Hark, Hark, the Dog Do Bark...at 3 a.m.

Urgle. No, I realize that 'urgle' is not a word, but it is just about the only sound I am capable of making at this time.

I went to bed last night at around midnight. We've got a million things going on, and my full attention is demanded. I had my twice-monthly Knights of Columbus meeting, where I found out that everyone else is having the same problems recruiting volunteers to shake the can and give out Tootsie Rolls in front of stores as I have been having. Seems this is just a bad year for volunteerism or something.

Worse, we found out that Food Lion grocery stores have suddenly discovered that they have a problem with letting the Knights stand in front of their stores. They've allowed it for a gazillion years, but now for some reason, no dice. We have to submit a written request six months in advance, and even if permission is given, it will only be for one single Saturday, not Wednesday through Sunday of one week per year. So that kind of sucks. We shop for groceries at Food Lion. I guess maybe now we don't. There's always Piggly-Wiggly.

So anyway, I get home and I'm tired and I have to do a bunch of stuff on the computer - and I'm having hard drive problems all of a sudden on one of my old drives. And I have vacation coming up - we're supposed to take a trip to Gettysburg, PA in two weeks. So I'm trying to get ready for that as well.

And my photo club wanted me to email them some photos from Monday's meeting, since we have a member who got called up by the military and is now in Germany and wanted to see our smiling faces, so I had that to do.

And I have a friend who lives in Croatia who wants to trade me a huge WWII-era camera lens from a bomber airplane for a Soviet-made rangefinder camera from Kiev, and I have to complete that deal.

And a good friend whom I used to work with asked me to dig into my records from 2002 and find a contact name of a company that I did some work for back then, which I am trying to find in my fractured hard drive.

And finally, Mrs. Wiggy found out yesterday that she needs surgery on her knee - what she thought was maybe just some arthritis turned out to be a torn meniscus. She is intending to tough it out for our vacation, but then she will need to take three days off while she recuperates from the arthroscopic surgery.

And my mother-in-law and brother-in-law are arriving for a visit on Saturday. Of course, I won't be able to pick them up at the airport, I'll be giving out Tootsie Rolls instead of my brother Knights who are all mysteriously 'out of town' this week.

Can you say 'stressed out'? The Wigster's wig is stretched a bit taut, my droogies. Snap, snap, snap. That's my brain cells demanding beer.

So getting back to last night...

As I said, I got to bed a bit late. Say around 12:30 or so.

At 3 in the blessed a.m., Milo (the 11-month old boy puppy) began to bark. Mrs. Wiggy (bless her) got up to see what was the matter. Milo chose to become taciturn and did not reveal the source of his amusement, distress, or whatever it was that drove him to choose to attempt the Milo mind-meld method of communication by bark in the middle of the night. Mrs. Wiggy calmed the lad and came back to bed.

At 3:30, (or, as we used to say in the military, "oh-dark-thirty"), he started up again. I got up and stumbled downstairs. Folks, I keep loaded guns in the house. If I were as unstable as I sometimes think I am, the lesson would have ended badly at this point. Apparently, I am more sane than I often think I am.

Milo greeted me with great enthusiasm, as did his sister Molly. They were both trying to explode out of their crates, so I let them out, and was promptly tackled and covered in doggy slobber and great excited kisses. Well, it's good that they love us, anyway. If you ever feel unloved, get a dog. That's what they do - love people. And eat your linoleum floor, but that's a small expensive price to pay, right? Right? Ah well.

Then Milo ran for the back door and began jumping on it. I got the message, he needed to go outside. Ah.

Typically, we let Milo and Molly out in the evening around 9 or 9:30 for the last time, to do their bidness and get their remaining energy burned off. Then we put them in their dens and they are good until about 5:30 in the morning, when they wake us up by whining. Well, I guessed that Milo had chosen not to do what nature intended and was now doing the pee-pee dance inside his den. OK, fair enough. I turned off the alarm system and let him out.

He did indeed run out into the backyard and do, um, what I implied he needed to do. Then he ran back up to me and wanted to be let in. Elapsed time - 30 seconds. Sigh. All this sturm und drang for 30 seconds.

I let him in and put him back in his den. I reset the alarm and prepared to go back upstairs.

Bark. Bark, bark, bark. BARK!

Now what? My bleary noggin was throbbin'. This dog was going to be the death of me.

I trudged over to his den and tried to discern, by doggie ESP, what on earth his major malfunction might happen to be. Milo looked searchingly into my eyes and barked again. So much for meaningful dialog.

Sigh. OK, open the dog den, turn off the alarm, open the back door. Milo raced out at warp speed.

At this point, I don't want to be too graphic. He, um, assumed a hunkering position, ok? You know what I mean. Great. Here I am, oh-dark-thirty, in my bathrobe, sitting on the back steps, watching a dog squeeze one out in the back yard.

My life is grand. A cheerful, happy thing, that's my life. Like a sunny field full of wildflowers and a babbling brook running through it, and oh look, over there is a tiny delicate fawn, nibbling at the ivy. And then GWAR comes thundering in with monster trucks and nitro-burning funnycars and flame throwers and they roast Bambi and eat her and it makes them sick and they yack all over my blissed-out field of smoldering stinkweeds, while I sit on my back porch, stunned and amazed.

