Category: Life

So, gentle reader, as you might know, I am light on the work hours currently, which means that I get the chance to go to the gym a couple of mornings a week. Which would be great, and I would love to do an AoSHQ GAINZZZZ thread extolling my accomplishments there, but, really, all I know is that everyone is all of sudden a Gladys.

I guess it came to mind a couple of days ago when a post showed up in my Facebook Memories:

So as I am slowly working my way back into some shape (probably a rhombus), I’m suddenly confronted with the whole world of Gladyses.

Continue reading “Jeez, Everyone’s A Gladys Now” →

So I took a picture of D&D Home Services in Nixa because I was thinking about doing a post about it:

I was going to go off onto a schtick about “What would Dungeons and Dragons Home Services include? Gelatinous cube whole house decluttering and dusting?” and so on.

From the back seat, my oldest told us mentioned Wholesale Auto Paints, whose logo and sign on Glenstone feature the unfortunate abbreviation WAP which shares the letters of but probably not the philosophy of the recent Cardi B song. Well, he called it Warehouse Auto Paints, and it was I who explained the song to my beautiful wife, who was a bit aghast and termed it vulgar. I said it was the 2020 version of the oldie O.P.P., the 1991 song by Naughty By Nature, and she tried to defend the earlier song, saying that it was musical. Mostly, though, I hold that one considers different things vulgar when one is 19 than when one is (does math) thirty-something. But it was an interesting moment nevertheless.

I also mentioned Springfield Tool and Die, whose business stems from 1960 apparently. Its buildings are proudly emblazoned with STD, a term that would come to mean something entirely different in 1975, apparently.

Which is why I was very careful, gentle reader, when coining and popularizing (well, coining anyway) the abbreviation MfBJN for the name of this blog. Because if it’s ever going to mean something else, it is something that will still likely apply to me.

Thank you, that is all.

So I was telling my beautiful wife about this overpriced Facebook-advertised tchotchke that I ordered for my youngest son for Christmas (and will no doubt see advertisements for it now that I have actually ordered it because clearly I am a good lead for this particular vendor, and that’s how Internet advertising works).

I explained it was a little like pachinko:

“It’s a pegboard where you drop a little metal ball down it, but it has specific gates and things that will guide the way the ball rolls down the board…” I said. Or words to that effect, gentle reader; I did not take down the conversation verbatim, but it’s as real as any conversation you’ll read in a Norman Vincent Peale book.

“Don’t you mean Plinko?” she asked.

Which led me to question, Did I mean Plinko? So I researched it quickly to verify that the game pachinko actually exists and to show her details about it. The boy’s gift is more like pachinko, by the way; Plinko uses a disk and just pegs, whereas pachinko uses balls and bumpers of various kinds. It’s a bit like pinball, but it’s often a gambling device. The boy’s school has a board they use for carnivals and whatnot, and an Internet image search indicates a lot of schools do.

So you know I would like to turn this into some indicator of the differences in our upbringing–that I grew up working class in seedy taverns and she grew up in a comfortable suburban family that watched The Price Is Right. But the seedy taverns, which really weren’t that bad, didn’t have pachinko machines (I grew up in Milwaukee, not Tokyo). That I knew my pachinko from my Plinko probably stems from the fact that I read more widely (id est, randomly) than she does.

To be honest, I’m not sure if that came off of our Christmas tree or if a festive assassin dropped it.

All I know is that it’s now got my finger prints on it, and, Oh, my God, it’s a merryguffin, isn’t it?

I doubt “Cyber Monday” is much of a thing any more, really; back around the turn of the century, people did a bunch of Christmas shopping at work the Monday after Thanksgiving because their employers had fast Internet connections, and if people had Internet at all at home, it was dial-up (I can’t believe I have to explain this, but we are twenty years on). Now, everyone has a faster Internet connection in their pocket and the shopping apps on their phone, so you can buy what you want when you think of it.

I recycled this post from Facebook, where I originally posted this image five years ago. I don’t really do The Facebook any more; it’s for old people. Actually, no, I am an old people; it’s just that Facebook has, perhaps by its own design, gone from a place to share quips and pictures of your dog to the common Internet comments section, except starring people you actually knew sometime as the rando trolls.

