Early Signs, Vol. 2 - Plot

Sitting here watching my beloved SEC lay an egg on New Year's Day. Largely tuning out commercials, when an apparent news report catches my eye.

Reporter: "And this just in, a small commercial plane has just crash landed in an upscale subdivision."

Max Boom, from his upscale(ish) neighborhood, perks up.

Reporter: "Here we have pictures of several victims being wheeled into the ER."

Max Boom, noticing the perfect lighting and the all-white constiuency of the ER, notes to himself "Good one, ER, or Trauma, or whatever one of you cheeseball hospital dramas you are, you got me for all of 5 seconds. Buy your ad man a snowball or something." Returns to picking fingernails.

Deepvoiced network announcer: "So tune in to next week's Desperate Housewives to find out who is injured, who shows up to console the victims..." blah, blah, blah.

Look, it's a free country. People can and do tune into shows that I can't for the life of me figure out how an amoeba would find interesting. That's all fine.

The question is this-- If you are one of the gay men or bon bon eating true "desparate housewives" looking to indulge in a little fantasy "projection" TV experiences, what do the scriptwriters and the programmers think of you?

ABC Boardroomm CEO: "Wait, let me get this straight. You have a show about a bunch of adulterous women living in a small neighborhood. One of likely millions of similar neighborhoods across the country. And you're suggesting that anyone with even an elementary education will accept that a small commuter plane, the kind which maybe crashes into an occupied area once every couple of years, will actually crash into one of your 6 main characters' houses?"

Desparate Housewives Scriptwriter: "Yes sir, I do. With all do respect, you don't know our target audience like we do."

You, yeah, you acting in the next 5 minutes in order to get that 2nd sham-wow absolutely free-- they're lookin' at you.

North Dakota Banking

I have no idea why this doesn't get more press. North Dakota has its own bank. OK, big deal. Except that it is a big deal. It is the only state that has kept banking within its borders, and not gone national (note, Puerto Rico is not a state). It has kept the Federal Reserve's hands out of its banking sector. Bank accounts held with the Bank of North Dakota are not FDIC insured, and instead are insured by the state of North Dakota. All state and local government agencies are required to keep their reserves in the Bank of North Dakota.

What does this mean? It means that the state's monetary policies are not beholden to an entity that for all intents and purposes is based on Wall Street for the enrichment of Wall Street. OK, again, this is a big deal.

How does that manifest itself? For one, it's a lot more dialed in on its constituents' risk profiles. Because it's operations are generally confined to within state borders, you don't see it's loans being securitized and sold to pensions, sovereign wealth funds, etc.

In a nutshell, it's a safer system because the closer you can pair the banker with the borrower, the more accountability you have in the system. What's the result?

Admittedly it isn't far and away #1, and it seems those states in geographic proximity also fair generally well, but for sure its unemployment reflects reasonably prudant fiscal discipline. Best graphic I can find-- follow North Dakota vs. everyone else. Furthermore, I'm willing to bet that it continues to overachieve even against its neighbors over the next 12 months, as unemployment will almost certainly continue to climb nationally.

Hurricane!

Bonnie's Best: "...oom... ... in Boom... this is Bonnie's Best, come in General Boom..."
Max Boom: "General Boom here, go ahead."
Bonnie's Best: "We have a man down. Repeat, we have a man down."
Max Boom: "Copy. What's the situation?"
Bonnie's Best: "It was Early Bird. He was running point against Ida. He was under heavy fire from the west all day and just took a direct hit."





Max Boom: "Roger that, I'm on my way."
Bonnie's Best: "Negative, General. It's too dangerous. It's pouring. The wind. Save yourself!"
Max Boom: "We don't leave a man behind! Roma, thoughts?"
Roma: "It's too dangerous!"
Max Boom: "Enough! WE DON'T LEAVE A MAN BEHIND! Options?"
Roma: "We might be able to fashion a splint with the paint stirrer?"
Bonnie's Best: "We can possibly nail the splint to the base, and use tourniquets at the top. You'll be under heavy fire the whole time.
Max Boom: "OK, we have no choice. I'll give it a shot."
Better Boy: "General, it's too dangerous. Save yourself!"
Max Boom: "I have to try, damn it!"
Roma: "We're all pulling for you!"







Bonnie's Best: "Will...he...make it? Will the stake hold"
Roma: "Is Early Bird too badly injured? Will he see it through the night?"
Max Boom: "I don't know. I just don't know."

Halloween in the 'Burbs

"You doin' drumsticks this year?" Chip asked.
"You got fresh batteries for the witch's microphone?" I replied.

He smiled. As if either of us had a choice.

Living in a planned community has its pros and cons. As a man who needs his space, I think the cons probably outweigh the pros. That being written, Halloween is one of those few times of year where it's nice to be part of a tight knit neighborhood.

I'm a guy who likes to have a shtick. As a relative newcomer in the neighborhood with only 4 years of tenure, most of the good Halloween roles had already been taken upon my arrival. Hayrides are handled by Earl. There's Jello Shot George, keeping parents focused on the real meaning of Halloween. I could build a haunted house in my garage, but I'd have to compete against Syracuse Dan and his 8 year track record (and who has been planning this year's spookfest since November 1 of last year.)

It took a couple of years, but I now have an official place on the neighborhood team. I'm the drumstick guy.

Ladies, keep the undergarments on. I'm happily married.

