Woody Cavenaugh

It's day two on the crystal coast, we visited the aquarium, took in the maritime museum and I paid extra careful attention to the Black Beard exhibit. (Working on my Pirattude with a little field research me hearties.)

It was a good day up until the moment mom went to war against the machine.

She, being a good little sixty-five year old is trying to claw her way into the twenty first century. Little by little I am dragging her onto the great big scary internet. Typically she wants something, she sees it online, she goes into town and buys it. She will order by phone off of the TV. If she wants to order something from the internet she waits for me to come home, than I order it for her. I know it is about to happen because she opens up her secret stash and dusts off her credit card. I swear it isn't easy entering in the roman numerals for the account numbers on the webpage.

She is also trying to deal with retirement issues, insurance, and basic banking online. No easy feat, I will freely admit that. Today she wasn't able to get into her online account, she had trouble before and I think she wanted to have trouble in front of me so I would be forced to help her. She tried, it failed, she innocently says, "I can't get in, maybe you could fix it for me?" I replied (sagely I might add), "No mother, you have to learn to do this for yourself." HA! In your face!!! (I can't tell you how many times she's done that to me growing up.)

To be completely fair she gave it a good college try. It went something like this. She tries to log in, she fails, the webpage suggest she call a phone number to get help with her online account. It also gives her an error code which she is supposed to give them. The call went something like this:
"Hello?"
"I need help with my online account."
"online account"
"I can't log in"
"I don't know."
"I can't log in"
"I can't, I don't know."
"I can't log in"
"Wait, wait, I need to write this down"
"I DON'T KNOW"
"Hello..."
"Hello..."
She then hung up the phone and preceided to throw the temper tantrium to end all tantriums. Some of you may have had the misfortune to see me throw a temper tantrium. That was nothing compared to this. Hell hath no fury like a sixty-five year old woman arguing with a computerized helpdesk. When I was a kid I thought she was speaking in tongues. I have never actually heard anyone speak in tongues before, but I had heard in church that when folks spoke in tongues, they acted crazy and you couldn't understand what they were saying. I didn't know what she was saying then, but I've got years of experience behind me now. I KNOW what hardcore cussing is, and that would have made a sailor blush and same "Ma'am". The tirade went on for what felt like a geological age, but couldnt have been more than a half hour to forty five minutes. Though the sound and the fury, it is difficult to judge time, she was so angry the clocks stopped ticking for fear of retrobution.

At any rate, eventually she regained her english speaking ability (Which 99.999% of the time is ALWAYS rated "G"). It was only at this point that I found out that she had infact been talking to a computer. Companies that use computerized voice recognition software to be their first tier helpdesk have much to learn about the ways of man. My mother has much to learn about the ways of modern technology.

I took a turn. My conversation went like this.

"WTZ-128"
"Asshole"
"Asshole"
"Asshole"
I handed the phone back to my mom. "You are being connected to a human now."
She took the phone put it up to her ear.
"Hello"
"Wait a minute"
I watched while she furiously typed a number into the keyboard of the computer. There was no text field on the screen....anywhere. She says to me, "Where's the pound sign? Quick!" I started to point to the "3" but she was interruped by a human.
"It asked me to enter my account number but I couldn't find the pound key." I went to the bathroom and closed the door. It is rare I laugh outloud in the bathroom with my pants on, but I needed to distance myself from my mother who was getting satisfaction with a human on the level two helpdesk.

After a few minutes I could control my laughter and she got off of the phone. She was still agitated, but as she talked to a real person, and got real help she was spiraling back down to preschool teacher levels of calm. She trembled as she spoke to the human, but her speech was calm, and her language and manors completely rated Doris Day "G". She's THAT careful with people.

It was at dinner I got around to mentioning (as casual as I could mind you), that when a phone asks you to enter an account number and the pound sign, they want you to enter it into the phone...even if you are sitting in front of your computer.

It was only then I knew she had returned to normal. She laughed with me.

