Where is the freakin cellphone?

I'm very careful with my cellphone, but, on the very rare occasion, I put it down somewhere without thinking. I'm sure no one else does that. I'm alone in my absentmindedness.

Anyhow, a few days ago, I went to pick up my phone, and it was not on the desk where I always, carefully, faithfully, without fail, place it. It was not there. I was a bit worried, because I once had one of those handy little holsters they give us broke, and my phone fell off in the street. Luckily, an honest passerby found it and I was able to retrieve it.

I pick up the landline in the kitchen and call my cell number, waiting for the ring. Sure enough, I hear the ring in the living room. I walk into the living room, looking for the sound, but no, now it sounds like it's in the bedroom. Into the bedroom. Nothing, and the phone stops ringing. It's waiting for a message.

Hang up. Back to the kitchen. Redial. Ringing in the living room again. Back to the living room. Now I have it figured out. Its in the loft next to my computer. Up the stairs. Nothing on the computer desk. The phone stops ringing. It's waiting for another message. I doubt that a message will do me much good.

Back to the kitchen. Redial. Ringing in the living room. I look under the couch cushions, on the floor, in my coat. Nothing. The phone stops ringing. Disgusted, I sit down.

Segue and cue the television. Have you seen the commercial with the woman holding the baby with the cellphone? Every time she turns around, the phone seems to be behind her.

Yep. When I got out of my car, my cell phone was pushed around behind me. The lump in my back when I sat on the couch gave me the final clue. No wonder it always seemed to be ringing from somwhere else. I guess this is the electronic version of searching for glasses while they're perched on the top of your head.

There's an old joke . . .

. . . about a lady worm in a cotton field. She was being romanced by two male worms. One commanded great territory in the field, but was arrogant and rude. The other had a much smaller wormdom, but was polite and kind. After much thought, naturally, the lady chose the lesser of the two weevils.

Which leads me to:

WASHINGTON, AP 02/20/07 - Democratic Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton must win 57 percent of the remaining primary and caucus delegates to erase Barack Obama's
lead, a daunting task requiring landslide-sized victories by a struggling presidential candidate.

How does this relate, you might ask? Well, it places my preferred candidate, John McCain, against the lesser of . . . well, you know. I simply cannot brook another eight years of Clintons in the white house. I just can't.

I fancy myself a centrist, although I'm probably a little right of center. My concern with Obama is that he's inexperienced, is running primarily on words as opposed to platforms, and that his voting record is too socialistic for me.

However, I do believe that he's an honest man who intends to do the right thing. Hillary, on the other hand, carries the rather soiled baggage of the Clinton years. Positions taken by reading the direction of the wind sock. Deploying vicious retribution against any naysayers. I truly believe that the Clintons (and you cannot separate them - they're a package) are in it for the power, and the power alone. I don't believe that Hillary is immoral, but rather that she is amoral, and lacking a guiding compass.

So, although I can't vote for Obama, I hope he becomes the nominee . . . and has the enormous good sense NOT to add Hillary to the ticket.

Your mileage may vary.

Nihanto . . .

. . . or what you would call a "Samurai sword."

My grandfather, John Osborne was an eclectic gentleman. Scoutmaster, Eagle Scout, church deacon, soldier, militaria collector, woodworker, gardner and fisherman. He was also diabetic, and died in 1957 at the age of 66. I was only fourteen.

He had a shed that he jokingly (I hope) called his "doghouse." Presumably for use when he and grandma . . . well, never mind. I remember that the doghouse had a small bunk bed, a gun rack and lots of other stuff. Grandma gave me quite a few items from the doghouse, and I still have them all. But I recently became interested in finding out more about a rather plain-looking sword that appeared to be a Japanese Nihonto.

All I knew about Samurai swords, I learned from the movies - which means that everything I knew was incorrect. Thank heaven for the internet.

I thought that the scabbard was very plain, because I was used to all the movie glitter. I found out that the sword was encased in a storage scabbard (shirasaya). The shirasaya protects the sword when it is not mounted for carry and use.

I learned that the information concerning the maker and dating of the sword was located on the tang (nagako). One side of the nagako usually has the date (nengo) and the other side has the smith's signature (mei).

Are you bored yet? There's more.

I was hoping against hope that this would be an ancient, valuable nihonto, weilded by a famous swordsman. OK, that's not likely, but one can always hope.