At 6:00 p.m. 45 chicken drumsticks hit the grill. Not wingettes, mind you. Full blown drumsticks. Seasonings and low heat, they cook for 45 minutes until perfectly browned and juicy. A very light coating of barbecue sauce, another 5 minutes of cooking and they're ready for their spot on the driveway table next to the paper towels, wipes and the candy bowl.

The keys are outstanding seasoning and not boiling in advance, but fully cooking on the grill. That and a bunch of hungry, mostly drunk parents.

I gave away 41 drumsticks last night, all to people I know from the neighborhood. Ms. Fire and I each had 2. Outside tourists were welcome to candy, but I think most left disappointed with a watering mouth.

The morning after, when you're washing off the sin and the face paint you missed from the night before, looking in the mirror trying to piece together how you managed to shephard your kids around the neighborhood in one piece while drinking heavily for 4 straight hours, you always remember 3 or 4 houses that stuck out. My house is on that list.

Early Signs, Vol. 1 - Turn Signals

Debated whether to title this "Middle Signs" or "Late Signs", but as ab and Ghost would opine I'm forever the optimist. So instead of saying we peaked 20 years ago as a society, I'm going to be rosy and say we're peaking now.

This won't be an indictment against the entire race, only the America-centric culture into which our great grandparents were probably the first generation born, and we the last.

Turn signals on a car are interesting. They're mostly a courtesy. Wrecks aren't overturned based on evidence of "He had his signal on." You might get a ticket making an unsignaled right at a Dunkin' Donuts, but that's about it.

A blinker. "I'm going this way, hope that info helps." "Hey, we're all out here together, trying to navigate through more obstacles at higher speeds on tighter time demands-- let me do my part." "I care about you."

I started driving over half my life ago. I see fewer turn signals used. The care is gone. Our steel horses are no longer for utility. They are armor in a fight club.

Blinkers are an early sign of societal discord. I'll hit more.

Garden V2.0

So the first garden, if graded in a corporate environment, would have received a score of "Failed to Meet Expectations." Not terminated, mind you, but definitely put on notice.

Against that backdrop we decided to give it a go again. First step was to clear out the old garden. A couple of the better boy tomatoes survived the summer (presumably due to superior husbandry by your's truly), as did a number of basil plants and some carrots.





Now those pictures were taken 3 weeks ago and archived in case our employee failed to improve his performance and required termination. Fortunately, he got the message. We're on a rol(e or l, I couldn't decide.)

My Truck

So my truck hit 100,000 miles right as I was leaving my office garage. I can say with certainty that I’ve driven over 99,000 of those miles. Maybe even 99,500. Nah, digging through the bar fly banter memory banks, and of Ms. Fire’s endless patience as a chaperone after a long night collecting research, it’s probably closer to 99,000.

I love this truck, so please indulge my blathering.

This is the first vehicle I ever bought myself. By my best estimations, the dealer probably made 50% on the transaction. They’re probably still telling stories about me. Sprayed bed liner - you bet. Undercoating protection – a must have. Gloss coat protection – how could I live without it? My only demand was that they acknowledge the almighty providence of my trade-in, a 1992 4-Runner affectionately called TurboDog. So I smoothly negotiated its trade in value from $2,000 to $2,500, got myself inked up for 5 years at 5.9% financing and we were off to the races.

The fun we’ve had. Oh, I was a little mad at the big guy at first for not speaking up as I was getting bent over the barrel at the dealership, but nothing a few roars of his 5.4 liter Triton V.8 wouldn’t fix. And it’s no understatement to note that those electronic seat warmers saved my ass on a few cold DC mornings. They say a machine can’t think, but I know, absolutely KNOW, that my truck knew the way home from Uno’s in Bethesda to my Casa de Mierda in Herndon.

I don’t pamper him as much as he deserves. He hasn’t been washed in months, but I’m pretty sure he’s OK with that. Oil changes are fewer and further between than recommended. I could feel his suspicion when I installed ‘Lil Bang’s carseat in the middle back seat —ferrying children being women’s work and all. But I think he secretly gets a kick when he activates the automatic air and ‘Lil Bang laughs.

He’s picked up a few scars along the way. A tree branch’s scratch on the side, gone unattended, is starting to show a little sign of rust. Some minor scratches on the roof, received from an overhead parking garage girder the one time I let Ms. Fire drive him to work, are still there. The 2 busted locks earned defending himself from would-be thieves have not been replaced. I leave them there as a reminder to the next set of thieves to not even waste their time trying to breach the fort.

I’ve worn a hole in the floormat, whose color has been discontinued. And he’s been begging me for the past 2 years to replace his trailer hitch, stolen while at a party. He says he feels neutered. I’m hoping Santa leaves him a little something in his stocking this year. Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the BB gun pot shot he sustained driving home one evening. It's hard to count this one, though, as he's been known to show it off to the girls (read "Chevy's") in the parking lot of my local watering hole.

Yup, the ol’ boy is also starting to show his age. The air conditioner just went out. He’d never admit it, but I’m pretty sure the control panel failure was directly linked to too many automatic on/off cycles for ‘Lil Bang’s enjoyment. Easy call to spend the $1,000 to give him his game back. The transmission chatters a little between 3rd and 4th under the right circumstances. Like a snoring spouse, it’s a habitual tic I’ve learned to ignore. It’ll go out one of these days, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, I trust him as he trusts me.

The financial environment has dictated that we’re going to be partners for a while yet to come. I’m fortunate that we’re such friends.

Here’s to 100,000 more, buddy.