I'm thinking to myself - there are people sleeping right now. Blissful, happy, deep, dark, sleep. But such is not for me. As RiffRaff from Rocky Horror would put it, "The darkness must go, down the river of night's dreaming." Others dream in Morpheus' tender embrace right now; whereas, I, I sit on cold concrete steps and watch a dog poop. What's wrong with my life?

[RANT]
I mean, where did I go wrong? Was there a line like when you sign up for your classes in college, you stand in line for hours and get told that Algebra 101 is full, so you sign up for Geometry even though you don't have the prerequisites, but that's full too so you end up with four lunches, Comparative Russian Lit, and Bonehead English for Illiterates, and it's not like your English instructor doesn't speak English himself, but his last name has four M's, two Z's and a silent freaking Q in it, for God's sake, and he tells you he likes to eat 'sneakers' and it takes you ten minutes to figure out he means he likes 'Snickers' candy bars. Did I miss the line for the nice normal life and sign up for the circus by mistake? Were the normal lives all taken, and all that was left was a slightly dented life where I narrowly escape having a net dropped on me for several decades, get fat, lose my hair, and then watch a dog poop at 3:30 in the morning? Is that it?
[/RANT]

Oh, but we're not finished with this saga. Not by a long shot. I mean, it would not be my Wiggy life if things were this simple.

Seems that Milo was unable to perform as nature intended in the hunkering down and shivering one out department. He looked downright apologetic. Turned around and sniffed the spot which he had selected to receive his federal budget statement. I nearly laughed. Sorry dog, you're not going to find anything there, I'm ashamed to say that I was watching, so I'd know.

He then took a few steps towards me and hunkered down again, with a very concerned look on his doggy face. Now I was starting to get worried too. I've heard of dogs having twisted intestines and so on, this could be a Bad Thing requiring huge vet bills to repair and so on. So now, I'm rooting for the dog like some people cheer on their favorite NASCAR driver around these parts. "Come on Milo, you can do it!" Dear Lord, I shudder even now to think of that moment.

I mean, winos who wake up in a cardboard box under a bridge next to the river, covered in their own filth, can honestly say, "Well, at least I never cheered on a dog trying to take a poo in the middle of the freaking night." How bad is that? Winos and drug addicts would listen to my story, shake their lice-covered heads, and say "I dunno, you're a freak, man." That's bad.

Tom Waits wouldn't write a song about this story - he'd say it was too depressing, ya know? Tom Waits, people. Tom Waits. Whimper.

But my cheering on the dog didn't help. He was having no luck in that department. I'm thinking maybe there is some doggy equivalent of Ex-Lax that we could give him - God help us if it begins to work while we're both at work ourselves. That there would be a fine welcome home, eh? Twenty-foot long trail of tears, steaming unhappy chocolate festooning the half-eaten linoleum floors of the kitchen and smeared up the walls like something from "The Shining." Let's not go there.

Milo then did something I have never seen a dog do. He leaned against the wall of our garage, hunkered down while leaning over to one side, and stared at me from across the yard as he strained mightily. And he was rewarded this time - not with the expected, but rather with a long, loud, twenty-second fart.

I know dogs fart, ok? When they were both tiny puppies and we'd give them peanut-butter chewies, they'd clear the danged room. But we didn't hear them do it. I've never heard a dog fart before. And especially not like this. I'm a big huge manly man, and that was a toot to be proud of, I'm telling ya. Like a trumpet, it was.

Milo had the strangest expression on his face while this was happening. He was looking right at me, and I swear, his face wore an expression of both amazement and concern - like he was wondering if he was going to take off like a rocket and fly around the back yard or something. Frankly, I am guessing I would not have been shocked if he had lifted off briefly. Ah, Houston, we have a problem.

Immediately after the ... event, Milo came trotting over to me like nothing happened. He was obviously relieved and relaxed, and he wanted to be let in now. I stood up, let him in, reset the alarm again, and put him back in his den.

Since I was somewhat concerned that we weren't done with the evening's festivities, I decided to just sit down on the couch and await further developments. There were none, and I fell asleep there in a sitting position, which is where Mrs. Wiggy found me this morning when she came downstairs to make the coffee.

I am now at work. I have coffee, and I think I may be able to get through the day somehow. Directly after work, I have to go over to the Lowe's to put on my funny apron and shake my change can until 9 p.m. - I'm going to be a tired puppy myself later on. Not sure where 'dinner' plays into this, but I'll have to figure out something.

I told a few co-workers this story. They're used to my wiggedy bizarre life, and they just laugh and shake their heads. One of them asked me, "Is this the kind of life you were thinking of when you decided to quit your job, move to the country, buy a house, and get a couple of dogs?"

And I have to say, on reflection, that no, this is not what I had in mind. I never saw Sheriff Andy Taylor sitting on his back steps at oh-dark-thirty, waiting on Opie to finish farting so he could fall asleep on the couch and wait for Aunt Bee to make him coffee. I must have missed that episode of "Mayberry, RFD."

Remain Calm,

Wiggy

Must Be I've Been Smoking Too Long

Now when I get to smokin'
I put my worries on a shelf
Don't think about nothin'
Try not to see myself
Tell me, tell me, what have I done wrong
Ain't nothin' goin' right for me
Must be I been smoking too long.

