Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Hiatus

Subdivided We Stand takes a 1-week break for mental maintenance. Back with all-new krep on Tuesday, September 7. In the meantime, enjoy this recycled slop from the Bob's Blog O' Love era. These were all entries that somebody or other seemed to enjoy, so here they are again -- warts and all. Please ignore how bad the old site looked. Five days away from blogging, five entries below. C'mon back and enjoy one per day. OR, read 'em all now and forget about me for a week. Or don't read them at all. Regardless, c'mon back on the 7th.

• Tone Loc -- Interpreted for the Hip-Hop Impaired
• My Favorite Bucco
• Guillain-Barre Syndrome
• I Was Kneed In The Ass By An Evil Leprechaun
• Porch

Scary Mary

Meanwhile, over in Mary Worth, the ne'er-do-well son of Iris has made an appearance. Say hello to "Tommy" -- who, if we're to believe the storyline, is one bad-ass mofo. You can tell he's bad by the snake tattoo, the unruly crop of manly chest-hair, and the Tommy Shaw hairstyle. (Tommy Shaw was the wimpiest member of a wimpy 70's band called "Styx," for you youngsters.) Iris's Tommy has apparently just been released from the big house. The hoosegow. Up the river. Just by looking at him, I'm guessing that Tommy probably had a rough go of it in the joint, if you know what I'm saying. I'm also becoming a little concerned about Iris. Every day she has more splotchiness on her face. I'm guessing it's leprosy. And now that I think about it, Dennis DeYoung was far wimpier than Tommy Shaw.

Bucs win! Bucs win

Went to the Bucco game last night. Whoo! Best...team...ever! Haha. Maybe not -- but still, had a Primanti's sandwich and watched a good game that managed to wrap up in under two hours. Sweet! Not much else today. Max Cleland's letter to the current occupant of the White House is worth a read, though -- here it is via Comments from Left Field.

Living the Wild Life

Although I have no tales of wildlife run amuck like those of Dixie's newest resident, I'm not without my fair share of animal encounters lately.

Just today, on my drive home from work, I had a near-death experience with a wild turkey. I think it was a female, based on size and lack of sufficient neck-waddle. She walked out in front of me and pretty much dared me to hit her.

As I always do, I hit the brakes and swerved out of the way -- breaking every rule about braking for animals that they teach you back in driver's ed.

And then, no more then five seconds later, a puma crossed the road in front of me.

Ok, it was a black house cat, but still. Two close encounters within five seconds.

The animal kingdom must've been mistaking me for St. Francis today. On my way IN to work I saw a little Boston Terrier running around on Babcock Boulevard. I stopped and tried to get him to come to me. Twice he came close, but then ran away. Last time I saw him, he was running into traffic on Babcock. He made it to the other side -- but my long-term prognosis for his well-being isn't too positive.

Dog n' Pony Show -- Sans Pony

(Late update: My entry is banal today at best. Read if you must, but your time would be far better spent reading Tube City's take on two of my personal favorite writers -- Lileks and Keillor. It's the August 23 entry.)

Things just go from bad to worse for our poor dogs.

First, we bring that little screechy thing home -- and now, nearly 15 months later, little screechy is careening around the house behind his little push-cart, and it just about scares the poor beasts to death.

Really, though, I've got to hand it to Smithers and Kelsey. In spite of the fact that Adam is a holy terror behind the wheel of that thing (it kind of looks like a kiddie-sized lawnmower, if you don't know what I'm talking about, but with a solid triangular base just perfect for the almost-walking set), the mutts handle it with aplomb. They see him coming, and head for the hills.

I suppose at 15 months Adam is a wee bit behind schedule as far as walking. Ah well. It'll happen soon enough -- he's still somewhat large for his age, so that may be keeping him from getting all of his limbs co-ordinated enough to walk. We don't worry about stuff like that. It'll happen when it happens.

Meanwhile, the dogs and I continue our daily rituals. As soon as I get the dinner dishes cleaned up while Julie plays with Adam in the living room, the dogs know what's coming. Smithers pulls the flat-bassett routine (where he flattens himself on the floor, ears flooped out to the side) while Kelsey paces back and forth in anticipation. The know what's coming, and they know what's expected of them.

As soon as I go to the closet to get my shoes, Kelsey starts jumping up and down and yipping in her high-pitched, annoying manner. Smithers makes a beeline for the den. By the time I grab three plastic Post-Gazette bags, Kelsey is in full hysteria and leaping about like a lunatic. Eventually, I chase her down and get her collar on her -- just in time for the bigger challenge.

This is Smithers' favorite event of the day. Makin' ol' dad look like an idiot time.