The secret is that if you give the computer what it isn't expecting, and you are consistant, it will be forced to turn you over to a human.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 7:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I be marooned upon the shores of my home port whist me buxom beauty be off to spend the holiday with her own people. So the cats, the dog, and I are splicing the mainbrace with a bottle or several of Cavenaugh Red. Well, truth be told the animals are all pretty much taking a caulk right now, but I and the empty bottles around me all assure you, we might be alone, but we are in fact very merry!

In case ye didn't note me parlance, I be reading Pirattitude! by John "ol' Chumbucket" Baur and Mark "Cap'n Slappy" Summers. Twas a gift from Cameron the Red, and of the saucy wenches I've know, a very few be finer than she, mark my words.

Man, even pirate man, doesn't live off of wine and rum alone, there be fried chicken to reckon with, and I've had my fill of that this day too. It be a fine day for drinking, eating, and merry making, and I hope as much joy as I have in me heart and me head that each and every one of you have double!

If the wind is right may we suck the monkey together in the new year. What? Don't you like coconut rum? More for me than! Arrrrr! And I'll keelhaul any man thinks of plundering St. Nick, or taking broadsides with his sleigh. What I don't keelhaul will be dancing with Jack Ketch!

And to all a goodnight!

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

The solstice is supposed to be celebrated by having a decorated evergreen around. We didn't do that. Its a night for staying up until sunrise watching over the burning Yule log. We didn't do that either. Kissing under the mistletoe this time of year helps assure fertility. I'm not allowed to do anything that has any positive impact on fertility.

Instead me and mine cuddled up on the couch drank a bottle of mulled mead, and sampled eleven dollars worth of Godiva Chocolate. One of Sara's clients gave her a box with a street value of forty two dollars. All I can think of is this is smoking gun proof that she is one hell of a good project manager. She's been a terrific spouse and the most I've ever paid for chocolate for her is about six dollars.

I'm not sure what that says about me or our relationship but I know one thing for sure. The next time she is feeling like she is unworthy in the workplace I am going to remind her of the high profile make or break for the client project she lead and the box of chocolate gold he gave her as a "Thank you and Happy Holidays".

If that doesn't bring her around then the girl needs theropy!

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:18 AM | Permalink

This entire week the part of me that tracks time has been a day ahead of the rest of the world. To the point that when I woke up this morning thinking "at least it was friday", I was immediately able to counter with "If I think it is Friday, it has to be Thursday. Great. I could never get the hang of Thursdays."

I have no idea if it is my mindset that is warping my environment or my environment that is shaping my mindset. Yesterday morning we discovered that we had to take our old cat Max to the vet. (Its gross, I don't want to talk about it.) The vet calls Sara about 10:30 and tells her that Max is ready to be picked up. Sara askes the person on the line what was wrong. The nice lady on the phone says hold on a second. Puts the phone on hold for about 20 seconds and when she comes back on the line she says, "We'll tell you when you get here."

That event set up a chain of events that lead me to discover a real difference between me and Sara. Sara got the news, immediately expected the worst and called me to take her to the vet. If her cat had to be put down, she would be in no shape to drive. Meanwhile, she told me the story of the vet's call. I assumed the explenation was too complicated for the person on the phone to relay between the doc and Sara. I was pretty unconcerned about the cat, and very concerned about Sara who was quickly putting all the pieces in neat piles so she could at a moment's notice completely fall appart in the most effecient way.

At any rate, the cat was fine, and sent home with a week of pain pills and two weeks of strawberry flavored anti-biotic. Drug companies need to be more thoughtful with their furry patients. Especially those furry patients born with four legs.

On the car ride home Sara explained her mindset to me. She prepaired for the absolute worst case senerio, anything else, no matter how bad, would therefore be good news. Suddenly my mindset of keeping upbeat until being given a good and well reason based in fact to fall to pieces seemed like a really dumb idea.

