Wigwam Jones

A new Wig for Wigwam

2007-03-30T17:33:00.000-04:00

For all my friends, all my foes, and ever chocolate anatomically-correct Jebus ever where, I have uprooted and gone sojourning.

You can find the new Wig here:

www.wigwamjones.com

And that's the truth!

Smooches,

Wiggy

Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Jones

2007-01-19T08:56:00.000-05:00

It is a pity we are not together in North Carolina today, but we are together in spirit. Five years and it seems like yesterday. I love you, Mrs. Wiggy.

Note to CNN: "Pugnacious" Does Not Mean "Callous"

2007-01-08T21:12:00.000-05:00

Oh, Dear Lord.

I pray to thee, Lord. Put some brains into the punkin' haids of those who speak unto us nightly on the TeeVee news. Maketh them to have gone to school and actually studied, and learneth them the freaking English language, if that's not too much to ask. Do this, dear Lord, so that thy humble servant Wigwam might not fly into a dervish frenzy coma stupor or something and wreck up the joint, behaving badly in general and foaming at the mouth like a, like a, uh, a crazy foaming dog thing or something like that.

Maketh them to think before opening their soup-sucks, dear Lord, so that your humble servant Wiggy might not be forceth to hop a plane to Atlanta, run right over to their studios, and stoppeth up their mouths with the socks of unwashed taxi drivers on national TeeVee in front of You and ever buddy.

Amen.

December 28, 2006 CNN Transcript

On December 26th, 2006, former President Ford passed away, and much time was spent discussing his life and legacy. I watched some of it on CNN, as luck would have it.

You know, apparently President Ford had said some fairly strong words about some of his friends and coworkers of years past, and one of the people he had made a comment about was current Vice President Dick Cheney. In the news story I was watching on CNN, it was said that President Ford had called Rumsfeld 'pugnacious'. The news commentator was Rick Sanchez, CNN anchor, speaking to Richard Shenkman, presidential historian. Is that really a job? Where do you apply for something like that?

"Hi, what do you do?"

"I'm a presidential historian."

"Really? How fascinating! Sounds like a fun job."

"Not really. I mean, there's no upward mobility."

"Really? What do you mean?"

"Well, once you're a presidential historian, you've pretty much done mayors, council members, Congresspersons and Governors. Not much left, you know?"

"Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I'm a complete steaming left-footer and I've got a brain stem that gets angried up when I try to think. So they made me a news anchor. Come on over to my TeeVee studio and I'll pretend to listen to you talk."

"OK."

OK, so that didn't really happen, I just imagined it. But what follows DID happen.

I now quote from the CNN transcript:

SANCHEZ: On Dick Cheney, quote, let's take it and put it up on the screen as well. "He was an excellent chief of staff but I think he's become much more pugnacious."

We looked up pugnacious by the way for the benefit of some viewers and it means callous or at least that's one definition of it.

SHENKMAN: Yes, I think pugnacious in this case really means pugilistic. Fighting, he's kind of raw around the edges and he's looking for a fight.

Oh. My. God.

Callous? Callous? Are you freaking kidding me?

First of all, in what world does a news anchor for CNN not know the meaning of a simple english word like 'pugnacious'? Hello - does the word 'pugilist' ring a bell (hint, hint)?

Second of all, think of Dick Cheney. Callous? That's not a word I would think of when I thought of that bulldog. He is a person who loves to brawl. A fighter. A mean old bastard, much like myself, although I am better with a firearm (or am I)?

You looked it up "for the benefit of some viewers?" No, you clown. You looked it up for yourself. And do you know why I know that? Because you got it wrong, you space cadet!

If you're going to insult your viewers (most of whom most likely ARE booger-eatin' morons), then perhaps you might, er, I dunno...GET IT RIGHT!

Dear Lord, please hear my prayer. Take some of that outrageous salary that this man most likely earns - and maketh him to buyeth himself a book. Preferably a dictionary. One that doesn't say that 'pugnacious' means 'callous'. A really big dictionary, oh Lord.

And then, Dear Lord, maketh him to hitteth himself with that tome. Many times.

Amen.

Your Humble Servant,

Wiggy

Sometimes, Spam Can Be Art...

2007-01-08T20:58:00.000-05:00

I admit, not often. But this one, this one was special:

Subject: Maxine Do away with all you owe not even sending another dollar

Select legal counsel have found a mistake in the laws of the banking
system. Using waht we found we were successfu1 at entirely eliminating
peop1es creditcarddebt with out them having to pay one more dime. We know
that our firm can do this for you also.

Please contact us-
1_561_282_9476

info or to cease getting or to look at postal address

I think not. Come down here! Come down, or I'll shoot! shouted the fellow,
flourishing his revolver

Fishes are not animals, and they are as cold and moist as the vegetables
themselves. Rob was afraid he would; so, to avoid accidents, he pointed the
tube at him and pressed the button

Poetic, isn't it? Fishes are not animals? I never knew that. And to avoid accidents, well, you should point the tube (I wonder what tube he means - suspense!) and press the button. Yes. Surely the best thing to do in any situation.

I only wish I could write prose like that. Maybe some day, little droogies. Maybe someday.

Come Down, or I'll Shoot!

Wiggy

The Hijacked eBay Account Scam For Morons

2007-01-07T18:17:00.000-05:00

IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS IS ONLY FOR MORONS This blog entry is intended for morons only. If you are not a moron, read it for entertainment value, but realize that I am not calling *you* a moron. If you *are* a moron, then enjoy the abuse I feel strangely compelled to heap upon you. Why do I do this - help you and insult you at the same time? Because a) I want to make the world a better place, but b) I'm a mean old bastard. So there.

HOW DO I KNOW IF I AM A MORON? Brother, if you're asking yourself that, welcome to Moronville, population; you.

SO HERE WE GO!

See, eBay is a pretty cool place in general. You can buy things there, you can sell things there. Everybody knows what eBay is, everywhere in the world.

And most people are honest. Buyers and sellers, people just want to sell their crap or buy some different crap, and they don't really spend a lot of time thinking about how they can trick their fellow human being out of a buck or two.

But there are dishonest people out there. They send spam email. They do phony blog responses. And they run fraudulent eBay auctions. If you let them, they'll take a big chunk of your money away.

Fortunately, most scammers are not only stupid, they're lazy as well. They don't spend a lot of time thinking up ways to cheat you - no, they use the same way over and over and over again, until it is finally beat to death, and then they move on to the next scam. And you stand there with your wallet open, being ripped off over and over again, because let's face it, you're not too bright either. Why do I say such terrible things? Because if you weren't pretty much a mouth-breathing idiot, with a dash of larceny in your heart, I would not get spam email for penis enlargers, baldness cures, diet pills, and phony stock tips. If no one bought this crap, no one would send it. Simple. So I blame you.

And if no one were taken in by stupid lazy scammers on eBay, I would not constantly see these hijacked eBay accounts used to hype non-existent items that you are going to bid on and lose your money again.

And I'm getting tired of it, my friends. So since you're so damned stupid, I've decided to wise you up a little. Consider this a freebie. You're welcome.

