From this date in 2011:
Brian J. Noggle eats a lot of processed foods to defend himself from organic cannibals.
To be able to say "Noggle," you first must be able to say "Nah."
From this date in 2011:
Brian J. Noggle eats a lot of processed foods to defend himself from organic cannibals.
Before watching the Christmas movies (Die Hard, Die Hard 2, Invasion USA, and Lethal Weapon), I invited my boys to watch this film with me. I’d found it in the videocassette player, and asked them if they’d watched it already–but they had not. So I watched it, alone, as they’re too sophisticated for 80s B actioners now that they’re in their teens in the 21st century.
I actually watched the Highlander movies, including Highlander II: The Quickening, Highlander III: The Final Dimension (alternatively titled Highlander III: The Sorcerer with Mario van Peebles) and Highlander: Endgame which tied the movie to the television series, a couple years ago (a couple years being maybe two, five, or eight–as I was not writing movie reports at the time on this blog, I have no way to know). But I picked up fresher videocassette copies last July, so having new copies (well, new old copies) on the to-watch shelf means I have to watch them again.
Okay, you probably know the premise if you’re of a certain age: A Scotsman joins his clan in battle, but nobody fights him–a strange figure has said that he wants the Highlander for himself. But circumstances, and the need to make a full movie of it, means the dark figure does not best the Scotsman, who is seemingly killed. When he miraculously returns to life, he is run out of town as being the devil. Sean Connery appears to tell him he is an immortal of a special sort, and to explain the rules of The Game: He can only die if his head is lopped off, and the immortal who cuts off the head of another get his power or some such. When they come to a final reckoning in a strange land, one will emerge with the power to rule humanity.
So, yeah, you know, it doesn’t go a lot into the cosmology, which is probably for the best–the second film (The Quickening) kind of tries to retcon some weird, almost Scientological backstory on it, but other cuts of the film eliminate that in favor of just letting it ride. But that’s to come in the future.
The film was a disappointment at the box office, and it’s pretty clear why: It has more of a direct-to-video feel and look to it, but it’s since become a cult classic and clearly has spawned several other movies, television series, and books (including Highlander: Element of Fire, which I read eighteen years ago–equidistant in time between this movie and now).
But someone has been listening, whether it’s my boy’s phone or whatnot, but Facebook knows I’ve watched the film.

I’ve also gotten posts explaining that Christopher Lambert is very nearsighted and did not wear his glasses for filming, so the stunts and sword-fighting he did were that much more dangerous. So, yeah, someone knew I watched this film before you did, gentle reader. Perhaps they knew it before I did (which might have been asking if they’d already watched it since it was in the videocassette player). You think I’m mad? I WILL SHOW YOU MADNESS.
At any rate, although it has become a cult film, Highlander has not spawned any Brenda versus Heather Internet arguments.
Google has put a post of mine behind a Content Warning:

You know, Google, I have not used Blogger/Blogspot for 12 years now, and you’re not making me regret my decision.
Gentle reader, you can read the post here without the warning, although I will point out it’s based on a joke that Laura Bush made about her husband, President George W. Bush, at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner in 2005:
He’s learned a lot about ranching since that first year when he tried to milk the horse. What’s worse, it was a male horse.
In terms of telling bloggers who had cases of the vapors because Chimphitler Bush! (remember the good old days?) to get a grip, I might have used the word masturbation and related slang.
What a potty keyboard I had then.
Also recently added to the cool kids club: Neo.
Clearly, Google is settling old business, perhaps before Elon Musk can buy it.
The Springfield-Greene County Library 2023 Winter Reading Challenge has begun! Here’s the paper form for the challenge, which lasts from January 3-February 28:

To win the blessed mug, one needs to read five books from these fifteen categories:
The beauty of the unread stacks here at Nogglestead is that I can pretty much find books from all of those categories without any trouble. As a matter of fact, I’ve already picked out six books that fit the categories and have finished one with another to be completed tonight.
So, game on!
For The Love Of All That Is Holy, Stop Backing Into Parking Spaces:
It would not be unreasonable to assume a couple of thousand cars are coming and going from my neighborhood strip mall on a given day. Given that much traffic, there’s a basic formula for efficiency here: The time it takes to get your car into a space added to the time it takes to pull out of the space.
Now a great many drivers seem to be under the impression that, because being able to pull out of parking space when you’re already facing forward is a little quicker than backing straight out of a space, this somehow makes up for any extra time it took to back into the space. Please go to your local busy parking lot with a stopwatch. I assure you, it does not.
But, ah, my foes! And, ah, my friends! The timing of it is not what’s important. It’s a safety issue and a vision issue.
When you’re backing up, you are in an uncomfortable position with reduced vision just because you’re craned all the way around to see where you’re going–or you’re just using the context-free backup camera, in which case you’re already behaving unsafely enough that my advice won’t help you. So you have two choices as when to back up:
Note when leaving driving forward, your position will generally be forward of center, which means you will not only have easier and better visibility into the traffic lane because you’re facing forward, but you’ll also have an earlier increasing field of view because you will be abreast of the edges of the other cars sooner than when you back out. When you’re backing out, you’re not only doing this:
But more of your vehicle is exposed in the traffic lane before you get that increased visibility of clearing the parked cars.
Yeah, no. Pulling directly through an unclaimed parking spot so you can pull straight out is the best (mostly when the parking lines are parallel–when they’re at an angle, it’s less good as you have to cross more of the traffic lane to make sure you don’t clip the car next to you), but after that, backing into a spot is best, followed by parallel parking, and only then, as a last resort, backing into traffic.
I can’t believe I even have to point this out. But it’s a blog, and that’s what we do on blogs. Go on at length in spurious slap-fights.
So I called our portly cat The Big Kahuna this morning, and I got to thinking: Is that from the Annette Funicello/Frankie Avalon beach movies such as Bikini Beach or the 1960s television show Gidget starring Sally Fields? I’ve never actually seen any of the former, and although the latter was in syndication on channel 11 (KPLR) in St. Louis through the 1980s (along with The Flying Nun, another Sally Field vehicle from the 1960s), if I have seen any of them, it’s bits from when the television was on in the background–I cannot remember actually watching a full episode, much less multiple episodes of either.
Welp, gentle reader, it was neither.
Frankie Avalon’s character in the Beach movies had a nickname, but it was Moondoggie. Although there’s an episode of Gidget that features a character named simply Kahuna, it’s not probable that I picked that up as the source of the trivium.
No, gentle reader, The Big Kahuna is a character in…. Gidget, the 1959 movie starring Sandra Dee as Gidget. The movie, based on a novel of the same name, probably launched the beach movies and perhaps the California beach sound of the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, and so on. And, clearly, the television series which might have been closer to the books than the original film was.
A movie I have not seen, either.
I picked up a lot of trivia by reading things about popular culture, much more than experiencing popular culture. Which is just as well, since I don’t tend to watch streaming services as a matter of course and because:
So I have some studying to do. Perhaps after I finish the Winter Reading Challenge 2023. And if only they had TV Superstars ’20 and TV Superstars ’22 books to clue me in.
An article in the New York Post entitled Gen Z shocked to see what 45-year-olds looked like in the 1990s got me to thinking.
A popular 1990s film has sparked a discussion about how Hollywood portrayed people in their 40s in the late-20th century versus today.
Filmmaker Jessica Ellis started the conversation when she tweeted a poster for “Father of the Bride 2,” featuring stars Steve Martin and Diane Keaton in their classic mom and dad get-ups.
* * * * “An unbelievable thing that has changed in 30 years is that in 1995, this was supposed to be what 45-year-olds looked like,” Ellis wrote, clarifying that she was referring to the movie characters — not the actors themselves.
This led me to two separate musings, which I will sketch out into two bullet points instead of developing two full themes for them:
Perhaps one could wonder what changes to the employment marketplace has also altered the business-casually dressing parents in the intervening years. Fewer and fewer people have to adhere to the dress codes that would put a man in a shirt with a collar or a woman with a skirt during the day, which likely would alter depictions and memories of them in the future.
I dunno. I do wonder if my boys will be outliers amongst their peers in the future for having a father who looked old. I do spend a lot of time in business casual clothing and a fedora, which made me look old in the 1990s, and older now that I am not a kid in a fedora.
Man shot, killed at Maryland Heights tire shop after argument with coworker.
I used that auto shop when I was in Casinoport both times I lived there–it is on the corner of Dorsett/McKelvey, which was about half way between the apartment where I lived before I got married and the house we would later buy. It was in the same plaza as the Gold’s Gym where I was a member for a while between stints at the YMCA (which was down McKelvey). I was a customer there until they recommended I replace the exhaust manifold on my Geo Storm, and I had them do it, but it resulted in the car stalling out on me at times when I was first accelerating from a standstill, like when turning onto busy roads.
Of course, if the shooting had occurred at the ITD shop across Dorsett, I would have been a patron of that establishment, too, briefly, when it replaced the fuel pump in the very same Geo Storm with a fuel pump that I could hear in the cabin. Friends, have you ever heard your car’s fuel pump? Well, I have, and no matter what the shop manager said about how everyone can hear them, I made them replace it with something probably not out of a salvage yard while I watched, standing in the shop with crossed arms, until something moderately better was installed.
So somehow a headline turned into a musing on car shops I’ve known. I haven’t known the mechanics, per se, but the guys out front. And I’ve seen some turnover in the shops, and I tend to stick with a shop until something egregious happens. Knocks on wood. I’ve been with the shop we use now, a nice five mile walk away, for five or six years now. May they continue to not disappoint me.
We took our Christmas decorations down on New Year’s Day, which is a bit earlier than normal–we’re not hidebound to leaving everything up until Epiphany–and we usually take them down the weekend after New Year’s Day. As it turns out, that holiday was on a Sunday, and it would have seemed weird to have them up for a whole week after that.
This year seemed to take longer, or perhaps it was part of the diminishing experience I have with Christmas as I grow older, but the two hours of untangling lights from trees, boxing ornaments, and moving oh-so-many boxes to the understairs storage area and banging my head on the top of the doorframe 8% of the time, we got everything put away. We have an extra tree this year, handed down from my mother-in-law, who was inspired by my sainted mother’s Christmas tree protocol. At the end of the season, my mother would put a large bag over her fully decorated tree and have me boost it into her attic intact. My mother-in-law would throw a bag over her tree with the lights on it and have one of us carry it to her Spartanly appointed garage. So for most of this year, it was intact in our garage, which Marie Kondo herself with Herculean effort and perhaps a diverted river could only reduce to “extremely cluttered.” Yes, gentle reader, as you can imagine, the garage has more garbage (that is, raw ingredients for crafts from inspirations years past, a little something laid up, underused Nerf guns and unused sporting equipment, and all sorts of tools and yard gear that we use once every couple of years if not only once) than this sentence, the preceding sentence, and perhaps this whole paragraph which has wandered quite afield from its topic sentence.
At any rate, the mother-in-law tree was on our lower level, and the one the kittens played in the most (see also). We didn’t have a box for it, and I battered it into some bags to stuff under the stairs–which has gotten really full as I repackaged some items, which probably means we put underpacked or empty boxes under there).
But, as you know, we often find one Christmas decoration set in an out of the way place, leading to almost annual posts on the topic. But this year, with the kitten protocols in place, we limited our decorations. We didn’t put much breakable out. Mostly, we put up plush or stuffed decorations along with a couple special photos and a couple of pine cone and pine bough things that are in pretty rough shape and that the kittens could probably not damage. So this year, I was pretty sure that we got everything.
Then I sat down to watch a little football.

