Notes:

• Dropped Meredith off at the airport today. Will eventually follow. But for a few days, I'm home alone, and you know what that means: Uninhibited paperwork and watching Battlestar Gallactica on DVD until my eyes close of their own volition. I may even hook up the X-Box. Stand back and let the party roll. And otherwise try to keep my life from falling apart.
• My car insurance agent has sent me the calendar of "Beautiful America." (The Onion's list of top-selling calendars included the It'll Do Scenes of Wildlife, 2005.) And I'm not too impressed with this effort. It has a snow-capped mountain reflected on a lake, a picture that I could have taken. A sunset on the beach. Another mountain reflected on a lake. Really, I think we've all reached a level of sophistication that requires more than "Ain't that rock pretty" kind of photo. On the plus side, it does have a shot of Palo Duro State Park near Amarillo, which reminds me that I want to go backpacking either there or at Caprock Canyons.
• Got new tires yesterday. Right now I'm in the odd phase where they stick to the road like glue, so much so that it's tempting to take stupid chances. Let's hope that doesn't last.
• Hmmmm ... Christmas shopping. Gotta do that sometime. I'll ponder that with a cookie.

X-Mas music

I work a good deal of the day in a refrigerator. A refrigerator that has music piped in.

It obviously isn't music of our choice, as such a thing would probably have the kitchen staff at each other's throats the moment someone demanded conceptual jazz.

No, the music we hear has the typical, "Relax-don't-steal" kind of mentality to it. Easy listening (surely someone's pointed out that contradiction) stuff by artists you've never heard of but remain familiar.

And at this time of the year, it's Christmas music time.

I should qualify this by saying I grew up in a church choir.

What time is it?

(Fortissimo) Game time!

I like Christmas music. Or at least the traditional hymns that you can imagine coming out of someone in a Dickens-era costume.

That being said, the vast majority of modern Christmas music would have made the baby Jesus have second thoughts about the whole saving-of-mankind mission.

I speak, in general, of the two main types of recent Christmas music: Chistmas is cool, dude, and My boyfriend just left me and I'm so lonely that the pumpkin pie will taste a bit off this year.

Christmas is cool, dude, had it's highlight with Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song." It should have ended there. Instead, we have 150 versions of "The Christmas Song" and 1,500 songs that talk about how great Nat King Cole was whenever he sang "The Christmas Song."

"Rockin' around the Christmas Tree," and "Jingle Bell Rock" also get played five times an hour just because they have the words "rock" in them. And, for the first time this year, I've discovered that Bon Jovi wishes it could be Christmas forever, and that Metallica saw mommy kissing Santa Claus. (Yes, I made that one up.)

Meanwhile: The I'm so lonely type especially grates because, while everybody else is having a good time, somebody's gotta dump their depression in the middle of the annual office bacchanalia.

Hence, George Michael sings:

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.

The very next day, we went cruisin' the park.

Or something like that.

And really, the sickest thing I've heard is a song called "Santa Baby", about a woman who seems to have sexual fixation on Mr. Claus. "Hurry down my chimney tonight," she sings. It's supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, but after you've listened to something 300 times, the tongue has worn through the cheek and is sticking out at you in a sick raspberry.

I don't have some conclusion here, just complaining.

Breaking: Truck That Does Not Move Moves

I got a call on my phone when this happened:

You may recall several postings I did over this hunk of garbage directly across a dangerously narrow street from our driveway.

Well, here's the scene today:

The Truck That Does Not Move did not move, of course, under its own power. A tow truck came to take it to it's proper resting place, perhaps as a case of Busch beer. I don't know why they finally gave up on the poor sucker. Maybe they realized the time had come at last.

Now if they can do something about the damn boat ...

Roasting wieners after 35

Got Thursday off, took the chance to take an overnight trip to the farm.

I still have some unfinished business to take care of out here, thanks to the fact that I will always be personally disorganized – There’s mail, bank accounts I gotta close, and I have no idea how I’m going to move all of my stuff to Fort Worth, especially considering that 3 1/2 of the closets we have are already crammed with my wife’s junk.

But what the hell, it’s not like I can spend all of my time thinking about it, and I’m not going to while I’m out here.

I take the dogs down to the tanks near the front of the place. They’re both empty, except for mud, which the dogs get all over themselves. I walk along the dry bottoms for a bit, picking up garbage and throwing it toward the shore. One pond has an old steel barrel buried halfway in mud. I’ll get that one day. It isn’t today, though.

Dinner is hot dogs of indeterminate age, eaten on heat to eat yeast rolls that never got heated or eaten at Thanksgiving. A man on a budget does what he can. And they’re quite tasty.

After that, I allow myself one Shinerbock, and then head outside to alternate staring at the fire and the sky.

Clear, bright night. No moon out but the stars are enough to see by.

The fire burns down to coals, except for one log that stubbornly holds its shape. A coyote starts howling from what seems like 50 yards away, and is joined by others along the Bosque valley.

My dogs start whining, I go back inside.