THE TYPICAL EBAY SCAM - THE ONE DAY AUCTION

You find this auction because you're the kind of person who knows how to use the 'search' function on eBay, and perhaps you even have some saved searches, and you see some item that makes your skeevy little heart go pitter-pat.

The first thing that attracts you to this auction is the low price. Ah, no reserve price, either! And look, only a few hours to go on this auction! You click on the link to take a closer look...you fool, you.

Now, there are a number of things wrong with this auction, and I'm going to show you what they are. Feel free to take notes or something.

This item is mislisted. You are looking at a widget, but it is listed in the non-widget category on eBay. Why? Your first thought is that the seller made a mistake. This is exactly what they want you to think, you larcenous little frog, you. See, this makes you think 'bargain' and gets your pulse to racing. You begin to suspend what little common sense you have. Do sellers ever make mistakes and mis-list items? Sure. But wait, there's more.
This item has no reserve price. Usually, it is a fairly high-priced item, and very often, sellers of such items (especially new ones) place a reserve price on it. So why no reserve? Do sellers ever list things without a reserve? Sure they do; but when a professional eBay seller is listing a brand-new and expensive item on eBay, they protect their investment with a reserve or a high minimum bid. Again, this is to get you reacting instead of thinking. Not a big deal by itself, but there is more.
One-Day Auction. How do we know it is a one-day auction? Well, eBay used to say right on the auction how long the auction was for, but not anymore. But note - always, less than 24 hours to go on the auction. If you found it with a saved search that emails you the result, how is it that you didn't find out about it until now? Because it is a one-day auction, that's how.
Seller has 100% positive feedback. Oh, wait. That's supposed to be a Good Thing, isn't it? Sure it is. But again, wait for it. I'll explain more later.
Seller wants you to use an alternate method of contacting them. OK, this should be the absolute flashing red light - the sirens should go off in your head, all paranoid flags should start flying. If you fall for this, you're a complete moron.

First, eBay says NOT to do this. It is against eBay policy, but you never read that, did you? You clicked and SAID you did when you got your eBay account, but you have no idea what you read or what you agreed to.

But why is this such a game-over, no-brainer, clue-by-four to the head?

Ask yourself with your few remaining brain cells after all those games of 'quarters' you played in college, hoping to get laid by some nearly-passed-out sorority girl named 'Sonya.' WHY would a seller want you to contact them by means OTHER THAN the eBay method?

In the past, some scammers took the time to invent a story, which they would post on their listing, as to why their eBay frustrations were so high, they just could not trust their eBay contact methods anymore, so please, Mister Decent Honest Nice-Guy, wouldn't you please just contact them at their freebie throw-away email address? Now, they don't even bother. It's a numbers game - they don't bother trying to convince the semi-suspicious. They just want the absolute morons, so no explanation.

I could go on - there are other clues here too. Not as obvious, not as important, but they are here if you're interested. Briefly:

Throwaway email address is some incomprehensible string of letters and numbers. Don't most people try to pick an email address that resembles their name or 'handle' in some way? Sure they do. This is randomly generated.
Text for item description is cut-n-pasted from manufacturer's website. Scammer seldom takes the time to write anything original. If it looks like typical ad copy, it is. Some scammers will try to fake original writing - if you search, you'll find they lifted it from some legitimate seller's auction.
Item photo is often a stock photo from the manufacturer's website or is lifted outright from a legitimate seller's auction. Right-click on the image and see where it came from.

Now, let's go on. Your humiliation, er, I mean education is not yet complete, grasshopper.

DUE DILIGENCE

Once we find an auction we want to bid on, common wisdom tells us to do some homework on the seller, yes? After all, that's what those 'feedback' ratings are there for. And look, 100% positive, right? WOW! But wait, there's more. And it's all bad. But that's good; for us, anyway. Bad for the scammer.

Check the seller's feedbacks. Looks good, right? Wrong. It's all wrong. The feedback listed is all from SELLERS. That means that our seller is typically an eBay BUYER not a SELLER. Warning sign number one.
Check the seller's feedbacks as a seller. Oh look:

One sale in the past. And not that recently, either. Warning sign number two.

Now check the seller's other items for sale. Whoops!

Funny how all the auctions all of a sudden. Funny how they all have the same starting bid. Funny how they're all mislisted in the wrong categories (if we clicked on them to check, that is). Funny how they all have less than 24 hours left in their auctions. Yes, it's all very funny. HAHAHAHAHA. Problem is, the joke's on you, my friend.

SO, THE AUCTION IS FAKE. FINE. WHAT DO I DO NOW?

Here's what a decent and honorable person who doesn't want other people to get ripped off would do. I have no idea what YOU will do.

First, scroll down to the bottom of the auction listing and click on "Report This Item."

Choose as seen above.

And tell them what I just explained to you. You don't have to go into detail. eBay will get the auction removed pronto - they know what's up. And you'll have done a good deed, by preventing others from seeing this auction and the others associated with this scammer and losing their money thereby. Don't you feel good about that?

THE EXPOSE: HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO BEGIN WITH?

First of all, the scammer needed an ebay account to use, one that had good feedback and hopefully lots of it. So they went phishing.

See 'phishing'

You probably have gotten these emails from time to time. You get an email that appears to be from eBay. It tells you (often in bad English, duh) that your account has been suspended for some B.S. reason, and click here to fix it. Well, when you do, you get sent to a web page in Romania or some such place that LOOKS like an eBay web page, and you are asked to enter your eBay user name and password. You do, and you get a message saying all is well now. You forget all about it.

But the scammer now has your login name and password, and you just lost your eBay account. The first thing they do is change the password, so now YOU can't get in. And while you're scratching your head over that and trying to figure out how to get in touch with eBay since you can't seem to login, the scammer goes to work, using your account.

Most scams like this have an element of the con-game in them. You saw "The Sting," didn't you? Well if you didn't, go rent it and watch it. Con-artists depend upon some basic human psychology - one of them being the larceny people have in their hearts. We're all greedy, selfish, and willing to take advantage of another person to some extent - don't bother denying it, we all have it in us, it's in our nature. Con-Artists play on that.

So, they created a whole bunch of attractive-looking auctions, set up a throw-away freebie email account, and got ready to rake in the bucks.

They know that you're greedy and selfish. So they know that when you see an auction for some much-desired widget mislisted, you're going to sit up and pay attention. After all, if you're the only one who notices, you might get it for a great price! And if there is no reserve, why so much the better! And look, only 17 more hours to go! You can snipe this baby and won't you be proud!

Many at this point won't even be reading the item text or the strange requirements that the scammer has to contact them at their freebie account. They won't read it, or they won't pay attention to the warning signs.

No, you chowderheads will sit up late at night, finger poised over the 'Bid Now' button, waiting anxiously for the steal of a lifetime. And you're about to get it.

When the auction is over and you've 'won', then you try to pay via Paypal, only to find out that the scammer is not allowing Paypal. And no credit cards, either. Nope, this seller, who is suddenly located in some distant country, wants a direct wire-transfer to their bank account, which they send to you.

AND YOU DO IT. Because you're a moron of epic proportions.

And then you wait for your item. Which will never arrive. Because you've been played, suckah.

But now you know how to avoid this evilness. Thanks to your ol' pal, Wiggy.