- Robin Frederick, as recorded by Nick Drake

Well, I never thought I'd be blogging about this. About smoking, anyway.

OK, here's the background. My dad was a smoker, to the tune of several packs a day, and so was my mom - although she tended to smoke about a pack a week. Growing up, it seemed that most adults smoked. And they smoked everywhere. About the only places I remember where smoking was not allowed was in the grocery store and in church. It was even permitted in department stores, with metal ashtrays bolted to the columns that held the roof up and cigarette burns in all the carpets.

My dad smoked with the windows up on the car. It didn't bother me when I was a little kid, but as I became a teenager, it did. Especially when my dad would drive me to school on a winter morning and he'd be smoking and refuse to crack his window open, not even a little bit. He'd yell at me if I opened mine.

Once, I pulled my t-shirt over my mouth and breathed through it until we got to school. When we got there, I had a brown ring where my mouth had been - that's how much smoke the fabric had filtered out. When dad saw that, he got mad. At me. Ah well. I'd come to understand that, later. Addiction does funny things to good people.

I remember that it was my job to clean the car every weekend - I used to wash all the brown sticky good off the inside of the car windows. Nasty, looking back on it.

I experimented with cigarettes during the summer of my 13th year. I had a summer job detasseling corn. This is detasseling corn, if you're curious. Only we didn't make minimum wage - that was before there was such a thing. We got sixty cents an hour, and I made $300 in a full summer. Something like that. Anyway, the kids all smoked - so I stole smokes from my pop (Kool Filter Kings), and I smoked too. Got good and sick the first time, turned green, bazooka-barfed, then it was easy and fun and kept my mind off detasseling, which is pretty much a lousy job, even when you're 13 years old and live in the middle of frickin' nowhere, Illinois. In 1974.

But when the summer ended, I had to quit smoking. Hard to conceal a habit in a town of 400 (San Jose, Illinois - pronounced "San Joe's" not "San Ho-Zay"), when you're 13 years old. I don't recall having a problem quitting. I just went back to school and that was the end of that.

Anyway, I managed to resist so-called 'peer pressure' to start smoking later on, in high school in Golden, Colorado. And I managed to resist it in the Marines. So you could say I avoided the trouble-spots in a young person's formative years - this would have been the mid to late 1970's and early 1980's - we had Disco to contend with. By the way, we're sorry about all that. Big mistake, looking back on it.

But being perverse as always, I started smoking at age 31, and I soon had a huge habit. Two packs a day, Salem Ultra Lights. Yum, yum, they tasted good. Loved 'em. Why did I start? Long story. Let's just say it involved a whole bunch of stupidity.

Well, I finally decided to kick last year, and on June 12, 2004, I did. It has been just over a year since I quit, and I'm glad I did. I have put on weight, yes. But I can also draw a deep breath without coughing, and I feel a lot better.

I didn't want to become one of those nasty evil anti-smokers, which former smokers sometimes become. Those guys are the worst. They feel it is their appointed duty to spew every fact nugget about the dangers of smoking that they have lodged in their pointy little heads at every smoker they see. And smokers don't want to hear it.

It's a drug folks. Smokers are addicted. And if you've never been addicted to a drug, you have no idea. There are no health facts that you can present that will convince them to quit. They already know about the risks. They already get up in the middle of the night and hack up half a lung in the bathroom sink. They already know that they have a king-sized unfiltered monkey on their backs. And it lies to them, and they know that, too. So I say leave the smokers alone. This is a battle they will have to confront themselves - or not. But nothing you or I can say will mean one tiny thing to them - and will most definitely tick them right off.

And I support the right of smokers to smoke. Yes, it is nasty to those of us who don't smoke. And yes, I think non-smokers have a right to breathe clean air. And whenever the rights of smokers and non-smokers come into conflict, I think that one must come down on the side of the non-smokers; their right to clean air trumps a smoker's right to burn one. So in airplanes - no smoking. I even go along with non-smoking office buildings and making smokers go outside to smoke - and not in that gauntlet outside the front door, either. But I don't think it is the government's business to tell restaurants that they cannot have a smoking section - let the market dictate that. I don't think smokers should be prohibited from smoking outdoors as long as it is not while standing next to someone who objects. And so on. Blah blah blah.

So OK. Last night, I had my photography club meeting in Goldsboro. There is another member of the club who happens to live on my block - we're the only members from Wilson, and it's a one-hour drive. So last month, I drove, and this month, he did.

But he's a smoker. And he asked me if I minded if he smoked. And I said it would not be a problem. Because I didn't think it would be.

But it was. He was like my dad. Oh, he cracked the window - about a gazillionth of an inch, I think. And the smoke made me sick, sick, sick. By the time we got back from the meeting, I felt like throwing up. Dizzy, nauseous, and my clothes reeked of cigarette smoke. Yes, I know smokers don't think their clothes 'reek' - I know, I've been there. Trust me, they stink. A lot. And so do the clothes of everyone else who comes near you. I was wrong when I thought my funk didn't get on everybody else. It did. I humbly apologize to those I've wronged.