I have signed up for MeWe, but it lacks (so far) a critical mass of people I know to make it worthwhile.

So, gentle reader, you get the bulk of my blat-something-into-the-aether communication efforts for the nonce. And occasional recycled content when appropriate.

Actually, it’s not true here at Nogglestead, fortunately. As my grandmother mentioned that she liked reading my letters and read them several times, I took to writing her once or twice a month, so I have a good running commentary of 2020 in almost real time. The real challenge, of course, will be distilling 2020 down into a one pager. It’s easier looking back at the end of the year, when the first four or five things I remember become the contents of the Christmas letter. With all this extra information at my fingertips, I have to prioritize.

Which will give me an excuse to put it off until it’s almost too late, at which time I will put in the first four or five things I think of just to get it done.

Never let it be said that I lack a process or procedure for writing the annual Christmas missive. Do let it be said it is not a good process or procedure.

Apparently, Roark liked it.

It was just the four of us this year. Five, if you count Roark, who was very brazen in his turkey hunting this year.

Now, some of the regularly scheduled holiday soul-searching below the fold.

Continue reading “Thanksgiving Dining Review” →

Last weekend, I undertook the lengthy project of reconfiguring the electronics of Nogglestead. I’m going to be a bit long-winded about it, so I will tuck this under the fold. But it does contain a single useful tip, maybe.

Continue reading “The Recombined Electronica of Nogglestead” →

I used to post stuff like this on Facebook, gentle reader, but I’m not spending much time over there these days, so you get them instead.

Continue reading “Ozark Multisport Life #2” →

So the youngest boy has a laptop provided by his school that includes monitoring software that gives us insight into the sites he’s visiting and the searches that he’s conducting. The older boy, who has a laptop issued by the public school, has no such software installed; what happens in Public School, stays in Public School, you know.

But what I found on my youngest son’s search list was SHOCKING and DISTURBING.

Continue reading “Shocking Internet Searches My Children Perform” →

Candace Cameron Bure calls sex ‘the blessing of marriage’ after backlash over handsy pic:

Candace Cameron Bure is reflecting on backlash she received from Christian fans who took issue with a photo of husband Valeri Bure cupping the actress’ breast on Instagram.

Valeri Bure played for the Blues in a handful of games when I was heavily watching the team in the early part of the century. As such, he is first and foremost a St. Louis Blue, not the husband of a childhood televisions star.

Kind of like I think of Paul Kariya and Wayne Gretzky as St. Louis Blues. And anyone who ever played for the Packers is a Packer unless they go to the Bears later, in which case ::makes Italian kiss-off gesture::.

I don’t care that there isn’t an Italian kiss-off gesture in Italy. They don’t have Bears fans in Italy. If they did, they would have one. One which Francis of Assisi would have developed.

Some years ago, when my beautiful wife was in the hospital overnight (probably after emitting a boy), I asked her if I could bring her anything.

“Tristan,” she said, referring to her white cat.

Well, I could not bring the cat to the hospital, so I picked up a stuffed white cat for her. It has bounced around the bedroom and perhaps her office since and was not turned over the the boys as the other stuffed animals from our youth were (okay, mine, amongst them Edwin, Pooky, and a large bear I received for Valentine’s Day once–I have since reclaimed Edwin, and the bear is in our closet as the boys have outgrown stuffed animals mostly, but apparently we parents have not, and how did this all of a sudden become about me?).

At any rate, earlier this week, someone turned down the bed in the master bedroom (yes, we turn down the beds in the evenings and clear the decorative pillows from them before bedtime–I started doing this when my wife was traveling a bunch for work, and I wanted to give her a more upscale feeling when she came home). In addition to not doing it the right way–that is, my way, the person put Tristan II between the pillows, which would not have worked at all as that’s where Athena sleeps at night.

