Sometimes, you just have to shoot Old Yeller.
OK, so what happened is this: the other day we got a phone call. Not just any phone call. It was from my wife’s landlord. This was not a good thing.
See, my wife moved out of her office this past summer, after deciding to call it quits with her business partner. We moved all her stuff out, but she’s been waiting for someone to sublease the place since. Earlier this month that actually happened, and the new tenant was due to move in next week. Then we got the call.
No, not what you expect: the deal didn’t fall through. Rather, there was, shall we say, a complication. A complication in the form of one large framing table, about 50″x54″. Built like a bloody damned toll bridge: massively over-engineered. And painted the same battleship grey.
This large table used to be mine. It was in my gallery for the whole time we were in operation. When I closed the gallery, my wife and her partner thought that they could use it for flat files (it had solid plywood shelves just for such purpose). When she and her partner split up, the partner said to leave the table and she’d use it. And now it was left there in the office, and the landlord called us to tell us we had to move it this weekend. Seems that the ex-partner was unavailable or something.
Now, I never wanted this table. But, like taking in a puppy, I was trying to do a good deed and give it temporary shelter. Here’s the story: Some 13 years ago, as I was starting up my art gallery I had been in talking with the manager of another business downtown which was going out of business. He sort of whined about how great the table was, and how bad it was that he couldn’t find a home for it, and how it was a shame that it was just going to get trashed. I think they had gotten it similarly some years previously. My business partner at the time thought that it would make a nifty addition to our shop, so I said that we’d take it off their hands. Me and a couple of other guys hauled the damned thing over to my business and got it set up. This was not an easy task – it is, as noted, completely over-engineered. Solid 4×4 legs, boxed in sides of half-inch plywood, runners for the drawers made of 1x4s, top of three-quarters inch plywood, et cetera. You could easily, and safely, shelter an entire family under the thing in the event of a natural disaster or nuclear war.
Anyway, when it came time to close my gallery five years ago, I had the pleasure of dragging this monster out of the basement and over to my wife’s office. Again, I got several friends to help in the hellish task. There was much cursing and barking of knuckles. I thought I was free of it.
And now, at the end of January some five years later, with very short notice, I had to deal with the thing once again.
“Fine,” I told my wife. “But I’m going to kill the sunovabitch this time. It’s coming apart – I am done moving that bastard in one piece. If it comes apart in useful pieces, we’ll hang onto the lumber, otherwise it’ll go into the dumpster there behind your office. But I am not moving it again.”
I loaded the necessary implements of destruction into the car this morning. Couple of crowbars. 20 pound sledge. Circular saw. My good construction drill, powerful enough to twist the tops right off of screws, if necessary.
We called the landlord, told him we were coming.
Got there, he met us. Opened up the office. We looked around, saw the critter. I took a look at it, couldn’t tell how it was held together with just a casual glance.
“Be right back.” I went out to the car.
When I returned. I had my hand sledge. I think the landlord was confused and surprised. He looked at it, then looked at me, and said “Now, *that’s* a manly hammer!”
I said nothing, just took the first swing. Popped under the corner of the top, testing to see what would happen.
It gave. I went to the next corner, swung again. Heard the squeak of nails pulling free. Hmm. The landlord stood there, a bit horrified at my brutality and casual violence towards the table. He didn’t understand.
Six more swings and the top was free. I examined. It’d been glued and nailed. Lots of nails. But the glue was no longer holding very well. In about five minutes, I had the thing knocked apart completely. Ten minutes after that, we had it loaded into the back of my station wagon. I let my wife talk with the landlord.
So now the parts of the dead table are in my shed. One of these days, when I get around to turning the shed into a workshop, I might resurrect it in a more useful size.
And if so, I think I’ll paint it yellow.
Jim Downey
Hi. Yeah, it’s me. Got back to KC a little bit ago. Uh-huh. Just left the airport. Should be home by 10:30. But I don’t think we’re going to make it. No. See, the windshield is covered with ice, and the driver doesn’t want to pull over to get it fixed. No, I mean really covered. *Really covered.* I think the driver’s driving by E.S.P. or something. Uh-huh. Yeah. I’m just laying down because I don’t want to see it when we die.
That was from the idiot woman who sat behind us in the shuttle from Kansas City. Who felt it incumbent upon her to call several friends and family members and relay that particular narrative of our imminent demise.
