ReLenting

Every year I get asked what I'm giving up for Lent. Well, for one thing, I'm not Catholic. I don't have to give up anything. (No meatless Fridays for me.) Yes, my church does observe Lent, but more as a call to repentance and a time to prepare spiritually for Holy Week. Typically it involves me giving up shaving, not as any kind of observance or ritual, but as a way to have a nice shaggy beard when I play a disciple in our annual play.

A few years ago I decided to play along and tried going off caffeine. Holy crap, what an ordeal! Three weeks of migraine headaches before I finally gave up and stopped torturing myself. I told myself that I would never again subject myself to such a pointless exercise. Who am I doing this for anyways?

Matthew 6:5 And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full.

I still get asked though, and I usually have a standard joking response - "Celibacy." But this year is different. You see, I've spent the last year and a half pissed off about an ongoing situation beyond my control. I've finally decided to just let it go and not worry about it anymore. I still don't think it's right, but it's no longer my problem. I removed myself from the situation; now it's time to remove the anger and bitterness from my life - put it in a box, wrap it up in shiny paper and a bow, and leave it at the altar.

Here, Jesus. You take it. I don't want it anymore.

Demolition Day

"Our long national nightmare is over." - Gerald Ford

 

Toward the end of May I came to the conclusion (with the not-so-subtle encouragement of park management) that the leaky, falling-apart sieve of a mobile home that had been, well, home for almost nine years had gone well past its useful lifespan (35 years) and needed to be totally gutted and rebuilt, or needed to be gone. I thought long and hard about trying to fix it up for oh, about 30 seconds, and decided that idea was a total non-starter. Time to find a new place to hang my hat.

 

That is, if I ever wore one. Might have to buy a new hat too.

 

Looked at what it would cost for a new unit. $125,000. Uh, no. I had that kind of money once, but not at this time in my life, and didn't want a mortgage payment on top of space rent.

 

Lo and behold, there was an empty unit that had been foreclosed on two years earlier, right across the street, listed at $44,500. That's more like it! An escrow officer friend from church put me in touch with her realtor friend, and we made a nice lowball offer to the bank holding the note. They countered, I accepted. $42K. Game on!

 

Since none of this was instantaneous, it left me with a 10-day window to close escrow before July 1. Oh dear. Now I had to wrangle the cooperation of my own bank, first to close out two accounts (which by some lame fedearl regulation or whatnot takes three days), have them overnight the checks to me (why couldn't they just wire it to my checking account? I dunno), and then beg the accounts guy at my local branch to make the funds available the next day so I could wire the whole shebang to the escrow company. It closed late afternoon on June 30.

 

The nice thing about moving a grand total of 50 feet is that you don't have to pack much, other than books, CDs, knicknacks, and the like. Just pile stuff on a dolly and wheel it across the street. By the end of the first day we had the beds, dresser, bookcases, and living room chairs (the couch stayed) moved. The rest of the weekend brought the kitchen contents. I ended up hand washing every single dish, pot, pan, piece of silverware, etc.

 

Bought all new appliances (we inherited a dryer left behind from the old owners - runs great), desk, nightstands, and shed.

 

Oh my god, the shed. Metal shed, 6' x 8'. How much trouble could it be to put it together? Shouldn't take more than a few hours for me and the teenager, right?

 

Took the better part of two days (not to mention a few chunks of skin from the two of us). Used more than 200 screws, nuts, bolts, washers - each (actually double the washers). It stands slightly crooked, just enough to offend my OCD-ness, but nowhere near enough to justify trying to straighten out.

 

The rest of July was spent slowly going through each room of the old house and going through what was left. Closets. Toy boxes. Hope chest. And where the hell did all these dirty clothes come from???

 

Saturday was demolition day. I can't tell you what a surreal experience it was seeing this huge backhoe (with a "thumb" attachment) tear massive chunks out of the place I called home longer than anywhere else I can remember. I can't tell you because I haven't yet processed how I feel about it. My new house is way nicer (if much smaller), and will eventually feel like home, once I get all the boxes of books out of the middle of my living room. I may burst into tears at some point in the future for no apparent reason, but we'll just have to see. It feels like I have a mild case of post traumatic stress disorder. The past 2 1/2 months have certainly not been easy, but they are in the past.