Friends, that is pretty far afield of where we had the tree.
So even though I was careful to look on the bookshelves next to the tree’s location for ornaments we had picked up and placed on books after the kittens knocked them down, apparently, I was not thorough enough in looking for Christmas ornaments elsewhere.
So I have picked up this ornament and another, but given kittens, it’s entirely possible we’ll find a feline soccer team’s worth of ornaments elsewhere throughout the year.
I only read 76 books this year, but I did close out some series–well, at least I read all the volumes in certain series that I owned, including the Executioner whose books I started picking up about a decade ago, some children’s books that I bought before I had children, and re-read some volumes of James Blish’s Star Trek series which turned episodes of the television series into short stories.
Here’s the rundown:
I read several volumes of poetry, a couple plays, and only a couple pieces of literature not counting the classic children’s volumes (My Ántonia and The Red Badge of Courage). So I guess I’ll have to dig into something more serious in 2023.
On Friday evening, as I grilled our steaks for the evening, I told my beautiful wife that we might need a new chimney starter soon, as our current one is showing some buckling from its constant exposure to fire and flaming coals.
On Saturday, I got this ad in my Facebook feed interspersed amongst pictures of David Gilmour–for some reason, probably because I liked the official Pink Floyd page a decade ago, suddenly I see all kinds of Dave Gilmour and other Pink Floyd fan pages’ posts as “Suggested for You”:

I did not text this to her. I said this to her in passing in the kitchen as I was getting the steaks to put on the grill.
Coincidence? A false pattern spotted by my brain because I was looking for a pattern? Or the truth?
Although from the image, it might not be a chimney starter. It looks fairly industrial. Perhaps something for smelting metals or tempering steel.
Official government agencies in the heartland take on the slang based on popular entertainment. Yes, when I was riding the buses to and from the university in Milwaukee, I heard the local police called “the 5-0” from a television series that had gone off the air a decade before (and whose short-lived reboot was still almost 20 years in the future).
This week, I renewed the plates on one of our vehicles, and I brought my oldest son along to see the process as he’s a licensed driver now and might, in the next couple of years, have to license his own vehicle (not the one of our vehicles that he uses now and calls “his” truck).
On the way, I pointed out that Missouri does not have a Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). Instead, it has License Offices, which are run by charities on behalf of the Missouri Department of Revenue (not the Department of Transportation). But people still call it the DMV because that’s what it’s called in movies and television.
Including headline writers for the local television station.

Ozark License Office (DMV) closed after building collapses nearby on the historic Ozark, Mo., square
::Sigh:: It’s so hard to be right on the Internet.
Ah, gentle reader, I had a hard time writing this particular book report. For this young woman is a New York Times best-selling author, and she has appeared on numerous television programs and many venues, reading her poetry to large live audiences. And, as you might know, I have self-published a collection of poetry (Coffee House Memories–surely you have not forgotten even as you have not bought it!) that sold dozens of copies. Or at least a dozen. Perhaps.
So you might consider anything negative I have to say sour grapes. You might even be right! However, here’s what I thought.
I bought this collection of poetry in August, and although it is not my wont this year to read poetry or artists’ monographs during football games, but this would have been one I could have browsed as the poems are generally short.
According to a quick Internet search, the author is a more modern InstaPoet who wrote and illustrated this book when she was 21, and she’s a perfomance poet, although meta tags from various Web sites don’t indicate this is the rough-and-tumble poetry slam/open mic world or more genteel events where she is the featured poet given in small rooms or auditoriums at universities. Probably the latter, although in interviews she says she came up through the open mic circuit. They might be friendlier in Canada than the Wabash or the Venice Cafe, though.
So what of the poetry? Most of it is only a couple of lines, a lot like a thoughtful tweet. Some of the sentiments thematically resonate with me, or at least with where I would have been in my twenties–I mean, look at much of the material in , particularly the reproductions of Unrequited (released when I was 22) and Deep Blue Shadows (released when I was 23). They share a bit of the cynical romanticism, the hardened vulnerability….
But some, not so much, as they rely a bit on modern feminist celebrations:
the goddess between your legs
makes mouths water
That are really not for me. That is a whole poem, so you can see what I mean by being tweet-length. What is it? Does it somehow describe the vagina as a deity separate from the vagina-bearer that somehow causes a salivary response akin to good food or a conditioned response to Russian bell-ringing, or is a simplistic and twee feminist self-affirmation or reclamation of sexual power? I’ll take Occam’s razor to it: The simplest answer is probably true.
So some of the shorter poems have a good sentiment but are undeveloped, and when the pieces are longer, they’re unrefined. Overall, the work reminds me of Pierre Alex Jeanty whom I read earlier in the year and who is also more of an Internet “influencer” than a true poet.
The volume I have has some poems or lines therein highlighted–I’m not sure whether this means the books was used as a textbook or if the previous owner marked bits from favorite poems that way. It’s not how I do it, of course–if I like a poem a lot, I memorize it. And have been known to recite them at open mics. Including Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” which is, what, 20 pages? Yeah, you don’t uncork those too often at open mic nights. Certainly not at the Wabash or the Venice Cafe.
So, overall: Some promise, but a lot of emotion dumps that express but do not evoke. Still, if I see one of her later volumes at ABC Books, I’ll probably pick it up.
From this day in 2014:
My six year old sang, “I’m talking with the man in the river/I’m asking him to change his ways.”
That’s less Michael Jackson and more Stephen King.
I should make a whole category for these things to ensure I’m not repeating myself again after a year.
I thought this might be the last of the manga that I bought at the St. Elizabeth Ann Seton garage sale in 2015, but extensive studies have determined that although I have read Shaman King #17 and Warriors: The Rise of Scourge, I don’t see a book report for Naruto #15. So I guess I will find that seven years hence.
At any rate, this is early in the series. An alchemist, which is kind of a magician, has lost his arm and has a robotic one to help him with his alchemy/spellcasting. The attack that left him in such a state also destroyed his brother’s body, so he, the fullmetal alchemist, infused a suit of armor with the brother’s soul. A serial killer–well, we would call it a serial killer in a modern suspense thriller, but really it’s an unknown supervillain of some sort–is hunting down the government alchemists. As the story develops, they learn that it’s a survivor of a government suppression of a religious sect, the suppression which used government-sponsored alchemists to perform a genocide on the sect. Pardon me, but what is the verb for genocide? “Perform” seems tame.
So we get four chapters in the saga, where the brothers and other government alchemists battle the unknown assailant and discover his reasons, but not why he is so powerful. Four out of many, many such chapters, and of course it’s comic book form, so a lot of comic art for little story.
So I’ve not really gotten into manga, although I have read a comic book or two. But they don’t count toward the annual total, unlike graphic novels or manga. So I will eventually read that remaining volume when I find it.