So I put it in the crossbar of the canopy bed (minus canopy, because they’re expensive, and we stripped my sheers-held-in-place-with-magnets solution one of the times we converted the canopy bed to a sleigh bed or a mere four-poster bed) to recreate the poster that was on the walls of pretty much every classroom in Carleton Elementary and many offices besides.

It’s been there for a number of days without comment. Perhaps I need to pin or tape paper with the “Hang In There” text.

Or, more likely, now that I have amused myself (and perhaps you, gentle reader), perhaps I will just take it down and put it back on her dresser.

Also, I suppose I will have to stop calling you gentle reader as you have learned that I still have a stuffed animal or two in adulthood and will probably come rough me up for my lunch money.

On my desk this morning: A leftover bratwurst and the remaining quarter of one of my beautiful wife’s homemade pizzas.

Not depicted: Lots of coffee.

Clearly, I am not picky when I am half awake.

In putting up our Christmas trees this weekend, I rearranged the lower level ever-so-slightly.

Whoa, Brian J., we don’t like change! you might say, which explains why you’re here–you’re a lot like me.

Because, let’s face it, we have not made a lot of changes to the furniture arrangements at Nogglestead, mostly because the furniture only fits in the rooms certain ways.

Continue reading “The Slow Change Of Nogglestead” →

Although I said October 22 that this might be the earliest Christmas ever at Nogglestead and although we have been playing the Christmas radio station on the console stereo for a couple of weeks from sun up to bedtime, it was only this weekend that we got our Christmas decorations out. We put up the trees and got the lights on on Saturday and put the household decorations (including 2020’s upcoming Christmas straggler) on Sunday. Which led me to some musings, as things often do.

Continue reading “Musings on Christmas Decorations” →

My apologies to Bobby Fuller and the guys, but I saw these automated floor cleaning machines twice this week: once at Sam’s Club and once at Walmart.

I mean, I grew up on seventies science fiction where robots were pretty stock. However, here on earth in the 21st century, nothing is driving their adoption quite like political pressures that do nothing but put people out of work and make the adoption of bleeding edge technologies the affordable alternative.

I mentioned in July that I resubscribed to the Wall Street Journal in part of a paper-subscribing frenzy and because we opened a brokerage account for our oldest for his birthday.

Well, the oldest has not shown much interest in the paper, finance, or his brokerage account (he is in high school and has is own phone now, and donchaknow that meatspace as the old timers call it is for old timers). And, as is the norm, the papers started piling up unread until I would (or will) months later tear through them weeks at a time, only glancing at the headlines and shaking my head, thinking We had it so good then; I know how all of this turns out.

And, well, to be honest, I’ve found their reporting to be a little less that straight up during the election season and post-election.

Trump lashes out, having a tantrum, but the Democrats, adults that they are, air frustrations. Got it, straight up news there.

You know, I can get that sort of thing from a Gannett rag for a fifth of the price.

You cannot cancel your subscription on the Web site; you have to call in. I did, and I was on hold for thirty minutes before I got to a customer service rep who offered me a free two weeks to reconsider–or to forget that I want to cancel, or to dread waiting thirty minutes on hold again. I declined.

Because the paper made me sign-up month-to-month (cynically, I think so that they could easily raise the price without my notice at their first opportunity). This means I will not have spent a whole year’s worth on it, and it means I still have another month coming before it ends.

I am pretty sure that it will stack up unless I make a concerted effort to clear it out, and I might as I try to get some sort of record player running this holiday season which might involve putting a component system in the parlor. If the turntable I bought at a garage sale seven years ago works, and if the failing receiver I have can funnel audio to speakers properly, and so on.

At any rate, this has also made me realize that I haven’t seen a Wright City Journal (WCJ)–to which I also subscribed in July–in months, so I’ve reached out to them to see what’s going on. I think I’d rather read it than the Wall Street Journal for the most part.

But you know what I will miss? The feature writing in the Personal Journal and Friday/weekend sections along with the book, television, movie, and music reviews. The same things I rather miss out of the National Review. I wish we still had general interest magazines that carried that sort of thing regularly. Let me know in the comments if you have some recommendations. First Things also has a pretty good back section, although its selections are fittingly theological and Catholic in nature.