Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be Miss South Carolina ...

I've mentioned before that the wife and I really enjoy watching all the beauty pageants during the summer, and the Miss Teen USA Pageant last Friday underscored exactly why.
After the first cut, when they get down to 15 or whatever, we play Fantasy Pageant. Much like in fantasy football, we hold a draft. We each draft five contestants and make some kind of bet.
If one of her contestants, whom we call "horses," wins, then I have to buy/make the wife dinner, and vice versa.
We'll spend the remainder of the pageant laughing at the girls and dogging on each other's picks.
I manage to usually have more horses in the final five, but she always somehow picks the winner, just like she did last Friday.
I had Miss North Carolina and Miss South Carolina going into the final five, and I felt confident that I'd finally get the monkey of defeat off my back.
But then it came time for the Q and A, and my Carolinas gave some pretty dumb answers, one of which made pageant - and YouTube - history.
Miss South Carolina was asked about why so many Americans can't identify their country on a world map, and her rambling, nonsensical, hilarious answer was a thing to behold. It sounded like some kind of broken beat poetry, inexplicably working in South Africa, Iraq and Asia. Her explanation started with her saying that perhaps it was because "U.S. Americans" simply "didn't have maps."

See for yourself:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww

As of this writing, that splendid little video clip as been watched almost 10 million times.
If Miss South Carolina is smart - and her intelligence obviously has been called into question - she'll turn lemons into lemonade and capitalize, making the late-night talk show circuit, doing commercials, maybe even "Saturday Night Live."
Somehow, I don't think we've seen the last of this young lady, even though she didn't win.

Kindergarten First Day Didn't Live Up To Hype

I was planning write a real heartfelt tearjerker today, the first day of kindergarten for my oldest son, Curt.
It wasn't all that emotional, cute, funny or anything really. In fact, the whole messy morning was rather annoying.
The day started with my contact lenses, which apparently absorbed a lot of soap that I failed to rinse from my hands before pinching them out and sticking them in the case for the night. The lenses burned upon contact this morning. Despite repeated rinsings, they still burned a bit as we headed out the door for school.
We took a left off State Highway 105 in Sour Lake to find a slow-moving, half-mile-long traffic jam leading to the elementary school. We finally got to the parking lot near a side entrance, and it was vehicular chaos. I wound up doing a little off-road action en route to a parking spot.
But the time the wife and I, with our youngest in tow, got in the door, we were pushing being late, and my eyeballs were burning again, feeling like they'd been splashed with acid. The halls were crowded with kids, parents and school folks.
The contacts were making my eyes water. People must have thought I'd been bawling, which I almost was, due to the pain.
The kindergarten teacher made it clear that parents were not welcome to linger in the moment, so it was kiss-kiss, hug-hug and we were out of there. The wife tried her best to shed a tear, but the frenzy took the wind out of her emotional sails.
My duty wasn't over. I had to go stand in another long line to fill out some emergency contact information.
Then it was back home to replace the contacts and then off to work.
Curt, due to his mild autism, has been going to school since he turned 3, which made this morning a bit anticlimactic. We've done it all before.
Last year, we bonded every morning as we drove over to China, checking out the scenery, listening to music and hoping there'd be a train to watch. I was part of the morning classroom routine, leading kids on a march around the classroom on Fridays, often picking out the day-starter songs, getting to know teachers and kids.
Now, I have to drop off Curt at the door and scram.
This year's route to school is shorter and void of trains. We'll still have our little bonding time. It won't be the same. It might be better, for all I know. We'll see.
Whatever it is, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. Some day, maybe even next year, he won't want me to even get out of the car. I'll become more annoying and uncool as he grows increasingly independent.
Maybe he'll even want to take the bus, and our little morning time together will be over.
That's probably when I'll cry.