 

The future is ours to make.

Writer's Block

It's something that every writer experiences, and something that nearly every writer writes about. The dreaded Writer's Block. In my case, it's song lyrics - I don't like to post something that's not complete, and I have half a dozen songs in various stages of undone-ity. One song might have verses and chorus, but no bridge. Another might just be a chorus. Another a snippet of an idea, but no real structure behind it.

 

One song that has been dominating my creative headspace for the past month or so was the first song (really, just a couple verses) I ever wrote, some 25-30 years ago, after discovering Rush. Moving Pictures has just come out, and it was musical nirvana to my teenage ears. So, almost out of nowhere, I penned a bit of ultra cheese about an aging boxing (it was bigger then) champion coming to the end of his career.

 

I have come to the sad conclusion that I am going to have to finally finish this thing and get it out of my skull before I can move on with other stuff, so that's going to be my next post - I actually have in idea of where it needs to go now. Like Victor Hugo, who took 30 years off in the middle of Les Miserables, it's taken me 30 years to finish this. I promise not to write eight chapters about the Parisian sewer system, however.

 

Seems like 30 - Could you ask as much from any other man?

 

But as you the (nonexistent) reader point out, not everything I post is a song lyric. Why couldn't I post a rant about what's going on in my life? Well... it's a long story.

 

That's part of the problem. The long story isn't finished yet. As I said before, I don't like to post things that aren't complete. This isn't a diary - what I write should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And so far, there has been no end in sight. So far. That might change soon.

 

Why so damn cryptic? Confidentiality. How do I write about people who are (and known by other) occasional readers of this blog? I don't know that I will ever be able to tell the story, or even hint about it.

 

Expect to see a rant sometime in the near future. I'm going through a move, and not only am I hemorraging money, but I'm turning gray in the process. At any rate, I'm more than a little disgusted that this is my first post of 2011, and the year is more than half over. C'est la vie.

The DMV Chronicles

Last week I took off from work early to cart the teenager over to the DMV so he could take the written test and get his learner's permit. This in itself is proof positive of two undeniable facts; I'm getting old (which really needed no further confirmation, thank you very much) and I am a glutton for punishment.

We rolled in and were greeted by a line of about 50 or so people extending out the door and around the side of the building. In a not unrelated development, there was absolutely no available parking. Had the dumbasses in line made appointments (like the one that we were in imminent danger of missing) then they wouldn't have had to stand in line and I wouldn't have had to circle the parking lot three times before finally giving up and parking at the gas station across the street. I really hate people sometimes.

After convincing the security puke to let us in the fun began in earnest. First of all, it was more crowded than I've ever seen, and smelled like it too. Considering the thankless (but extremely well compensated) jobs the people there were performing, they weren't as surly and sullen as could be expected, especially since their clientele wasn't the sharpest, as evidenced by the failure to mail in their registration paperwork on time, or to make a bloody appointment! Bitter? Yes I am.

Stand in this line. Fill this out. Go wait over there until your number is called.

A half hour later, it finally was. Good thing too, because if I had to listen to the screaming baby with the indifferent mom for one more second I was going to commit random acts of violence upon personnel and property. Which would have been unfortunate as it would have delayed the process longer. I had somewhere to be later; the police station wasn't it.

Another line, this time to receive the testing materials. Progress! More waiting, this time with no place to sit.

6 missed out of 46. 8 allowed. I am now the proud parent of a semi-licensed driver. My life has officially become more complicated.

I am so not ready for this.

Well, it had to happen...

I've been nursing the tires on my pickup for weeks now, but one of them finally gave up the ghost this morning.  Completely flat.  Nail.  It appears that only having a millimeter of tread or so is not conducive to puncture resistance.  Who knew?