Last Sunday was my 35th birthday. For all intents and purposes, middle age. (I don’t think there’s going to be a whole lot of big important stuff left for me to do after age 70, barring a medical miracle that staves off old age.

Starting at 26, I really hated birthdays. But that feeling has started to fade.

Looking back, I don’t feel that longing to return. I was awkward as a teenager and stupid in my twenties. There’s always the "If I’d have known then ..." aspect, but there’s a reason you didn’t know it.

Looking back over this year: I managed to scrimp by in Hico; I haven’t had to take a job I hate (yet) to make ends meet; I still feel pretty good about finding a career I like; and I got married and haven’t managed to screw it up in almost four months.

All things considered, it’s been a damn good year.

Don't get started

This pattern tends to repeat itself a lot for me:

• Person makes some general statement on subject.
• I chime in with some half-assed, generally accepted opinion.
• Person proceeds to go on 15-minute harangue about subject, going into details so tedious it feels like chalk being scraped across the inside of my skull.

Why no, I didn't know that about Beyoncé, thanks.

Newsprint, RIP

We all know the death of newspapers is coming. Here's a pretty good guess as to how it happens. (It's out of date a bit, but still worth watching for the interested.)

Coaching call

So:

• Tech coach Mike Leach is staying.
• Todd Dodge, coach of high school powerhouse Southlake Carroll, is going to my alma mater North Texas.
• Dennis Franchioonnee is staying at A&M.

Once again, Christmas is coming early.

Some quick differences between Southlake Carroll and North Texas.

• Value ratio for cars in parking lot (Carroll/UNT): 10/1
• Carroll has more players able to play in the NFL next season
• North Texas band far superior to Carroll's, but Carroll's could probably beat the crap out of UNT's in a cage fight.

Blog change

I went ahead and converted to the new format Blogpot was pushing on me. No big changes to speak of, but I will point out the blog roll, now on the right side of the page. These are all the people I know who are blogging. If you have something started, let me know.

If we pool our resources, we may someday surpass the 20-hits a day mark.

By the way, I'll be screwing around with the template and other stuff, just to see what I can do. It's still me.

Work blah

It's amazing what work takes from your life. I've been punch-drunk now for a week, and it's difficult to remember when I started doing this thing and when's the last time I had a full weekend off. (Quick answers: 12 days ago, and weekends are meaningless when you're unemployed.)

I do not have a complicated job. It involves taking food out and putting it in front of people who I otherwise avoid eye contact with. Easy, save for the times when the people are lined up around the counter, three deep, all wanting to get something before the Cowboy game begins. Many also want to know where the soda pop is.

Otherwise, I'll spare the details. It's too tedious to describe beyond that. Still, you just come home and the head throbs, and you dream about getting the grilled asparagus and wilted spinach mixed up. And that you take them out before you realized your pants were missing.

Notes:

• I'm thinking maybe the Cowboys got a dose of normalcy there. I didn't see getting hammered by the Saints as a "message" the way ESPN had it labeled. All streaks come to an end, might as well be now.
• Some of you may be getting some strange Christmas cards. Mer demanded that we share the responsibility, I told her there are some things, like a pregnancy, that men and women can't really share. That did not go over well. So I did the cards. Best wishes to all.
• I get the feeling I'm missing something by never having read "Dune."

I'm either going to have to drink more coffee or stop blogging at 2 a.m.

Just saying.

Women: Not as funny, but in tune with other stuff

Christopher Hitchens, in an article that exists solely to piss people off, says that woman aren't as funny as men, and lists some theories behind it. I basically agree with the gist of it, though, of course, I've met plenty of women who stack up at the far end of the bell curve.

Two things:

1. It's strange that a guy who doesn't spend a great deal of time trying to make people laugh would write the article. Then again, most people who do humor also know that one of the most unfunny things possible is to analyze humor, or even talk about funny as a subject. Case in point, I recall one writer once talking about himself. (He was (is) a good writer.) But he also said, point-blank, "You know, I'm a funny guy." After that, I couldn't laugh at him. Don't know, that remark just made me wretch. Plenty of women, however, thought him clever. The other guys in the office just looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
2. Women are much better than men at picking up on the depression of pets. I've heard "You're dog seems sad" many times. I'm usually thinking, "He seemed happy enough when he was eating whatever dead animal he just dug up."

Leave him alone

So, the Star-Telegram has a picture today of a smiling Tony Romo and an inside story on "D-FW's No. 1 Sports Bachelor".

Sheesh. Typical. A man is doing great things with his life and the only thing women can think about is getting laid.

Store

Grand Opening today at Central Market. I just got back from my shift. People out there really love chicken salad. At a level I had never fathomed before. Man.

Notes

I've a had a cold that has wiped me out over the last week, so sorry if I haven't been that responsive on the e-mail. It's just about over, so I should get back to a normal schedule soon.

Leaching me
So Texas Tech coach Mike Leach is looking at the Miami job. I think most Tech fans would be sorry to see him go. Though at the same time, it's good to see someone you cheered for going to a place where they have a legitimate shot (as opposed to an outside snowball's chance in hell) of winning a national championship in the near future.

