Category: Life

The other day, I bad a couple minutes to spare, so I thought I’d do so as a proper Lileksian: I decided I’d try out the new Relics Antique Mall on Battlefield Road here in Springfield. I had about 30 minutes, and I knew I would not have time to go through the whole thing, but I’d have the chance to review the self-proclaimed Largest Antique Mall in Missouri (larger than all the other largest antique malls in Missouri, and I think they all claim it). So I turn into the driveway by the huge sign and pull into the parking lot of a large warehouse-or-manufacturing-plant-looking building stuffed between a couple of warehouse and manufacturing style facilities.

The building has two narrow glass doors on either side with no other windows on the building. As I start looking for a parking spot, I see a small 9.5″ by 11″ sign on the first door I pass: Not an Entrance. No identifiers on it. The second door has a similar sign on it, but I didn’t see it clearly. Only that neither of the doors clearly said “Entrance” or “Relics” or offered business hours. They looked like the entrances to, well, an office building or a plant of some sort. Suddenly and sullenly, I was no longer in the mood for an antiquing expedition. And I left.

Because I didn’t know where the damn entrance was.

One thing that trips my Grrr wire (and, apparently, ranting fingers) is a commercial enterprise that won’t tell me where to go for commerce. Whether its nondescript buildings holding an office I need to visit or a yard sale that has ads in the papers and signs on the corners but nothing in the grass by the house to tell me that, yes, there are things for sale way up the driveway, I just say, well, since I have children in the car with me a lot of times, these days I just say, “Never mind.”

Spend a little money for clear lettering and signage where I’m supposed to come in, or I won’t. Spread a little light pollution, for Pete’s sake. Because I’m not going into undermarked doors like this one and chancing that the Millworkers Union might impress me as an apprentice.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Wondering what Snooki is going to do next.”

–Oscar Wilde and Brian J. Noggle

I swear, if you affect an an in front of a word that starts with h where the h is aspirated, like an historic event, you damn well better use it the same way in your confession when you admitting to killing an hobo.

Thank you, that is all.

Resolution: To learn how to dance better.

Solution: Not sneaking into the Fred Astaire Dance Studio no matter how many times I hear its advertisements on WISN (listening to Milwaukee radio stations when you live in Missouri leads to lots of good hometown services you can’t get in Springfield). No, the solution is to study this guy:

That kid has got moves.

I admit it, I have had my dreams of being fantastically wealthy. Hey, I subscribe to the The Wall Street Journal and Forbes and their money-glamour lifestyle journals Forbes Life and WSJ. I even get the regional glitterati slicks St. Louis Magazine and 417. You know how you can tell a money-glamour lifestyle journal? Does it have any ads for watches or ads with strangely lit, underfed women in spotlit jewelry? Does it contain advertisements in the cheap ads in the back where an attractive blonde CEO of an executive matchmaking company wants to introduce you to quality underfed women who want spotlit jewelry? You know, I once even worked for a technology startup that gave me stock options, so I had a route to wealth. If only the startup had a route to selling software, I’d have been set.

That’s not worked out. I’m not complaining, mind you. Compared to the life I lived when I was growing up and the things my parents had at my age, I am wealthy. I’ve got a house (two, actually, but I’d be willing to part with one for the right price which is more and more becoming any price), I’ve got a technology company that’s keeping us cash flow neutralish (the house for sale has four bedrooms and a spare room in the basement that could almost be a fifth, and it’s within walking distance of shopping, dining, and arts—write for details!) But I’m not going to have my own private jet nor will I need to get a passport for sure to accommodate my world capital travel.

In the back of a recent Forbes, I saw an advertisement for an advisory service that asked the rich people if they really, really wanted to get really, really rich instead of just being rich. A handy table showed the differences between the megawealthy and the merely wealthy. For example, while the wealthy might have a pretty extensive network of the associates, the megawealthy had only a small network of very important people (no doubt including a paid advisor from the firm advertising). While the wealthy had a lot of stuff and did some things, the megawealthy only did things with the specific intent of increasing their wealth (no doubt including paying an advisor from the firm advertising). The table threw into stark relief why I, Brian J. Noggle, will never be super wealthy and why I might touch upon ultramoney for some time (after Saturday’s lottery numbers are drawn), but I will never challenge Larry Ellison for America’s Cup.

Here are the main reasons I will never be wealthy, and if I do happen into a lottery prize, why I won’t remain wealthy for long.