You're welcome.

Smooches,

Wiggy

Last Chapter of the "Getting Fired" Episode

2007-01-07T13:35:00.000-05:00

So, I figured I better finish this off - we're about two months late now, and I've got some catching up to do. Where were we?

Oh yes. So I got fired, had me a big ol' mess of southern-fried depression with a side order of Catholic Guilt and my very own recipe for self-loathing for desert, got by with a little help from friends, and Mrs. Wiggy and I decided that the best course of action might not be to try to find a job-type job right away, but to perhaps try out some contracting for awhile, to give us maximum flexibility. We wanted to keep the house for the time being, but still needed some income. Fight one battle at a time, as it were.

This unfortunately left some hard choices. There aren't too many huge companies in Wilson, NC. In fact, only one that used the software that I'd been trained in. The product costs a bunch, so only really big companies can afford it. My choices were limited in North Carolina. So I had to cast a wider net.

Turned out that there was a contract job awaiting me - one I was tailor-made for, in the sense that I could do what they needed done. Problem was, it was in Detroit.

Well, beggars can't be choosers, can they? Since Dobby had been given a sock by the old employer, it was time to seek new stockingwear holders elsewhere. I called, sent a resume, we talked. Did the drug test, had a background check, and that was it; I was hired. Six month contract in the Motor City.

I knew I would need a place to stay in Detroit - this contract was strictly an hourly wage - no overtime, no expenses. So I had to come up with a place to kip and cook. Looked around, found a house with a room to let in Royal Oak, Michigan - a suburb of Detroit. Just a block or so off the downtown area, this is a pretty nice neighborhood, rent is reasonable, and a short drive to work every day.

Who knew? If I had been asked to imagine myself at 45, married, living in small southern town in a house with Mrs. Wiggy, her mom, two psychotic Dogs of the Apocalypse, three odd little cats, getting the sack, finding work in Detroit and going to live in a flophouse whilst my dearest kept hearth and home together in Dixie, why I'd have said you were mad. People write songs about crap like this. Well. Imagine that. And me a songwriter.

It's a damned good thing my life is so strange. Otherwise, I'd be so normal, I couldn't stand myself. It's exciting being me. Sometimes not fun, but always exciting. Just don't stand too close - stuff tends to happen in my general vicinity. If you were standing next to anyone else and said "Say, that fellow's pants just exploded," that person would say "What's that Wiggy gone and done now?" If you were standing next to me, I'd look down to see what I had done to cause it. Hijinks, my droogies. Hijinks.

And that, my little droogies, is the conclusion of the chapter of my life entitled "Someone Cut The Rope," by Wigwam Jones. But life deals us these little setbacks, and we move on. Or in my case, to Detroit.

New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-06T20:57:00.000-05:00

OK, so here we go - no particular order, just as they came to me:

1) Lose weight. Like 80 pounds. But I'll be happy if I can drop 50.

2) Relearn how to write in cursive. I tried to do it the other day, and I was both shocked and dismayed to find that not only is my handwriting atrocious, I've even forgotten how to make some of the letters. This issue came up when I heard a news story that they're not going to teach cursive handwriting (we used to call it 'penmanship' in my day). Seems like something I ought to do.

3) Esperanto. I have been toying around with it. I think it is something worthwhile. I probably won't be able to find much in the way of resources around here in Detroit, but I'll look around. Maybe some tapes or something. Why Esperanto? Well, I have no idea. So there you go.

4) Dancing. I can't. I want to. Ballroom style, not the Hustle or the Locomotion or whatever these dang fool kids get up to nowadays. Might tie into #1. Don't tell Mrs. Wiggy.

5) Get my photo files in order. I'm serious - this is terrible. I've got hard drives, CD's DVD's, and negatives all over the bloody place. No organization at all.

6) Get my teeth fixed. Man, they're getting to be a problem. It's not like I don't brush, dadnabbit.

7) Do more writing. Blog, journal, and just generally jotting down all kinds of things.

Now, I don't really go in for New Year's resolutions. I have no idea why I'm doing this one.

So on with the show. Happy New Year, my droogies. Let me know what your resolutions are - we'll all get together and humiliate each other next year at this time.

Smooches,

Wiggy

Wiggy New Year

2007-01-02T12:55:00.001-05:00

Just a quick note to say Happy New Year to all my little droogies. Hope all is going well and you're having fun and staying healthy. Myself, I'm back in chilly Michigan after a brief trip to Cape Cod to visit Mrs. Wiggy's relatives and then down to NC to annoy the dogs and cats for a couple days.

Overheard in hallway today...

"Hey, Beldar! That new design you worked on during the Christmas shutdown? Well, the brass saw your proposal this morning. Looks like you gnarfled the garthog. How's that 401(k) looking?"

"The brass? The brass? They ought to call them the Army of Dorkness."

Smooches,

Wiggy

KFML, Wax Trax, and How to Wreck Your Life

2006-12-11T16:13:00.000-05:00

A group of us were asked recently if we could name the 'record album' that had changed our lives. Judging from the massive response, a lot of people feel that a given album by a particular band DID change their lives.

But I had to be honest. For me, it was not an album - it was a radio station and a record store.

The radio station was KFML, and driving to Golden High School in 1977 in my oil-burning 1972 Chevy Vega, it was the hippest thing going. I found it by accident, and the DJs were so shocking, I kept it on just to see what would happen next. The first song I heard was one that I had never heard before in my life - "Concrete Jungle," by The Specials.

KFML Memories

The record store was a frequent advertiser on KFML - Wax Trax, in downtown Denver. Run at that time by two wonderful women and their many cats, it had not one single LP by any band I had ever heard of, other than what I had heard on KFML. My first visit, I left clutching a copy of "Concrete Jungle" by The Specials, and I soon came back for "Mirror Star" by The Fabulous Poodles.

Wax Trax Records

I could spend hours recalling all the time I spent there - all the friends I dragged in - all the people I met there. It was there that I found out about the "Rocky Horror Picture Show," and subsequently mispent the next two summers, attending every midnight show at the Ogden and trying to dress like Eddie. I used Wax Trax as a Gom Jabbar of sorts - if I took a friend there and they didn't *get it,* we'd never be friends - we were too different.

In every young person's life, there comes a time when he or she must decide if they like bands like Kansas and Boston and AOR music in general (or whatever the current bands are that fill this slot), or if they think those bands suck and thus forever mark themselves as a person who will not accept the status quo; a person who will be always be disliked by the mainstream lamers.

Down the first path is happiness and contentment, and a soul-numbing blandness that soothes while it destroys.

The second path - well, it's all I know. And I would not go back for anything. But it is not for the weak; only for the disturbed.

Thanks, Wax Trax. Thanks, KFML.

The Razor's Edges - All Four of Them

2006-12-11T09:24:00.000-05:00

I am a child of the 1960's. I was born too late to have been a 'hippy', but not too late to have been drawn into the 'disco' era, for which I sincerely apologize for the damage my generation has done to the world.

Certain things were transitioning, certain technologies were in a state of flux, and I was there to see much of it happening. Microwave ovens, color TV's, cordless phones (not to mention cellular phones), cable TV, the Internet, the list goes on and on. But today, I want to talk about shaving.