 

So, I hook up my little mini air compressor, and listen to it shake, rattle, and roll itself silly wile ever-so-slowly inflating the tire to temporary usefulness.  First, off to a quick doctor's appointment.  By the time that's done with, the tire is half flattened already.  Crap.  Looks like I'm going to be later to work than previously planned.

 

The guy at the tire store seems to be a friendly sort - right away I'm given a free oil change with purchase of four tires.  That works.  The bad news is that the cheapest set they have in stock is going to run me $156 per tire.  With alignment, wheel balancing, taxes, blah blah blah, that's going to set me back over $800.  This, boys and girls, is why I waited so long to begin with.

 

Turns out they have a set in their warehouse (wherever that is) for $135 each.  Fine, I'll take it.  They send a driver out - should be no more than a half hour, 45 minutes tops.

 

An hour and a half later, dude still hasn't shown up.  By this time, I've sat through the end of Regis & Kelly, and half of The View.  Any more of this and I am going to have to turn in my man card.  The store manager, who's a dead ringer for Big Dane from West Coast Customs gets involved.  Calls the driver - "Where are you?"  Still at the warehouse,  a half hour away.

 

This is very not good.  I should have been to work by now.  Forget it, just give me the more expensive set that's here in the building.

 

In the amount of time it would have taken the dumbass driver to get back, I've got a better set of tires for the cheaper agreed-upon price, with free protection plan, and offer to hook up the diagnostic machine at a later time to figure out what's causing that pesky Check Engine light that's been on for the last 50,000 miles or so.

 

I haven't yet decided if I'm happy about the whole situation, but at least it gave me something to blog about.

Back to School! Yay.

Went with the teenager to register him for 11th grade today. What fun.

Step 1 - Stand in line to turn in two pieces of paper. I probably should have filled them out (along with the rest of the packet) before getting in the line, instead of trying to use my own chest as a writing surface. Oh well. Proceed to step 2.

Step 2 - Another line! (What a shocker.) Turn in more paper. Write a check. How on earth is a yearbook $80? Proceed to... you get the idea.

Step 3 - Pictures. Write another check, give to teenager who stands in line by himself, while I get shunted off to a holding area with the other parents to sit in too-small desks and stare at each other.

Step 4 - Teenager re-enters, only to stand in another line, this time for the sole purpose of getting a little sticker on his freshly minted school ID so that he can go off campus for lunch. Added bonus: line goes past formaldehyde-filled glass box with dissected cat on display. Reactions of female passers-by almost worth the wait.

Step 5 - Yet another line, this time at school library to get books, all seven of them! Once again, adults kicked to the curb as students proceed inside unaccompanied. Exactly what do they think will happen otherwise? Already getting hot at 10:30 in the morning. What happened to starting school after Labor Day?

Mercifully it eventually comes to an end, as all things must. Drop off kid at home, drive to work.

Tomorrow I get to do the whole thing over again with his little brother at the middle school. Double yay.

Adventures in Plumbing

I came home Thursday evening to a flooded bathroom.  Ah, the joys of home (such as it is) ownership.  Turns out that one of the tank bolts in the toilet had snapped, and the water drained out of the tank through the mounting hole.  Happy happy joy joy.

 

Step one: shut off the water to the toilet.  Well, the valve actually turns (not always the case) but won't close the valve entirely, and the tank keeps getting replenished with water.

 

Buckets!  Every half hour.  No fun.  This lasts until bedtime.

 

Okay, here's the deal - everyone go use the toilet in the other bathroom now, and then the main water valve in the house is getting shut off.  Thankfully enough, this one works.

 

The next morning, I stop by the mecca of all guyness (aka The Home Depot) and pick up a hardware kit.  I find one for $6.  Not bad.  I head back home with it and instruct the teenager to do what he can to get the other bolt out so that I can install the new hardware.  Okay, dad.