Speaking of dumb ideas. I had two similar gifts to give, each one tailored specifically to the preferences of the receiver. When it came time to send one of the gifts with Sara I told her to take the wrong gift. When she challenged me, I defended my position on why it was the right gift. Ten hours later driving back to fencing from home the truth hit me like a two ton heavy thing. I would have cussed continuiously and loudly all the way back to the Y but these dumbasses kept pulling out in front of me in traffic and I had to take time out from my well earned cussing fit to avoid killing them. Then once I got into Greensboro proper I had to dodge the people who suddenly choose to walk up, down and across the middle of the street. Has homelessness become so bad that the answer is walk down the middle of the road and sue anyone who hits you? It was like being an obsticle in Frogger, only the frog had legal representation. "Sure its dumb to walk down the middle of the street, but my client is a pedestrian and therefore by the law has right of way. All cars must avoid them or be liable for damages, hospital bills, pain and suffering, and filling my Caymen bank account."

I was more or less a big fat lump of stupid in fencing.

I finally got home, fed the dog, put the cloths from the washer in the dryer, and the cloths from the floor into the washer. I sat down and watched ten minutes of TV petting the dog and the cat and then I went to bed. I was tired. I was an odd kind of bone deep tired. I couldn't resist sleep anymore than a man with a shotgun wound to the head could resist dying. I hit the pillow hard and fast and was deeply asleep. I have vague notions of Sara comming to bed and giggling about something. I dreamed. I have the sensation of dreaming a good deal but all I am left with is the sensation of having dreamed. I don't even have a mental picture to show for it. Just a half second clip of video and no slow or pause button to speak of.

At some point during the night Bud wanted out. I staggered still asleep to the door, let him out and went to relieve my bladder. Bud has two reasons to go out doors. If he wants to relieve his bladder only, he will be ready to come back in by the time I I've finished. If he wants to bark, he's not comming back in until he's good and well ready and nothing I can do will change that. This was one of those moments. I locked the door and zombie stepped my way back to bed comfortable in knowing that when Bud was finished barking at the night, he would come to the door and bark at it letting me know he is ready to come in.

I remember wondering why I couldn't hear Bud barking.

I remember thinking I should get up and check on him.

I remember nothing.

I remember the cat scratching on the door. I ignored the cat. Eventually Sara screamed across me to the door for Tuffy to cut it out. That worked for about .7 seconds. I remember getting out of bed so Sara wouldnt' have to yell again. With the side of my fist I pounded the bottom of the door and I heard skitterig on the other side. I was alseep before my head hit the pillow. A short time later I awoke to Tuffy knocking on the door, and Sara giggling, "You taught her a new trick."

Sometime later I jumped out of bed in a start, something wasn't right. Ah, there it is, daylight. I should be awake before the sun shines. It turned out it was seven AM and I struggled with the whole getting ready for work thing. I am pretty sure another six or eight hours of uninterrupted sleep and I would be right as rain. It was here I had the mental conversation about thinking it was Friday, therefore it was Thursday.

I staggered around the house getting ready but something didn't feel right. Maybe it was the fact that Sara was comming in late today and therefore didn't need to get up with me. I wanted to believe that was it, but I knew I was lying to myself. Something was missing.

I was walking out the door when the pieces started to come together. The sky looked like rain and snow, I felt exhausted and the whole world felt completely sureal to me. Bud was gone.

I yelled, whistled, and waited, the only sounds or movements were birds and squirrels. I felt completely sure that sometime during the night while he was outside something happened to him and I will never see him again. In the car I put the MP3 player on random. The first song was Its Raining in Baltimore by The Counting Crows. "...and everything else is the same."

But nothing was the same. Everything was just a shade wrong and slightly at angle. The sureal feeling wouldn't leave me. I kept waiting for the one big "Hey that's not supposed to happen" event, but so far it hasn't happened. I feel like the great awakening from Shadowrun is starting. Or at the very least, its TORG and I'm in danger of losing my reality. Not even the coffee seems to be helping.