Shaving was a ritual that both men and women practiced, but as a young Wigwam, I was only familiar with watching my father shave in the morning. With one bathroom in the house and four kids, we had a tad less privacy in the mornings that we might feel comfortable with these days.

I think every young boy probably has some memories of watching their father shave - presuming that their father did shave. And shaving has changed over the years, so our memories of these events mark as products of a given period of time.

I am just old enough to remember seeing my father shave with a 'safety razor.' These were the double-sided blades that were designed to be inserted into a handle, which was then cranked down until it was snug upon the razor. The blade was then used as a double-sided axe, to shave away with one side until it was dull, and then to be flipped over in the hand and used on the other side. This was considered to be an advancement over the centuries-old 'straight-edge' razor. The blades could be taken out of the metal box they came in with little difficulty, and would cut the dickens out of you with very little manipulation. In some cases, my dad might use a bare blade to scrape stray paint off of a glass surface, or remove sticky goo from where a price label had been. I believe such blades can still be had at the hardware store for just such purposes. The blade was incredibly sharp, but fragile. It didn't take much pressure to wreck the edge, and the blade itself could shatter if used too enthusiastically on things other than faces.

I remember that my father used "Gillette Blue Blades" and "Barbasol" shaving cream.

After he had shaved, he would splash his face with "Old Spice" and then cuss for about thirty seconds. Then, he would carefully apply little pieces of toilet paper to any nicks on his face that were still bleeding.

As strange as it may seem after seeing my father swear and recoil, I could not wait for the day when I would actually have to shave. As I am sure many boys do, I would sometimes practice shaving, with my father's razor handle with no blade in it.

The razor itself was a complex mechanism, and a source of endless fascination for me as a young boy. You turned a knob on the bottom of the handle - the top of the razor slowly opened, like a two-peteled flower, to receive the blade. Sometimes my father would let me change the blade for him. I'd open the top, tilt the razor upside down, and watch the old blade fall away into the trash can. Then, carefully pushing the new razor out of the metal container it came in, I would carefully hold it by the long ends (the non-sharp ends) and drop it into the top of the razor, cranking it back down again and handing this precision instrument carefully over to my father, who would ceremoniously thank me for providing this needed service for him.

Then, I could sit on the edge of the toilet seat lid and wait for the cursing to begin. The smell of 'Old Spice' will forever be embedded in my memories of being about eight years old.

BEARD, n. The hair that is commonly cut off by those who justly execrate the absurd Chinese custom of shaving the head.

Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary".

By the time I became old enough to shave, I was in boot camp, in the Marine Corps. There, I was issued a disposable 'Bic' shaver, a can of 'Barbasol', and sent to the 'head' (Jarhead talk for bathroom) and given ten seconds to dispose of my civilian beard (purely peach fuzz, I was hardly hirsute). I believe I shaved the tops off of more zits than I did hair, and that was an experience not to be believed.

The Bic was a single-bladed razor, essentially just one edge of a double-bladed safety razor, embedded permanently in a bright yellow plastic handle. It lacked style, it lacked grace, it was not a 'mechanism' or a 'device', but it did cut hair. It was utterly without soul. You used it, you threw it away, you opened the pack and took out a new one every couple of days.

By the time I actually needed a razor on a more-or-less daily basis, I was in my early twenties, and out of the Corps. Like most very young men of my generation, the Gillette Trac II served me well, along with a can of 'Foamy'. I didn't use 'Old Spice', I used 'Hai Karate'. I was hip.

Two blades, as some egg-head had figured out, were better than one. The advertisements of the time demonstrated - the first blade cut beard hair, yes. But as it was cutting, it apparently pulled good and hard at the individual hairs, lifting them up and out of their hidey-holes inside my skin. Then, before they could wimper and retreat, the second blade came along and chopped them off good and proper. So this would evidently be the ultimate shave - a shave that was actually below the skin level - wow!

Now, a couple of things were not stated, and I sometimes wondered about them. For example, how did the first blade 'lift' and 'pull' the beard hairs, but the second blade did not? Were they somehow different? And didn't all this pulling and yanking result in considerable pain on the part of the face being shaved? If the barber had cut my hair (I had hair back then) by grabbing it and pulling it good and hard, I think I might have objected.

It was not for many years that the makers of shaving products figured out that they could apparently make a shave even better by adding yet another blade to the stack. Not one, not two, but three blades would be optimal. And once again, the advertisements showed how the first blade ripped the hair right up out of the skin, then the second blade pulled it even higher, and finally, the merciful third blade delivered the coups de grace and put that wretched hair out of its misery.

So! It would appear that one of my speculations about the evil twin-blade razor had been correct - namely, that the second blade further lifted the hair out of my skin, it did not behave differently than the first. Ah-hah! But then one must ask - how does the third blade differ from the first two? Does it not also lift the hair out even further? I mean, at what point are we in danger of reaching right back into our very DNA to rip out the evil hair with a blade?

Nevertheless, I determined to try this evil tool, and by golly, it did give me a very nice clean shave, and with a great deal less swearing afterwards than my father had done. By this time, I had switched back to 'Old Spice' and was experimenting like some kind of damned commie with 'Edge' shaving cream.

So, for the last several decades, I've been shaving away with three blades in various configurations. Every couple of years, the manufacturers figure out a way to make the new blades not fit the old handles, and they make you buy new handles all over again. This must be difficult to do, but they must do this in order to be able to continue to rip us off - er, I mean, service our needs. I finally gave up on keeping a handle and just went to the disposable razors, just like the old Bic single-blade days.

But now, we have come to the time when the manufacturers need new sources of revenue. It is time to throw away all that works and sell us something that is exactly the same but better.

Four blades.

Eh, sure.

Two blades - better than one. OK, I bought that.

Three blades - better than two. Well, I went along, despite suspicions that this might be, um, crapola - basically because I could no longer find two-bladed razors after awhile.

And now - ta-da! Four blades.

And that brings me to today's rant.

Today, I got a solicitation from Schick to come and visit them online - and to receive a free four-bladed razor just for experiencing their webby proclamations. Well, why not? I realize that in a very short period of time, I'll no longer be able to buy a three-bladed razor - this is preordained. So, off I went to:

Get a free Schick Quattro Razor in exchange for looking upon their hipness - click here.

The Schick people are hip. Oh yes, they're hip. They speak to the young. They know our lingo. Oh wait. I guess I'm not their target audience. But I'm trapped in their web, so I get the full treatment as well. And here are some of the more tasty parts of their hipness:

Why, apparently, if I fall for, er, I mean, see the power of their argument and rush out to buy four-bladed razors, Miss "North Carolina" will fall for me like a ton of bricks. I love the way they figured out how to personalize this for me. So techno. Oh, and by the way - is it just me, or does it look like Miss North Carolina has that well-known "I have to poop" expression on her face?

Now this, I can appreciate! Of course, Wilson is well-known as being the town where resides the famous, the incredible, and awesome personage that is myself. Ever buddy knows that. But here it is for the world to see. I may weep openly. Thank you, Schick. Thank you.