As soon as I make a move towards the hound, he goes into his crouch. His "let's play" crouch. That means it's time for me to chase him upwards of twenty times around the coffee table. You wouldn't think a bassett -- and a big bassett at that -- would be very nimble. Well, keep in mind how low to the ground he is, and that he's quicker than you think. Every night I pray that no one is looking in the windows while I chase the idiot beast around the table. And every night I get a little ticked at having to go through the ritual. But the truth is, it's all part of what makes our dogs our dogs, and I wouldn't change a thing about them.

Well, maybe I'd make Smithers smell a little better, and Kelsey a little less yippy. But still, they're ours and like Mr. Rogers I like them as they are.

Other people must, too. There are a number of kids on our walk route who wait every night for the arrival of our dynamic duo. Tonight, one woman on the route (with whom I've only had a nodding acquaintance up until now) stopped me to tell me how much she enjoys watching the dogs go by each night.

Once again, our dogs are far more popular than I'll ever be.

(By the way, there's a small photo gallery of the mutts over at my wretchedly awful other site. Feel free to get a gander at them, but for the love of God, please ignore the horror of the way that site looks. I swear I'm going to get around to fixing it soon....)

Just Checkin' In

Quiet little weekend -- which is just fine, really.

High point was Saturday, when we packed up Adam and went with J&K and their two young'uns to Bradley Fest. I'm still not quite sure what Bradley Fest is, but there were bands (Joe Grushecky, Little Feat) and some activities for the kids. All at Hartwood Acres, in the same spot where they hold the Sunday night concerts.

High point of the event had to be watching some drunk bastahd get hauled away by paramedics. This was supposed to be a family event, and for the most part it was -- but one guy got pretty trashed, and (according to my wife, who saw it all) must've been pretty hungry, because he literally dove at the picnic basket of the people next to us on the lawn.

Eventually, two pretty good-sized county cops came over to deal with the guy, who by this time was reclining on the lawn and trying to scarf down his sandwich. They must've been having trouble with him, because they called for backup.

About five minutes later, the backup arrived. A female county cop who appeared to go around 4-10 and 250 lbs. Eventually, paramedics arrived and the drunk guy was hauled off.

I like Joe Grushecky. Really, I do. Although mainly I like him based on the early Iron City Houserockers stuff, which truly was outstanding. (I'm not alone in that opinion, either. Village Voice and Playboy both listed "Have A Good Time But Get Out Alive" as one of the top albums of the year in...umm...whatever year it came out. Rolling Stone gave it a five-star review. The first two Houserocker albums combined three-chord bar rock with just a teeny whiff of punk, and in my opinion were simply outstanding.) Anyway, though, Joey ought to think about giving it up, really. The "I'm pals with Bruce" thing just ain't workin' anymore.

On Sunday, we napped, played with Adam, walked the dogs, and blew up Adam's sweet new swimming pool. A quiet weekend, but a good one. And that's all I have. May make a short update on Monday morning. Or not...

Grammar Lady

She would've hated this blog, I'm sure.

Probably a little for the mundanity of its content, but moreso because of my god-awful grammar.

I first heard of Mary Bruder, "The Grammar Lady," through a former co-worker -- an excellent fellow named Jeff Warnock who, sadly, passed away in 2000.

Jeff was a pretty good editor in his own right. We worked together at "RealPittsburgh.com," a silly little Web site that began as a good idea but ended up crumbling under its own weight. Jeff was hired to fill a number of roles -- concierge, columnist, and proofreader. And trust me, our woeful content needed plenty of proofreading.

One day, a particularly thorny grammar issue threw Jeff for a loop. He picked up the phone, and said, "I'm calling the Grammar Lady." I had no idea what he meant, but after a few seconds, he said, "Hello, Mary," and began having a conversation with the woman on the other end. It sounded like they'd known each other all their lives.

I found out later that they'd never even met. "The Grammar Lady" was in fact a real human being, Mary Bruder, and she wrote a syndicated column, ran a Web site, and believe it or not, manned "The Grammar Hotline," a free service to anyone who called. You called The Grammar Lady, and Mary answered your grammar question, right then and there. No ads, no sales pitch, no nothing -- just the answer to the question that you probably would've known yourself if you'd paid attention in 8th-grade English, but you didn't, so you called The Grammar Lady.

I called her a few times on my own, but our conversations were usually cut-and-dried. Not Jeff, though. He made a friend out of a woman he'd never met, but spoke to on the phone every now and then.

Jeff Warnock had a habit of doing that.