When I carefully removed the handle (tsuka), I found the expected inscriptions (kanji). The kanji are read from top to bottom. I rotated the pictures to cut down the length of the post - so if you read Japanese, I apologize for the crick in your neck.

This is the nengo or dating of the blade. It reads Showa jyu hachi nen san gatsu kichi jitsu, which means: "on a fortunate day in March in the 18th year of the reign of Emperor Hirohito, (March, 1944).

This is the mei or swordsmith's signature. It reads oiete toto hizen no kuni Tadamitsu tsukuru kore, which means: "at Tokyo, Tadamitsu of Hizen Province made this".

Regardless of whether or not this sword is worth any $$$$, it has great sentimental value to me - and I learned something. It's always a good day when you learn something.

Grandpa, I know you're watching from somewhere, and I want you to know that I still eat those salami sandwiches you used to make for me when we went fishing. Oh, and I can't pick a fresh tomato without thinking of your garden between the "doghouse" and the workshop.

Daytona

I'm not a big NASCAR fan. My motorsport happens to be drag racing. Legal drag racing, that is. However, I will watch something as huge as the Daytona 500, since it is the kickoff of the season.

Trisha Yearwood sang the National Anthem this year. It was very nice not to be forced to listen to an improvised hip-hoppy "improvement."

Oh, and you louts in the crowd . . . take off your hats. Didn't your momma teach you anything?

But then, why should anyone listen to me? I'm obviously on the low-budget end of the food chain.

My blog is worth $564.54.
How much is your blog worth?

Politically incorrect . . .

. . . courtesy of Penn Gillette

“Obama is just creaming Hillary. You know, all these primaries, you know. And Hillary says it’s not fair, because they’re being held in February, and February is Black History Month. And unfortunately for Hillary, there’s no White Bitch Month.”

Her cradle was a rubbish bin, her pillow, construction debris.






Nobody ever claimed the infant girl, who was found dead of abdominal injuries near Norfolk's Campostella neighborhood nearly two years ago by a man who at first didn't trust his eyes.

The baby was ferried to her grave in Roosevelt Memorial Park in Chesapeake on Thursday morning in a Cadillac hearse. Her casket was tiny, white, immaculate. Tulips marked the grave of the child, named "Baby Grace" by police. Nearly 30 people stood at her grave site to pay tribute.

So wrote Matthew Roy in The Virginian Pilot this morning. I remember when "Baby Grace" was found two years ago. There was an intense search for her mother - or anyone who may have known her. No one was ever found.

This article hit me harder than I expected. Maybe it's because I have children of my own, and by now they have children also. Maybe it's because we attended a funeral with a tiny casket for my oldest son's first daughter. Or, maybe it's just the inhumanity . . .

I don't know the mother's situation. Maybe she's in her own personal hell. We're told not to judge. But, in this situation, I can't help it. I can only hope that Grace's mother read the Pilot this morning, and somehow summons the courage to come forward. If not, may her personal hell continue, and eventually become eternal.

The coffin had a teddy bear carved in the top.

I cried . . .

Berkely . . . STFU! Yep, you heard me. STFU!

In case you have been missing the news over the last couple of weeks, those dregs of pond scum, otherwise known as the Berkely, California city council, voted to tell the Marine recruiters to get out of town.

The city manager was directed to send a letter to the U.S. Marine Corps saying they are "uninvited and unwelcome intruders" in the city. This, while members of the Corps are serving in harm's way.

Now, everyone has the right to free speech. They have a perfect right to oppose the war. I am certainly not a fan of the way the war has been prosecuted. It has been FUBAR since Saddam's statue was toppled. However, directing this childish, ignorant, schoolyard tripe at volunteers serving their contry in time of war is about 5,000 feet left of reprehensible.

Today, we find that the council has reversed itself . . . sort of. They are rescinding their request - without apology, I might add. It seems that two unintended consequences surfaced. First, an uproar of about 8.5 on the Richter scale erupted, and second, it seems that some $3 Million of their state-supplied transportation funds and $2.3 Million in Federal earmarks would be on the same bus out of town.

I'm not sure which had the larger effect, but seven of the nine council members were suddenly opposed to the ordinance they had passed just two weeks earlier. How does the old joke go? We know what you are . . . we're just negotiating the price. Speech may be free, but often, it is not without consequence.

"The Marines ought to have better sense than to come here."
- Councilmember Betty Olds

Bitch, I hope you never need them . . .

Oh. Look who showed up at the protest.