However, this last image is perhaps a bit over the top. I am somewhat worried about how Mrs. Wiggy will take it. She's been very accepting about the diaphanous 'Dancing Girls' who I've claimed have followed me around from place to place and assignment to assignment all over the world (and who might well have been responsible for the Death of the Air Mattress - a story yet to be told). But this? I dunno, I am not at all happy about this one. Schick, what were you thinking?

I'm 45 years old and we've gone from one blade to four in my lifetime. By that reasoning, by the time I kick the bucket, I should be shaving with a razor that is actually larger than my head, containing some eight or nine blades, all pulling, pushing, shoving, ripping, teasing, cavorting, and eventually getting around to the actual business of cutting my beard hair. I will need mechanical assistance to hold the thing up, and my shave will be smooth to a level of precision only found in the finest optical glass, such as is today found only in the Hubble Space Telescope's mirror. My face will be so smooth, that if Mrs. Wiggy kisses me, she will be liable to slide right off my face.

I weep for future generations. And not just from the 'Old Spice'.

It is official - guys, we've been replaced...

2006-12-07T12:50:00.000-05:00

Please excuse this short break in the "Wiggy Got Fired" saga - I had to toss this in:

Boyfriend Pillow

Boyfriend Pillow - 16262

Snuggle up and get cozy with a pillow that likes to cuddle. Our boyfriend pillow has a motion device that makes the pillow soothingly vibrate. Requires 2 "AA" batteries (not incl.). On/off switch. Polyester velour cover with padded fill. 19"W x 21"H.

Well, then. I guess I'm off to join the monastery. See ya.

Smooches,

Wiggy

PS - I'll bet it doesn't fart and then pull the covers over our loved one's head, though. So we're not totally out of the running yet.

Making Plans for Wigwam

2006-11-26T13:43:00.000-05:00

So, my little droogies, in the last episode of "As the Wigwam Spins," we found out that getting fired can be a tad, shall we say, depressing. And of course, it gets worse.

It's not like I had a lot of experience in getting fired to fall back upon. In 45 years on this earth, I've been fired exactly twice. Once for reading a newspaper on-duty at a gas station when I was 15, and once in NC for reading my email while on-duty and...hey. I detect a trend here. Frightening. Well, if this trend of getting fired once every 30 years is accurate, then I'm going to have another problem when I'm 75. I'll have to make a note.

Things you find out when you get fired:

You find out who your friends are really quickly. They come rushing to your aid, even before you can ask for help. They're distributing your resume, talking you up to their friends, reaching out to friends of friends to try to get you an interview somewhere, anywhere. They're getting out checkbooks and demanding that you take their money as a loan so that you won't have to worry about losing your house while you're looking for work.
People are vaguely uncomfortable being around someone who has been fired. It's like you have managed to catch a social disease. Not only are they worried about catching it, but there is a vague whiff of "you must have done something awful to deserve it."
No one likes to hear the truth. They want to hear you say that you got laid off, or that you got fed up and quit. They do not want to hear you say that you got fired, and worse, you got fired for breaking a rule that a) you knew about and b) you broke anyway.
When (3) above happens, they really, really, refuse to believe that you got fired for something as penny-ante as reading your personal email from work. Again with the "Uh-huh. Sure. Now, what did you really do?"
You can't draw unemployment when you get fired 'for cause'. Yeah. All my 'pals' who assumed that I'd be OK because I could just go on unemployment, afraid not.

Anyway, like I said, I learned a lot about being unemployed. It is embarrassing. It is frustrating. And of course, it is financially painful. I thank God for our friends and family, though. Without them, we'd have been in a real pickle. Not that it was pleasant as it was, but it was bearable.

I got busy and started making plans. Got the resume together, starting searching in earnest for jobs on websites like Dice, Hotjobs, and Monster. Reached out to old coworkers who knew the quality of my work and who could put in a good word for me or float a resume in. Thought and talked with Mrs. Wiggy a lot about what we wanted our next move to be.

Here's something interesting that I learned. When you lose a job (well, I didn't really lose it, it is still where I left it - just someone else will do it now), you tend to think in short strokes - as if your first step should be to get another job. That might not be the right answer.

In our case, another job in my industry would require a move. That is, the type of work I do is not commonly found in most industries, and I am only worth a certain amount of money if I am working in the companies that use the software I'm trained to work with. Make sense? I can't go down the street to the next big company and apply - if they don't use that software, they'll a) have no use for me, or b) only be willing to pay me trainee wages, which won't pay my mortgage. I'm too far along in my career now to change what I do, unless I were to reduce my overall debt to zero and we could live on a lot less.

When we bought our home, we paid a good price for it, but we bought it with no money down, using my VA benefits. This means we have practically no equity in it, and the housing market is soft now, so the price of the house hasn't risen substantially in the two and a half years we've owned it. Plus, we still have not repaired the damage done by the Dogs of the Apocalypse when they gnawed through our kitchen floor and portions of the walls when they were puppies. So I doubt we could expect top-dollar unless we invested quite a bit in the house.

I remember when we bought the house. The previous owners had also purchased using a VA loan, and had lived in the house about 18 months before the husband was transferred elsewhere and they had to leave the area. They had seen the price of the house go up slightly since they bought it, according to the county records, so they made a small profit, according to the price they paid and the price they sold. Nevertheless, they had to bring a check for something like seven thousand dollars with them to the closing. We haven't got anything resembling seven thousand dollars laying around. So even selling our house might be a bit of a problem at the moment.

Well, what about relocation? At my level, some companies pay relocation for permanent workers. The company that had just fired me did. They paid a LOT to move our stuff from New Mexico to North Carolina - good job they didn't fire me during the first year, I'd have had to pay that back. But it is getting a bit difficult to find jobs that pay relo at less than executive management positions these days, everyone is tightening their belts. And, assuming we could find relo money, there is still the problem of selling our existing house.

And what would we find if we did find a company willing to pay relo and we somehow resolved the problem of our existing house? Where would we be? Would we like it? Should we just take the first opportunity that presented itself, and to hell with where we ended up living?

When I left my 'traveling job', it was to get off the road - I had been a 'road warrior' for a very long time - nearly seven years of flying 150,000 miles a year or so. I was on the road six days out of seven. I'd fly home on a Saturday, get home Saturday afternoon, and drive to the airport again on Sunday morning. Didn't make for much of a home life. And to be quite honest - as I started into my fourties, my body began to complaint about what I was putting it through. In my line of work, I could not take time off to visit a dentist or a doctor for routine things - taking a day off work meant missing a week's work, because assignments ran from Monday to Friday, 8-5. So I could not just take a doctor's appointment and fly home that day and fly back the next. Doesn't work like that. So, things tended to get put off until they became emergencies. One week in San Jose nursing a shattered wisdom tooth, followed by a day spent in an emergency room with (what I thought was) a heart attack (turned out to be a probable embolism in my lung, frequent flier's disease) and then some developing problems that I could see becoming bigger issues later on - nah, it was time to go.

So, when I took the job that I had just gotten fired from, it was after a long thoughtful process and many discussions with Mrs. Wiggy. We even took some of her vacation time and flew out and drove around the state to see if it was the kind of place she'd like to live in (I already had done some work in the area, I knew I liked the general geography of the place, and I've always been drawn to small towns). When we decided to go for it, we thought of it as our 'happily ever after' place. It was the job I'd keep until retirement, it was the home we'd live in until it was paid off and we were retired. Yeah, OK, so I was a sucker. I give you permission to call me an idiot.