• I give a lot away. Every time I hit the Sam’s Club or Wal-mart, I pick thirty bucks’ worth of food or clothing for Crosslines. Whenever the YMCA has a barrel for children’s clothing or a tree for adopted families in it, I participate. I am Friends with 3 separate library systems, including one where I haven’t actually lived, and a number of other foundations and historical societies and whatnot. If I could, I would end up on the super membership levels of each. I think I’m Brewster or something, or maybe I just realize I have enough wealth to redistribute voluntarily.
• I would buy lots of land and buildings. The pasture and barn beside us went through foreclosure, and I talked to the man at the bank about picking it up. He asked me what I was going to do with it, and frankly, I just wanted it to have it. Maybe I would end up with some horses or cattle in it, maybe I would ask my nineteen-year-old equine-minded cousin with whom I’ve probably not shared a dozen words in my life to live in it and run a boarding stable, maybe I would just have twice-annual hay cuttings. The thing precedes the dream in some cases. I always look at buildings for sale in various regions the same way. What, a two story building in downtown Nixa for sale for $90,000? I’ll take it! Then I can worry about what to put into it. That’s the sort of thinking that has me carrying two houses in a freefalling real estate market. Maybe it’s the way an existentialist dreams, where existence of an asset precedes the essence of an asset. Or maybe I’m just better at dreaming than the actual planning that one needs to be a good steward of wealth.
• I am a miser until I’m suddenly profligate. I buy off brands at the grocery store, I wear my shoes out, and I wear inherited clothing for a decade (and counting). But when I suddenly find out that I can’t just pump a novel into Kindle without a cover, suddenly I hire a professional graphic designer, buy 10 ISBNs, and go the print-on-demand route even though I know I’ll end up buying at least $250 worth of my own name in print just to spread around amongst my friends. I put off purchasing some repairs and repair items, furniture purchases when we can make do with hand-me-down bureaus with scaring from a puppy chewing in 1985, but when the plant center opens in the spring, I spend $200 on plants, soil, and equipment per trip into town. When I was a youth, it was the same way; I’d put my paychecks in the bank for a couple weeks, and then one night at the mall with an ATM card, I’d blow the whole wad except for bus fare on videos, video games, books, and music (and then I’d fan my purchases out when I got home with the delicious anticipation of what I’d do first).

With all of these foibles working against me and with the other limitations hard-coded into me, I’ll never be superwealthy. Even if I won the lottery or somehow else came upon a pile of money, no doubt I’d burn through it in the aforementioned manners pretty quickly.

Ah, but how much fun I would have in those few years, fanning my purchases out with the delicious anticipation of what I’d do first. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a little time to go through the real estate ads like they were the Sears Wishbook and I am five years old.

So my oldest child goes to preschool, and one of the tasks we were warned about in the parental orientation was that at some unspecified future time, he would bring home a Letter Bag and would need to return to school with a number of things that start with that letter to discuss. Wait, let me dramatically re-create the scene for you.

Teacher: And the list of things we don’t want the child to bring to school include toys, gifts or cards for individuals if not for everyone, candy, firearms, books by Al Franken or Barbara Ehrenreich, or anything whose radiation level exceeds 4 microrems.

Parents: Okay.

Teacher: We have the Letter Bag, where the child will bring back things that have the letter of the day in them and will discuss them. For example, if the letter is J, the child can bring in a jelly bean.

Child: A jelly bean? That’s candy. You said I wasn’t supposed to bring candy to school.

At any rate, you get the gist.

So the child today announced that the Awesome Letter Bag was coming home, and with this great power he had great responsibility. Well, he didn’t say that; although he loves Spider-Man at age 4, he’s not versed enough in the mythos to recognize that trope (and he doesn’t use SPIDER-MAN! as a power word or expletive like he uses STAR WARS!). But the letter of the week is C, so his task was to gather things with the letter C in them.

I am a bad daddy because my mind immediately went to inappropriate things that begin with C for a preschooler to bring to school and the accompanying explanations. Things like:

• Chianti, which Daddy makes us drink on nights where he cooks liver and beans for dinner.
• Castor beans. Daddy sometimes cooks these after I go to bed and wears gloves and a mask.
• Cat o’Nine Tails. Daddy has explained the rules as to when junior mariners can be flogged.
• Chihuahua. Of course, we’d have to get one of those handbag-adapted models. Which leads me to wonder, are those dogs specifically bag-trained?

In the end, of course, I did the right thing and he schlepped off with a number of toys depicting things beginning with C. Because I know that he’s got a permanent record at school, but I wonder if they’re also keeping a permanent record on me, the parent, and they probably don’t share my sense of humor.