On the downside, you have to wonder whether the atmosphere in Miami would suit Leach. Lubbock was happy for him to be a free spirit who didn't give a crap about coaching politics, so long as his teams kept getting better. I doubt they'd be as openminded in Miami. (Yes, I realize the irony, thanks.)

My first choice of a replacement is Art Briles, who's doing a good job at Houston and has West Texas ties.

Working

Folks:

In the interest of being bored with censoring myself every time I write about finding a job, here's the current situation:

I'm now a platterer at the new H-E-B Central Market in Southlake.

For those of you unfamiliar with Central Market, it's a place that sells itself as the store for gourmets. And it has some great food, so long as you don't mind spending $3 on a tomato.

As a platterer, I work in the store's kitchen, which makes gourmet food you can take right home to your family. If you don't tell them you didn't make it, we won't! (wink).

Yawn.

My job is to take the finished dishes from the walk-in cooler, make them look aesthetically pleasing, and put them in the display case out in the front. I then refill as people buy.

There's plenty of other stuff involved, but that's it in a nutshell. I spend about half the day in a refrigerator. It's wired so that a klaxon alarm goes off if the temperature goes over 40 degrees. You make think this would be the perfect job for the sweatiest man alive, but he'd like to point out that summer is six months away.

And while I have had a lifelong passion about making food look pretty, $10.50 an hour does not make for a merry Christmas at the Segrist house. I have a couple of irons in the fire, we'll see how those turn out.

Mighty, mighty Plainsmen

So, tonight my old Monterey high school will be taking on Colleyville in the third round of the 5A, Div. II playoffs.

They're playing in Abilene at Shotwell Stadium. Which, while not being a great stadium, has the best name of any high school football stadium anywhere.

If it wasn't for the fact that I wasn't already making myself late for work by typing this, I'd be getting ready for a road trip so I could enjoy some Perini's Steak House and freeze my ass off.

Then again, my presence never did much to help Lubbock Monterey win, even when I was a very dedicated second-string placekicker.

Dixie Chicks exposed. Again.

The headline at the top of the Star-Telegram's front ("skyboxes" for people who know): "How the Dixie Chicks can make '07 brighter and win their fans back."

I don't like the Dixie Chicks. Perhaps you do. Perhaps you saw "Dixie Chicks" and immediately thought about not listening to music. But really, there's something here that we can all agree on. And that's, for God's sakes, don't let Natalie Maines take career advice from whoever is telling Britney Spears to expose her parts of the most girlishishness.

Thinking along those lines, here are some people whose career could probably benefit from an exposed crotch shot:
Danny DeVito
Yoda and/or Grover
The Little Mermaid
Bob Stoops
That announcer guy who partners with Troy Aikman
Rachel Ray, or maybe Emeril
K-Fed's Lawyer
The entire cast of next season's Dancin' with the Stars
Clint Howard

Also, in the next interation of Star Wars, Yoda and Grover should have a light saber battle. That'd be awesome.

A new version of blogger, just 'cause

Every time I go to the blogspot sign-in spot, I get a message urging me to switch to the new version. The requests are becoming more insistent.

Really, I'm happy with this version. It works, and new versions are always tremendous screw-ups I have to spend hours trying to figure out. They also want me to set up a Google account, and while I use them all the time, Google, Inc., also tends to cheese me off.

The only answer: I will continue to procrastinate. Take that!

Snow ... kinda

Here's what it looks like here this morning:
See the snow? There's a bit on the ground to the left and on the chair. Though it's not really snow, so much as raining ice, which some people call "sleet", I believe.

While this is a joke to anyone who lives up north, all the local TV stations have their reporters out at various intersections, all talking about the rain that is ice. The official motto for Channel 5 is "Arctic blast," complete with art of a storm cloud and snow flake. Every public building has either closed or will close early.

Meanwhile, I'm just hoping that I can commute to work today without dying. Hell, I'm hoping my wife can pull out of our inclined driveway without going into a skid across the street, thereby causing the the Truck That Doesn't Move to move, at least a little.

Reader response

First off. As there has been a fair amount of commentary on the Truck That Does Not Move, I thought some visualization was in order:
There she is. Kind of beautiful, in a way. You'll notice the trash bags in the back I mentioned earlier are gone. Don't know where they went, but I can safely rule out at least one mode of transport.

And I got this question last night:

Should you change the name of the blog now that you are no longer living in Hico? Or are you in a "Hico state of mind" while trapped in one of The Big City's suburban rings of hell?

I have given a little thought to this, going so far to come up with alternative names: "820 & 35W", "Eight blocks from Watauga", and, my favorite, "Buttonwood!!" (You have to say it like the Pilsbury Doughboy.)

But I'm keeping the original name. Mainly because it's easy for people, especially myself, to remember, and it does carry the higher meaning that Hico's on my mind. And the hope that, someday, I'll return to Hico -- I just have to work out the details of coming into a large amount of money very quickly. And finding a steady, well-paying job that doesn't involve teaching, in a rural area.

So for now, the state of my dream of a Hico return parallels the state of the Truck That Does Not Move.

She looks kind of sad in this one.