Loyal To The End

The dictionary says that the definition of 'perseverance' is

Steady persistence in adhering to a course of action, a belief, or a purpose; steadfastness.

While out driving around today looking for things to photograph, I saw this - the last AMC dealership in the world.



It is located on Highway 117 in Pikeville, North Carolina - halfway between Wilson and Goldsboro.



Some of you may not remember AMC. It stood for "American Motors Corporation" and it lasted from 1954 to 1987, when it was purchased by Chrysler. Chrysler basically gutted it and kept the Jeep, which AMC had purchased from Kaiser in 1970.

AMC made some great cars in my dad's day - namely, the Rambler. When I was a kid, AMC was known for making very strange cars that nearly nobody wanted. The Pacer, the Gremlin, and the ugly-squared Matador were examples.

Well, when AMC folded their tent, this dealer apparently decided not to go along with the program. Some searching on the web seems to reveal that you are viewing the mortal remains of Collier Motors, owned by one Robert Collier. His family had been involved with selling AMC automobiles since the early 1950's, and I guess he just decided to...um...keep on doing it.

Well, with new AMC vehicles being in short supply, Robert had to make do with what he had - existing inventory.

This is a strange place, folks. Photos cannot do justice to what you see when you look at this lot. It has a tall chain-link fence around it now, and the front lot has become completely overgrown with weeds - you can't see the tarmac anymore. The cars have rusted in place - new and used alike - even a few non-AMCs. At one time, there was a tarp over the fence as well, so you couldn't really see the cars, but that's gone now, so you can see the whole thing. Some cars still have stickers in the windows - some are marked with prices - but all appear to be completely non-functional - probably nothing much left of their internals. Perhaps there are some showroom cars inside the dealership that survive - hard to say.

Very "Omega Man" if you recall that movie.



Now frankly, I admire perseverence - I think it is a laudable trait in general. I even have some respect for old-fashioned pig-headed stubborness. But this...well, it goes a ways beyond mere stubborness.



When I was in high school in Golden, Colorado, I briefly dated a girl whose father had been a worker at Coors Brewery. The workers had gone out on strike for some reason, and they picketed for a long time. But eventually, the workers voted to decertify the union, the workers who didn't come back to work were fired, and that was that. But not this guy. Ten years later, he and a couple of other guys were still picketing. He felt certain that someday, if he just kept at it long enough, Coors would have to settle with him.



What do you do with guys like this? Perseverence doesn't even begin to describe them.

I'm thinking I need me a Gremlin X. I hear they're hot.

Beatin' that Dead Horse,

Wiggy

Like the Back of My Hand

People say "I know that like I know the back of my hand."

What's that supposed to mean? I don't know the back of my hand that well. Do you?

I mean, what do you do with the back of your hand? Well, if you have kids...No, Wiggy, don't go there...

I don't know the back of my hand very well at all. I am even less well-acquainted with my toes, not having seen them for close to a decade now. I'm pretty sure they're still down there, but other than that... I mean, I had to ask Mrs. Wiggy what color belt I was wearing this morning - since I didn't want to take it off and look at it. Besides, I'm color-blind. Fat lotta good that would have done. Ah, gravity gets me in the crinklies again.

But still, the back of my hand is pretty much terra incognita. Now, the front of my hand, that I know. I pick things up all the time. I hold a lot of things in my hand which are important to me, and therefore I know the front of my hand quite well.

You know, car keys, my wallet, things like that. I dunno, what were you thinking? You sick little monkey.

You'd think that it was the back of our hands that separates us from the animals. "Well, folks, it's like this. We have backs on our hands, and other creatures don't. That's what makes us unique, special, and totally in control of the universe." Yes, forget all about that opposable thumb business, it is the backs of our hands that make us special. Why, without the backs of our hands, could we have discovered fire? Invented the wheel? Made cave paintings? Invented taxation and all human suffering at the same time? Well, yes, frankly.

But without the backs of our hands, silent film stars of the early 1900's would not have had something to press against their foreheads to convey angst, ennui, shock, dismay, and horror. And then where would we be? Who knew that a simple patch of skin, otherwise so devoid of actual usefulness that it doesn't even have a special name (like 'face' or 'palm' or 'beer belly') could be so important to us that we use it as a euphemism to describe something we know really, really, well?

I'm not going to say that I know something 'like the back of my hand' anymore, unless it is to explain that I don't know whatever it is very well at all.

Now I need something to replace that hackneyed old phrase with. A little help?

Today's' word: defenestrate - to throw a person out a window. Who knew that there was an actual word for that? Who thinks these things up? Who played "Lumpy" in 'Leave it to Beaver'? Why do I have the theme song from the TV Western "Paladin" stuck in my punkin' haid?

NOTE: By the way - the spellcheck wanted me to replace 'punkin haid' with 'penguin Haiti', which I think is just fine. From now on, that big melon on my shoulders that I keep my hat on is my penguin Haiti. So there.

Remember, you're unique - just like everybody else.

Keep Your Stick on the Ice,

Wiggy

Flag Burning Redux

I'm lost. I admit it. I have no idea what would motivate someone to commit such an evil act:

http://www.newsnet5.com/news/4762822/detail.html

Flags Memorializing Fallen Soldier Burned
Local Church Donates New
Flags
POSTED: 9:17 am EDT July 24, 2005
UPDATED: 1:34 pm EDT July 24,
2005
FAIRFIELD, Ohio -- Less than 24 hours after an Ohio soldier was buried, someone pulled up 20 American flags from his father-in-law's front yard and set fire to them under a car in the driveway, according to WLWT-TV in Cincinnati.

And you know, it gets worse:

Hines, 21, of Fairfield, died last week of injuries from a bomb explosion in Baghdad in June.

More than 400 family members and friends gathered for his funeral Friday. They watched a slideshow of his life from childhood to high school to his wedding.

Hines met his wife, Katy, at Cincinnati Christian School. They had a 2-year-old daughter, Lily, and Katy expects to give birth to their second child in about two weeks.

OK, if this is some kind of act of protest - sick, my friends. Sick. Disturbed, wrong, freaking evil. I'm not going to jump up and accuse "the Left" of doing this. No decent person from the political Left or Right would do such a thing. If I believed that, I'd really have to move to Idaho or Montana and find myself a nice tarpaper shack.

If it is random violence - still sick. What kind of walking freakshow would do something like this? Hasn't this family paid enough?

No, it has not changed my position on the need for an anti-flag-burning amendment to the US Constitution - we don't need one, and we don't want one. Flag burning is protected free speech. BUT BURN YOUR OWN DAMNED FLAG.

If I saw someone doing this, I'm not sure I could stop myself from committing an atrocity on their person. But I'd be horse-whipping them for being such an evil monster, not for burning the damned flag. The hell with the flag - this isn't about the flag (but the news accounts will make it seem that way). This is about intentional and unacceptable pain being inflicted on a family that doesn't deserve it.

I feel sick. Somebody make it stop.

Hang In There,

Wiggy

"Sorry I Ruined Your Funeral"

I read with dismay this morning that apparently, Lt. Gov. Catherine Baker Knoll of Pennsylvania (not Indiana, as some have been reporting), showed up uninvited to a funeral for a Marine Staff Sergeant killed in Iraq, gave out her business cards, and made some remarks that were interpreted as rude by the family of the Marine. It is being reported that she said something to the effect that the state government of Pennsylvania was against the war in Iraq.