I'd better get on the stick, I have a presentation this morning and I have to be brilliant as usual. I need a nap.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Everyone has a movie that changes their lives. Buckaroo Banzai was the one that did it for me. I learned many things including you can be smart and still dress well. I also learned that the only limitation of the human mind is the will of its owner. One thing we should all take notice of is the science behind it all. So, in the spirit of education here's this article written by Dr. Cary I. Sneider on that very subject.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 4:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I am on the Crystal Coast today visiting my parents in my old home town. I am always shocked by how much the georaphy of this place changes every time I come, what was once one thing is now another. Woods are now condos. The old skating rink is about to be the new Starbucks, Arbies, and Chick Filet. But for all the changes in geography the people remain unchanged.

Dad still grows collards which are their sweetest in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Folks are still using the colder months to slaughter hogs for their winter's meat, and they are still bartering the bits they don't want for collards with my dad. When I arrived yesterday he was just finishing up the process of prepairing two hogs heads; jowls for bacon, bits and peices for souce and brains for breakfast. Later that day the phone rang and a third person had a hogs head and a box of bones in hopes dad would trade it for christmas collards. It wasn't even a question, we were there in under ten minutes.

While I hold to this day that I am still a militant omnivore fighting tooth and claw to protect the right to eat anything you can put in your mouth, I personally put zombie food on the list of "things you eat when there is nothing left to eat". To dad pork brains are a treat that he only gets when someone trades hogs heads for collards. When I was a child I ate them, but as an adult with some interest in seeing my next birthday, have trouble eating something that has more natural cholesterol than anything on the planet. Knowing this, I believe we should probably include Lipitor in the quiver of zombie fighting arrows. If zombies need brains, and brains are mostly cholesterol, than Lipitor could be a powerful new weapon in the fight against the living impaired.

As for my breakfast I'm having egg and onion biscuit. Later ya'll!

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Everyone, this here's Vera.

What you say? What about diplomacy and tact in an age of reason? I haven't forgotten.
This here's Diplomacy.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 9:08 AM | Permalink

Monday night I got a plate of cookies and things from a fencer as a thank you and a happy holidays. I commented that when I was 50 lbs heavier nobody gave me goodies, suddenly my gear gets baggy and everyone wants to fatten me up. Last night I received a second plate of lovely goodies. Mmmmmmm....baked goods....

Meanwhile in other ironies, I have disassembled the steering column and knee plate on the Saturn looking for the smoking wire, only to find none. I can't even make it smoke anymore. I'm up to my elbows in colored wires, the engine is running and not even a warm spot. Life is like that sometimes.

I'm about to head into town to get my hair cut and pick up Sara, I suspect I'll be in the middle of a busy intersection when the car will suddenly burst into a fireball. I've left all the pastic panels off so at least I'll settle my curiosity about what and where before I have to abandon ship again. Yep, life is just like that sometimes.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 3:17 PM | Permalink

Tomorrow is Get Eaten by the Ice Weasle Danger Day!

Its the day I take off from work so I can crawl under the dash of the car and trace out and repair the subsystem that caught fire the other day. If I am lucky I can repair it in a day. If I'm really lucky it won't be raining. Sure, its only 12 volts, but its the amps that get you.

I hate the smell of electrical fire! I REALLY hate the smell of electrical fire and burning hair. Brings back bad memories of crawling out of my crib and sticking a pair of tweezers into a wall socket to see what is in there. That by the way is my earliest memory. My next earliest memory comes after I am completely potty trained and sleeping in a regular bed.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 5:58 PM | Permalink

I more or less woke up one morning recently and realized that I am a very civic minded person. Lots of people are mind you, I'm not special. Often people do something for money as a career and spend some of their free time doing something charitable for others. It may be organizing the Christmas parade with the JC's or just assisting a Cub Scout den mother. Most everyone does something and they don't do it thinking about how its helping to offset the bad Karma. You know, associated with for instance something like hunting, killing, and eating vegans because they taste better than most omnivorious people. They do it because it just feels good.