Yes, I know, I think he’s an heretic for his stance on book hoarding, but that doesn’t mean James Lileks cannot be one of the bagger brotherhood. Just a heretical brother:

The clerk started beeping my goods, and I noted right away she was just tossing stuff in the bag. She was also talking with a friend who’d shown up, and they were chatting away in fine style about something or other. When she gave me my first bag I looked into its disordered depths, and sighed: no. So I repacked it. If she saw she didn’t care. The second bag needed repacking, especially since a huge bladder of orange juice was on top of some small easily-crushed items. Framing a bag is a skill, a challenge; it’s like Tetris, except all the pieces are differently shaped. There’s satisfaction in framing a bag properly, and I say that as someone who used to bag groceries for his salt.

I repacked four bags. When I was done I realized that she’d finished, and I hadn’t signed the card-reader, and the person behind me was glaring at me: GET ON WITH IT. So in a matter of minutes I’d gone from Mr. Generous, waving people ahead in line, to Mr. Obstacle. I apologized deeply – almost said “if you’d seen me wave someone ahead a few minutes ago you would know I’m a good person!” but they all say that; all the people who just don’t realize there are other people in the world think they’re good people – and moved along. Ran right into a manager. Now. Do I say something?

Damn right I do. If the clerk had looked new or harried or just plain not cut out for the job, or new at this, let it slide, but when someone stands there babbling away to a pal throwing everything into the bag so the bottle of spaghetti sauce is crushing the muffins, so to speak, sorry.

I jerked a thumb back to the checkout lane. “18 needs to watch the video on framing again,” I said. The manager looked at my bags. “I repacked them,” I said. “The wrong stuff was on top of small stuff.”

“Thank you,” said the manager.

In his Bleat, Lileks wonders if he was wrong to complain to the manager. Wrong or right, I’m the sort of cynic who wonders if Lileks’ complaint had any effect at all. Would the manager really spend even minimum wage money to make that particular clerk go through the orientation video again? Would the manager have a word with the clerk? Would the manager even remember the remark by the time he got back from the loading dock? I doubt it.

Stories like this one make me wonder if I would have been good enough to go to the championship:

In February, Scott Hall, a Price Cutter employee, will be in Las Vegas, competing for a $10,000 prize and a chance to appear on “The Late Show with David Letterman.”

His claim to fame? Bagging groceries.

Hall, a part-time cashier/bagger at the Price Cutter store at Grand Street and Chestnut Expressway, recently won the state championship in grocery bagging to advance to the national competition.

Cue the Bruce Springsteen.

I worked at a Shop Rite while I was at the university, and I was the best damned bagger that Shop Rite ever saw. I could keep up even with Trudy and Carolyn, the fastest checkers, even when they were going full speed. Back in those days, brother, the stores did not have a second conveyor belt or turntable to leisurely ride the product to the bagger; instead, the checkers flashed the UPCs past the scanner and whipped the groceries down to the bagger. You had to be fast, or Trudy could break your hand with a can of peas.

I could distribute the goods among bags, I could double bag or even senselessly put paper inside the plastic bags (some people thought that gave the plastic bags the strength of paper bags, but really, it just put four plastic-punching corners in the bag with the focused weight of all the contents). I could face the frozen and the dairy quickly. I could hear a checker call for a price check from all the way in the back of the store and round the corner to the checkouts before the courtesy counter person got her hands on the PA microphone. I walked so fast to handle those price checks that I beat a checker in a race once where she ran.

Ah, but the grocery store was a world of up or out, and I got promoted from bagger to checker to produce clerk. I stayed with it for four years, working between 20 and 50 hours a week and carrying a full college load between shifts (literally: some mornings I’d work 4-7, ride down to school on the bus, attend classes, and ride back to the store for a couple more hours in the afternoon). But even in my non-fulltime days, I was still the best bagger in the store, and even now I elbow the lackadaisical parttimers away from the end of the checkout lane when I’m grocery shopping. A number of stores now feature those conveyances that prevent one from honing one’s skills, but some of the older Price Cutters still have manual ends. I’d guess Hall’s Price Cutter is one of those.

Could I have been a state competitor, champion, and representative to the nationals? I’d like to think so. But the best part of reminiscing about What Might Have Been is the ongoing belief in maybe, and not simply remembering What Was Not.

UPDATE: As seen on Neatorama.