Getting back to the point, though - did we want to just roll the dice and go wherever a potential employer happened to be located - the first one that happened along and was willing to offer me a job?

The solution presented itself in due course, but it was one that I had not considered at first - and this gets back to my point about 'finding another job' as not necessarily being the best solution to the problem.

What we really needed were two things. The first was to keep a roof over our heads. The second was time. Breathing room, if you will. Time to draw up plans to get on with our lives, figure out where we wanted to live, what we wanted to do, and so on. Taking another full-time permanent job would accomplish the first, but would rush us into the second.

So, we hit on the idea of doing contract work. I knew about it, of course. The folks who work on 3 or 6 or 12 month contracts for companies that are often known in the industry as 'bodyshops'. They employ these people, but only for the term of the contract they negotiate with another company, the company that actually needs the help. For this, they handle the contract, they take out taxes and usually offer health insurance and even 401(k) and so on, and they take a cut and pay the rest in the form of an hourly wage to the worker.

I had been contacted many times by headhunters over the years. My industry is small - the software I am expert in represents and even smaller slice of the pie. So my name pops up, someone gives me a call and pitches this contract or that contract. I had always turned them down - when I was traveling for a living, I was making way more than they could offer me, and when I came off the road, I had no desire to go back into that type of situation.

However, now the situation had changed. The immediate hourly wage that such a job could offer would address our need to keep paying our mortgage (imagine that), and keep food on the table. The short-term nature of the contract itself would give us some time to figure out what we really wanted to do, and to wait for the right permanent opportunity to present itself once we had made that decision.

So, I started paying attention to contract jobs, and the skies began to clear a bit. By this time, I had been unemployed about a week. It was the middle of October.

Next episode - "Woah, there pardner. Detroit?"

Until then!

Smooches,

Wiggy

And Then, Depression Set In

2006-11-24T16:22:00.000-05:00

So, as I revealed in my last chapter, I got my happy ass fired. I declined the rent-a-cop's kind offer to drive me around the building, ankled around the back of my former employer's parking lot and retrieved my car, and I drove home.

As I left, I got on my cell phone and called Mrs. Wiggy, gave her an abbreviated version of the news. Probably not the smartest thing I could have done, but I needed to tell someone. When I got home, I told Mrs. Wiggy's mother, who lives with us. She was shocked, angry at the company, and certain that they'd done me a great injustice.

I wanted to be mad at them. I mean, they just sacked my ass. And it was for such a penny-ante thing, too. Not for being hard to get along with, not for failing to do my work, not for substandard work or stealing or smacking stupid managers upside their punkin haids. No. For using their equipment to access the Internet in a way which was prohibited. And the kicker - I had been warned. Whom could I be mad at but myself?

I called my former bosses' boss later that day, to make arrangements to retrieve the rest of my stuff. He didn't answer, I got his voice mail. Left a carefully-worded polite message.

He called back after 5:30 p.m. I could not come get my stuff, he said. He'd have someone box it up and I could retrieve it from the security lobby the following morning. He wanted to know what time I'd be there. I said 9 a.m. We hung up.

And so I was mad at myself. I sat at home for the next several days, searching online job sites like Monster, HotJobs, and Dice, and playing the firing over and over again in my mind. Had trouble sleeping, of course. Mrs. Wiggy was a trouper, as was her mom. I checked in with my friends, they all offered their support and offered to help in various ways. I didn't hear one word from my former coworkers, though. Not one freaking word. Nada. Silencio.

The next day, however, I got up and got dressed and went in to work - sort of. I got to the front desk and found my stuff all in boxes, labeled with my name. Now, the security desk has kind of a mini-lobby in it, usually full of contract janitors waiting to be let in so they can begin cleaning - but not this morning. It was empty except for a couple of guys in suits, who were each talking on their cell phones and looking at me.

Hmmm. Yep, they were looking right at me. Hard. Then I saw the open suit jacket and the pistol one guy was wearing tucked in the waistband of his trousers. Ah. Cops. Once again, I'm thinking, "You have got to be kidding me." Cops? For what?

I picked up my boxes, one by one, and took them out to my car. The suits didn't offer to help, but they kept up their imaginary conversations while I came and went. I almost starting thinking they were not there because of me.

Then I came to the last box. As I carried it outside, both guys folded up their cell phones and and walked outside. They followed me out, walked past me, and got into their clearly marked Wilson Police Department car. Very stealthy. I'm surprised that I did not see the car when I drove in, but I guess my mind was on other things.

Good Lord, what am I, Public Enemy Number One? I got fired, not arrested! I didn't do anything illegal, I accessed my personal email from work - I violated company policy, not the law! I just shook my head. Got in the car.

Then I remembered that I had my 'security token' in my pocket. A device given to me by my former employer so that I could access my work PC from home when I was on-call. I had no use for it, but I could imagine the bastards charging me for not returning it. So I walked back inside one last time to return it to the security guard.

The poor girl looked terrified. She was behind an inch of bulletproof glass like a convenience store clerk, and I was just a guy who got fired - and she looked like she was going to cry. I slid my security token through the slot at the bottom of the window like I was paying for a Slurpee on the way home from a bar, and told her she might want to return it to my former boss. She just stared at me and nodded. I have no idea what they must have told her about me, but she looked like she expected me to whip out a flamethrower and do some serious carnage right then and there.

I left, with four cardboard boxes representing nearly three years of my life; everything except my self-esteem and dignity.

When I got home, I found a message on the voice mail. It was from my dermatologist, whom I had just been referred to by my family doctor about a, er, pesky rash problem I had been having. He said I most likely have psoriasis. Lovely. Isn't that just freaking special?

So, I Got Fired...

2006-11-23T20:29:00.000-05:00

Time for me to emerge from my hole and start talking again. I apologize for the delays. Short version: I got my happy ass fired from my job, found a new one, and am now in the process of picking up the pieces. The longer version is, well, longer.

Let's back up a bit. September, 2006 in the wayback machine. I'm in Wilson, NC, living in my happy little bungalow with Mrs. Wiggy, Mrs. Wiggy's mom, two Dogs of the Apocalypse, three cats, and an unidentified rodent chewing on the wires in our attic. I drive two miles to work everyday. My life is slow, uneventful, and this is a good thing.

Then, I got a warning from my employer. I had replied to a blog entry that I read on my lunch hour, and I inadvertently quoted an obscenity that the person I was replying to had used. In other words, to a complete idiot, it might look like I said the naughty word.

Well, it appears a complete idiot was reading my reply that day. He or she complained to the blog owner. That person complained to my employer. They investigated, found out I have made the response, and gave me a warning not to use that type of language online again from work. They didn't give me a chance to explain that I hadn't used the word in question, but whatever. Fair enough, I should not have even quoted it. Point made.

Now, let's move forward to October.