Anyway, I had a nice hot shower this morning, and of course I'm wearing clean clothes, and you know what? I can still smell the damned things. It's like it is in my head, up my sinuses or something. And I have a headache and I feel slightly ill, too. The headache is kind of like the headaches I would get when I was a smoker and woke up in the morning and didn't have a smoke until 10 a.m. on a weekend - a kind of withdrawal headache. My eyes are burning like an allergy attack.

Mrs. Wiggy asked me this morning if I had been tempted by being around my smoking neighbor all evening. The answer? Not even for a second.

So there you go.

Blowing Smoke Rings,

Wiggy

Operation LAMB

Y'know, ol' Wiggy is a member of the local Knights of Columbus, a Catholic men's fraternal group. It's not easy being Catholic in a small town in the deep South, there are a lot of churches around here, (Yahoo Yellow Pages says 142 in this town of 40,000 and I believe it) but most of them are Free Will Baptist and Holiness and various sorts of Evangelical. One Catholic church, and it is not a big one. People here are polite - but not sure what to make of Catholics. We seem alright, but they've been indoctrinated over the years not to trust us. Still, they're decent people and they generally accept us as 'fellow Christians' at least on the surface.

The local KofC has two major fund-raisers every year. One is a 'Spaghetti Dinner' held at the Catholic School here in town, and the funds from that benefit the Knights and the charities we give to. The other is going on right now - it is called 'Operation LAMB' (LAMB stands for "Least Among My Brethren") and it is done for the benefit of the mentally retarded. It consists of standing around outside stores and giving out Tootsie Rolls and soliciting funds for mentally retarded citizens of Wilson County.

Mentally retarded? Did Wiggy just commit a grevious faux pas? We don't call people with mental challenges 'retarded' anymore!

Well, I had a lot to learn. It seems that when dealing with the federal government, yes, we do call citizens who have mental disabilities 'retarded'. If we don't, the government won't give us any money to help them.

We give most of the money we collect to The ARC of Wilson County. They call themselves the 'Arc' (pronounced like Noah's 'Ark') but the letters used to stand for "Association of Retarded Citizens." And they still do, when they ask the federal government for money. Seems the US Government won't give money to groups who help mentally disabled people - they have to be 'retarded'. So there you go.

So, the deal is this. We put on funny aprons and give away Tootsie Rolls, and we rattle our change banks and ask people for money for retarded children. We have permission to do this at the local American Legion County Fair and a bunch of local shopping centers and stores. I'm a 'Team Captain' and it is my job to find volunteers to staff the position in front of the local Lowe's hardware store next Wednesday through Sunday.

It's hard this year. Everybody is financially drained - all the churches, all the local businesses, everybody has been giving, giving, giving, to victims of Hurrican Katrina. We're tapped out, emotionally and financially. And The ARC needs more money than ever before. They have a hot dog stand that they use to raise money themselves. They were allowed to keep it in the city of Wilson's garage with other city equipments. Guess what? Some scum stole it. City police did an investigation - an official 'shrug' of indifference to the fact that a city employee would have had to be the culprit. Nice, eh. So they need money this year, a lot of it.

I'm having trouble filling my slots. I was given a list of fellow Knights to call, and it seems a lot of them are 'out of town' that week. So sorry, wish I could help, but I'll be out of town all week, maybe next year, good luck to ya. Some just don't return my calls or emails, and in at least one case, I could hear a wife yelling at a husband in the background - "You're not doing that crap again this year!" Nice. Looks like I'll be pulling nearly all the slots myself. Should be fun.

Worse, my mother-in-law and my brother-in-law are coming to visit from NYC next weekend. So I won't be able to spend any time with them - and I actually like my mother-in-law!

I got creative and wrote up a press release about Operation LAMB and sent it in to the local newspaper. Oops, turns out that while the United Way is having their annual donation drive, all member charities have to have a 'silent period' and cannot be mentioned in the press. Well, I didn't know. Just trying to help, got everybody mad at ol' Wiggy. Argh.

Oh well, enough bitching. I joined the Knights so that I could 'give something back' and I didn't want to just write a check. So this is the price, Wigster. Get the apron and the Tootsie Rolls, and quit pissing and moaning. And hey, these people are deserving if anyone is. You can argue about giving money to most charities or donating to organizations that may not spend money in ways you agree with - but retarded people have done nothing to deserve their condition, and there is nothing they can do about it. They are truly innocent, and they deserve our help, our care, and our money. That's my take on it, anyway.

So, tonight I was asked to pull a shift at the county fair. We are allowed by the American Legion to stand just inside the entrance and solicit money for The ARC. I've never done that before, so it was very interesting - and enlightening.



Let me tell you something. Here in Wilson, North Carolina, we have a mix of people. Rich and poor, black and white, and a growing hispanic population as well. Wilson used to be a huge tobacco-growing area - in fact, it was once famous for having the largest tobacco auction in the entire world every year - there are huge abandoned warehouses here that once held tobacco. So, there were a lot of migrant workers who came through every year. Now, many of them are settling in the area, finding permanent jobs, and raising families. I'm not sure Wilson knows how to deal with it. Having lived in New Mexico for a few years, and speaking a word or two of Spanish, I get looked at like I have horns when I say "Hola." So that's fun.

