Recently I cross-posted a few blog entries to Daily Kos, where they are read by many more people than when they first appear at Paul’s Thing. Lately, though, things have been hopping here, as more people find their way to this little blog.
For example: a long email from an aviation enthusiast who follows my military flying stories and wants me to join the Civil Air Patrol, where I could help inspire young aviators (I think I’d be more likely to frighten them away). A fellow blogger, who writes the top-drawer automotive website Ate Up with Motor, asked if he could use one of my car show photos for an article about the Nash-Healy cars of the early 1950s. Naturally I said yes, and his article … with my photo … is now online. A query from a New Zealand science fiction author who wants my help with fighter/interceptor radio terminology for a scene in a book he’s writing. I probably shouldn’t have, but I said sure, send me a draft and I’ll look it over for authenticity. And last, a letter from a small independent movie producer who wants me to watch and review his latest. People READ my movie reviews? You gotta be kidding … next you’ll be telling me they read my book reviews too! Oh, wait….
These comments and requests weren’t prompted by anything I cross-posted to dKos … they were about blog entries that so far have appeared only here. I’m going to have to learn how to read those WordPress stats … I think they’re going to show this blog beginning to grow a readership. That’s so encouraging. We all need our bellies rubbed once in a while, and I have to say, my tail’s wagging (yes, that’s a photo of my beloved Schatzi up there in the corner, and yes, she was getting her belly rubbed when I took it)!
It is as I feared. Our daughter, who’s been working at the gun shop for all of two weeks, yesterday put a Glock on layaway. I guess we should be glad she isn’t working at the Dollar Store on the corner … we’d be tripping over plastic flower arrangements and kazoos. I say “we” but I don’t think Polly has yet told her mother, who’s still in Chico helping Aunt Joyce adjust to living on her own again, now that she has to use a walker and occasionally a wheelchair while her hip mends.
Polly will be exposed at work to relentless NRA-inspired Obama-Wants-Our-Guns propaganda; as an antidote I’ll point her (and you, dear reader) toward RKBA (Right to Keep & Bear Arms), a progressive pro-gun group, and hope she keeps her head on straight. Now that I think about it, I know several women who carry guns for personal protection. Personal protection is what I had in mind when I got a concealed-carry permit, though so far I’ve been content to leave my own guns in a lockbox at home.
It’s doggie bath day. They both sat in my lap last night, noticeably doggish. I’m sure they love it, but I love it not. After our morning walk I gathered up Maxie and scrubbed her down in the kitchen sink (that’s one of the good things about miniature dachshunds). Schatzi went into hiding, but she’s a good citizen at heart, and after a while she crept into the kitchen and sat submissively at my feet, waiting her turn. Now the girls are squeaky clean and fritzing around the house, my shirt is sopping wet, and the leashes, harnesses, and collars are in the washing machine.
I lived in Germany twice, once as a boy from 1954 to 1957, once again as a newlywed, from 1965 to 1967. In those days, most Germans bathed just once a week. I’m not picking on Germans here, because not that long ago the Saturday night bath was the tradition everywhere, the United States included. People had their own distinctive smells then, and nobody thought anything of it. And here I go off into Andy Rooney territory again. Must. Stop. Now.
Donna comes home Sunday afternoon, just before dinnertime. I suppose I’ll send Polly and the dogs to the airport to fetch her while I prepare dinner on the grill. The first Sunday of the month is our Sunday off … we have our family hash on the second Sunday and our bicycle hash on the third. On the fourth Sunday I go off with my motorcycle hash. Sometimes there’s a fifth Sunday, but they’re pretty rare. This first Sunday, in addition to welcoming Donna home and making dinner for her, I’ll probably have to go scout trail for an upcoming bicycle hash. Come to think of it, I really don’t have any damn Sundays off.
I suppose I should say something about Rush Limbaugh. Imagine a known drug addict who goes on pay-for-sex vacations in the Dominican Republic calling a single woman who uses birth control a slut … well, that says it all, don’t you think? There’s not much I can add to that. I used to think he’d go too far some day, but I realize now there is no “too far” for the likes of him. Rush, go right ahead and start using the N-word on the radio. We all know how badly you want to, and I think it’s clear by now there won’t be any consequences.
Gah! Now I need a bath.
© 2012, Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.