If that is true, I'm appalled. I shouldn't be. This sort of thing has been going on forever. Second-string elected officials (supernumeraries, like Lieutenant Governors or Vice-Presidents) get this notion into their punkin haids that their opinions are somehow more important, or more accurate, or better, than that of the average citizen; but the sad fact is, for most of them, they're far worse.

Reserve officials should be kept in dark closets with duct tape over their mouths until they are needed for some activity that requires a ceremony. Breaking a tie in their governing body, cutting a ribbon at a shopping mall opening, reading the winning lottery number on TV, encouraging tourism, that sort of thing. When the event is over, the duct tape goes back on, and they get wheeled back into the closet. They're largely the political detritus, anyway. Stuff that washes up on shore and has to be dealt with. A favor given or a debt repaid.

And now that I think about it, that duct tape thing is not a bad idea for ALL elected officials. But I digress.

I don't know much about Staff Sergeant Joseph Goodrich, except to know that he was a fellow Marine (and a police officer), and he lost his life in Iraq. One can argue about what he and his compatriots are there fighting for. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion on the war in Iraq, and I respect those opinions and the people who have them. I have no trouble with Lt. Governor Knoll being personally against the war in Iraq, or with her expressing her opinion in public. I am not terribly fashed if the State of Pennsylvania passes a resolution condemning the war - I'm not a citizen of the state, and that's their bidness over there. They can have a great big anti-war cakewalk right down the middle of the state, and that's fine by me.

I have a problem with the manner, the method, and the timing of her alleged remarks. If she said what she is supposed to have said - she might just as well have spit on the Staff Sergeant's casket. In what world did she suppose her opinions would be welcome at the funeral of a fallen Marine?

Frankly, I think that we former Jarheads should issue a Call to Arms of sorts. I should ask that all former and present Marines currently employed by the State of Pennsylvania should go home until further notice. If former soldiers and sailors and airmen want to join this Referendum on Respect, then great. The more, the merrier. I want to see all government business in Pennsylvania grind to a halt. I want the people of Pennsylvania, indeed, the nation, to see that US Marines are more than just men and women who fight and die in foreign lands at the order of Congress and the President; we are men and women who hold valuable positions in society. We are always Marines - no matter how long we have been out of uniform - but we also are active and participatory members of civilian society. There are more of us than you think - we're here, and we vote; we count; we matter. And when you spit on the grave of one of our honored dead, you should consider the political consequences of your actions.

I'd like to see ten thousand former US Marines standing in formation outside the Pennsylvania Capitol Building - just standing at attention, silently marking their protest. And not going to work, of course. Think that would get some attention?

I understand that the Governor of Pennsylvania, Ed Rendell, is or is about to issue an official apology to the family of Staff Sergeant Goodrich. That's fine. But he also has apparently stated that he has "not been in contact" with Lt. Gov. Knoll. She is apparently traveling and cannot be contacted.

Let's have the Marines in Pennsylvania go home from work. Let's see how long she remains out-of-touch.

That's all for me - I can't let myself get too worked up here, or I'll explode and fly to the moon. And reentry is a bitch.

Semper Fi,

Wigwam Jones
former E-5 Sgt
One Each, Green in Color

Short Post on Employment, The Curious Condition

Today is 'obfuscation'. Tomorrow, that's 'clarification'. If you want to know what's going on, come back tomorrow. Today, I just obfuscate. Barkeep? Obfuscation for all my men.

Word of the Day: blustrification.

Oh, and to keep my Bloghub friends confused: sex, porn, blogs, webcam, blog, maria sharapova, gay, b, templates, and nude. Hehehehehe. I'm a bad blogger boy.

Happy Obfuscatin',

Wiggy

Hot Coffee and a Lawsuit To Go, Please

Well, I am sitting in a hotel room in Greensboro, North Carolina, on a beautiful Saturday morning, with a bag of ice on my right knee, typing this between piteous groans of pain. Is 'piteous' a word? Never mind. Pity me, I'm hurtin'.

As a recently-elected Deputy Grand Poobah of the Knights of Columbus, my council sent me to this big confabulation, oops, I mean "Organizational Meeting" at the airport Marriott in Greensboro, along with my Grand Poobah, so that we can get liquored up, oops, I mean so that we can learn what is required of us as officers of the KofC.

Drove out yesterday, quite a nice drive since they finished the bypass between Wilson and Raleigh, only about a 2-hour drive all told. Got the air conditioning fixed on the ol' Chevy, so the ride was comfortable. Got in about 3 p.m. and checked into the hotel.

I used to travel for a living - a 'Road Warrior' as they say - to the tune of six days a week and 125,000 miles per year. I lived at Marriotts, and as such, I earned their 'platinum' status many times over. That just means free perks and so forth, upgrades to nicer rooms, whatever. My status, even a year and some months after my last say at a Marriott, lives on - so I got treated well when I checked in.

This morning, I got up and went downstairs in search of coffee - hoping to quaff a gallon or so before our meeting began at 8:30. As luck would have it, I ran into my Grand Poobah and his wife, and he asked me to pour him a cuppa joe and meet him in the lobby, since he had to run back upstairs for something.

The coffee kiosk was hidden in the gift shop cupboard behind the main desk, so I had to wedge myself in there and fight eleventy-dozen other Knights for the right to pour myself couple of cups of coffee. Mostly old guys, I had no trouble knocking them down and trampling them. I went to a nearby table in the lobby to dose my coffee with White Death Number One (processed white sugar) and put those slidy cardboard coffee heat-reduction thingies on, and lids. The coffee was hot, hot, hot. Burning my hands, it was.

I got mine on ok, but when I went to put the slidy thing on my Grand Poobah's cup, it caught on the bottom of the cup and I spilt it all down the front of me.

Wow. This is REALLY HOT COFFEE! Oh, pain, pain, pain, pain. Yowza. Burnin' House of Love and Mother of Pearl. This hurts.

I could feel the blister start down my right leg immediately. I mean, you can tell when you're burned and not just surprised and wet and hot. Not that it happens to me a lot, but still, you don't forget.

A lady from the hotel came right over and started mopping me off with a rag - that made it worse, it pressed the red-hot pant leg right up against the rapidly-developing wound. But she was trying to help. She started offering to get me a new cuppa joe - I'm telling her to nevermind the coffee, I need to be gettin' myself to the hospital, toot sweet. She insists on getting me a replacement cuppa joe, and goes off in search of it.

In the meantime, I gather my shattered wits and begin to struggle towards the elevator. My Grand Poobah comes out of that elevator just as I'm trying to go in, he wants to know where his coffee is. I tell him that I'm wearing it, and I'm going to my room now. He wants to know if I'm going to come back down for the meeting. I say I'm going to drive myself over to the local emergency room. He asks if I'm sure - the meeting is really important. I refrain from shaking this stiff's head like a maraca and just get on the elevator.

I get up to my room, strip, and grab the ice bucket. OK, I shoulda put some kinda pants on before hobbling down to the ice machine to fill up the bucket. Still, you'd think people never saw a set of bare legs and y-fronts before.

The hotel security guy came up, offered his condolences, looked at my red blotchy leg and suggested some first-aid cream, which he went off in search of. The hotel manager called and offered his condolences, and offered to have a breakfast sent up to me, on the house. I told him I was afraid I'd end up wearing it.