Having kittens means you get to enjoy the, well, joy of decorating the Christmas tree every day when you replace the non-breakable, non-heirloom decorations and hitch up the lights like loose trousers dragging towards the floor. But, still, they’ve been a joy.
That’s one Christmas tree our kittens did not invade–because we kept them away while we built it.

My beautiful wife wanted an image for one of her LinkedIn posts, so we built a book tree like you see on the Internet from our old tech books. The books include:

I know, I know, it’s not the reason for the season, but we will attend church this morning and exchange gifts and eat turkey, but our normally small gathering will again be diminished by immobility and continuing COVID fears.
It will also be the last day for listening to Christmas records, and, no, I won’t have made it through all of the Christmas records we own, which is a substantial number.
But we will make time for this Christmas classic:

Merry Christmas, gentle reader.
It has been eight years since I did a Christmas album review (Christmas Album by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass in 2016(!)). Which is odd, as I have accumulated many more Christmas albums in the interim–so much so that I will probably not listen to all of them before they get put back up the day after Christmas and I start listening to new acquisitions. So I have had blog fodder for the nigh-past decade, and the Christmas album posts drive some search engine traffic, so one would think I would have posted between then and now. Oh, but no.
On to Evie: I have seen a lot of Evie records available for a buck or so, including this one which I picked up at Vintage Stock in 2020. She was a folk-sounding Gospel singer from the 1970s (Wikipedia says she married a pastor in 1979 and retired to focus on other ministries, but her Web site has more recent work and her Facebook page indicates she has a more recent Christmas album out, but probably not on vinyl and not for a dollar. The prevalence of her inexpensive albums stems from the fact that a lot of a certain generation had a lot of Gospel albums, but the modern record collectors pass them over–as I generally do. But this is a Christmas album.
Come On, Ring Those Bells definitely is a product of its time. The sound matches the 70s folk sound you get from the Olivia Newton-John or Lynda Carter records of the era, but with religious themes. Christmas themes, as it were. The album includes a couple of carols you recognize and some different songs that you have not:
I don’t know why you don’t hear Evie in rotation on the Christmas stations. Perhaps it’s because she’s primarily a Gospel singer, perhaps it a question of the rights packages the radio syndicates can buy, or maybe she falls in that gap between the great orchestrations of Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and the other records from the forties and fifties and the contemporary renditions from the artists from the 80s, 90s, and now that afflicts anyone not named Carpenter. Maybe all of the above.
But it’s a pleasant record to listen to, and better yet if you can find a copy of it for a buck like I did.
You don’t really have to know much about anything when writing on the Internet, do you? Please, do not immediately hold your humble blogger out even though the case might be true.
At any rate, apparently Cracked.com, a site I have not visited in many years, tried to dunk on the screenwriters of a film I’d never seen.

