How my Ron Paul convert converted me to Ron Paul.

I'll admit it. I had no hope to convert Frau or The Captain to being Ron Paul supporters. I was simply happy to have a ride and company. I have been a supporting the Libertarian Party so long, I have grown accustomed to both being marginalized (politically) by nearly everyone, and losing, both in the races, and in discussions. Frau, however not only jumped on Dr. Paul's bandwagon, she wants to drive. We are participating in a letter-writing campaign to Iowa voters, and she is the reason I think I can handwrite 300 letters before Christmas. She is the reason I will be attending my first Ron Paul meetup this Monday. Her excitement has created excitement in me. Gone are the days of Freedom as an intellectual concept. After years of supporting the entire Libertarian Party as a mental exercise, Frau has turned this into something real. I thank you, Frau. Dr. Paul thanks you. And while they
don't know it yet, the American people thank you.

............pation!

With the exception of the day Mothra arrived at our house, this has been the most exciting day of the year. I got to meet the man himself, Dr. Ronald Earnest Paul, the next President of the United States of America. I saw some of the crazy people that you hear about from Dr. Paul's detractors- the 9/11 truthers, the I hate everyone who doesn't look like me anti-immigration people, and of course, the computer geeks. But (and sorry to disappoint), the vast majority of the people I met fell into the category of "normal." I saw: old, young, white, black, Asian, Hispanic, gay, straight, Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians (and lots of libertarians), anarchists, families, single people, extroverts, introverts (harder to find than the extroverts, though), and nearly every other category that you could think of to put people in. Who is this man who can bring all there seemingly disparate people together? Ron Paul. His message? Freedom. http://www.RonPaul2008.com

Sometimes you can be surprised

This flag is in front of a door to a Baptist Church. Just found that interesting

Antici.................

I am here in Philly, staying at Frau's parents' house. (Sorry I don't have a clever nickname for you yet, Frau.) Frau and her husband are not Ron Paul supporters yet, but I am working on that. I can't sleep. I am experiencing the same feeling I did when I first went to Disney World, or the one I still feel every Christmas Eve. Later today I am going to meet one of my heroes. This is akin to meeting Superman. I promise not to tug on his cape. I just hope to get some sleep before then.

Godzilla

Godzilla is my nephew, and as is the case with all the other names on my blog, Godzilla is not his real name. Simply, I am extremely paranoid that someone will find out who I am and start stalking me and my family. This assumes that anyone will ever read what I write, and that assumption seems ludicrous to me.

Eventually, I will break down, and faithful readers of this blog may one day know my address. I know one of the keys to good writing is being specific, and my being paranoid to the point of not be able to talk about anything I care about is definitely at odds with that. I may even post a picture or two of someone I've actually met one day. So, to help the confused reader, I start with this post a series of cast biographies.


Godzilla's pretty amazing, and I want to be him when I grow up. I want to live with the knowledge that if I jump from the seventh step of the stairs, someone will catch me, and if no one catches me, someone will come make me feel better. (Both regular occurrences, except we're lucky if it's only the seventh step.) I want to have heroes again. He thinks I can scare away monsters, and because he thinks it, it's true. He thinks his grandmother knows the lyrics to every song ever written, and his grandfather is the funniest person on the planet.

I fear his sometimes excessive television watching has stunted his imagination, and its use as a babysitting tool started at way too early an age for him. As I have stated previously, I am not home as often as I would like to be, and I have very little control over this. Also, Sunday is for football. This is a tradition he will understand soon enough. Most of his television watching comes under Lost Sheep's (his mother) watch, but those are issues that I'd rather not discuss right now (For Lost Sheep's sake, not for mine).

He lives in a house with Mothra (his sister), Pollyanna (his grandmother), Cuddly Porcupine (his grandfather), and myself. His grandparents are currently his legal guardians. I gave him the moniker Godzilla because he's two, and he's good at it.