Timewaster Of The Week-Aug. 20

Hurricane Dean.
I'll admit that I got caught up in the Hurricane Dean hysteria Saturday. I spent the day driving around Beaumont in search of a 5-gallon gas can.
If a storm hits, I'll be up at the newspaper, where we've got plenty of supplies and whatnot to see us through.
However, the gas is needed for my family, which might need a little extra should another road-jamming, gas-guzzling Texodus occur, like it did prior to Hurricane Rita in 2005.
I had enough in storage for about half a tank for them, but I figured a little more wouldn't hurt.
So there I was Saturday, driving to all the usual places where they would carry gas cans. I also noticed that there were no D batteries and big containers of water available, more evidence of the controlled panic that gripped the land as Dean tore up the Caribbean.
However, the only cans available were the little bitty ones, so I ended my search, figuring that what I had would be good enough, if the family got out early.
It appears, for now, that Dean will be Mexico's problem. My church is connected to an orphanage down there, so toss in some thoughts and prayers in that direction.
Dean provided Southeast Texans with what seemed like their first post-Rita jolt of fear and paranoia. It certainly seemed worse than it was for Wilma.
The simmering stress also reminded us of a time when storm-jaded Gulf Coast residents would yawn at hurricanes, even those in the Gulf, until their strike zone became clearer.
Ultimately, it's better to be alert and prepared, and I still plan on purchasing that extra gas can as soon as they get re-stocked.

IT'S A HURRICANE!!! AAAAHHH!!! AAAAAAHHH!!!

As the conga line of tropical things starts rolling away from Africa's west coast, the National Hurricane Center cranks up its e-mail alerts for loyal subscribers such as myself.

Today, with two storms on the loose, I'm getting as many as three or four alerts every hour.

The alerts are helpful because I can just rip the information and post it into our online stories about the likes of Tropical Storm Erin and Hurricane Dean.

What I find amusing is the alerts' format. They're written in ALL CAPS, so it's as if the bulletins are screaming. I'm not sure why they're written this way, and a friend who works for the National Weather Service can't explain it, either.

For some reason, the meteorology gods have dictated that weather reports be written in ALL CAPS.

Here's an example, which hit my e-mail box just a few minutes ago:

000
WTNT34 KNHC 161443
TCPAT4
BULLETIN
HURRICANE DEAN ADVISORY NUMBER 13
NWS TPC/NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER MIAMI FL AL042007
1100 AM AST THU AUG 16 2007
...DEAN INTENSIFYING AS IT APPROACHES THE LESSER ANTILLES...
A HURRICANE WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FOR THE ISLANDS OF DOMINICA
AND ST. LUCIA. A HURRICANE WARNING MEANS THAT HURRICANE CONDITIONS
ARE EXPECTED WITHIN THE WARNING AREA WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS.
PREPARATIONS TO PROTECT LIFE AND PROPERTY SHOULD BE RUSHED TO
COMPLETION.
A HURRICANE WATCH CONTINUES FOR THE ISLANDS OF MARTINIQUE...
GUADELOUPE AND ITS DEPENDENCIES. A HURRICANE WATCH MEANS THAT
HURRICANE CONDITIONS ARE POSSIBLE WITHIN THE WATCH AREA...GENERALLY
WITHIN 36 HOURS. THE GOVERNMENT OF FRANCE INDICATES THAT A
HURRICANE WARNING WILL LIKELY BE ISSUED THIS AFTERNOON FOR
MARTINIQUE...GUADELOUPE AND ITS DEPENDENCIES.
AT 11 AM AST...1500 UTC...THE METEOROLOGICAL SERVICE OF ANTIGUA HAS
UPGRADED THE TROPICAL STORM WATCH TO A TROPICAL STORM WARNING FOR
THE ISLANDS OF MONTSERRAT...ANTIGUA...ST. KITTS...NEVIS...AND
BARBUDA. A TROPICAL STORM WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FOR BARBADOS.
A TROPICAL STORM WARNING MEANS THAT TROPICAL STORM CONDITIONS ARE
EXPECTED WITHIN THE WARNING AREA WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS.
AT 11 AM AST...THE BARBADOS METEOROLOGICAL SERVICE HAS ISSUED A
TROPICAL STORM WARNING FOR ST. VINCENT AND THE GRENADINES.
AT 11 AM AST...THE GOVERNMENT OF THE NETHERLANDS ANTILLES HAS ISSUED
A TROPICAL STORM WARNING AND DISCONTINUED THE HURRICANE WATCH FOR
SABA AND ST. EUSTATIUS. THE TROPICAL STORM WATCH FOR ST. MAARTEN
HAS BEEN CHANGED TO A TROPICAL STORM WARNING.
A TROPICAL STORM WATCH REMAINS IN EFFECT FOR GRENADA AND ITS
DEPENDENCIES. A TROPICAL STORM WATCH MEANS THAT TROPICAL STORM
CONDITIONS ARE POSSIBLE WITHIN THE WATCH AREA...GENERALLY WITHIN 36
HOURS.
ADDITIONAL CHANGES TO WATCHES AND WARNINGS WILL LIKELY OCCUR LATER
TODAY.
...