I'm standing at the gate, and I'm watching people come and go from the fair. A lot of poor people, some middle class, a few obviously wealthy - not many of those. The fair is pretty basic entertainment, you know what I mean?

But I will tell you this. I got the most contributions from the people who appeared to me to be able to afford it the least. More black and hispanic than white. People who to me looked like they might be gang-bangers about to kill me came over, dug into their jeans, and pulled out a rumpled dollar to drop in my can. Hispanic citizens with torn and dirty shirts, aged beyond their years by a lifetime of hard physical labor, they nearly all donated something.






I don't know what it all means, and I'm not going to try to make anything of it. This is just an observation, folks. But I'm a conservative - and I've always believed that private charity is better than government handouts. So as a conservative, I should be seeing conservatives digging deap, yes? Here's your chance, folks. Step right up and do the right thing. Nope. A lot of head-turning and walking on by.



Oh, and while I'm on the subject...the state of North Carolina decertified the Libertarian Party of North Carolina last week. So, I'm an 'independent' now, thanks to the good Republicans and Democrats of North Carolina who get to decide who gets to play in their playpen and who doesn't. Thanks a lot, repubs and dems.



In the meantime, if anyone wants to drive to Wilson, North Carolina and stand a 2 hour shift in front of the local Lowe's, I could use the help. No? Well, that's ok. Just toss a buck in the bucket the next time you see someone standing outside a store and soliciting donations for a cause you want to support, eh? We're all volunteers, folks - trying to do the Right Thing, whatever that is.

Keep Grinnin'

Wiggy

PS - And the cold is all better now. Thanks to all who wished me well, that seems to have done the trick.

Bless All Their Pointy Little Heads

Your old buddy Wigwam has been sick this week. Headcold. Nasty bidness, requiring the ingestion of much NyQuil (AKA coma in a bottle, the babysitter's friend). I love that stuff. Mrs. Wiggy shudders when she sees me chug the bottle - no girly-man plastic cup for the Wigster! The coma-face is always painful, but the chemical respite that NyQuil grants is a thing of beauty.

But having returned to work this day (work still being there, drat it), I discovered this headline, and it did much to restore my sunny disposition:

In brief: Birth defects drop, Odin returns, Make a family cookbook

Now that's just special. The truth behind the headline turns out to be a bit more mundane (Twin Cities Pioneer Press Story), but I'll always be indebted to Maja Beckstrom, the author of this fine piece, and her headline editor, for giving me another reason to keep wanting to push air in and out on this dirty old mudball we call 'Earth'. I find myself wishing mightily that somehow, the stories represented by this conglomerated headline were just as intertwined. The mind and the imagination reel at the thought. Frankly, I'm in favor of all of it.

Stay Sane (or Fake It),

Wiggy

Blue Ridge Mountains

Every now and then, the Wigster likes to get away from it all. And even more frequently, 'it all' wants the Wigged One to go away. When the stars align and both parties to this transaction are in agreement, travel happens. And so it was this weekend.

Mrs. Wiggy and I drove west, out to the Blue Ridge Mountains - specifically, the Boone and Blowing Rock areas. We went with another couple, and it was great. I'm going to post some photos, but first, I have to frighten you with this Santa Doll I found in a Boone, NC antique shop...



Pretty cool, huh? That Santa will be a main character in my dreams for some time to come, I can tell you that. Like Chucky playing Santa. Tell me, what kid could have had that particular stuffed Santa toy and still have grown up and not become and axe-murderer? If I had possessed such a doll growing up, I'd be even more messed up than I already am.

This is a Boone, North Carolina fireman. You might notice he is prepared - sitting on his fire truck, you can't be much more ready than that. I doubt a fire would have much of a chance in Boone.



I thought this was kind of fun. See, Boone is sort of a 'hippy' college town, right. Typical hippy stuff, peace love dope and so on. I enjoyed the irony here. A large hippy-oriented mural on a building, but the owner is driving a large SUV and oh, by the way - he'll tow your hippy ass if you park in his spot. Hehehehe.



Now, Linville Falls is one seriously cool place. I had to go see it this year. Last year, parts of the Blue Ridge Parkway were closed due to hurricane damage, and Mrs. Wiggy and I went there anyway when the leaves were turning. I hiked down this trail from hell to the bottom of a gorge where Linville Falls is supposed to be - and there was a Forest Service sign saying that the falls were closed. How do you close a waterfall? Is there a switch somewhere? So I had to climb back up again, with camera, tripod, and etc in hand, sweating and cursing, and without having seen the damned falls. So this year - it was a quest.

Linville Falls

So without any further ado - have a shot of water, straight up, without chaser. Hope you like these!






Now here's a shot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, taken from the Blue Ridge Parkway. Or they may be the Great Smoky Mountains. In any case, they're cool.



Here's a shot of the Blue Ridge Parkway as it rounds the edge of a mountain.



And another of the road itself.



I have to take a moment here and tell you - if you've never been on the Blue Ridge Parkway, you're missing out on something incredible. This winding two-lane road travels from Virginia down through North Carolina, hugging the western edge of the two states at the base of the Great Smoky Mountains. It is 469 miles long, and it is 70 years old - it was built by the Depression-era Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the 1930's. You can drive the whole thing, just enjoying the road, or you can pick a stretch and examine everything there. I believe you could come back every year for vacation and spend your whole vacation on it and never get bored. That's pretty amazing, isn't it?