They compare the speed of a (albeit short) distance runner, 15 miles an hour, to someone who presumably was sprinting.
Why not compare the woman in the movie with a sprinter, say Usain Bolt, whose top sprinting speed was just under 24 miles per hour, not far under the 25 miles per hour. An unproven figure, by the way, but something the “scientists” probably used computer models to generate.
Ah, well. I am not really an expert at anything, certainly not running–where my distance speed is closer to 6 miles per hour, but my sprint is significantly faster that in very short bursts.
I bought this nice looking (well, better than the scan, and probably better than I started it) paperback from sixty-five years ago at the Friends of the Christian County Libary book sale in October 2019, and it came with its own little story:
Double Star, a Robert Heinlein juvie that earned me a book sale friend. Another guy saw it and asked where I got it; I mentioned it was mixed in, and that there were not others, or I would have them in my hands. He told me of the collection he’d received as a gift, a trash bag full of classic science fiction, and I envied it. Later, he approached me to offer me the copy of Friday that he’d found, but, come on: The later Heinlein hardbacks are easy to come by. At any rate, I’ll hit this one up sometime; I’d say “Soon,” but I’m surprised to see how many Heinlein books I come across in the library here that I have not yet read.
Spoiler alert: It was not really soon unless you’re counting in Nogglestead to-read time, in which a little over three years is actually soon.
The book was stacked amongst some of the paperbacks I bought in Berryville, Arkansas, which includes Diagnosis: Murder: The Silent Partner (can one put two colons in a title) and Conan the Barbarian and Conan the Destroyer–when I came across it, I moved it to the top of the stack and started it shortly thereafter.
But, ah, gentle reader–although this book is only 128 pages, it took me a week to read it. Some nights I gave over to watching films, including Highlander, Die Hard, and Die Hard 2, but that’s not the only reason. This book is in tiny print, and the text is in full midcentury paragraphs, where even the dialog is dense. Coupled with a cat and a couple of kittens who hop onto my lap and demand attention by sitting at my reading focal point, and suddenly it takes me days to read essentially a mid-century juvie rocket-jockey book.
So it’s a pretty simple plot: A two-bit actor is down on his luck and is down to his last dime when he tries to befriend a spacer on the run, presumably, who comes into the dive bar where the actor is drinking. As it happens, the man pretends not to be a spacer but has a job offer for the actor. While discussing the matter in private, they’re interrupted by some opposing forces whom our heroes dispatch–and once they are off Earth and on their way to Mars, the situation becomes clearer: a Parliamentary politician, currently out of power, has been kidnapped, and his people need the actor to stand in for the missing man to participate in a delicate ceremony while they search for the missing man. Complications arise, and the actor must determine how much further the show must go on.
So it’s an interesting story, but the pacing was a little slower than I’d prefer, and the blocks of tiny text made for a less enjoyable reading experience. Still, it is a very old paperback, designed to be affordable by young people (and to be put into library bindings). I suppose if I am going to complain about it, I could pick up one of the many, many hardbacks with larger print in them that I have available–including some large print editions, no doubt.
Still, I look forward to the other Heinleins I uncover here in the stacks or find in the wild. Even if I’ve already read them. So let that be my endorsement.
Bomb cyclone expected to hit US, prompting airlines to issue travel waivers
C’mon, man, “bomb cyclone” was coined by hucksters and headline writers (some overlap) to describe winter weather back in 2019.
If we really want to keep the edge on the hysteria around any weather that deviates from an artificial statistical mean, we have to amp it up.
How about Bomb cyclone psycho tsunami?