DEAN IS MOVING TOWARD THE WEST NEAR 23 MPH...37 KM/HR...AND THIS
MOTION IS EXPECTED TO CONTINUE TODAY. ON THIS TRACK THE CENTER OF
DEAN WILL BE NEAR THE LESSER ANTILLES EARLY FRIDAY.
MAXIMUM SUSTAINED WINDS ARE NEAR 90 MPH...150 KM/HR...WITH HIGHER
GUSTS. DEAN IS A CATEGORY ONE HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR-SIMPSON
SCALE. STRONGER WINDS...ESPECIALLY IN GUSTS...ARE LIKELY OVER
ELEVATED TERRAIN. ADDITIONAL STRENGTHENING IS FORECAST DURING THE
NEXT 24 HOURS. AN AIR FORCE RESERVE HURRICANE HUNTER AIRCRAFT WILL
INVESTIGATE DEAN THIS AFTERNOON.
HURRICANE FORCE WINDS EXTEND OUTWARD UP TO 30 MILES...45 KM...FROM
THE CENTER. DATA FROM NOAA BUOY 41010 INDICATES THAT TROPICAL STORM
FORCE WINDS EXTEND OUTWARD UP TO 105 MILES...165 KM...FROM THE
CENTER.
THE ESTIMATED MINIMUM CENTRAL PRESSURE IS 979 MB...28.91 INCHES.
STORM SURGE FLOODING OF 2 TO 4 FEET ABOVE NORMAL TIDE LEVELS...
ACCOMPANIED BY LARGE AND DANGEROUS BATTERING WAVES...IS POSSIBLE
NEAR THE CENTER OF DEAN.
STORM TOTAL RAINFALLS OF 2 TO 5 INCHES...WITH ISOLATED MAXIMUM
AMOUNTS OF 7 INCHES IN MOUNTAINOUS AREAS...ARE POSSIBLE IN
ASSOCIATION WITH DEAN. THESE RAINS COULD CAUSE LIFE-THREATENING
FLASH FLOODS AND MUDSLIDES.
REPEATING THE 1100 AM AST POSITION...13.7 N...54.3 W. MOVEMENT
TOWARD...WEST NEAR 23 MPH. MAXIMUM SUSTAINED WINDS...90 MPH.
MINIMUM CENTRAL PRESSURE...979 MB.
AN INTERMEDIATE ADVISORY WILL BE ISSUED BY THE NATIONAL HURRICANE
CENTER AT 200 PM AST FOLLOWED BY THE NEXT COMPLETE ADVISORY AT 500
PM AST.
$$
FORECASTER BLAKE/AVILA

Frightening, eh?

There isn't a lot of literary fat there, either, so the conciseness just accentuates the ALL CAPS in creating an atmosphere of panic and extreme alarm.

If you want to sign up, just go here, but be prepared for your inbox to be full, all day every day, at least during hurricane season:

http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/

Unleash Your Inner Hurricane

I'm not one to wish a hurricane upon anyone, but it feels kind of good to do it in a safe fantasy kind of way.
Sound fun?
Well, here's your chance:
http://www.nhc.noaa.gov/HAW2/english/kids/movncane.swf
You just move the highs and lows around and pick a spot to launch your hurricane, and away we go!
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Timewaster Of The Week-Aug. 13

This doesn't waste much time, but it is rather useful.

If you ever needed to establish some kind of pecking order between friends, try this online dice roll:

http://www.irony.com/mailroll.html

Let's say you play fantasy football or something, and your league needs to establish draft order and division assignments, this is the way to do it.

You just plug in your e-mail as well as the league commissioner's e-mail, and then you roll the bones.

A Tale Of Two Protests

Appraisal districts throughout the land got frisky this year after the state slapped their wrists and instructed them to raise property appraisals to market value.

I was alarmed to see my home go up 18 percent, but I've heard of much higher hikes throughout Southeast Texas. Meanwhile, my mom over in Houston also was horrified by her appraisal.