So here I am, sitting in my hotel room, with a bag of ice on my right thigh. I just examined my leg - yeah, I got a nice blister going on. That really was some hot coffee. Oh well.

Now, you know what I think? I think that the Marriott is scared spitless that I'm gonna sue them. But I'm not. You know why? Because I poured the freaking coffee on myself, that's why. It was an accident - my accident. The hotel didn't do anything wrong.

Could the coffee kiosk have been more convenient? Sure. Could the coffee have been a tad less scorching? Sure. But you know what? Coffee is hot. I've known that for years. And I was juggling two cups. And I felt rushed and annoyed. And I made a mistake and poured molten coffee down my freaking leg. Embarrassing, and now I'm going to limp around for a few days.

Well, life goes on. I doubt I'll have to have it amputated. I think people sue too much. Yes, that's what this screed is about. People sue too much when it is their own dang fault. That's another point in favor of me becoming a Supreme Court Justice. When people bring lawsuits like this, I'll tell them to 'knock it off'. I think it is high time someone said it.

So knock it off, out there. Get over it and stop trying to trim your hedges by holding your lawn mower over your head. That's just wrong, and you know it. Nobody else is responsible when you cut off your head with the lawn mower. Ever buddy clear on that now? Good.

Well, the ice is largely melted now. The leg feels somewhat better. I think this is going to not be a lot of fun, but I'll get through it. I guess I'll put on another pair of chinos and go join the merriment. I was even carrying my rosary beads - you'd have thought I'd have been divinely protected or something. Dang.

Wakka-wakka,

Wiggy

Of Course, I'm Disappointed

The phone didn't ring all weekend. President Bush did not call, and he has not nominated me to be the next Justice on the Supreme Court, replacing the retiring Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. This is a bitter blow. I may need to take a moment here.

...

OK, I'm back. I'm fine. Really.

I want to talk about something I saw on TV this morning. Some news show, I can't recall which one, was interviewing some White House flak about President Bush's nomination, Judge John Roberts Jr. The reporter asked the flak if President Bush shouldn't have considered nominating a woman or a minority (which many pundits had suggested he might do) so that the nominee would go towards building a Supreme Court that "looks like America."

I'm a little unclear on this "looks like America" stuff. I mean, I recall when former President Clinton famously vowed to create a cabinet that looked like America.

I presumed that this was election-year hyperbole. Sure, I understood, as most Americans probably did, that he was saying he would go out of his way to try to make sure that people of color and women would be equally represented in his cabinet - and bully for him, being fair is good and I'm in favor of it in general.

To be honest, I also thought that President Clinton meant that his cabinet appointments would embody the ideals of the American citizen - honest, decent, hard-working, a believer in fair play, and one who cared about his or her Creator, family, nation, and neighbors - in more or less that order. That would truly be a cabinet that 'looked like America', don't you think?

I did NOT think that President Clinton meant he would staff his cabinet with people of color and women in order to suit some supposed ratio, so that there would the appearance that his cabinet looked like a cross-section of America only seen in census data. What would be the point of that? Whom would it serve? Not the American public, surely. Not the President. He would want to staff his cabinet with the best minds he could find that agreed more or less with his policies, ideology, and goals (fair enough that a president should want to do that, despite any disagreement I might have).

So, years go by and President Clinton is gone, and I truly don't recall if his cabinet looked like America in terms of ratio or in terms of 'American Ideals'. I'll leave that be, since I don't feel like looking it up right now.

But here comes the question again. And it sounds like the old statement that President Clinton made, doesn't it? But I think it presents a more sinister idea, and worse, it presents it under the rubric of fairness, which all decent Americans believe in.

Do we Americans want a Supreme Court that "looks like America?"

Does that mean that some should be smokers and some not? Some wife beaters and some not? Some high-school dropouts and some not? Adulterers, anyone (nevermind, they run for the Senate)? Some have been sent to prison and some not? Do we determine the ratios of those things and then appoint new Justices to keep the ratios correct and in synch with what Americans are by percentage points?

I doubt that the reporter meant that. No. Funny, but no.

Did the reporter mean to ask why the President didn't nominate the person he felt was best for the job - regardless of race, gender, or any other qualifications than those of discerning mind and temperament (and yes, agreement with what the President believes to be true)?

Well, I think we can answer that question also - no. If the reporter felt that was the real question, then there was no need to ask it - the President made his nomination, and I must presume that he applied a great deal of thought to the issue and made the choice he felt was the correct one. If anything, I could respect a President who didn't bow to great political pressure to do something he fundamentally disagreed with.

I think the question, then, is obvious. The question was NOT why the President didn't nominate someone who "looks like America." The question was, why didn't the President nominate a person of color or a female?

The answer would be - the person he felt was most highly qualified for the job did not happen to be either of these. That's how things go sometimes.

Yes, people can be influenced by prejudice and racism and sexism - and use rationalizations to avoid choosing to advance those minorities and women most suited for promotion or recognition because of those tendencies. I would say that President Bush, for all his faults, has not come across like a racist or a sexist. He has had his chance, surely. He kept Colin Powell, and Condy Rice - I suspect because he felt they were best for the jobs he wanted them for, not because they made his cabinet one that "looks like America." So now, he chooses a white male for the job of Supreme Court Justice and he's suddenly a racist or a sexist?

Well, no, frankly. I think it is clear that the reporter didn't mean that, either. It would not do to just nominate a woman or a minority to the position - it would also have to be one that would not vote in a conservative manner - and possibly overturn important decisions like Row v Wade, and end legal abortion in this country. THAT'S what the reporter meant - why didn't the President nominate someone who would swing strongly to the Left?

Um, because he doesn't want that to happen? That would be my guess.

But the reporter (and the political hacks, flaks, and shills who will follow and grab onto this catch-phrase like it means something) can't simply say that they're upset that the President didn't nominate a liberal to the Supreme Court. So it is back to the saw about a nomination that makes the Supreme Court that "looks like America."

So.

Do we want - what do LIBERALS want - a Supreme Court that has all the trappings of equality - but one in which that equality is only as far as your eyes can take note of? That sex and skin color are the prerequisites, rather than ability? Is this what we want? Are we officially saying that we prefer the appearance of equality over the genuine article?

Well? I'm waiting.

DO WE WANT A SUPREME COURT THAT USES QUOTAS TO APPEAR TO PROMOTE EQUALITY, AND TO HELL WITH REALITY?

Yes, I typed that in all caps - I'm shouting. I like to shout.

Is it more important to APPEAR to be right - instead of actually BEING RIGHT?

Well, perhaps I am missing the point here. Let me think.

OK, I have to admit it - I do want a Supreme Court that "looks like America."

In my America, people are judged, as Martin Luther King said best, "Not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." This would be the America that I would want my Supreme Court to represent. The best that Americans can be - when we try really hard - when we put away our childish hatreds and greed and stop coveting for a moment. That would be lovely - a Supreme Court that believed in fair play, honesty, decency towards their fellow human beings. That, my friends, would be a Supreme Court that "looks like America."

The best part of America.

Now that that is settled, let's talk about a Supreme Court that smells like America. Personally, I don't mind the Pacific Northwest, but I really would prefer not to have a Supreme Court that smelled like, say, Newark.

Just kind of a guideline for me.

Glad we got to talk about this!

