I haven't felt like writing lately, mainly because I've been depressed over the complete and total failure of my efforts to lose weight and get into better physical condition. By way of comparison my weight loss efficacy makes the Obama administration look like the second coming, complete with a guest appearance by an exulted heavenly choir singing Ludwig Van Beethoven's Ode to Joy .
All that aside, here are a few short rants and one or two paragraphs of gratitude, one way or another.
I completed my CCW training a few weeks ago and have been procrastinating about getting my license, mainly because I hate dealing with an obstructive bureaucracy (just name three that aren't). On the advice of the friendly, affable and soft-spoken proprietor of the Bullet Stop, I skipped the zoo in Lucas County and drove out to Port Clinton. This turned out to be the best advice I've been given this year.
My congratulations to Ottawa County Sheriff Stephen J. Levorchick for running an excellent office where the people are friendly, courteous and well organized. I also give a hoist of my bourbon glass and a courteous tip of my fedora to Deputy Rhonda St.Clair, who processed my paperwork and treated me with the kind of professional courtesy we'd like to see in all sheriff's deputies. Plus it doesn't hurt that Rhonda is a real knock out.
I am now officially, legally armed and dangerous.
Driving back I took I-280 S to I-75 S which is where the trouble started, in the form of a bright white miniature SUV with a late 20s - early 30s woman behind the wheel. Dark hair, large dark sunglasses, cell phone glued to the side of her empty head. She got on the expressway and immediately started tailgating my mother's favorite son who was driving the speed limit in the right hand lane. The road in font of me was blocked by traffic, so after ten minutes of hugging my bumper she switched to the left lane where her majesty's road was blocked by traffic stacked up behind a badly used pickup truck pulling a utility trailer half full of heavily used road work equipment of an unguessable purpose. She tailgated the Chevy Blazer in front of her for about 15 minutes before he noticed her and flashed his brake lights. When she ignored him he tapped his brakes in a very threatening manner. Taking the hint, she switched back to tailgating me. I decided I'd had enough of her threats and so changed to the left lane and allowed her to become someone else's problem. She obligingly passed me on the right and slowed to give me the stink eye, then pulled up to the car in front of her, still talking on the cell phone. I estimated her distance to the car in front of her at two to three feet, literally. Where are Toledo's finest when you need them?
Her license number is: MINI 4x4, State of Ohio. If any of you law enforcement types are reading this, please believe me when I say that you'll be doing everyone a favor by getting this idiot off the road.
From Bayou Renaissance Man I read Congratulations to Scouting, and all Eagle Scouts! along with Michael Malone: A Century of Eagle Scouts. My brother Big Mike is an Eagle Scout, which is quite an accomplishment. My congratulations to Mike and to all the other Eagle Scouts for their achievement. I was never a Boy Scout, although I got into Cub Scouts when I was 7. I stayed with the Cub Scout program until it looked like I was going to become a Boy Scout which involved the infamous initiation ceremony. The problem with this was that I listened to all the stories about initiation from the Boy Scouts who had already been through it, and when my father refused to loan me his pistol to take with me to Camp Miakonda where the initiation ceremony was to be carried out, I dropped the whole business like a live grenade. I was not about to be stripped of my clothing, made to run around the camp three times and then paddled by all the scouts at the camp for anyone. Not without a fight, that is.
Oh well. I never would have made Eagle Scout anyway.
Centenarian is being a royal pain in the ass around Main Lady. Main Lady cares for her mother (Centenarian) constantly, works part time and has to run errands and handle family crises on top of all the ridiculous crap that we all have to put up with in our daily lives. Her three daughters are helping out as much as they can, but I haven't heard one word from Main Lady's sister Ding Bat in Florida. The only time Ding Bat came up to see Centenarian she told Main Lady that she, Ding Bat, felt that her skills were inadequate to provide care for Centenarian. She then requested that Main Lady call her in Florida just before Centenarian was going to cash in her chips, so she could come and say good-bye.
I'm doing all I can, but about half the time when I try to help I'm accused of fucking something up beyond all recognition and then I get my balls whacked and my dick whacked back down. This can be a bit discouraging. Still, I'm no quitter - just ask the folks down at AA! - so I'm continuing to tote the barge, lift the bale and push the car out of the ditch. I don't ask for thanks or recognition, I'd just like to avoid getting my balls whacked when something doesn't quite live up to Herself's unrealistic expectations.
Speaking of which, I suppose my own expectations about the benefits of exercise at the local gymnasium might be a bit unrealistic. I'd kind of like to see some sort of benefit materialize, even if it's just temporary. So far all I'm able to achieve is getting my overweight self to the gym and forcing myself to work at it. I hate going to the gym. I've always hated it. When I do go, invariably some cretinous, well-meaning soul will ask me if I had a good workout. What is wrong with these people? I have never, in my entire life, ever had a good work out. Not once. I go to Anytime Fitness five or six days out of the week. I ride the bike to nowhere for 20 to 30 minutes, which is generally all I can do before I give out. I use the situp, leg press and some other leg machine in their respective primary offices, then I exercise my upper body with free weights doing such exercises as produce a maximum amount of sweat. My magic number for all these exercises is 20. I do 20 repetitions of everything. I see no benefit to any of this, but Main Lady, Mom and a host of other people tell me there is a benefit to exercise and that I should keep doing it. So I do, largely because the pain and exertion of exercise is preferable to Main Lady's relentless carping about not exercising.
And when I say it hurts, I really mean that it hurts. My legs hurt, the muscles in my back hurt, rolling out of the sack in the morning is more painful than ever. Bourbon doesn't help.
Tonight I'm going to go watch the Mud Hen's play ball. Given that we have to park downtown I think I'll pack my gat with me.