The Blue Ridge Parkway is stunningly beautiful, no matter what the time of year. In the fall, it comes alive with leaves changing so wonderfully it will make a believer out of you. But it is beautiful any time of year. There are hundreds of places to pull over and get out and be amazed - Linville Falls was just ONE stop on the Parkway. You can also pull your vehicle over just about any place you like, you don't have to even look for a pull-out.

So that's my pitch for the Blue Ridge Parkway. If you haven't ever been, you need to put it on your list of 'Things to Do Before I Die'.

Anyway, the rest of these shots are some flowers and some other stuff. I took them all in Blowing Rock, NC. They have a legend there. It involves a rock. Also lots of shopping.

I don't know why I like flowers so much, but here you go...










So that's the story. Enjoy!

Stay Coolio,

Wiggy

Making up Scary Stories About Guns

Well, this had to happen. I've been ignoring the anti-gun crowd for a long time now...and they've generally been pretty quiet of late. But here comes another fun study designed to scare the bejabbers out of the typical parent and cause them to reach for their telephone to call their elected representatives and demand that guns be eliminated forthwith.

1.7 million kids live in homes with loaded guns
Survey: Alabama, Alaska top U.S. for unsecured firearms
Associated Press
Updated: 11:24 a.m. ET Sept. 6, 2005
ATLANTA - About 1.7 million U.S. children live in homes that have loaded and unlocked guns, according to what is described as the first comprehensive survey of gun storage in homes across the country.

OK, let's take a moment here. The story is that 1.7 million kids live in homes where there are loaded and unsecured firearms in the USA. That's bad, right? I mean, kids should not be in homes with loaded firearms, should they? Kids find those things and shoot each other, after all. Well they do. We hear about at least a couple times a year.

I'm not trying to be flippant. Kids do shoot themselves and each other in their homes with loaded guns that they find, and that's horrible. The parents should be more responsible than that. They should be held criminally responsible when they leave loaded guns laying around where their children can find them.

But let's continue - there is much more to examine here:

The study, published Tuesday in the journal Pediatrics, found that 2.5 percent of children live in homes with loaded and unsecured firearms. Estimates from the early 1990s had put the percentage at 10 percent. The new results suggest a decline, but that doesn’t mean there’s cause for celebration, said Catherine Okoro, a study author.

“That’s still too many children to be put at risk,” said Okoro, an epidemiologist with the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

"The new results suggest a decline..." From 10 percent to 2.5 percent? Hell, yeah, that's a decline!

But Catherine Okoro, an epidemiologist (that's a person who identified diseases and tracks their vectors, folks, not an expert in firearms, children's injuries, injuries from firearms or anything of the sort), thinks that still - too many children are being put "at risk." The fact that nothing happened to the great majority of them means nothing to her - just that they should not be put 'at risk'.

Researchers said they aren’t certain why some states reported higher rates than others, but they believe people living in rural communities are most likely to have loaded guns in or around the house.

That wouldn’t explain why Alabama is No. 1, however, said Jim McVay of the Alabama Department of Public Health.

“We have a hunting tradition in the Deep South, but there’s no excuse for having loaded guns in the house,” said McVay, director of the department’s Bureau of Health Promotion & Chronic Disease.

Jim is a clever guy. How interesting that he states the obvious - that you don't need a loaded gun in your house to be a hunter - and neglects to mention that many people keep loaded guns in their homes for self-defense. In that case, an unloaded gun is a stick. But hey, we can see which side his bread is buttered on. Nice going, Jim. Divert that attention and keep it on message. Guns are bad, n'Kay?

About 1,400 children are killed by firearms each year, according to CDC estimates. It’s not known how many of those are killed by guns left around the house, the researchers said.

Well, now, here we go! Some concrete information to deal with. 1,400 children per year killed by firearms, right? That's bad, right? Practically an epidemic - we'd better get busy fixing this problem, right? Ban the guns! Ban the guns! Save the children! Save the children!

Um, wait a minute. CDC estimates? Hmmm. There should be a way to check those numbers, right? I mean, can common old Wigwam Q. Public check with the CDC and get the same information? Data should be available to make sure that the author of this story is telling the truth, right? Not that I don't trust them or anything.

So...

http://webappa.cdc.gov/sasweb/ncipc/mortrate10_sy.html

Go there. Try this yourself, folks.

The most recent info is from 2002. And if you put in the following parameters, you get the 1,400 number consistant with the story I'm quoting:

INTENT: All Intents
CAUSE: Firearm
REGION: USA
YEAR: 2002
RACE: ALL
HISPANIC: ALL
SEX: BOTH
SELECT AGE GROUPS: <1 to 17

Number of deaths: 1,443.

Seems like the reporter was right, right?

But let's take a moment. Do you think that many 17 year olds are the sort that find a gun in the house, point it at their noggins, and pull the trigger to see what happens? Or is it more likely that very young kids are the ones in real danger of injuring themselves without meaning to?