One day, on a Friday, our office is visited by the local 'hatchet lady' from Human Resources. Speculation runs rampant. Some feel that she is there to sack the whole lot of us. After all, we've had a lot of layoffs and downsizings and offshorings of late - so it could be the end for all of us. However, the end of the day comes, and no one is gone. We go off on a three-day weekend.

On Monday, I come to work, sit down, boot up my laptop, and log into my workstation. My phone rings. It's my boss. She asks me to come to her office.

Oh. I know, with ringing certainty, what this is. I'm getting the sack. Not the entire department. Just me.

I walk down the hallway to her office, and she meets me outside her door. She asks me to walk with her down this hallway to a conference room I've never been to before. Inside, there are several people. My bosses' boss. The hatchet lady from HR. Oh yeah, and two uniformed armed guards. Yeah, armed guards. In uniforms.

Now, this is interesting. I've seen people get fired at this company - they've never had armed guards. In fact, they didn't get marched to some undisclosed location or meet with the hatchet lady. They just got called to their bosses' office, got the sack, and he escorted them to the door. Armed guards?

The hatchet lady introduces herself to me and holds out her hand to shake hands. Shake hands? I have to shake hands with the woman who is about to lop off my snarglies? Sigh. OK, let's get on with it. I shake her hand and we sit down.

My boss is upset, visibly shaken, and nearly in tears. She reads a prepared statement that goes kind of like this:

"On [date], you were warned against inappropriate use of the internet using company property. Our network security team has monitored your workstation, and we have determined that you have used the internet in an inappropriate manner. Your employment is therefore terminated, effective immediately."

Wow. OK, I'm racking my brain here. What did I do? I know I didn't do or say anything on any blog that would get me turfed. Oh. I think I know. Email.

The company has a policy against accessing personal email from work. That means no Yahoo mail, no Google mail, no web-based email thingies. Most of them are blocked - you can't even access them. But I have my own clever little domains, and I have my own web and email servers, and I just ignored that little rule. The previous Friday, I had noticed that my access to my little email webserver was suddently blocked. A-hah.

[Note: I can only guess that's what it was that got me fired. They never told me the specifics.]

I was thinking to myself, "They were serious about that rule?" Hmmm. Guess so.

About this time, my former boss stands up. We all stand up. None of us are looking at each other. We make vague motions towards moving to the door. We begin to move.

I asked, "Ah, excuse me? Can I go back to my desk and get my car keys and wallet and stuff?"

My former bosses' boss interposes himself between me and the door.

"You can't go back to your desk."

"How do I get my car keys, my wallet, my briefcase, and the rest of my personal stuff?"

He hems and haws. They all look at each other. Apparently, no one thought this through. You'd think they'd have this kind of planned out.

"Well, you can't go back to your desk."

"Well, I'm not going to walk home. Without my car keys and my wallet, I can't unlock my car, I can't unlock my house."

My former boss decides that she'll go and get my stuff. I'm thinking that I have a lot more stuff than she's going to be able to carry. We stand and look at each other while she's gone - the security guards hover around, looking important. We say nothing to each other. She returns with my car keys, my wallet, and my briefcase. Apparently, they've decided to hold my lunch and my coffee hostage.

My former bosses' boss asks me, "Where is your car parked?"

"In the back of the building (in the employee parking lot, duh)."

He blinks at me. "You can't go back there."

"How do I get my car?"

"You can't go back there."

OK, we're getting nowhere, and the rent-a-cops are getting nervous. I go with my former bossses' boss towards the front of the building, away from the parking lot, my car, my lunch, and my coffee. Away from my desk. Well, correction on that. Away from what was my desk.

We walk to the front of the building, and I go through the security turnstile one last time. My former bosses' boss asks me for my key card, which I surrender. I ask him, "How do I get my personal belongings? I have a lot of books and stuff at my desk."

He blinks at me again. He stares. He clearly has no idea what to say. He blinks again. Finally, he says, "You can call me at my desk and come pick up your stuff after five o'clock."

One of the security guards opens the front door. The other puts his hand on my shoulder and tries to propel me through the door. I'm incredulous.

"You've got to be kidding. Take your hand off me."

"Sorry, sir, it's my job."

I give up. Whatever. He escorts me out the door and removes his hand. I look back - my bosses' boss is gone. The security guards are leaving. I ask the one who had his hand on my shoulder, "What happens if I try to walk around behind the building and get my car? I have to have it to get home."

He shrugs. "Not my job to stop you from doing that. My job is over now. I'll even give you a ride around the back if you want."

I go get in my car and drive home. I'm fired. No more job. And the bastards still have my lunch. Worse, they have my coffee.

A Seat at the Table: The Pope's Remarks on Islam

2006-09-17T23:28:00.000-04:00

So last week, Pope Benedict was in Germany, and he quoted from some Byzantine Emporer who said that Islam's founder was "evil and inhuman." And surprise, surprise, this sparked controversy. Now we've had two apologies from the Vatican, including a person apology from Pope Benedict himself, and we've had, at last report, several Catholic Churches burned, a little desecration, and a nun who may have been murdered as revenge for the Pope's remarks.

And I read the news and I am incredulous.

Some think that the Pope's remarks were terribly inappropriate, the words of a stupid person. Folks, the Pope ain't stupid.

Some think that the Pope's remarks were taken out of context, since he was quoting a historical document, and he did not actually say himself that Mohammed was 'evil' or 'inhuman'. Folks, don't be fooled. As I said, the Pope ain't stupid. He knew just exactly what he was saying and how it would be taken.

Think about it - what possible purpose would an off-the-cuff remark like that have in a speech? Is there any way it could have gotten in there by accident? Do you not think that every word the Pope says is carefully, very carefully, crafted and examined?

This man was the head of the Inquisition. He is a very clever person.

And so. What was that all about? Why say such a thing, if he a) intended it and b) had a pretty good idea what would happen when he said it?

Let's think about this.

Before the Pope said what he said - was the situation in the Middle East being discussed alongside the word "Catholic" or "Pope?" No, it was not. The news around the world spoke of the US, Israel, Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Hezbollah, and so on - but not about Catholicism, not about the Pope.

Oh, there was a small news item - during the bombing and so on that was happening in Lebanon, the Pope ordered the Maronite churches there to open their doors and give sanctuary to the trapped domestic workers (mostly Catholic) who were from the Philippines and were trapped in Lebanon with nowhere to go. But that was about it. Jews and Muslims, Jews and Muslims - and the US Army. That's pretty much it.

So does the Pope have a really big ego and just like to hear his name? Well, that's possible I suppose, but I propose a simpler solution.

The Pope wanted a seat at the table. If we're going to talk about these problems in the Middle East and what might be done about them, he wants to be dealt in to this particular card game. The Holy Lands are not just about Jews and Muslims - Christians are in the mix too. And with one stroke, he got his face in there, didn't he? Clever guy. And by apologizing right away, but by keeping his voice out there, now he can try to keep some attention on himself and the Catholic Church, try to shift the light of public attention onto himself for awhile.

And there's more.

The Pope knows well that Catholicism is becoming splintered, and nowhere is it more obvious than in the USA. One of the first things he did when he became Pope was to fire the Editor of America magazine in NYC - a Jesuit organ that had been a thorn in his side when he was Grand Inquisitor and they thumbed their noses at him. Everyone knows that annulment is rare in the rest of the world, but common in the USA - US Catholic Divorce, they call it. Here in the USA, we're a tad liberal in our Catholicism, and Pope Benedict...well, he ain't.

