay with the plan, everything works well.

In better days for the newspaper industry, I wrote a column for the local rag; but – things going the way they are – I am starting a blog (yes, I realize it should be spelled ‘blog, as in web log, but who would recognize that, other than myself and Glenn Reynolds?)

Honestly, in future entries, I hope to be much more amusing. I will wax philosophic on things like local, national, and world politics. I will spout unsolicited opinion and I will give unsolicited advice to people like Jon, Kate, and Sammy Sosa.

For now, however, I will simply introduce myself as another in a long line of Victims Of The Recession With Something To Say.

Hopefully, next time I have something to say, it will be interesting and/or amusing.

Ciao for niao.