Well, obviously we made it home. But the first 75 miles or so of the shuttle trip were more exciting than I care to have my life these days. No, the driver wasn’t using ESP. He just scrunched down in his seat, looked through his steering wheel, through the roughly 1/3 lower part of the windshield which was staying sorta clear of ice, thanks to the combined efforts of the blasting defrosters and the abused windshield wipers. Which made a “SCHINK-schink” rasping sort of noise as they scraped over the growing continents of ice on the windshield. Seriously, that’s what they looked like – there was a nice smear of Africa in front of the driver, with a nearly perfect Indian subcontinent over on the right, followed by a general vague outline of Asia as we all more or less remember it from grade school and news stories. What was particularly exciting was that the light of oncoming traffic would cause the whole Northern Hemisphere of ice to glare brightly, making it impossible to see the road through the thin strip of windshield warming below. But that was offset by the fact that during the dark periods the driver would *speed up* to make up for lost time. And there were a fair number of dark spells, since the weather had turned so bad that even the insane drivers of Kansas City were smart enough to get off the road.
Ah well. We made it. I gave him a tip for the extra excitement when he dropped us off at the house about an hour later than we should have gotten home.
More about my Northern California adventures later. After I’ve calmed down and recovered from the drive home.
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to UTI.)
Filed under: BoingBoing, Cory Doctorow, Health, Humor, movies, Politics, Survival
I suppose on some level this would be the perfect food for the end of the Bush era – but you’ll forgive me if I don’t add it to my celebratory smorgasbord on Tuesday:
Casu marzu (also called casu modde, casu cundhídu, or in Italian formaggio marcio) is a traditional sheep milk cheese, notable for being riddled with live insect larvae. Although outlawed there for health reasons, it is found mainly in Sardinia, Italy on the black market. Casu marzu literally means “rotten cheese” in Sardinian and is known colloquially as maggot cheese.
Derived from Pecorino, Casu marzu goes beyond typical fermentation to a stage most would consider decomposition, brought about by the digestive action of the larvae of the cheese fly Piophila casei. These larvae are deliberately introduced to the cheese, promoting an advanced level of fermentation and breaking down of the cheese’s fats. The texture of the cheese becomes very soft, with some liquid (called lagrima, from the Sardinian for “tears”) seeping out. The larvae themselves appear as translucent white worms, about 8 millimetres (0.3 in) long. When disturbed, the larvae can launch themselves for distances up to 15 centimetres (6 in). Some people clear the larvae from the cheese before consuming; others do not.
* * *
Casu marzu is considered toxic when the maggots in the cheese have died. Because of this, only cheese in which the maggots are still alive is eaten. When the cheese has fermented enough, it is cut into thin strips and spread on moistened Sardinian flatbread (pane carasau), to be served with a strong red wine.[6][7] Casu marzu is believed to be an aphrodisiac by local Sardinians.[1] Because the larvae in the cheese can launch themselves for distances up to 15 centimetres (6 in) when disturbed,[5][8] diners hold their hands above the sandwich to prevent the maggots from leaping into their eyes.[3] Those who do not wish to eat live maggots place the cheese in a sealed paper bag. The maggots, starved for oxygen, writhe and jump in the bag, creating a “pitter-patter” sound. When the sounds subside, the maggots are dead and the cheese can be eaten.[9]
It’s a bit late for it, but it has to be said: “They’ll eat your eyes out, kid!”
No, actually, the greatest threat seems to be from ingesting the the maggots, and having them survive in your gut. Charming. Not unlike Bush administration political appointees who are trying to burrow their way into permanent positions in the Justice Department, I suppose. So cheesy.
Jim Downey
(Via BB. Excerpted description from Wikipedia entry on Casu marzu. Cross posted to UTI.)
***Say, someone linked this to some site, or spread it amongst their Twitter friends, or something – there’s been a huge increase in hits. Which is cool, but if someone would be kind enough to let me know how it got out into the wild, I’d appreciate it. I’m used to my posts mostly being domesticated, see . . . JD
Filed under: Climate Change, Emergency, Failure, General Musings, Guns, Health, Humor, movies, Nuclear weapons, Predictions, Preparedness, Science Fiction, Society, Survival, Weather
Gah – it’s 55 degrees here. Inside, I mean. No, we don’t have the thermostat turned that low. The heating system, an old hot-water radiator setup, just can’t keep up when the temps get down to below zero Fahrenheit. Not in an old house with minimal insulation (and no simple way of adding any). So we wander around, playing Quintet, waiting for something resembling normal weather to return, trying to get done what we can.