As a parent, we try to give it straight to our four-year-old son. We explain to him about monsters and their unreality (except for gila monsters) and about dragons and their unreality (except for Komodo dragons). Of course, these exceptions prove the rule we’re trying to instill, and by prove, of course I mean it in the truest sense of the word: they test whether he can believe our assurances that the things we say don’t exist actually don’t exist.

Daddy, are guns real?
Yes.

Daddy, is Star Wars real?
Star Wars the movie is real, but the events and characters depicted in the story are not real.

You get the gist of our conversations and the hair-splitting things his father does to give him the full texture of the world and the many nuanced layers of reality.

As Christmas time rolls around, he’s starting to think of Santa as part of the narrative of Christmas. Younger children don’t get it, but by 4.5, he’s understanding that there might be something behind the red clad man. So he asks, inevitably,

Daddy, is Santa real?

Well, there’s a humdinger. Santa Claus is part of the mythology of childhood, part of Christmas that makes it magickal for the young and the young at heart. Although sometime in the coming Christmases, his sophistication will demand disbelief, but he could have a couple good years of putting out cookies for Santa and the struggle to stay awake to hear Santa on the roof. I mean, for crying out loud, we even have a fireplace, so he’s not trying to suss out how Santa Claus is coming into a small apartment in the housing projects whose sole sheet metal chimney leads right into the furnace. So I don’t want to blow it already with truth and reason, do I?

Secondly, there’s the vaccination thing. You know vaccinations are about keeping a population safe as much as about keeping an individual safe, right? If I tell the urchin that Santa does not exist, he will bring it up amongst his peers in preschool and Sunday School, injecting doubt into their celebrations. He’ll be Patient Zero in the loss of innocence. They might even fight over it, or at the very least point fingers and make those “Pkooh, pkooh” gun sounds that signal ostracization before they get cliques and Facebook accounts.

So I do what any overly analytical parent steeped in English degree obfuscation and essay exam extension techniques would do.

Saint Nicholas was real, but the Santa Clauses you see today are not the real Saint Nicholas but are rather earthly manifestations of his spirit, incarnations of him.

Great, now I’ve turned the jolly old elf into a sort of Krishna of the Bhagavad Gita, except instead of manifesting a many-headed and many-armed eater of men, Santa is a many-armed, many-headed, many-mall-dwelling dispenser of giftic justice. I’ve added an additional incarnation myth to muddy the birth of Jesus and its celebration. Most importantly, I’ve started the single lie that will lead to others. Is there one current incarnation of Santa, or many? Are the reindeer incarnation of the originals, or are they the immortal reindeer whereas Santas are mortal? What is the selection and succession process like?

Fortunately, something else caught his eye about then, and he asked about litter he saw outside his window, whether God liked the litter, and why man made litter but God didn’t and whether God made the houses under construction on our route. You know, the normal torrent of consciousness a child displays where the parent scrambles to keep up and to provide a chain of evidence and reasoning for everything in the world and some things that are not.

The Internet has produced another list to measure yourself upon, this time some list of 50 things every guy should know from a Web site called Guyism. As you can guess from its presence on a guy Web site, it involves essential skills dealing with beer and babes. Which is only “essential” in college, and sometimes not even then if you’re going on your own dime and have to work to put yourself through.

Still, I took my crack at the 50. They’re below in orange if I can do them, italics if I haven’t but expect I could, and stricken through if I think it’s a dumb essential skill for frat brothers.

Change a tire
Use a charcoal grill
Bong a beer
Throw a punch without looking like a sissy
Fry a turkey
Hook up the cable
Pick-up a woman with a one-liner
Get your money’s worth at a buffet
Some assembly required
Know your local professional sports teams
Pour a beer
Jump-start a car
Throw a football
Haggle for a lower price
Tie a tie
Erect a tent
Cast a fishing rod
Build a fire
Tap and operate a Keg
Use a chainsaw
Paddle a canoe/kayak
Choose a scotch/whiskey
Drive a manual car
Pick-up a girl using your dog as a wingman
Know how to navigate a road trip
Perform CPR
Iron a shirt
Shine your shoes
Do at least ten push-ups on command
Dance
Play poker
Parallel park
Unclog a toilet
Upgrade at a hotel
Rally after a big night of drinking
Spot fake breasts
Choose the right urinal
Sew a button
Unhook a bra with one hand
Open a bottle unconventionally
Talk your way out of a traffic ticket
Off-road without flipping the ATV
Buy a gift for a woman
Surf the web anonymously
Spot a liar
Drive in crappy conditions
Change a diaper
Make a drink
Shave
Make a mean breakfast

Pardon me while I get my chest thumping on here, but back when I was in college, not only could I do ten push-ups on command, but one afternoon while walking on the college mall with a girl I was trying to impress and another fellow, we were talking about push-ups or strength or something, and I dropped on the grass beside the mall and did ten one-armed push-ups with my book-laden backpack on. Back in those days, I weighed a buck twenty and had read enough Robert B. Parker to think it was a measure of a man to do one-armed push-ups, so I’d trained just for that. I don’t think the girl was impressed at all, but I was and still am.