Captain Godzilla

Godzilla is dressed as a pirate right now and will soon wander the streets with Lost Sheep and Pollyanna begging for candy. He will probably be done begging before I get home. This disappoints me. His costume came with a long hair (a la Jack Sparrow) attached to the hat. This is unfortunate, because Godzilla is 2, and can't grow facial hair worth a damn-- the poor lad looks like a girl.

The problem with ferver

By now, you have probably heard that Redstate.com has banned Ron Paul Supporters from posting on their site. If you haven't, here's a little taste of the rationale of the ban:

Effective immediately, new users may *not* shill for Ron Paul in any way shape, form or fashion. Not in comments, not in diaries, nada. If your account is less than 6 months old, you can talk about something else, you can participate in the other threads and be your zany libertarian self all you want, but you cannot pimp Ron Paul. Those with accounts more than six months old may proceed as normal.

Now, I could offer a long-winded explanation for *why* this new policy is being instituted, but I'm guessing that most of you can probably guess. Unless you lack the self-awareness to understand just how annoying, time-consuming, and bandwidth-wasting responding to the same idiotic arguments from a bunch of liberals pretending to be Republicans can be. Which, judging by your comment history, you really don't understand, so allow me to offer an alternate explanation: we are a bunch of fascists and we're upset that you've discovered where we keep the black helicopters, so we're silencing you in an attempt to keep you from warning the rest of your brethren so we can round you all up and send you to re-education camps all at once.

Level of annoyance this causes to the Ron Paul campaign proper (scale of 0-10): 0. This is great free publicity and may even get Dr. Paul a few mentions in "real" news.


Level of perceived annoyance this causes for Ron Paul supporters who can't do much more than copy and paste "RON PAUL 2008" 100 times in a single response: 10. "OMG! The Man's trying to keep us down! They don't want us to be heard!"

Level of actual annoyance this causes for Ron Paul supporters who can't do much more than copy and paste "RON PAUL 2008" 100 times in a single response: 0.5. Relax, chemically imbalanced Ron Paul supporters, nearly the whole rest of the internet is still open and ready to business with you.

Level of annoyance to Ron Paul supporters who seem normal: 8. Now there is a mess to be cleaned up, chemically imbalanced Ron Paul supporters to calm down, and our own morale to pick back up.

Level of annoyance this causes for Redstate.com: 6.84. Evan though Redstate thinks it has solved their problem. Their plight is not yet over. Several times over the last hour I've gotten slow responses from their site, and I predict no fewer than 3,000 emails from angry Ron Paul supporters being angry and 25 from loyal readers of their site being grateful. Not to mention all the extra page views from being dugg or blogged about by The NY Times. That should add a little to the "time-wasting," and "bandwidth-wasting" those poor folks there have to put up with.

I don't need to ask for directions, we're not lost

So now this is a political blog. Tomorrow I may go back to writing about the rugrats who live in my house, fast food, or whining about my job. If I were a more prolific writer, or at least had a longer attention span, I might split my writings into multiple blogs for various topics. But I'm not, and I don't, so I won't. So I'm lost without a topic. I won't be able to keep readers interested, because no one will know upon what topic I will pontificate from day to day. Oh well.

Deal with it.

Schadenfreude

I wouldn't go so far as to kill him, but if Dane Cook's head exploded tomorrow, I probably would experience great joy

I don't want it, really.

I am now making my annual decree:

I do not want any gifts for Christmas!

Or my birthday. Or Easter, Hanukkah, St. Valentine's Day or any other holiday you think requires gift giving. You do not have a clue about my tastes, and I have enough crap.

Now that's out of the way, here are the exceptions:

1. You are under the age of 13. If you have not yet seen the 13th anniversary of your birth, I will accept any and all gifts you wish to give me, and treasure them forever. I still have all the rocks Godzilla picked up when we went walking around the neighborhood.
2. Artwork. But only if you created it, or if it has been appraised for $10,000 (USD) or more in the last six months. If you created it, please limit yourself to one (1) piece of art per gift-giving event, unless you are a good artist. You will know if you are not a good artist when you see your ugly crap in my garbage cans come New Year's. If rule 1 applies, you will not know if you are not a good artist until after you turn 13.
3. Money. If Rule 1 applies, do not give me money. I'll feel bad when I spend it.
4. You. Spend time with me. If you care enough to give me a gift, I probably like you, and will appreciate your time more than any material gift. Also falling into this category is sending me a heartfelt letter or email, or just giving a call and telling me why you like me.