Smooches,

Wiggy

The Dogfather, Part One

The scene opens in the Jones family TV room, situated in a restored 1920's bungalow in a quiet neighborhood of Wilson, NC. Wigwam Jones is present, sitting on the couch in his bathrobe, trying to enjoy a cuppa joe before the day's trials and tribulations begin. He sits in the dark, trying to let his mind adjust to the fact that yet another day is about to begin.

With him in the room are Molly and Milo, who are interested in some rawhide chew toys, and Zone V, who is perched on the arm of Wiggy's side of the couch and begging to be petted.

Molly approaches in a supplicant posture - head down, eyes downcast. She places one paw on Wiggy's knee and gazes in into her Don's eyes in a souful way:

Molly: Oh, great Don Wiggy. I have come to ask you dis one favor.

Wiggy: Molly, you are my favorite girl puppy dog. You bring me happiness when you show me your devotion by slobbering on my hand and eating the floor of our kitchen. It is hard for me to refuse you anything, so tell me; what can Don Wiggy do for you?

Molly: Oh, great Don Wiggy. The favor that I have come to ask is dis. May I whack Zone V the cat?

Wiggy: Molly, Molly, Molly. Why would you want to do dis thing? You know Zone V is under my protection. Dis, I cannot permit.

Molly: Don Wiggy, da cat has been coming into our territory here in the TV room. She pays no tribute, she leaves cat hair everywhere, she chases her cat toys and naps in our window. She meows and therefore needs to be whacked.

Wiggy: Molly, I cannot allow you to do dis thing. I have given my protection to Zone V, and my word must be obeyed; she is not to be harmed. You have whacked a squirrel in the back yard that intruded into your territory, is this not enough?

Molly: Boss, dat squirrel was asking for it! And so is da cat. She makes noises and teases us from the back of the couch! She hides under things we can't reach and hisses at us! Milo was just innocently trying to see if she would fit in his mouth and she swatted him - she's got sharp claws, Don Wiggy! Dat cat has gotta go.

Wiggy: Perhaps I have not made my position clear on dis matter. Dat cat is not to be harmed, by you or any of your crew. The TV room is not your territory, it is Mrs. Wiggys and mine. We permit you to share it wit us, but never make the mistake of thinkin' that we have given it to you. You have the backyard, which you have proceeded to destroy. The cat is allowed to come and go as she pleases, and you will not harm her in any way. Do you understand me?

Molly: Don Wiggy, I cannot speak for all of my crew. It could be that one of them, in their youthful zeal, decides to take matters into their own hands, and whack da cat. I may not be able to stop them.

Wiggy: Understand this, Molly da dog. I will hold you responsible for anything bad dat happens to dat cat. If dat cat gets whacked, I am not going to go looking for whomever is responsible, I am gonna come looking for you. If dat cat gets whacked, you get whacked. Capisca?

Molly: Ok, Boss, Ok. I get it. Dat cat is not to be whacked. No problem.

At this point, Molly the dog slinks away. Milo presents himself, tail wagging, for an audience with Don Wiggy.

Wiggy: Milo, my favorite boy puppy dog! What can I do for you?

Milo: Don, Wiggy, I seek permission to whack dat annoying cat.

Don Wiggy drops his head into his hands, sobs quietly.

Camera pulls back and fades to black.

Ciao,

Don Wiggy

PS - No cats, dogs, or Italian-Americans were harmed in the making of this blog.

Working For My Wealth

Well, with regard to the email I got last week informing me of the incredible good fortune heading my way, I got a reply from Barr.John Addas. He seems to be a very intelligent and well-spoken man, and I feel I should give him my full trust and confidence. He wrote:

Dear Wigwam Jones,

Thanks you a million times for your swift response to my proposal. However, I considered it very important that I have to fully clarify you better on this project so that you will have full knowledge of this whole transaction and to enable you assist and act as the next of kin to my late client, ENGR. KEARNEY. C. JONES.

I know that I can't paint pictures enough with words especially when I know that what I am presenting to you about my late client, ENGR. KEARNEY. C. JONES, is as sure as broad daylight. In the midst of water, the fools are thirsty but fools can stumble to wealth. Nothing is impossible under the sun. Please do not in anyway misintepret or misunderstand my main point of view in this paragraph because I have just made a reference point which is an idiomatic expression.

Actually, it's not important if you are related to my deceased client or not, but the most important thing here is the last name which is the same with that of my late client that makes it very convincing and real to portray and front you as the next of kin to my deceased client, ENGR. KEARNEY. C. JONES.

After searching for the real family or acquintance for over one year without success, then I decided to search for the extended family via the internet web directory that bears the same last name hence I contacted you, because this bank he deposited this amount of USD $14,500,000.00 before his untimely death wants to declare his account unserviceable and confiscate it. So this is why I contacted you to seek for your great assistance and full cooperation in this projection.

I will send you all the neccessary genuine legal documents and informations
regarding this transaction because being his lawyer, I know how to go about it legally and legitimately. Now, I want to front you and forward your informations to this bank holding this funds as the next of kin to the deceased hence you have this same last name (JONES) with him.

You don't have to be afraid of anything because everything concerning this transaction is perfectly arranged and ready to be activated and it is 100% Risk and hitch free. I will give you 40% of USD$14,500,000.00 (Fourtheen Million, Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars Only), at the end of this transaction, 5% of the total sum will be set aside to take care of any incidental expenses that we may incurre in running this transaction, while 55% will be for me. But what is requested of you here is nothing but your Total trust, Sincerity and for you to act according to the instructions that I will be giving you throughout this transaction.

In fact, I would appreciate you to keep this very transaction at high degree of confidentiality untill this money is transfered into the account that you will provide for this transaction. Right now, I want you to send me your telephone and fax numbers, as well as your full home address.

On the receipt of your reply indicating your sincere willingness to assist me in this transaction, I will use the name to prepare all the legal documents that I will need to file your name with the bank as the next of kin to my late client. Once your name has been presented to the bank, I will send across to him a copy of text of application letter which you will retype, fill and have it faxed directly to the director of foreign operations in the bank for approval, which is the most important aspect of this transaction, and once the application is approved the rest will be easy.

Moreso, I will state in the application, the account number of my deceased client and banking particulars to the dormant account. I will be waiting to hear from you as regards to this issue. This is very important, if you want us to achieve and champion this beneficial goal.

Please carefully read this mail to enable you understand the whole proceedures we have to follow because I may not like to explain this again as time is of great essence as we can be able to complete and conclude this transaction in 14 bank working days depending how fast and urgent we file in this application in this bank in your favour.

And again, bear in mind that time is of great essence and feel very free to call me always on this phone 00228-926-6483.

My profound regards to your family and I expect to get a swift reply from you to enable me draft this application and send it to you so that you can forward it immediately to this bank holding this fund. Please contact me ASAP to enable us commence on this transaction because time is of great essence.

Thanks for your understanding

Yours Truely,
Barr. John Addas.
+228-926-6483.

There is no doubt that this type of correspondence requires an immediate response! You can't let that kind of money just sit around, you must act! The man is obviously learned, as he said that he had, "just made a reference point which is an idiomatic expression." Now where are you gonna get great learnin' like that?

Besides, he thanksed me a million times. That's a lot.