So, just for the sake of scientific inquiry, I reduced the upper age to 12.

I got 240. And that's still from 'All Causes'.

I then changed from 'All Causes' to 'Unintentional'. Know what I got?

42. Undetermined? 5, but below the level of statistical accuracy.

That's nationwide. And that's for 2002. And that's for ALL firearm deaths - we don't know how many of those were from loaded firearms kept unsecured in the child's home. The data suggests, remember, that the trend is downward. From 10% in the early 1990's to 2.5% today. And our numbers are from 2002. I wonder what the numbers would be for 2004 if they were available. Lower, perhaps? Seems that the data may suggest that.

Folks, I'm not trying to say that guns are good, or that you should love them or that you should go out and buy one. I would not suggest that people keep loaded guns in their house where kids can get at them - bad idea. I own guns, and I keep them loaded in my home. But I don't have children. If I did, I'd do something else.

And yes, I think it is horrible that 42 children under 12 die each year in the USA from accidental shootings. I think we as a nation should work to stop it. By education, by prosecuting parents who allow their young children access to loaded and unlocked firearms, and by making it easier to get and use gun safes and gun locks.

But the point of the news story was to scare - and more, it was to scare parents into demanding a new round of gun control. To control this horrible epidemic.

The problem is, the problem is going away on its own. And the numbers given in the article are pumped up - not inaccurate, just misleading. The inference is that 1,400 kids are blasting their brains out with unlocked and loaded firearms that they find in Daddy's closet each year in the USA - come on, even if you're against personal firearm ownership, you can agree that's the idea, right? The problem is, it just isn't true.

The fact is, your kid is more likely BY FAR to die in a motor vehicle accident. Slightly more likely to die by firearm (all causes) than poisoning. Twice as likely to die from suffocation.

http://webappa.cdc.gov/sasweb/ncipc/leadcaus10.html

No child should die. No parent should fail to protect their child from every danger that they can detect and do something about. Guns are the least of your worries - almost literally. And you can do something about that if you wish - don't have guns in your house - or lock them up and keep them unloaded.

And leave me alone, OK? I'm not the problem here.

Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang,

Wiggy

Global Warming & President Bush the Cause of Problems With Saturn's Rings

Yes, it is true. We've broken the universe.

Scientists baffled by changes in Saturn's rings
- By ALICIA CHANG, AP Science Writer
Monday, September 5, 2005

(09-05) 12:32 PDT Los Angeles (AP) --

New observations by the international Cassini spacecraft reveal that Saturn's trademark shimmering rings, which have dazzled astronomers since Galileo's time, have dramatically changed over the past 25 years.

Among the most surprising findings is that parts of Saturn's innermost ring - the D ring - have grown dimmer since the Voyager spacecraft flew by the planet in 1981. A piece of the D ring also has shifted, moving 125 miles inward toward Saturn.

While scientists puzzle over what caused Saturn's D ring to change in such a short period, the observations could tell something about the age and lifetime of planetary rings.

What happened is that rising 'greenhouse gases' in Earth's atmosphere have caused a 'pushing effect' in the orgone energy that surrounds each planet in the Solar system. This has caused the orbits of all the other planets to go all wonky, with the result that Saturn's rings are suffering from the wasteful existence of human beings on the planet Earth. If human beings actually visit other planets, the effects will be catastrophic.

"We have to petition President George Bush and the US Congress to pull up the carpet and prevent astronauts from setting up shop on Saturn," said PETA spokesperson Dr. Alba Chakra. "These are hardly the sort of people Saturn want as their neighbors."

It is becoming increasingly obvious that the failure of President Bush to sign Kyoto is directly to blame for the decline in brilliance of Saturn's rings. The lack of a protecting Kyoto agreement is also clearly responsible for tooth decay, genocide among small insects of the upper Euphrates, comb-over hairstyles and a general increase in ennui among the French.

Former Vice President Al Gore will give a speech in Portland on Tuesday on global warming.
...
Gore has given several speeches charging that the Bush administration should act more forcefully to reduce greenhouse gas emissions blamed for global warming.
...
Gore insiders have stated that Gore will also use this opportunity to call for the arrest and prosecution of President Bush for "being a big meany" and "pursuing his evil agenda to destroy not just our planet, but others as well."

White House staffers commented unofficially that President Bush thought that Saturn was a car - and he has nothing against cars. Except trucks are better. Pickup trucks.

---

No, wait. I have to stop. See, I was having fun. Making stuff up based on a news story I read about Saturn's rings changing in ways that seem to be surprising the scientific community. I was using Google to search for news stories that I could twist and pinch to make them funnier, to use exaggeration as a means of humor and perhaps some thought-provoking introspection.

What I did NOT expect to find was a story that basically mirrors mine - except that the author means it.

Egads.

Saturn Ring changes - Are they connected to Solar Global Warming?

Major difference here - these folks seem to believe that the Solar system is getting hotter on its own, and the US government is trying to cover it up somehow, and by the way, those trails you see in the sky when jet airplanes go by? They're not caused by jet exhaust - they're caused by attempts by the US military to control the weather for military purposes.

Fact is stranger than fiction. Hooray!

Run Away Screaming,

Wiggy

So. The Hurricane.