I got lucky, while I have no big fancy money making career, I do have two different and very rewarding hobbies that make me feel good. One of them I work from 8-5 in higher education, and the other I work nights and weekends in fencing. Of the two, higher education might be the greater good, but fencing is by far the most personally rewarding.

For instance one of the greatest gifts I get, comes to me when the room is full of fencers and no one notices but me. It is when I am watching a fencer, especially a new fencer on strip in club, they aren't looking at the scoring box, they are looking for the next touch. Their faces aren't locked in tight determination, their smiles are broad, because they are having about as much fun as they can have legally, and I am proud to be a part of that. That is about the best gift a person could get, and I have a good group who gift me this way freely and often.

Then sometimes I just get shocked and knocked off my feet. It often happens this time a year. I'll be sitting there minding my own business and along comes a student who has no idea how generious they are already when they up and give me a completely different kind of gift. One of my foil students last night gave me and the other foil coaches a huge container of home made cookies and a loaf of cranberry bread each, along with a really nice christmas card. I dare say I came closer than I care to admit to becomming mildly misty eyed.

Ok, yes, I am the guy who just one year ago had to get a new fencing uniform because I was busting out of the largest thing the club had and can't even remember when I last fit in my old uniform from the UNCG days. Yes, I am also the guy who goes to tournaments now fifty pounds lighter looking for all the world like I've borrowed my jacket and knickers from a professional sumo. And yes too, giving me a pan of home made cookies and a loaf of cranberry bread is like setting up a cash bar in an AA meeting. But man, its soooo good. And the chocolate ones have a layer of caramel in the middle. I don't even know how they did that.... mmmm...hang on....need to wipe my mouth.

I love my work, even though my outfit makes me look like a refrigerator with legs.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 9:20 AM | Permalink

Mario got the idea and I picked it up from him. It works like this. Take the first sentence of the first entry of each month and see what you have.

January
What with the holidays and everything going on while I was at home without my precious internet I find myself back online overwelmed with what all to talk about.

February
Sara told me that if I acknowledged the fact that I was born she would give me a fiddle.

March
Generally I understand that everyone has one of those days where events turn them into demons behind the wheel.

April
Brenda commented here and reminded me that I had not updated the world on the state of my facial fuzz.

May
Illegal imigrants and supporters are taking to the streets in protest in order to demand rights.

June
The other night the Vermin Robinson camp struck again with terrorist 1/2 messages on my answering machine.

July
I was lucky enough to catch this play at UNCG some years ago in the black box theater space.

August
The awards night for the 2006 Greensboro 48 Hour Film Project is comming Sunday at M’Coul’s Pub, 110 W. McGee st. and The Green Burro Sports Bar, 106 W. McGee st. and I though it might be fun to show you some of the submissions curtesy of YouTube.

September
When we last left off, the crew of Serenity was sleeping in the cold and stormy of the Black Hills in South Dakota.

October
Herritage not hate, that is why I bother.

November
Its late, let me be introspective.

December
I spent a lovely evening with friends playing Mario Party, snacking, sampling each others collections of fancy smelly things and otherwise enjoying a night of fellowship and good will.

What does it all mean? Nothing, unless you want to say that I could work on better opening sentences. I only put it here because it seemed like fun, and made decent filler for those days when I don't have time or inspiration to say anything else.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 9:59 AM | Permalink

Each second Sunday in December for as long as anyone can remember the clan Cavenaugh gathers at a community building in Duplin county known as "The pink supper house". Its covered dish, and ya'll come. 98% of all Cavenaugh's are living in the same county that our ancestors settled in in the year 1800. 1.5% of them live in Wilmington, and the other .5% live "elsewhere". That said, for the last 200 years my ancestors were farmers by trade and even though they mostly live a very short distance from one another, this event is often the only time they ever see each other where the guest of honor isn't laying in a coffin.