Unfortunately, he also said "In fact, I would appreciate you to keep this very transaction at high degree of confidentiality untill this money is transfered into the account that you will provide for this transaction." Well, I'm going to have to ask all of you to keep this to yourselves, ok? I don't want to go and ruin my chance to become a gozillionaire.

What's more, this fella has a bit of a temper! He said "I may not like to explain this again as time is of great essence as we can be able to complete and conclude this transaction in 14 bank working days depending how fast and urgent we file in this application in this bank in your favour." Well, Jiminy Crickets, how touchy can you get? Fortunately, I don't think I'll need another explanation, and I think I can give him what he needs.

I therefore wrote back:

Dear Barr. John:

Thank you so much for your rapid reply! I realize that you did not know this, but the JONES family name is very unusual in the United States. We are all originally from Lower Slobovia, and we came here to America after the Great Turnip Drought of 1884. Everyone with the JONES surname is related in some way, although we have lost touch with many of our relatives. Which is strange, since we all share one kidney. Thus, I presume that KEARNEY C. JONES was a relative of mine in some way, perhaps a cousin or a debutante, which we call here an 'oven-mitt' relative. Although we did not know him, my wife and I definitely felt a great disturbance in the Force on the day he and his family perished. I have had his family's name inscribed on our moss-covered, three-handled family credenza, and I'll have a codpiece made in his honor to wear proudly on Gelatin-Squeezing Day.

Tell me, do you know if your client had a large proboscis? This has been a hallmark of the JONES family for generations, and we are all quite fond of our tools. Generally, when a man of the family passes away, he has his proboscis bronzed and placed on display in the local Town Hall for all to see. There is a presentation of a small plaque by the Mayor or the Town Executioner and a small ceremony, and everyone sings the Oscar Meyer song and has cake. When my father passed away, the players tried to take the field, but the marching band refused to yield. We sang dirges in the dark and were content with that.

Of course the terms are more than acceptable to me - it is a great relief to find that you are so honest and hardworking. Here in the United States, attorneys (which I presume are like barristers where you live) are all Satan Worshippers and Butt Hunchers and they always take at least 80% of the money they recover from the estates of dead relatives, which they proceed to spend on demon powder and insect parts. They have skeevy little hearts and truly, they drink the blood of infants. My heart feels like a weasel!

I therefore assure you of my fidelity and attention to detail, nothing shall go amiss on my end! You have my complete instigation, and as you said, "fools are thirsty." And I am very, very, thirsty! But there is water in the Porcelain Throne of El Guapo, so we shall be content.

You have asked for my telephone and fax numbers, and here they are. I ask for your complete confidentiality, as they are unlisted and I do not usually give them out via email. I am making this exception just for you:

(919) 662-4500 home phone
(703) 482-1739 fax phone

I am somewhat deaf, so when you call me, I shall have to ask you to speak quite loudly and clearly. In fact, you can shout if you like. And I think it might be best if we use code names. I'll call myself "Uncle Sam" and you call yourself "Al Kada". When you call, please shout into the phone "Hey, Uncle Sam, this is Al Kada calling!" If I am not there, please make sure you shout "I have a message for Uncle Sam from Al Kada." Make sure you stay on the phone no matter what you hear, because there may be some trouble on the line. It is common for my phone to emit clicks and buzzes, so ignore those and just remain on the line for as long as you can until I pick up. My time is important too, just like yours is, so remember your fine words, "I may not like to explain this again!"

You also asked for my mailing address, and here it is:

WIGWAM JONES
3320 Garner Road
Raleigh, NC 27626-0500

I must also tell you in the strictest confidence that I have hoovered my midsection and found it devoid of quatloos. There is therefore nothing to be gained by delay! So let it be written, so let it be done! We shall march onward together, spleen to spleen, as Rotundarian men of Big Bootays!

Look Ma, No Cavities,

WIGWAM JONES

I did make one tiny little mistake, though. The phone number and address are for the North Carolina Bureau of Investigation - oopsie! The fax number is for the CIA. Well, I'm sure it will all work out for the best. I'm practically counting my money now.

More as events unfold...

Smooches,

Wiggy - the soon-to-be-filthy-rich

No Blogging Now, I'm Rich

I knew that one day my ship would come in. What I didn't know was that it would arrive in the form of an email announcing the tragic death of my dear relative, Engineer K.C. Jones. He mounted to the cabin, you know. With his orders in his hand. K.C. Jones, he mounted to the cabin; and he took his farewell trip to the Promised Land. And apparently, left me a few million bucks. What a guy.

Here is the letter, which seems very official, explaining why I am now a gozillionaire:

Personal Letter to you/:Wigwam and Mrs. Wiggy Jones

FROM BARR.JOHN ADDAS
CHAMBERS & ASSOCIATES LLP.
20 RUE DE KPOTA LOME-TOGO.
TEL/FAX: +228-226-4472


Dear Mattocks,

I am Barrister John, a solicitor at law, personal attorney to Engr. K.C. Jones, a national Of your country, who used to work with Shell Development Company in Lome Togo. Here in after shall be referred to as my client. On the 10th of February 2004, my client, his wife and their only daughter were involved in a plane crash in Sharjah, United Arab Emirates.

Please check site: http://www.airdisaster.com/photos/ep-lca/8.shtml

My client and his wife and their only daughter unfortunately lost their lives. Since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy here to locate any of my clients extended relatives, this has also proved unsuccessful. After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to track his last name over the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.

I have contacted you to assist in repartrating the fund valued at US$14.5( Fourtheen Million Five Hundred Thousand US dollars) million left behind by my client before it gets confiscated or declared unserviceable by the Security Finance Firm where this amount was deposited. The said Security Finance Firm has issued me a notice to provide the next of kin or have his account confiscated within the next twenty one official working days.

Since I have been unsuccesfull in locating the relatives for over one year now, I seek the consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased since you have the same last names, so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you.Therefore, on receipt of your positive response, we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for transfer.

I have all necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim. All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law.

Kindly contact me through the above email for more details.

Best Regards,

Barrister John Addas.

What a tragedy! I viewed the twisted wreckage where my long-lost relative lost his life. Strangely, I always thought that Engineer K.C. Jones worked on the railroad, perhaps with John Henry. But maybe I was wrong - times do change, you know. Here's the photo of the wreck:



Now, I believe in "repartrating the fund." In fact, I think we should repartrate all the time. And I would certainly hate to see the fund "declared unserviceable." That would be a tragedy! I think that the "modalities for transfer" must be dealt with immediately, don't you? Thank goodness I can offer my "honest cooperation" in perpetrating this modality to repartrate the fund. And protecting me from any breach in the law seems a good idea, too.

Well, I wasted no time - I can see that time is indeed, of the essence! I immediately posted a reply:

Dear Barrister John:

I am so sorry to hear about the loss of my dear relative. Thank you for taking care of his estate until you could contact me. What are the steps we need to take next?

Many Smooches,

Wigwam Jones

I am eagerly awaiting a reply from Barrister John. I am sure that he will take the best possible care of me, and I will let all my readers know when I receive my millions. I hope to be able to throw a massive party, and of course, you'll all be invited. I'm going to hire Bon Jovi to play.

Doin' the Happy Dance,

Wiggy

The At-A-Glance / Staples Outrage

Went to the local Staples today, to buy an 'At-A-Glance' calendar sort of thing. Something to keep track of stuff with. Yes, I have a PDA. Don't use it anymore - used it when I was a traveling monkey.