Now, Internet Guy sites aside, what is the real measure of a man? For this, we must turn to Heinlein. From Time Enough For Love):

Change a diaper
Plan an invasion
Butcher a hog
Conn a ship
Design a building
Write a sonnet
Balance accounts
Build a wall
Set a bone
Comfort the dying
Take orders
Give orders
Cooperate
Act alone
Solve equations
Analyze a new problem
Pitch manure
Program a computer
Cook a tasty meal
Fight efficiently
Die gallantly

That, my friends, is a better list to gauge your Man Point Capacity. It doesn’t feature anything to do with drinking and easy things you can just check off. It includes things you can’t merely check off but must train for and aspire to. The difference between a boy and a man lies somewhere in that.

As some of you know, I’m trying to get an orchard growing here at Nogglestead. This year, I planted 3 apple trees, a pear tree, and when they got really cheap, 2 peach trees. Of course, I know this is a very deer heavy area, as the trees in the front are all buck rubbed and the trees in the back tend to get bark removed.

So I bought some fencing to put around the trees, and I procrastinated until such time as the apple trees were pretty chewed. Let’s face it, there’s more tar on those sticks now than on my driveway.

So I posted on Facebook, because I fancy myself a funny guy:

Brian J. Noggle would like to remind the fruit-eating deer in the neighborhood that they might survive gun season, but it’s always baseball bat season in Noggle’s orchard.

Haw, haw.

Except a slight acquaintance, a friend of the family from 20 years back, responded:

No animal does not need to die becuase there are hungry..You need to think twice before anything else.

I expect he’s just asking me not to club any fawns for the fun of it, but deep down, there’s some right Disney thinking in that.

I’ve planted an orchard because I’d like to have food in a couple years. I have a right to the fruits of my labor, which means no one and nothing else has the rights to that, okay?

The idea that deer–wild animals–have some claim to my orchard rankles me quite a bit. Any assertion to that effect is based on Disney, probably made by a city person who get his or her food magically at the supermarket, and doesn’t have to deal with nature trying to prevent a man from growing it in the first place (much less harvesting a living beast for food).

Gah. Just gah.

So I’ve been going to the YMCA for over a year, and I’ve noticed that as I cool down from a session of maintaining my guns (grand Liliputs like something out of an action-adventure novel by Alistair Maclean) and walk around the track on the workout deck, joggers often pass me at about the same point.

This led to a word problem for me to solve.

Given that the track is 1/7th of a mile and is a rounded square with each side approximately 190 feet long, why on earth does a jogger always pass me at the same point in the track? Today, a young woman with blonde hair, about 5’6″ and trim, in a tie-dyed tank top and–wait a minute, my wife reads this blog– I mean, this jogger of no note passed me on the east wall of the Y, right near the free weights. She It jogged off ahead of me. I maintained my unsteady, how-long-was-I-on-that-stationary-bike pace counterclockwise, and when I reached the east wall by the free weights, she passed me again.

As I mentioned, this observation has perplexed me for a year. Are these runners stopping to do some lunges at some time? Are they pausing to walk a bit? Get a drink? Why is this happening?

So I watched her all the way around the track. For scientific purposes, crikey, I swear. How did this story become about me being the creepy lech at the gym again?

She passed me on the east wall. When I got to the north wall by the cardio, she was on the west wall above the gyms, about 90 degrees ahead of me in the circuit. When I got to the west wall, she was 180 degrees opposite me. When I got to the south wall, she was 90 degrees behind me, coming up to pass me again on the east wall. And she did.

Yet I remained flummoxed.

So I watched again, and this time, when I was on the west wall and saw her on the east wall, it clicked. She’s running exactly twice as fast as I am staggering.

I’m sure other runners passed me in different places a hundred times when I was walking my dozens of miles over the course of the year. But I only noticed when one passed me in the exact same spot every lap because it was so odd.

So I didn’t really solve the word problem using math, but I got my English and Philosophy degree by subbing in a class in computers and a class in logic for the math requirement (and I could have done away with the logic requirement, too, if I wanted a Poli Sci or pre-law degree).