I go every year I can, because family is as important to me as it is to all Cavenaugh's and because it is the only time of the year I get to see any of them. I don't know if it is this way for everyone, but for me each year I look around and guage the health of the family. Not in the who has a heart problem and who has cancer kind of way, but more of a clan health meter kind of way. Are the same number people there each year? If someone dies is there a birth to offset it? I also find out about how things are going economically and socially in the area by looking at the spread. If there is plenty of food things are going well, if there is only a little food or the dishes have less in them at the start I know that times are hard. Duplin county was one of those devistated during huricane Floyd. It was a race to get the pink supper house ready by December and when we got there much of the food was store bought, and what was made at home wasn't much. That year people used the family reunion to take stock of our losses and to give thanks for what we had left.

Conversations are easy, who was born, who died, any new health problems to report, and usually there is someone who will tell you if you looked better last year or this year and why. It is reported that I look better than I have in years because I shaved. Sara reports that some of the Cavenaugh women hinted that she ought to start with the baby making. I don't know if its true or not, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was. I think we are the only married couple of child bearing age who don't have a youngon or two underfoot. This year I promised Sara that I wouldn't ask her to come anymore, as much as I want her there and need her there, (she's proof I'm married) Sara hates crowds with a phobia and hates the pressure to procreate even more. Its odd that in order to stay married I have to let go of the only way I can prove it each year. It might even count as ironic.

The entire reunion process from set up to locking the door is usually over in three to four hours. At the end, once the socializing is over and folks start packing up to leave, someone will read from "the book". The book is an old spiral bound notebook that serves two functions. Everyone signs the book each year to prove they were there, (this helps with tracking numbers and death rates). It also tells how much donated money remains in the account, how much renting the hall was, who died in the past year, what flower was purchased for the grave, and who was born. Then they pass a basked around collecting donations so there will be money to buy the flowers for the graves and rent the hall in the next year. The average turn out each year is about 60 and typically each year they can raise about a hundred and fifty dollars to keep the whole thing running. The only fear is that whoever happens to be organizing it the time dies. The last time that happened, before I was born, the whole event stumbled and fell. Eventually someone was able to pick up the reins and we have been going ever since. Now a days, the organizers are their own judge on the matter. If they are having health problems they will pass the torch to a healthy one just in case. I suspect in the next ten years or so someone of my generation will have to pick up the torch. They only prerequisite is they live in Duplin county so everything is right there where they are.

Did I mention the food is awsome?

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:50 AM | Permalink

I fenced in a tournament at Ft. Bragg today. I have been wondering this whole time how I was going to be mentally on the day of, but as I wasn't feeling my usual anxiety I figured it would all take care of itself in the end. As it turns out it did, and the secret was to think like a Veteran Fencer. In fencing everyone over the age of 39 is considered a "vet" fencer, 20-39 being "Senior", and things under 20 getting a little confusing as each couple of years is a different classification with overlap in places between them.

When I say veteran fencing mindset, I certainly don't mean too many of the veteran fencers in my club. We've got two vet fencers in my club highly compeititve and not at all bothered by the fact that they didn't pick up a weapon until they already were veterans. We even have a senior who is training harder and harder each year so when she hits the veteran age group she will be a force to be reckoned with.

The veterans I am modeling after are those guys who fence as an excuse to get out of the house and maybe drink a beer with some college friends when the day is done. They have a super relaxed attitude and find the compeitive crowd an endless source of ammusement. I found myself not thinking of winning but scoring touches, and not scoring touches to win, but to screw the indicators of the guy across from me who might be very competitive minded. I went into DE's not with the mindset of winning the bout, but more of the attitude of making the kid across from me work for his every touch. Every drop of sweat was a victory for me. Every frown and grown when I score a touch was a success.