If it has to be plugged in from time to time, it's too much trouble. Calendars just wait patiently for you to open them - or not open them. Cool, solar powered.

Do you know what you can't buy at the local Staples? A 2005 calendar, is what. Of any kind. 2006 only.

What?

What the ding, dang, frickin, frackin, shazbot? How is this possible? In what world do we stop needing calendars in the middle of 2005 and start setting our sights on 2006 in July?

At-A-Glance Calendar 2006

I know that when I was a kid, the Christmas decorations went up soon after Thanksgiving. Now the stores start stocking Christmas decorations before Halloween. They put just enough Halloween stuff on the shelves to pay lip service to the holiday even existing, then they hustle it out and get the Christmas stuff in, which they have already pre-positioned.

But I don't understand this.

I didn't need a 2005 calendar in January, or I'd have bought one. I need one now. If it was late December or even November, I'd have some understanding - time to get rid of the dog-eared stuff that didn't sell and move on. Look ahead. Be pro-active, whatever that means.

But July?

I asked the store manager. He said that they got rid of the 2005 calendars in JUNE!

Sez I: What kind of person buys a 2006 calendar in July 2005?
Sez Him: Oh, you'd be surprised. Lots of people.
Sez I: Yes, stupid people. People who don't check the covers and think that they're buying 2005 calendars.
Sez Him: Oh, no. We'd know that if it happened. We get all kinds of people who ask for 2005 calendars in June, just like you're asking for one now.

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

Sez I: Does this not tell you something?
Sez Him: Like what?
Sez I: Like, maybe if people are asking for 2005 calendars in June 2005, you maybe might want to think about possibly, oh, I dunno....HAVING SOME TO SELL THEM?
Sez Him: Ummm, no.

When I got back to my office, I called Staples and spoke to their customer service rep, who, thank the stars, is located in the USA and speaks English. She laughed when I recited my tale of woe. She admitted that she gets a lot of calls for people who want 2005 calendars after June of 2005. She admitted, laughingly, that perhaps it would make sense for them to actually stock them for a bit longer into the year. She made a note of it. There will be a new rule. The Wigwam Jones Rule - Thou Shalt Have Current-Year Calendars Until At Least Early November.

However, she also pointed out that all the companies that make calendars send out calls for their return in June of each year. See, like paperback books and magazines, if stores send the unsold calendars back, they get credit for them. So, it means a lot of money to them if they fail to return the unsold ones. All of which means - when the calendar makers beckon, the giant chains like Staples fall on their faces and genuflect. You kidding me? They'll sacrifice a junior accountant and three sales wonks to keep such a supplier happy.
So we have the calendar people to blame for this.

At-A-Glance people, you have made a powerful enemy this day. I swear vengeance. Maybe not now, maybe not in ten years, but someday, one of your employees will get kicked savagely in the shin - and you need not ask, you'll know what it was for. Revenge.

But wait. There's more. I called At-A-Glance Group. Talked to a very friendly and helpful customer service guy. Also speaks english, this is encouraging. Do they have 2005 calendars? No. Why not? The stores all returned their 2005 calendars, and ordered 2006 calendars. WHAT?

At-A-Glance Customer Service put me on hold to go research the problem. Came back - they swear that Staples returns the calendars whenever they want to - no reason it has to be June. But Staples demands 2006 calendars in June 2005, so that's what they get.

Somebody lying. I'm gonna get me a scalp. And I want a 2005 At-A-Glance calendar. This is now officially a quest. Mark my words.

Pencil This In,

Wiggy

Shell Henge and Squirrel Heads

I am typing this with bandages on two fingers and a thumb, and my hands ache from pulling weeds, but I am writing it nonetheless. This is because I am extremely something (note to self - find adjective and fill this in before posting).

My plan for today was merely to mow the lawn and do some general cleanup around the house. We're having a few friends over tomorrow to have a traditional Independence Day burger-and-bratwurst cookout and then we're going to go watch fireworks, if the weather cooperates. Much relaxation requires much preparation.

So, I started out by mowing the front lawn. This, by the way, has become more of a chore lately. All that aerating with my dad's golf shoes and massive doses of weed-n-seed have had an effect; we no longer have a dead, dead, lawn. We now have a thicket of ruthless, wiry, grass that is attempting to attack and digest large sections of concrete sidewalk now.

My neighbor was impressed - he watched me murder the lawn to begin with. He asked me what variety of grass I had been putting down, since he said he hadn't see that many different shades of green before.

Varieties?

I just bought bag after bag of stuff and poured it on the lawn. I looked at some of the old half-empty bags. Zoysia, centipede, carpetgrass, and modified bluegrass, is what. No wonder it is eating my sidewalk, I've bred the grass equivalent of a Superfund cleanup site. Well, then.

So, as it turned out, just mowing was having little effect. I determined that I was going to have to edge. Edging is slow, painful work. Well, it is slow and painful if you do not have a gasoline-powered edging thing. Which frankly, I should have. But even I, a man who can spend money faster than a third-world dictator with a new mistress and some offshore oil derricks cannot justify a gasoline-powered edger that I'd use about once per year for around three hundred dollars.

And I have a weed-whacker, but it is a wimp, so I don't use it. Weed insulter, is more like it. Weed slapper. It lightly smacks them around, and they give it their weedy equivalent of their middle fingers. Then, it whimpers at me and jams. Piece of crap, is what.

See, when I moved to North Carolina from lawnless New Mexico, I didn't know jack about weed whackers. Remembered when they came out when I was a boy, but my dad thought using a pair of scissors on my hands and knees built more character. I've got character, pop. Thanks.

So I bought a Black-and-Decker weed whacker, battery-operated, for about fifty dollars. Figured that since I have a small lawn, I don't need any more than that. This was before I found out what a pile of crap the Black-and-Decker company has become - they're really just a name now, their products are overseas-made crap, and you can't reach a real human being on the phone to talk to them about it. Just my opinion, folks.

Anyway.

That leaves me with the tried-and-true ninja star on a stick method of edging the yard. Which I proceeded to do. And it is in the mid eighties, with very high humidity. I feel like a steamy half-cooked bratwurst. Blisters all over my hands - because of course I would not wear gloves. Hence, the liberal slathering of Neosporin and bandages about now, complete with aches and pains in places I'd rather not discuss.

But my day did not begin in such a fine way. I only wish that it had.

We keep Milo and Molly, our Dogs of the Apocalypse, in the kitchen at night. We've got a WalMart force-field to block the door shut, and they've got food and water and their crates inside. We keep them well-stocked with chewy leather things to try to satisfy their need to chew on ever thang, but it doesn't do much good. They still chew on the wooden cabinets, the linoleum floor, anything they can jump up and pull down off the counters, and even the aluminum front of our dishwasher. I only wish I was joking, they've done thousands of dollars of damage. And we can't fix it, they'll just do it again. They're about eight months old now. We only hope that they outgrow it. They're mutts, so we don't have a 'breed' type to go by. We don't even know what went into them, they're pound puppies.

They don't make toxic dumps in the kitchen anymore, though. They've become able to hold it until we get up and let them out in the morning. They wake us up with ferocious barking or whining at about 5 a.m. every morning. We take turns getting up, turning off the alarm, stumbling downstairs, and blearily unlocking the back door. Then whichever of us got up makes coffee and we turn on WRAL-TV and sit zombie-like until the Coffee Goodness has been achieved.