--End decree--

Oh, the happy poo

Hours after lamenting my perceived failure on the subject, Godzilla just sat down on the potty and made a big poo last night. No asking, no cajoling, no reminding, no anything. Just wandered on over to his little potty chair and did his business. We made the required big fuss. It was fantastic. I know it's been said thousands of times, but I am continually amazed at the experiences considered joyful when small children are involved.

High brow stories of poo

Godzilla's having some trouble potty training. The little guy will urinate in his potty regularly, with glee even. But the poo, getting him to poo in the potty is very difficult. When I ask him if he has to go he gets this fearful look in his face that makes me want to cry every time I see it. I somehow think this is my fault, and wish I could make it better for him. Pollyanna tells me this not so, setbacks are common, there is no possible way this could be my fault. She is right, of course, but I just worry about damaging him permanently.

Look where you're going

Along with pissing me off on rural highways, other drivers make me want to cut my Achilles tendon on major limited access roads as well. The early part of my trip home takes me on eight and ten lane sections of Interstate 80. It is often slow going during rush hour, the 9 mile stretch I ride taking fifteen to thirty minutes most days. Occasionally, like last Thursday, it takes much longer.

For about four miles, the traffic was stop and go, taking about forty minutes for the normally ten minute or less stretch of road. I sit and wait. I listen to the traffic on the radio. No mention of my section of 80. No mention of 80 at all. I change the station to music. I move up 100 yards. I stop. I sing. I move up 200 yards. I stop. I change the station back to traffic. Still no mention of why I'm waiting. I yell at no one in particular. I change the station back to music. I move 100 yards.

I repeat this process many times before I finally see what is causing the delay. A two car accident, plus a police car with its lights on. The three vehicles take up only only lane, plus the shoulder. And they're ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD.

Yes, that's right folks, the accident that caused me to lose a half hour of my life breathing the lovely exhaust from hundreds of cars was on the other side of a divided highway.

I have no idea why these people want me to hate them.

Absence makes the heart wither

Since I started my current job, I have had plenty of time to contemplate my existence. Between the 9 hours a day at work, and the 3-4 hours commuting, the voices in my head have a captive audience with little distraction more than 12 hours a day (with the exception of when Cuddly Porcupine drives us both to work- then the voices only get 6 or 7 hours). What I usually end up focusing on is how alone I feel. After working 6 hour days a half hour from home, with my days off usually being weekdays, and being unemployed after that, I miss my time with Godzilla. I used to be able to take him to the playground, walk around the neighborhood, or just sit and read with him for hours at a time. And when other people that he loved came around, he still wanted to spend time with me. I did not fall to the side like I have the past few nights. Godzilla and Mothra are the only things worth anything to me. To be ignored by him, like I have, hurts.

I know he is two. He can't possibly know how much this hurts. I put on a brave face and be happy when he is near me, partly because of my perceived responsibility of eliminating sadness from small children's lives, but partly because if I don't, he'll want to be around me even less. I know he loves me, but I am humanly selfish and want him to love me most.

Pick a pace, please

I like to drive very fast, which is unfortunate, because I drive many two-lane roads on my commute to and from work. I often get stuck behind people who have no business driving on any day but Sunday.

I could probably handle the occasional slowpoke if it were not for the four-lane sections (two in each direction) of these same roads. It is this moment where these inconsiderate sloth-loving asses decide to speed up. That's right, the same idiot who does 30mph (in a 55mph) when I have no opportunity to pass him, accelerates to 70 (with the same 55mph limit) when I do have a chance to get in front of him.

So I am left with two choices. I can either push my crappy 4-cylinder 1996 Chevy Malibu to 80 and try to get past this moron before I'm down to one lane, or I can stay put and end up doing 30 when we merge again.