Like most people, I suppose, I spent the last week in a state of shock. On Monday, when I saw on the news that Katrina was a category 5 hurricane and headed for New Orleans, I went out on Google and looked online for information about 'worst-case scenario' for New Orleans and hurricanes.

I discovered that studies had been done in the past two decades, predicting exactly what ended up happening. The term 'filling the bowl' was used in a study I found online that was published in the 1980's. Of course, nothing was done, and now it is too late. Whom do we blame for this? No one agency will step up and take responsibility; neither local, state, or federal. There will be mass finger-pointing, blame sidestepping, foot shuffling, and so on. Oh, there will be a blue-ribbon panel, all right. And they'll have hearings, and they'll discover in due time that there were studies predicting this very scenario long ago and that something should have been done. Democrats will use the results to point fingers at Republicans - and vice-versa. Cries of racism, calumny, and skulduggery of epic proportions will be bandied about, but nothing will be done. Of course, the findings of this blue-ribbon commission will be released just prior to the next election, to be used as a tool. Did you expect anything else?

The truth is, there are any number of communities across the USA - around the world, really - with problems like that of New Orleans. Maybe not as extreme, but problems just the same. The potential for real human suffering is often identified and recommendations made - and no action is taken. Why? Because we're human. Lazy, cheap, selfish, and busy. Tired and worn out. Overtaxed and overworked. No politician is going to propose floating a bond issue or raising taxes to fix a problem that some science egg-head says might happen sometime in the future. Politicians get votes by lowering taxes - by cracking down on violent crime - by getting tough with welfare cheats. They don't get votes by fixing bridges that haven't fallen down yet - especially if it means raising YOUR taxes to do it.

The last time a politician did something because it was the right thing to do for the country and not because it was popular was Seward's Folly. I'm not blaming politicians - it's just the way things work, eh?

Anyway, back to New Orleans. All I know is that the worst happened, and it is horrible. I don't think that global warming caused it, nor the intellectual shortcomings of George W. Bush. I don't think that the slow response was the result of hidden or overt racism or hatred of all things gumbo. Like most Americans, I am saddened and hurt by the things I've seen and read this last week. The slow response is maddening - the human tragedy is heartbreaking. The attacks by human beings against each other are terrifying, much of the anger and resentment understandable. We've seen a lot of Americans in the past who were put into horrifying circumstances and who rose to overcome the obstacles placed in their way - this time we saw that, but we also saw the worst of what man can do to man. The only horror we were not subjected to was cannibalism, as far as I know.

Mrs. Wiggy and I are doing what we can. Contributing financially, assisting in getting the call for more relief funds out, and praying. We know that all good people everywhere share our concern and are doing what they can, too.

As it turns out, we had made plans with our good friends the Tweedles to visit New Orleans on our vacation this year - October 7th through the 15th was to be the Wigster's first visit to the city. We had found a good hotel in the French Quarter, the Tweedles had made plane reservations, the hotel was paid for, and all was in readiness. We were really looking forward to it.

The disruption of our vacation plans is as nothing compared to the tragedy that has befallen those who live there - we would in no way compare our loss of vacation destination to their losses of home, jobs, family and friends. It is just sad that we can't go now - we would have enjoyed it immensely, I am sure.

Now we have to find another location for the four of us to get together - we're exploring options in Pennsylvania and Vermont and the North Carolina Outer Banks, among others. But of course, it won't be just the same as a visit to New Orleans would have been.

Will New Orleans be rebuilt? I have no way of knowing, but I'd guess that in a way it will be. There will be corporate-sponsored "French Quarter (TM)" and it will have all the authenticity that money can buy - only a whole lot better. Instead of the chance of actually being mugged down some dark alley off of Bourbon Street, there will be actors who will play the part - but go along with the gag, folks, you'll get your wallet back after the show (with a free coupon for a ride at Frenchie's amusement park for being a sport). There will be beads, but no flashing and no public urination - the new New Orleans will be family-friendly. Eh, I could be wrong.

So, Mrs. Wiggy and I needed a break, emotionally. We went to Wilson's First Friday's event again - always a treat. This time, we saw a band called "Friends" play Gospel and put the Word into the people. What a blast!

On Saturday, I worked on my yard just about all day. Went for a bicycle ride (oh yeah, I guess I should say I just bought a bicycle to pedal some of my fat ass off) and that was a real hoot. I really like bicycling. Didn't put out anyone's car window with my electric edger this time, which I feel is a good thing. That reminds me, I'm going to blog about bicycling and how it ought to be done properly, but not tonight.

Today, I felt like indulging the strange creative Thing in my brainpan. Nourish the Beast, as it were. I set my camera tripod up on the front porch and stuck a WWII surplus bomber lens on it, then attached it to my digital camera, and took some photos. I stuck a bunch of weeds in Mrs. Wiggy's best Waterford Crystal vase and I call it 'Weeds and Waterford' for lack of a more creative name. Here they are, for good or ill:

So, we turn this page. Heavy of heart, sad in the soul. Wishing for some zydeco music to lift us up, a tune, a beat, a stomp that can set us free from this gut-wrenching sickness all around us.

Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys, maybe.

Mes enfants, mes enfants. Give us peace.

Better Days,

Wiggy