On Friday, Mrs. Wiggy was the one who got up. She told me after I came tumbling downstairs later that the dogs had pooped on the kitchen floor and she had to clean it up. That's not usual - they got over that some time ago. Bummer.

So this morning, it was my turn to rise and fail to shine.

Ah. More poop. Lovely.

Oh, and more.

Something nasty in one corner of the kitchen. A big steaming pile of something nasty.

I let the dogs out so that I could get out the mop and begin sterilization procedures. It was still dark out, so I was glad that they didn't immediately begin their usual hysterical barking at the local smart-ass squirrel.

We've got a tree in the backyard, and there is a small grey squirrel that lives in it. The squirrel has never been a problem for Mrs. Wiggy or myself, although it steals bird food that Mrs. Wiggy puts out for the birds.

But since we got the puppies, we've discovered that the squirrel has a cruel streak. It likes to torture the dogs by running just far enough up the trunk of the tree that it can't be reached. Then it turns and chitters at the dogs, cursing them and whipping them up into a frenzy. And like the fuzzy, happy, morons that they are, they cooperate. Bark, bark, bark. I'm so ashamed.

Mrs. Wiggy knows that I can't stand the dogs barking early in the morning or late at night. I worry that our neighbors are going to toss some poisoned meat over the fence one night, is what. Well, not our neighbors, prolly. They're nice people. But still, no one should have to put up with barky dogs when they're trying to sleep.

Well, no barking this morning. Good enough, since I have to deal with this steaming pile of whatever it is.

And then I find out what it is. Oh, dear Lord. Squirrel head, partially digested. Oh, hell no! Yep. There's the ears and it's oh-my-god it is looking at me!

I ran to the kitchen sink and commenced to throwing up, is what. I've got nothing in my stomach since last night, and I'm shooting ectoplasm at high velocity out of all the holes in my face. Must have been quite the sight.

Well, Mister Squirrel, it seems you must have fallen from Grace, is what. Was it a misstep on your part, or did you misjudge how high those pups could jump? Which one got you, was it Milo or Molly? Seems like you got your revenge, though - whichever one of them ate your head couldn't finish the job. I guess that explains why the dogs aren't out there making a hell of a racket this morning.

I finally got my insides more of less in order, and commenced to cleaning up. I ended up having to strip down and scrub the kitchen from top to bottom with boiling hot water and Mister Clean, which it needed anyway. I just had no plans to do it on my three-day Independence Day break, is all. At five in the blessed a.m. Before having coffee. After having tossed my cookies in a most undignified way. Why does this crap always happen to me? I'm gonna have nightmares about that squirrel-head for a long, long, time. Yikes.

And that brings me back to the lawn-mowing adventure. After I mowed and edged the front yard, I got ambitious and decided to do the back yard. That's foreign territory to me - we ceded it to the Doggie Nation some time back, and they've redecorated. They are slowly eating the garage, and they've dug some holes more or less down to the red-hot center of the earth.

Now, here's the interesting part. The dogs keep pulling these bright white, fossilized sea shells out of the holes they dig. Frankly, I think they're fossilized, Mrs. Wiggy thinks they are encased in some sort of concrete - that's what they look and feel like, anyway. If they were being dug out of a busted-up concrete driveway or something, I'd agree. But this house is the first to stand on this lot - it was built in 1923, and the lot was plotted in 1903. Before that, there was nothing. There is no basement - they're pointless in the wet clay that passes for soil in this part of North Carolina. People didn't pour foundations back then - the house is built on short fat brick walls and there is a two-foot crawlspace under the house.

So anyway, we have no idea where these bright white sea shells come from.

And there's more.

When I went out into the back yard to mow it, I discovered that the dogs have been arranging the shells in an arrangement of some sort around the tree (the one that formerly had a snotty squirrel in it). There appeared to be some sort of purpose to it all.

These dogs are not canine rocket scientists. Oh, Molly is pretty clever and seems to have an innate grasp of geometry and some rudimentary psychology, but I've beaten her at checkers, and when I tried to get her to play chess, she just ate the white bishop and ran off with the black queen, so she's not that smart. I let her balance our checkbook, but I'd never trust her with our investments, ya know?

And they're not neat. They don't pick up after themselves, and they certainly don't have any concept that some things should go here and some things should go there. But here all these shells were, all nicely concentrated in one area, around the base of this one tree. And more and more had been appearing over time - so clearly, as they dug up more of them, they were putting them all together in one place. I asked Mrs. Wiggy to be sure - she had not touched the nasty sea shells.

So what's the deal with these shells? Was this some sort of prayer to ancient canine gods, asking for the deliverance of the naughty squirrel? A trade of some sort? Could this be some kind of Shell Henge? Whatever it was, it appeared to have worked. The squirrel had been obtained and disassembled. I wondered if the sea shell henge would not also now be disassembled, having served it's nefarious purpose. It was enough to put a shiver down my spine.

Well, actually, it wasn't that thought which put a shiver down my spine. It was the lawn mower shuddering to a stop as I mowed the back yard. It made some kind of sickening noise, like someone ran over an armadillo with their car, and then the motor froze up.

Silence filled the air, and I thought for a second that I could smell something bad.

Ah, yes. The rest of the squirrel.

I'll bet you've never seen a grown man standing on the side of his house, hosing off the underside of his lawn mower, while periodically running over to the hedges and doing the Big Spit. I'll spare you the photo.

Happy Independence Day. Happy Birthday, America. Sorry, squirrel. I said I wanted to 'get back to nature', but not like this, oh God, not like this.

Quid Me Vexabum,

Wiggy

On SCOTUS - Biden Says "No Pure Ideologue"

I'm watching 'Face the Nation' on TV while enjoying my morning coffee. Senator Joe Biden (D) from Delaware, said that he'd filibuster any presidential nomination that was a person who was a "pure ideologue."

Definition of "ideologue" - a person who believes very strongly in particular principles and tries to follow them carefully.

We don't want that, do we? Let's make sure we get someone with no strong belief in any particular principles.

The very last thing we want is someone who has read the US Constitution and Amendments and who thinks it means something important to us today.

Feh!

Wiggy

Happy Birthday, Dad

July 3, 1937 - May 3, 1999
I miss you, pop.

Wiggy to Prez: Nominate Me for Supreme Court Justice!

Holy Guacamole! Supreme Court Justice Sandra "Sandy Baby" Day O'Connor is retiring! That was a shocker, I have to admit.

So here's the deal - I want to be the next Supreme Court Justice. I'm not sure, but I don't think you have to be a lawyer, which is good, because I am not one. Frankly, I see that as a Good Thing. I can read pretty well, and follow directions, I stay mostly inside the lines when I color, and I believe I can interpret laws as to their Constitutionality. Lawyers just make things more complicated than they have to be, and argue over the meaning of the word 'is'. Good grief, who needs more of that?

I'll need your help, since you'll have to write to your various Congresspersons and the President and urge that I be nominated, so I am thinking I'll have to do a little campaigning here. I understand it is considered crass - but that never bothered me. So here we go...

First of all - I promise that if I am nominated and confirmed as an Associate Supreme Court Justice, I'll be a lot of fun. I'll treat the office with respect, but I'll still be an entertaining guy. Pithy quotes, mugging for the camera, snide remarks, that sort of thing.