I have no idea why these people want me to hate them.

Next year has never been so far away

...he gets up! My God he might be able to win this after all! But then, thud. Not only does he not get up again, but a few of the other runners step on him on the way to the finish. It is the most excruciating thing you have ever witnessed. I cannot cry, I cannot move. I stand and stare as the EMTs move to rescue him, part of me not caring because it was his own damn fault. Could be worse, though. I could have been a Buffalo Bills' fan in the early nineties.

Oh wait. I was.

Mothra arrives

Mothra has arrived. She's cute, but other than that, she doesn't do much. Well, she does eat, sleep and crap, but cute is really the only thing going for her right now. Mothra is an unfortunate nom de guerre for a cute little girl., but I wanted to stick with the Japanese monster movie theme, and Godzilla's name definitely fits his personality. Maybe when Mothra develops her own personality, she can get a new one.

The Mets really really suck

The Mets make me feel like the father of a marathon runner who is leads the entire race but trips on his own untied shoelace near the beginning of mile 25. He is tired, but has a comfortable cushion between himself and the rest of the pack. At first, I say, "no big deal, you're still leading." But I notice my long-distance offspring doesn't tie his shoes before he gets back up and starts running again. Around the 25.3 mark, he trips again. Blood trickles from a contusion on his knee. I yell "tie your shoes!" He doesn't hear me over the rest of the crowd. I mutter something under my breath about the manufacturer of his overpriced sneakers. At 25.7, it happens again. His hands are partly crimson now. This time, a few other people are yelling with me for him to tie his shoes. He still doesn't hear. He gets up slowly, in pain, and visibly more tired than before. I curse the guy who sold him this wretched footwear. Again, at mile 26 he falls again. He is so tired he cannot slow his tumble; his head hits the ground. Blood of scalp mixes with the sweat of marathon and tears of pain. He gets up much slower this time. He licks the salty pink cocktail as it drips down his face. Nearly the entire crowd yells for my son to tie his shoes. He looks down as he starts to jog, but the sound of approaching runners makes him think twice. Only now does my blame shift the to my moron child who didn't notice his shoes were untied. He looks more determined than before, but is acutely aware of where his feet land, making sure to not step on a shoelace. This slows him down considerably. The pack closes in. At 26.1, he falls again. For a moment, he can hear the individual footsteps of his approaching competitors, until the crowd, nearly unanimously, starts cheering for him to rise, but also swear at him for not tying his shoes when he had the chance. He doesn't get up. The pack is nearly on him now...

Stinky feet

I have decided I no longer care what my car smells like after driving home with my shoes off.

Adolf was evil, dude

There's a bumper sticker on a pick-up that regularly parks near me in the employee lot here at work. It reads, "Hitler was a politician." My first thought was, I wonder if politicians should be insulted, or should Hitler?"

 

Now before someone reads (ha!) this and starts trying to figure out who I am so they can come burn my house down, or leaves "my wife is county clerk in Onlynicepeoplelivehere, WI, and she's wonderful!" messages (again, ha) please note that I do not believe that any US politicians has killed tens of millions of people nor that any of them have tried to take over Europe through military means.

 

My problem is I think they want to. Maybe not so much the extermination of a certain class/ethnicity/race or whatever, but at a certain level of government (not sure what level, but I'm pretty sure it starts around statewide offices), a politician needs to have enough unchecked ambition to get elected. That stuff doesn't just go away.

 

To transmogrify a Dwight Eisenhower quote: "Anyone who wants to president should not be allowed to."

Half a ton, here I come

I eat when I am hungry, when I'm depressed, when I'm angry, when I'm bored. I have no self control when it comes to eating. Being in a state of fullness does not stop my eating. This was not an issue when I worked in a stockroom of a major retail chain, on my feet all day, lifting 25 50 pound bags of dog food in a few minutes, or climbing on top of those giant warehouse shelves because a single package of toilet paper fell and no one can reach it through normal methods.