And I’m strangely lightly elated to finally know how this happens, although it might have been clear to anyone who gave it more than my annual minutes of thought. Given enough time and laps, I can figure anything out.

Thanks to Owen, I have some new words to try out, like this one:

9. Brabble

Verb – “To quarrel about trifles; esp. to quarrel noisily, brawl, squabble” – Brabble basically means to argue loudly about something that doesn’t really matter, as in “Why are we still brabbling about who left the dirty spoon on the kitchen table?” You can also use it as a noun: “Stop that ridiculous brabble and do something useful!”

I think that’s been replaced in the modern lexicon by blog.

Hey, I know I read Survival Blog sometimes, but I think AP is jumping the gun a little with this (spotted on the home page of the Springfield News-Leader:

There are two kinds of people: Those who know what TEOTWAWKI means and those with storage space for a couple more boxes of mementos from their childhood and unused wedding presents.

Today is the birthday of the United States Marines. As some of you know, some of my favorite people in the world were Marines.

My mother:

(Read here eulogy here.)

My father (he was born on November 10; his fate was cast for him).

My brother (the recruiter promised to get him into Recon if he signed up right away for six years; who knew recruiters made promises they couldn’t keep?).

(Me, I’m the one who went to college.)

My grandfather (wounded on Okinawa; the Japanese got him right in the bulldog tattoo).

Also, my great uncle Henry, whom I never knew but whose discharge papers I inherited.

The Sniper, whose highest aspiration in life was The Army (says the guy who served without distinction for years amongst Jesuits and coeds), recognizes the occasion.

I had reason to tear into my junk drawers yesterday, the off-to-the-side desk drawers into which I dump old pens and miscellany. I don’t actually open those drawers for months at a time, much less root through them. Most of them are intact from the move from Old Trees to Nogglestead just over a year ago.

However, last night, I tore through them looking for a long unused thumb drive that I thought my wife wanted in an emergency manner, and I uncovered many things that require explanation. And some that defy any.

Like a single post-it note, folded in half so the sticky top is stuck to the bottom of the back. On the sticky note, three names in my handwriting in red pen: Jim Belushi, Juaquin (sic) Phoenix, and Mark Wahlberg.

I cannot think of a thing that unites these particular stars. Maybe three stars who surpassed their older brothers?

I don’t see anything on the blog about them. Of course, if I looked now, I would.

Were I to actually continue this series, I would be able to explain most of the random oddities in the junk drawer, unlike the oddities I find in my work bench.

Say you think the United States Department of Education, younger than I am and I’mnotthatolddammit, is worth reconsideration as a Federal level institution and drain of Chinese bond purchaser dollars makes me an EXTREMIST?

But, somehow, you think it’s worthwhile that those same dollars go to fund grants that do SUCH IMPORTANT WORK as billboards:

Click for fully funded Federal glory

You know what? I call defending the United States Department of Education Office of Innovation and Improvement Ready to Learn Grant billboards that replace privately funded “Don’t Suck Out That Growth In Your Uterus” billboards EXTREMIST.

I mean, seriously. We’re spending Chinese dollars and bringing wrack upon our economy to innovatively put up billboards telling parents to read to their children? Palin have mercy.

I didn’t see a Sesame Television Workshop official license notice on this particular gift from grandmother:

Although it does explain why the last couple episodes of Sesame Street have been brought to us by the numbers 00 and 21.

So we’ve been in Nogglestead, our new house in the Springfield area, for just over a year now, and I’ve finally gotten the garage mostly unpacked. Hey, I even finally rolled up the tarp I put over the outdoor tools I brought from Old Trees when we moved (I had left it unrolled and spread out to dry, and eventually it got put into the shed spread so that it could dry very well over the last year).

As I’ve been unpacking, I actually have room and shelves and light to spread the gear out and organize it. No longer–well, not for much longer–will I have bunches of unorganized junk boxes with miscellaneous tools, screws, and components in them. As I organize, I keep finding things like this:

I have no idea what that is for.

No doubt it came from some some-assembly-required piece I’ve put together in the last decade, perhaps an optional bit that I didn’t employ but wanted to have on hand in 10 years if I changed my mind. It’s about 4 inches long, sort of screwlike, with a slot screw and hex nut top for easy insertion and tightening. I have no idea what that goes to.

Some people, when confronted with something like this, might throw it out. Not me. I might need that in 2020 for that thing.

I’ll just make a big box for doohickeys.