I may, from time to time, come to work armed to the teeth to see how much I can get away with. Maybe I'll fashion some sort of faux military uniform like the Surgeon General and prance around in that from time to time. Don't worry, I won't actually fire any bullets. That would be rude and dangerous.

Funny hats for sure, I love funny hats. Two words - lamp shades.

I will give press conferences and announce that I'm taking my marching orders from the Pope, whom as we all know, gets the word directly from the Almighty. Then, when their heads have all exploded, I'll say "Just kidding!" and run away. That could be LOTS of fun!

Black Robes? Puhleeze.

I will appear in public and make startling pronouncements about our "Alien Overlords" or the mysterious 'Men in Black'.

I will support the US Constitution and Bill of Rights and subsequent amendments as written - they seem pretty clear to me and I think that's what the gig is, pretty much. Where I don't understand, I'll ask for help, get advice, listen to learned counsel, and make my decision or if I still don't get it, I'll abstain.

I think powdered wigs are due for a comeback. What a fashion statement! I'll say 'thee' and 'thou' a lot too, for dramatic effect.

I will interrupt attorney's arguments to ask them how much money they're making on the case, and then I'll heckle their suits and ties or dresses, as appropriate. I'll ask the original defendants to appear before the Court whenever possible, and just explain, in plain English, what this is all about.

I will do my best to convince the rest of the Court to get our neener-neener on to the White House and Congress pretty often, because they need a little kick in the ass now and then, is what.

If I appear before Congress or on TV, I'll bring a small squirtgun and do the Tom Cruise Splish-Splash on whomever is talking to me at the time. And I won't make a secret of it, because hey, I'm a Supreme Court Justice, for crying out loud!

I will tell the United Nations and all foreign courts to bite my Chula Vista. I will interpret laws based on the US Constitution, subsequent amendments, and where it applies, the Common Law we inherited from England, nothing else. The fact that the US is out of step with the rest of the world means nothing to me. The fact that we're not well-liked fashes me not at all.

Do they wear anything under those robes? OK, I'm just saying... A little breeze on the courthouse steps and it could be a Full Court Press, if you know what I mean. Mrs. Wiggy would be amused, but ever buddy else would be looking for a bucket to throw up into. 'Nuff said.

I will make decisions on a strict Constitutional basis - even when that decision is something I disagree with. When the position of Congress in passing a law is both clear and constitutional, I will support it - even if I feel like screaming at their stupidity. I'd see my job as interpreting the Constitutionality of laws passed by Congress, not making law or social statements from the bench. Activist? Yeah - like Scalia.

OK, so ask me questions and I'll tell you how I'd vote, given the issue. I'm open to changing my mind; I can be swayed by logic or large bribes (just kidding, wanted to see if you were listening, logic means nothing to me).

Every other Monday would be 'Rhyming Day' and ever argument would have to be made in the form of a poem. And I'm talking about poems that rhyme, dang it. None of that ee cummings stuff. Although I do like his poems, that's not what I want to hear from the Bench, dad nab it!

Alternate Wednesdays would be Iambic Pentameter Day, and we'd have to designate a Talking Backward Day and a 'Reverse Day' where each attorney takes his or her opponent's argument in place of their own. There would be a High-Falutin' Day which would involve some sort of feathers worn in the hair and deep, sweeping bows before the Bench. Handkerchiefs shoved in ruffled sleeves - that sort of thing. I'd make a 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' but there already is one - Arrrr! And there'd be a day where ever buddy had to end ever sentence with 'smell ya later.'

I would do magic tricks with coins. No looking under my robes, now; that's just not sportin'.

I'm serious about this, now. I need your help, so please contact the White House and your elected representatives and let them know that you think Wigwam Jones should be nominated for Supreme Court Justice.

I think that the Supreme Court needs a theme song, don't you? I mean, the President has one ('Hail to the Chief', you yobbos) and I think that since the Judicial Branch is an equal partner of the mighty Tripod of Government, we need a theme song. I'm thinking of something by Eminem or Destiny's Child. Or Weezer or Buddy Holly, I like lots of music. Oooh, what about Willie Nelson? Coolsville, my little droogies.

Let's put the fun back into the Supreme Court of the United States.

Yours in Jurisprudence,

Justice Wiggy (sounds good, don't it)?

PS - I just heard from She-Who-Must-Be-Adored, and Mrs. Wiggy says that I can be a Supreme Court Justice if it makes me happy, which it does. So that's one hurdle cleared. She also says I'll look good in a powdered wig, and she suggested that I change my name to 'Uncle Scotus' as a discussion with Ari brought up. She says Uncle Scotus has never gotten along with Uncle Jesse. Not sure what that means...

PPS - Just heard from my boss - he's also, surprisingly, in favor of this move on my part. He suggested that I might want to get some sort of fan-like device to keep my robes inflated like some kind of Baron Harkonen (from the movie 'Dune') or a small hovercraft, which could be really useful to get around in Our Nation's Capital. He's a fun boss.

Tips for Photographing Fireworks on Independence Day

July 4th, as most everybody knows, is the annual US Independence Day celebration. Usually celebrated with hamburgers, hot dogs, lots of beer, live bands, face-painting, carnival rides, setting off a variety of small fireworks and in the evening, big aerial fireworks displays.

Fireworks displays are usually put on by citys and towns across the US, some of the bigger ones are televised. But watching televised fireworks are like the difference between watching a cooking show and eating food yourself - very different things! There is nothing like being in a crowd and watching the skies, hearing the dull thump as the morters fire, tracing the thin line in the sky, and then seeing what chemical concoction unfolds for your eyes. Very exciting!

Many people try to photograph these events - and why not? It's a great place to get good photos of friends, family, people having fun at various public events, and so on. But to get photos of the fireworks themselves, it is a bit more difficult than just pointing your camera at the sky and pressing the shutter release.

It's not too difficult, but there are a few things you should know before you go. If you follow the steps in the articles I'm linking below, you should be fine.

New York Institute of Photography Tips for Digital Cameras & Fireworks

New York Institute of Photography Tips for Photographing Fireworks with Film

New York Institute of Photography - Tips for Photographing Backyard Fireworks

Incidentally - this is one type of photography where you could definitely say that it is better to have a old antique rangefinder camera over an SLR and film over digital, and manual settings over automatic.

With digital cameras, long exposures increase digital 'noise' on the frame.

With auto-focus cameras, the auto-focus mechanism can become confused.

With auto-exposure cameras, the auto-exposure mechanism can also become confused.

With SLRs, it may be hard to see through the viewfinder to see what you're shooting.

With a rangefinder or even a cheap direct-vision camera, you can see what you're pointing the camera at.

With a good manual rangefinder camera (even a fixed-lens) on a tripod, with a cable release and vivid slide or color print film, you should be able to get masterful fireworks displays recorded on film - and bonus - you won't have to fight the camera and override what it wants to do for you. F8, infinity focus, one-second exposure (depending on film speed, etc) and you're pretty much there.

If you're shooting slides, I recommend Fujicolor Velvia. If you're shooting color print film, I recommend Kodak Ultra 400 or Gold 100 or Gold 200.

Just don't do what I did last year - I used an old vintage Yashica GSN rangefinder camera and left a red filter on from some B&W shooting I had done earlier that day. D'Oh!

And have a HAPPY AND SAFE Independence Day!

Bang, Zoom!

Wiggy