 

After a long, uncomfortable day at work (no shower), I finally trudge home resolved that no matter how long this takes, I am going to get this fixed.  When I get there, I find out that a) the tank's still attached, b) the teenager has used about a half can of WD-40 on the bolt/nut combination, with no luck, and c) he had the flash of brilliance to wedge the can under the tank valve so that it would stop trying to fill the tank.  Nice.  I wish I had thought of that the night before.

 

The problem is, the damn tank is still attached.  Time to get creative.  Hacksaw!  If we can't unscrew it, we'll just cut the bolt in the middle.  There's not a whole lot of room, and only about an inch of travel for the saw blade, but it's enough, and 20 minutes later I finally have something I can work with.

 

You'd be surprised at how disgusting the area between tank and bowl can get.  Gack!

 

Reassembly with new brass hardware (no rust!) is a snap, and the toilet becomes one, non-leaky piece again in about an hour's time, from start to finish.

 

Manhood confirmed.

I am officially an underachiever. W00t!

I let myself get talked into taking the Mensa Admissions Test by one of the guys at work.  No, it doesn't test for gullibility.  Anyways, it's always been one of those "I wonder" things - could I really qualify?  Other than the accompanying social awkwardness, and the ability to run categories on "Jeopardy" (at least watching on TV), would I actually test well enough to get in?  I had to admit, the ego boost would be pretty nice.

 

Besides, there was a challenge on the table.  The gauntlet had been thrown down.  Game on!

 

So, there I went, shlepping myself down to CalTech, killing a Saturday morning in the process, to have my brain tossed about like a ship on the ocean.  Of course, my buddy doesn't show up.  Slacker!  I end up in a classroom with the proctor and six college-age kids, all bright eyed and bushy tailed.  I've never looked like these kids, not even 20-25 years ago when I was their age, nor went to the schools they were at - the aformentioned CalTech, USC, UCLA.

 

The proctor tells us that, on average, half of those that go so far as to take the test do not pass.  What the hell am I doing here?

 

We start off with the 50-question Wonderlic test - the same one the NFL gives to all the college players before the draft.  12 minutes.  Nobody ever finishes.  I get 45 answers written down that I feel pretty confident about.  So far, so good, but I'm still inwardly pissed that I didn't complete the whole thing.

 

Next comes the actual admissions test, 7 sections, 4-6 minutes per section.  When I finally leave, an hour and a half after starting, I feel as if I've been folded, spindled, and mutilated.

 

The test sheets get mailed back east.  We'll get something in the mail saying if we passed, with an invitation to join.  We can leave our email address if we want to find out sooner.

 

Well, it's ten days later and I got the email back.  Although I'll have to wait for the snail mail to deliver the actual results, the bottom line is that I'm in.  Hooray for me.  Does this mean I have to wear a pocket protector now?

 

Upon further investigation, I could have obtained my SAT scores from high school and saved myself the trouble.  C'est la vie.  Time will tell if they (or I) will regret this later.  I'm still somewhat embarassed by the whole thing.

 

Sure I am.  That's why I'm blogging about it.  Right.

 

Well, what the hell else do I have to talk about?

This is going to be short and sweet

...as I am composing this on my iPhone in a hotel room in Williams, AZ after spending two days at the Grand Canyon. It was simply more than the human mind can absorb at once.

First of all, stuff in the distance looks like a matte painting that changes depending on your point of view. There is no real way to judge "far" from "far", other than the fact that some stuff in front moves slightly in respect to the stuff in back. In other words, the parallax effect.

It's the closer in stuff that's really interesting. Every ten feet along the rim trail presents a new and wonderful camera shot, provided you have the guts to get close enough to the edge to take it. It's ridiculously scary dangerous. There's guard rails only in a few select locations. People routinely go out onto outcroppings of rock, inches from the edge, with drops of several hundred feet on either side. The mind boggles.

Anyways, here I am, face redder than the cliff face, after burning roll after roll of virtual film. Tomorrow, we head for home.

Why "Crunchy Frog"?

Well, I'm glad you asked! (Oh, I crack myself up.)

 

The first thing a prospective employer/loan officer/university admissions critter/anyone doing a background check does nowadays (or should do) when faced with making a decision on someone's future, is to see what's in his past.  Step one in that process is Google.