I came out of pools in 12th, I got a bye in the first round, I fenced the guy in fourth, I got eight good hits on him and where I started and ended up in 12th, he started 4th and ended up 6th. That's a victory too. I didn't get to take home a prize, but I got to hang out with some terrific and dear friends, I got to eat a nice meal in a cool brewpub downtown, where I tasted the best raspberry beer I have ever had, and I got to have a piece of candy from an actional confectioner (I think I still pefer Hershey's). I had a pleasant road trip, and I barely had to work up a sweat to do it. I'd call that a good day.

I hope the rest of the tournaments I go to will be as fun. But next time, I'm going to skip on the fancy chocolates, and have two beers instead.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 8:29 AM | Permalink

I have no idea why these sorts of things choose to always happen at the worst possible times but they do. You're in the middle of a raging cannon battle with two other ships and your ship chooses that moment to start sinking.
You try to rob a bank only to run outside and find your getaway car being towed for illegal parking. Its poring down icy rain and your tire blows out, you slide to a stop with the offending tire in a flooded ditch. You land your ship against all odds and Joss Whedon thinks it would be funny to kill you off just when everything appears to be OK. Its 20 degrees out and your car catches fire. Well, in that case at least you can keep warm by the roar of your burning seat cushions. Nothing says rock bottom like drinking rum and keeping work by a burning tire.

This morning we leave the house, get into the car and I go to crank it. As it is icy cold the battery is a little low, indicating that this winter I will be buying a new battery. The car is so cold I can see Sara's breath, my breath, and a third longer stronger jet like exhale comming from under the dashboard. My breath smells like coffee, Sara's breath smells like blueberry oat meal, the breath under the dash smells like burning.

"Abandon ship! Take everything you can carry! For heaven sakes, somebody save the rum!" There wasn't any rum onboard but old habits die hard and in the heat of the moment you sometimes say things that make no sense later.

I killed the ignition and the jet of smoke immediately becomes a trickle. Good, that means that whatever is burning it needs the ignition on to get the energy it needs to continue to burn. Most likely I won't smell burning seat cushion today. Good.

Maybe I can work on that tomorrow, no wait, I am supposed to be in Fayetnam at a fencing tournament.
Maybe I can work on it Sunday, no wait, that's my family reunion, the only Cavenaugh feast day of the year.
Maybe I can take off today, no wait, I have all of my usual Friday work plus continued configuration of my new career as an enterprise application owner.
Maybe we'll just use the truck until further notice.

I'm going to be really ticked off if I get home late tonight to find that the car is nothing more than a burned out hulk. I've still got cassette tapes in there.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 9:03 AM | Permalink

We arrived home the other night to a beautiful absolutely clear night. It was the kind of night where babies are conceived, photos are taken, and christmas cards are inspired. The moon was full and high in the sky. It was a night for reading outdoors by moonlight.

As I stood there in silent awe taking in the absolute beauty of the night. Eventually I found my voice and said to Sara, "What a beautiful perfect night".

*BLAM* *BLAM* *BLAM BLAM*
*BLAM*

"Yep, hunters must think so too."

The perfect moment ruined, we headed for cover and turned on our outside lights. Maybe if they saw the lights they wouldn't shoot his way. I don't know if our porch light changed their direction of fire or not, but the shooting continued until nealry eleven O'clock.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 1:52 PM | Permalink

I was just reading this article about the value of a liberal arts degree and it certainly rang true with everything I know today.

Back in my communittee college days I had an outstanding Sociology instructor whose first name is Jack. I hesitate to mention his last name because being a sociology professor he was a bit eccentric and I don't want to offend him by mentioning his full name. At any rate, the first day of class he had each student say their name and their major. After each announcement of major he made a comment, usually of the smarty pants variety that summed up our prospects in our chosen path. Many laughs were had by all, but the smart ones in the class were left thoughtful by his predictions. Most notibly his final prediction. He said that it didn't matter what we were going to college for. It didn't matter how many times we changed our major or what major we ended up with. He told us that in the end most of us would go back to school and get a second degree in the thing we actually wanted to do with the rest of our lives.