It’s sobering. And instructive. In Communion of Dreams I stipulate a long period of harsh winters for much of the northern hemisphere, following the ‘small’ nuclear war in Asia. Having lived through some 15 Iowa winters, it was easy to imagine what that would be like. But I was younger, and memory is fleeting. Combine those cold conditions for a prolonged period with an economic collapse, and those years in my novel would be brutal – moreso than any of us probably understand.
And let’s hope it stays that way. When I read things like this, I wonder whether I have been entirely too optimistic about our future. Then again, not like these geniuses have been right about anything else for the last couple of years.
Wait – they’ve been entirely too optimistic, too, haven’t they? That’s what got us into this financial mess.
Gods, now I really am depressed.
And cold.
Jim Downey
I thought the anniversary for this was today. Turns out it was this past Sunday. Oh well. Thought it might be amusing to some.
From a plaque in my office:
The Columbia Police Department would like to recognize James Theodore Downey for his assistance in the apprehension of individuals accused of the Bank of America Robbery. On January 4, 2002, the Columbia Police Department responded to a Bank Robbery in progress at the Bank of America facility located at 5 Old Highway 63 South. At approximately 9:39 A.M. a male subject entered the facility wearing a red stocking cap or sweat shirt, having a mask over his face displaying a chrome-type handgun. The suspect then fled the bank to a nearby vehicle parked in an apartment complex nearby.
Mr. Downey was in the area of the Bank Robbery when he observed a subject running from the bank towards an apartment complex near the bank. Mr. Downey kept watch of the area when he observed a tan colored Dodge Stratus leaving the area very quickly being driven by a black male and appeared to be the sole occupant. Mr. Downey was able to obtain the Missouri Registration on the vehicle, 123-ABC which was immediately dispatched to officers in the area. Checking the Department of Revenue it was found that the vehicle was registered to an individual residing on North Parkview Court. Officers were able to place the residence under surveillance where the suspect was taken into custody a short time later near the residence.
Inside the vehicle was a weapon and money linking the driver to the bank robbery. However, the driver of the vehicle was a white male. It was later learned that the white male suspect had robbed the bank and had run to his vehicle parked in the area which was being driven by a second suspect, a black male that Mr. Downey had seen leaving the area in the vehicle. The white male subject is believed to have been laying on the seat, out of view to officers in the area. The subsequent investigation led to arrest of the two suspects in the robbery and the recovery of nearly all the money taken.
Mr. Downey is commended for his quick and decisive actions. By immediately reporting the crime and by accurately detailing the location, actions, and descriptions of the suspects and vehicle, these felons were apprehended. The Columbia Police Department and the citizens of Columbia thank James Theodore Downey for his intervention and involvement.
News reports here and here. I never had to testify – though I jumped through the preliminary steps of having to do so – the suspects worked out a plea deal and went to prison. I’ve been a bit circumspect in not naming names here, and changing the license number of the car in the item above, to make it marginally less easy for them or their friends to tie me to the arrests (though of course the item above is in the public archive of the city someplace).
Anyway, I get a kick out of it. Makes for a good story. No, I never got any kind of reward or even a note of thanks from the Bank of America. Figures.
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to UTI.)
Filed under: Bad Astronomy, Doctor Who, Gene Roddenberry, Humor, Phil Plait, Science Fiction, Star Trek, YouTube
…with some of my favorite blogs, I came across this from about 10 days ago:
Dammit Jim, I’m the Doctor!
What happens when you take the two greatest things in the entire Universe and put them together?
This.
If you are a Trek and a Who fan, then watch the whole thing, until the very end of the teaser for Part II. It is without any fear of exaggeration or contradiction when I say that it is the best thing ever to have happened ever in the history of everness. Ever.
OK, allowing for Phil’s little-girl squeee! of all things Dr. Who – related, he’s mostly right. It is pretty damn good.
Jim Downey
Another brief post – been busy all day – but had to share this delightful YouTube post:
It’s a series of short advertisements that Jim Henson did which are surprisingly violent but also pretty damned funny.
Yes, I have a twisted sense of humor.
Jim Downey
Now, this is why we have powerful computers and the internet: Far Side Reenactments.
Jim Downey
(Via MeFi.)
Communion Of Dreams 