As a young teen, Jeff thought he'd like to become a cartoonist. And at that time, one cartoonist stood head and shoulders above the pack. Charles Schultz, the "Peanuts" guy. Charlie Brown. Snoopy. THAT guy. In the late 60's and early 70's, Peanuts ruled the roost. And so Jeff wrote him a letter, asking for advice.

That letter received an answer. To which Jeff replied. Which got another answer. Which got a reply. Which turned into a decades-long correspondance between Jeff and Charles Schultz and his staff. Jeff even got to meet the head beagle at one point. He was a hell of a guy, that Jeff Warnock.

I thought about him today when I read the obit for Mary Bruder, The Grammar Lady. I like to think that they're both up there now, shaking their heads at my numerous grammatical errors. Jeff was brutal with his red pen, and I'm sure he'd have a blast editing THIS mess.

Arachnophobia

Among my most popular blog entries are those in which I end up looking like an utter dork. Today, I'll share just such a story from a few years back.

Julie and I had been in our house for two years when I finally realized that I was never going to plant a garden. The previous owners must've had one at one point -- there was a fairly large, rectangular patch of dirt in the back yard where clearly a vegetable garden had once grown.

For the first two years, I fooled myself into thinking that I'd plant something there. But eventually, I realized that I pretty much hate doing yardwork of any sort, so I borrowed a friend's tiller, plowed the garden under, and planted grass seed.

A few days after planting the seed, I went out back to check on its progress. Not so good -- but I did make a discovery that quite literally scared the living daylights out of me.

A spider.

Now let me just pause here for a second to say that I have absolutely no fear of spiders. In fact, I tend to just let them do their thing in our house, until Julie tells me either to get rid of them or she'll squish 'em. And so, I gently grab a tissue, pluck Mr. spider from the wall or ceiling, and escort it outside.

But this was no daddy long legs.

No, this was a HUGE-ASS, HAIRY, FANGED spider from hell, right there in our back yard. Remember the spider in the Hawaii-vacation episode of The Brady Bunch? That's kind of what it was like.

After a few minutes of watching it not moving, I started to think that perhaps it was dead. PLEASE GOD let it be dead. I poked it with a stick (a LOOOONG stick), and sure enough, it didn't move.

Now I don't know how any of you would react to having Shelob in your yard, but I do know how I reacted. I got a case of the heebie-jeebies that stuck with me until the next day. I related the story to a couple of co-workers -- one of whom suggested that I call the police, who might be interested in hearing that giant man-eating spiders were infesting Shaler.

So I called. A nice woman answered, and told me that no police were in the building at the moment, but she'd tell them about it and have them get back to me if they were concerned about it.

After work, I determined to pick up the beast and dump it in a bag of lawn clippings. But as I attempted to stab it with a pointy stick, a thought occurred to me. Didn't someone tell me that one of the neighbors was an ento...enty...ummm...person that studies bugs?

I knocked on the neighbor's door. Her 13-year old daughter answers, and tells me that while her mom wasn't home, she (the daughter) knew a lot about bugs, and would come and take a look.

We leaned down at the beast, Anna and I. She wasn't creeped out in the least, so I tried to put up a brave front. At least until she said:

"Are you sure that isn't a toy?"

No way, man. Look at that thing!

Anna couldn't find any identifying marks, so she went home, and said she'd send her mom over when she got home.

While I waited, I got a little bolder. I flipped the thing over with a stick.

Oh, there was an identifying mark all right.

"Mattel."

I called Anna back and told her to tell her mom "nevermind," and told her she was right about it being a toy.

Anna and her brother must've thought that was pretty funny. The next night they left a giant plastic stick-bug on our front porch.

Nice to know I can provide some humor for the neighborhood youth.

Dogs

I must be on a triple-low bloggin' biorhythm this week. No topics, no tomfoolery, no nothin'.

So, instead of the usual hijinks, enjoy this picture of our dogs. With bonus footage of my hairy drumsticks. Kelsey the mutt on the left, Smithers the wonderhound on the right.

Mean Joe Dorkus

Sometimes, you just aren't in a bloggin' mood.

And when that happens, well, both of you long time readers know what that means -- it's time for:

Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorkus Mallorcus!

Enjoy.

This one's from birthday #15 -- January 2, 1978. Ahh, what an era. Carter-malaise, Pirates in double-knit polyester banana suits, KC & The Sunshine Band...and yours truly, about to tear into my favorite: white cake with white icing. Even at 15, I was as vanilla as they come.

By the way, "That 70's Kitchen" still looks exactly like that. Harvest-gold appliances, lemon-yellow pleather bucket-style chairs, yellow first-generation touch-pad phone on the wall. Rock on, 70's kitchen!

Feel free to provide captions or sneering derision in the comments section.