Smart guy. I suspect, if I ever bother getting my first degree I will look forward to one day finding out what I want to do when I grow up and persue that degree too. To this end I can't stress enough the value of a liberal arts degree. Once you have a general knowledge of everything and you've walked the world a while, then you can go back and focus on what it is exactly that brings you joy.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 10:12 AM | Permalink

Fun and addictive this game is pong from a first person point of view. Think Pong Meets Doom.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 5:29 PM | Permalink

I spent a lovely evening with friends playing Mario Party, snacking, sampling each others collections of fancy smelly things and otherwise enjoying a night of fellowship and good will. There was a bit of wine available, but at most people were sampling only and me not at all. As the evening was winding down and people were starting to look for their jackets and dishes, the host with the most pulled out the grand finale. Before leaving we needed to sample from each of Jones Soda's 2005 holiday collection. Namely, Cranberry Sauce soda, stuffing soda, brussel sprout soda, turkey with gravy soda, and finally pumpkin pie soda. No, I'm not making this up.

There were eleven of us in the room and seven were brave enough to belly up to the table and have a sip of each concotion. Small plastic cups were spread out and one by one the seven of us sampled from each bottle. As we wanted to give each its proper due, we used a fresh cup each time and the last was trashed. Between taste, crackers were passed around to clean our pallets.

Cranberry sauce soda, tasted like cranberry soda with a splash of cinnemon. Not bad, wouldn't have it again by choice. This was the best of them.

Brussel Sprouts soda tasted like green soaked in butter. It was at this point that three of the seven chose to not swallow, but taste and spit. In this case it was more self preservation instinct than anything else.

The Stuffing soda tasted like a good hearty dose of celery salt stirred into a glass of Alka Seltzer. Sometimes even knowing a thing is safe isn't any consolation.

The Turkey and Gravy soda simply defied description. I am sure fouler things have been tasted, but not by anyone who lived to tell about it.

By the time we had the pumpkin pie soda it may as well have been vinegar and hobo socks, there were tears. Tears of pain by the tasters and tears of laughter from those who took the pictures of our self inflicted misery.

Every taster was about the same color green as the brussel sprout soda and thanks to god were given for the person who thought to bring peppermints to the party. The drive home was almost spooky as I wasn't sure what was about to happen or which end it was going to happen from. There was concrete in my stomach and it was bubbling. This is really an amazing thing as each bottle was only twelve ounces and each one was split seven ways. I only really had a taste of each one. Just over an ounce. Maybe seven ounces total.

I layed on the couch a time pondering my mortality while Sara went online to look at the pictures already posted. Huh, what do you know, I look fat. Being unable to take any more abuse both from the soda and my own self doubt, I went to bed.

Several times during the night I awoke to the taste of brussel sprouts and stuffing soda in my mouth, with bile. My body looked like I was about to give birth to a Spalding. Or at the very least a regulation Wilson.

At one point I awoke with a start, someone was grabbing me. I opened my eyes and in the moonlight I saw nothing, yet still unseen hands groped me. I tried to move but I couldn't. Sleep paralisis, that means this is a bad dream. To end it all I need to do is wake up. That won't be easy, but on the other hand if I can wake Sara up, she can in turn wake me up. I started to struggle and say over and over again "Wake me up". I am sure that all Sara heard was mumbling and grunting but either way it worked and Sara woke up, saw my struggles and woke me up. Grateful, I got up went to the kitchen tried to wash away my fears with a glass of water. I guess it worked, but just in case I put my hand on Sara so if it happened again, it would be even easier to get her attention.

Needless to say I slept horribly and I felt horrible when I got out of bed to call my parents. Coffee helped, but the Spalding has not yet been birthed.

Worst hangover ever. I do not recommend the Jones Soda Holiday Gift Pack 2005. You have been warned.

Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 11:06 AM | Permalink

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Posted by Woody Cavenaugh at 10:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)