 

Sadly enough, if you searched on my name in Google, my home address and phone number show up on page 1.  This in itself is distressing enough for me, and makes me thankful for Caller ID.  The last thing I need showing up to accompany it is some political rant or off-color joke I made in a moment of weakness 5 years previously.

 

Yes, I know, "Don't post anything you wouldn't want to see on the front page of the New York Times."  I don't.  But even so, I don't want to miss out on a job opportunity because some unscrupulous HR critter decides he doesn't like Republicans, or heavy metal, or something completely unrelated to the topic.

 

Okay, but why "Crunchy Frog" specifically?  Because it's been my computer handle/screen name for the last 25 or so years, since the days of Bulletin Board Systems and Compuserve.  It's how I am known everywhere on the internet, with the exception of Facebook, where I use my real name.  It's the name that my future wife first came to know me by, and up until the day she died, I was her "Froggy" and she was my "Pooh Bear".

 

If you still don't get it, I suggest you acquaint yourself with the madcap brilliance that was Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Birthday musings

Well, it seems I've made it through another year.  Forty-four of them, but who's counting?  Besides Uncle Sam, the State of California, various insurance companies, etc...

 

I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up.  Hell, I don't know what I want to do next week.  Some folks (myself included) would probably call that a lack of ambition.  I'm not so sure.  It's easy to be ambitious when you're brimming with self-confidence.  When the world is yours for taking. That's when you can make plans.  Not me.  I've always been well aware of my shortcomings.

 

A man's gotta know his limitations. - Inspector Harry Callahan

 

So, I muddle through, and do (not quite) my best with what I've got.  Try and be a good dad to my kids.  Continue the slow, arduous process of putting together a decent music catalog.  Volunteer at church.  Maybe learn to play an instrument.  It would certainly make songwriting easier.

 

I am going to be "teaching" (if that's a good approximation of what a Small Group Leader does) Communion to 15 or so boys (my own son included) for the next two years.  The prospect is exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, as was the process of writing my faith story and delivering it to 100+ people.  (I may post it here at some point, most likely depending on how 'public' this blog becomes.)  Two years is an awful big commitment.

 

I suspect I will learn as much from them as they do from me.  And who knows, maybe one of them will have a single mom...

Too. Hot. To. Sleep.

Feels like I've spent the last two days on the surface of the sun. Summer has finally struck southern California, with a vengeance. It's been on the north side of 105, and tomorrow promises more of the same. Humid, too. So much so that thunderstorms have popped up in the AV, as well as Riverside and San Diego counties.
Where there's thunder, there's lightning, and resultant wildfires.

Oh joy, oh rapture.

I'll be on my way to the Grand Canyon a week from now. In July. Yes I am nuts - why do you ask?

Actually, the T-storms that are making life so pleasant here are supposed to roll through Arizona the beginning of next week, and by the time the weekend comes around, it should be sunny and 85. With the cactus in bloom.

I can live with that. If I can figure out how to upload pictures from my fancy-schmancy new camera, I'll put some in this space. If I still care enough to post.

I tried doing this once, years before. Didn't have a lot to say, didn't have much time to say it, and didn't really have a concept (oh, as opposed to now?) behind it. I think this time will be different. Already this is turning out to be a whole lot more autobiographical than originally planned. That's okay I guess. And if it's not, well, I do happen to be the one with the power to change what gets posted.

"Here's a little song I wrote..."

I have an inordinate amount of other people's music taking up space in my head. So much so, that at random times a song lyric will pop into my conciousness that perfectly dovetails with the situation, mood, or conversation I find myself in. It's a little distracting sometimes.

It's also distressing when I try to write my own material. Many times I'll come up with lyric and melody (usually just a chorus; I can bang that much out in about ten minutes. The verses then take forever) and say to myself, "This sounds familiar." I then have to start googleing (is that even a word?) what I just wrote to see if it already exists elsewhere.

Kinda like the process of naming this blog.