I decided to protest mine, as did she.

Mom took to the task with a vengeance, getting help from a realtor to get sales figures on homes in her neighborhood. She also assembled a mile-high stack of complicated paperwork.

She wanted me to be her muscle, so on a recent Saturday morning, I loaded up her and her paperwork and drove her over to the gleaming Harris County Appraisal District building on Houston's north side.

I figured we'd sit before some board, I'd lay on some charm, get a few bucks knocked off the appraisal, shake hands and go home.

From what I understand, this is kind of the way it used to be. If you took the time to protest, you at least got something knocked off the appraisal.

But this isn't how it works anymore.

First, we were called to some cubicle, where a snotty man with some kind of weird European accent immediately began picking apart our case, as if he were a hard-nosed defense lawyer. This flustered Mom, who began futilely fumbling through her mile-high stack for weapons to throw into the battle. I didn't know how to defend her, because I hadn't had time to go through her stuff.

Mr. Snottybritches would only look at me during the discussion, which I found highly rude and sexist. It was clear we were going nowhere with him, so I took the cap off my smart ass and started finding little buttons to push, picking out hypocrisy and absurdity in his points, tossing in some nice mockery along the way.

"It looks like we are not going to come to an agreement," Snottybritches said, throwing up his hands.

"What's to agree on? You're giving us absolutely nothing!" I replied, chuckling at his frustration.

The way I figure it, these guys argue all day for a living. Every day, all day, they argue. In the hierarchy of humanity, they're about one rung up the ladder from online solicitors and bill-collection agencies.

The next step was going before some kind of appraisal board, where I figured I had a better chance anyway.

But I needed an argument.

While waiting to be called in, I began rifling through Mom's stack in search of something, anything, with which I could make some kind of point. Ultimately, I boiled it down to one point.

Using my mom's appraised value (and a pencil and paper because I didn't have a calculator), I calculated the value per square foot. Then, I took a recently sold home across the street and did the same calculation.

Bang!

Mom's home was appraised at $186 per square foot, while the neighboring home sold for $136 per square foot.

That sounded like an argument to me.

Minutes later, we were called before the appraisal board, and the atmosphere was more like the Supreme Court than what I expected. Everyone on the board was formally dressed. The tone was courtlike. After a lot of formalities and whatnot, I argued our case - and won!

A few weeks later, it was time to argue my case before the Hardin County Appraisal Board. I figured it would be a little less formal, and it was.

When I arrived, they were all waiting for me, one of them outside on the porch of what looked more like a barn than a government building. "You Brian?" one of them asked. "Yep!" I said. A voice down the hall said, "Is that Brian? Is Brian here?" A voice in some faraway home said, "OK, Brian's here! Let's do this!"

It was kind of surreal. All those good ol' boys up there, waiting on me.

Instead of going through the Mr. Snottybritches phase, we all gathered in a back room. They just said, "You're on!" And off I went.

I noted that the neighbor's home value went up only 13 percent. I talked about all the problems with the house and the current lethargic real estate market. (I've seen homes out there sitting on the market for more than six months now.) I talked about last year's flooding.

And then, for the grand finale, I whipped out the old picture of Dopey, the name I awarded to one of the 80-plus bats with whom we once shared the home.

The review board was impressed - and highly entertained - with my presentation. They sympathized with all our problems. They congratulated me on a job well done.

Then, politely and with a little humor, they rejected my protest. Despite all the problems, and all my evidence, they couldn't get past the fact that my home appraisal was nowhere near out of line with market value.

The Hardin County experience was far easier than the one in Houston, albeit one that ended in failure.

Last week, we got the notice that there was some certified mail from the Hardin County Appraisal District, a formal rejection.

However, I'm not going to go bother to pick it up. If I have to pay more property taxes for my appraisal, the last damned thing I'm going to do is blow gasoline to go to the post office to pick up a piece of paper.

Timewaster Of The Week-Aug. 7

Here's a simple but infuriating little timewaster:

http://www.mooarcade.com/games/play-6143-Particles.html

You just use your mouse to move your ball to avoid hitting some moving balls. It starts with three and then gets progressively more difficult.

The best part of it is the dramatic music, which is disproportionate to the task at hand.