 

But now, I sit. I answer phones, type occasionally, and stare at a computer monitor. I only have to type after the phone rings, and the phone doesn't ring that often. So mostly it's the staring. Occasionally, I get to switch off to watching my plant grow. To the fill the gaps, I eat. I eat banana chips and pretend they're healthy. I eat Peanut Butter M&Ms, cookies, crackers, and Jolly Ranchers. I bring my lunch back to my desk so I don't have to talk to anyone. Maybe I can keep how miserable I am a secret a little bit longer.

 

But I am grateful to have a job. I am. I got fired from the last one. But I got this job because of who I know, not because of who I am. The position I fill did not exist before I got here, and probably will not after I leave. The sitting would not be so bad if I had something to do. But I don't. So I post moronic things on a blog that no one will ever read. And I eat. And read other people's blogs.

 

Today and yesterday I have been reading Sweet Juniper!, by two parents who go by Dutch (the dad), and Wood (the mom). Its literary style (the parts I have read, anyway) is a mixture of the New Yorker, The Simpsons, Fawning Parent Magazine, and Let's Forget That We Are Adults Once in a While Quarterly. It is well written and self-depreciating without making the authors sound self-loathing. They speak of their child with great frequency (that is what the blog is about) without turning into those parents who won't shut up about their child. In short, I hate them. One gave up on being a lawyer to stay home with their kid-- and there's another on the way; both finished law school in less time it took me to get my bachelor's degree-- oh fuck, I forgot-- that's still on my to do list. Did I forget to mention that they love each other very much and continue to express their undying affection for each other?

 

So here I remain, in a job I hate because I have no other prospects, having no other prospects because I haven't finished my degree, wishing that at the very least my job could be a little closer to home so I could see the frickin' awesome two year old that lives there for more than hour a day while he's awake, reading about other people's lives that I wish I had. And eating.

Dear Mom and Dad please don't kidnap me.

If you're driving me somewhere, and we discover when we get there the event has been canceled, there's a good chance I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYWHERE ELSE. I WANT TO GO HOME. Especially if your backup plan is just driving around aimlessly. This is kidnapping. If you weren't family, I'd press charges.

Mets win, finally

For the first time in nearly a week the Mets' magic number went down. Guess I was wrong about their sucking.

Office plant

This is my office plant. I an growing it from a cutting from someone else's office plant. I have had it in water for nearly two weeks now, but no roots. At least It's not dead yet. The post-it is a sign bearing "CA or Bust," from one of its escape attempts, and the pen is for drawing up other plans for escape. I can't be sure, but I think the note & pen are really the work of my cube-neighbor with an off sense of humor.

Update 25 Sep: Still not dead, still no roots.

By the way...

...my Mets really suck

Lots of meat for a scurvy dog

Arrrrrrrr. I ate one of them thirds last night, and aye, me thought, what's the big deal? Sure it's better than what crawls out of the bungholes in most schools in the new world, but it not be better than some salted meat, limes and rum. So much for making sacrifices.

1st pic

Diet Mountain Dew doesn't suck as much as other diet drinks. It's still not that good, but my new job has me sitting most of the day, so I must make sacrifices.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Tomorrow is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, and for the first time, this disappoints me so. I am now working what one could call a "grown-up" job, an am required to answer a phone in a (sigh) professional manner. I work for a large company, and I work in an IT support department. I've already been told that answering the phone "Ahoy! Thank ye for callin' IT support. What can First Mate Dick" (my pirate name) "be doing for a landlubber like yeself?" would not be good for my future employ here, especially if the CEO's executive assistant calls. I hate being a grown up.

The beginning, again, take 2

I could tell you how many times I've started one of these, but I'd be
making a number up. I used to think I would be a popular blog author.
For reasons that I am unable to explain, people like listening to me.
But I am undisciplined. Here goes nothing, again.

I've decided to leave my failed attempt at first post intact. I find
it amusing. The settings on my work computer don't like Blogspot's
editor.

Oh well.

The beginning, again