So by making a statement like this - he gets the rats out of their holes. Church members cannot restrain themselves from making opinions and public statements - an Archbishop here, a Cardinal there - and bang, he's got 'em.

He also knows that this will make a strong showing among the hard-core conservative Catholics. They'll accept his original statement as being 'code' for what he really believes - that Islam is evil and should be destroyed. They'll think he's signalled to them just how far he'll go in support of them. They'll think his apology was the fake - the statement that caused it was the real deal. As they rally - making public statements in support of the supposed original meaning of the Pope's statement - they'll also self-identify. A list is made, a few names written down.

Conservative Christians who are not Catholic will also be forced to make more conciliatory gestures towards the Pope. After all, he's said what they've been saying on PTL and the 700 Club for awhile now - that Islam is bad, and one must call evil by it's true name and not shirk from the angriness of public opinion. A new link forged, even if many Conservative Christians are openly hostile towards and suspicious of Catholic motives.

Of course, when the Pope suggests, via an ancient manuscript, that Mohammed might be 'evil and inhuman', I am sure he was aware that violence would ensue. And what kind of violence? Of course. Religious violence, and all of it Muslims directed at Catholics. Makes the news, eh? And look, look at these martyrs. Why, it does seem interesting that if you say that Muslims are violent by nature, and some Muslims respond by, um, being violent, that you might have gone some distance to prove your point. Of course, only those who realize it is manipulated behavior would see past the violence itself.

So when I heard this, I did not for a moment think that the Pope believes that Mohammed was 'evil and inhuman' or that he put the ancient quotation into his speech by accident.

This was all very calculated. And it worked very well.

I leave it as an exercise to the reader and to history to see if I was right about this one.

Makes my head hurt...

Wiggy

Most Objectionable

2006-09-15T15:42:00.000-04:00

I normally do not blog about work. Work is work, and who wants to hear about work. Look, ever buddy hates their job, is what. You know that. I know that. We know that. So I usually just leave it at work.

But. Not. This.

IDIOTIC PEOPLE WHO MANAGE TO BECOME BOSSES - PART ONE

My team lead had to go to a 'Valuing Diversity in the Workplace' class this week. You know, it is the kind of thing where ever buddy gets broken into groups and has a big old discussion about how diversity is good, it is good to value diversity, and not doing so - well, that's bad. And there are lots of explanations and demonstrations, and they get broken out into teams and they have to 'role play' and yadda yadda yadda. If you work for a big corporation, you know the drill.

Well, my team lead came back with a dazed look on her face. Seems she had been teamed up with a bunch of managers - local senior managers. Their team had been given the task of determining from a list of hypothetical people and their hypothetical personality traits, which person was considered 'most objectionable.'

The team was having trouble reaching consensus. Normally no big surprise, especially when managers are involved, right? But this time, it was all down to one manager and his continuing insistance on rating the 'worst' employees as if they were the 'best' employees and vice-versa.

Finally, someone asked him to explain his reasoning. As he did, the light slowly dawned on ever buddy else. This manager, this senior manager, thought that 'most objectionable' meant that the person 'met their objectives' most of the time.

She told me this, and all I could do was to gape at her in wonder. I felt divide-by-zero errors piling up in my punkin haid.

IDIOTIC PEOPLE WHO MANAGE TO BECOME BOSSES - PART TWO

Then, we all were forced to attend a meeting in which a video was shone. The video was produced by my employer and it featured several of our VERY BIG bosses, senior executive management, talking to us about the 'Really Good Customer Experience'.

It was in this professionally-produced video that one of these million-dollar-a-year salary guys explains to us, patiently, as if to a child, that the word 'aptitude' means 'how well you know how to do your job'.

And we wonder why the Chinese are buying up land in the USA. They'll win the next war without firing a shot. And probably deserve to.

It is to weep.

Have a good weekend, my little droogies.

Wiggy

The Fountainhead. No, Really.

2006-09-13T10:02:00.000-04:00

So there I was, standing in the shower this morning, and I got a little bit of soap just under one of my nostrils. I must have inhaled or something, because the next thing I know, I've got that slight burning sensation that tells me I've accidentally huffed some soap. This is no fun at all, I'm sure it happens to everyone, so you know what I'm talking about.

Well, usually when something like that happens, I just kind of ignore it and try not to breathe in through that particular nostril for awhile, to avoid fouling my spark plugs. But this morning for some reason which escapes me at the moment, I thought that maybe if I angled the shower head up just a trifle, I could dislodge the soap from just inside the rim of my nostril, where it was stinging me.

OK, I'm going to put that one down as a generally bad idea. See, what I found out is that the human head will fill up with water in about 1/10 of a second, which is not really a lot of time when you're shooting water right up one nostril at a high rate of speed and watching it shoot right back out your mouth like some kind of bizarre fountain, er, water feature I think they call it these days. Yes, I filled the inside of my head up like an evil piñata. If I could have seen myself in the mirror, I probably looked like one of those toys you squeeze and the toy's eyes pop out. It felt pretty amazing having water shoot out of my mouth like a dang water hose, is what.

Have you ever gone swimming and gotten water in your ears? Well, imagine that when the water is on the other side of your eardrum, trying to get out. Wowzer.

So, I get out of the shower and I yell to Mrs. Wiggy, "Hey hon? Guess what I just figured out?"

She sticks her head in the bathroom with one of those resigned smiles on her face like she gets when I make her pull my finger, and she replies, "Do you know what you sound like when you say that? It reminds me of the Redneck's Famous Last Words, 'Hey, y'all, watch this.'"

Now, she is only saying this because it happens to be true. I figure things out about myself all the time. This is a Guy Thing (tm). See, you may have seen on some educational television program about some Swami or Guru who managed, after years of meditation, to control his heart rate or lower his blood pressure, or levitate, or figure out his taxes without getting mad, something that would otherwise be impossible. You might have figured that was pretty amazing stuff.

But in truth, guys do that kind of stuff all the time. Only most of us are not very interested in learning to control our heartrate. Our bodily functions and noises, on the other hand - well worth the effort.

For example, in my well-spent youth, I learned to raise and lower my eyebrows independently of each other. I can still waggle one eyebrow while the other stays perfectly level, or make one go up and the other go down, etc. This is hours of fun when I'm home amusing the dogs. Mrs. Wiggy is not surprised at all when she calls downstairs and says "What are you doing?" and I reply, "Making faces at the dogs." She knows that is literally what I'm doing.

I can also flare my nostrils as long as I am not laughing at the time, which is not always that easy to do, since I can flare mine so quickly it looks like my nose is fluttering in the breeze like a sick little pair of flags. Mrs. Wiggy is not fond of that stunt.

I have been working for years on the art of making my internal organs produce noises. Not gaseous noises, anyone can do that. I mean making them move around in there, maybe produce a flapping sound or a sproing kinda thing. For awhile, I claimed that I had broken my flapper by sucking air out of an empty coke bottle and holding my tongue over the end of it and waving it about, attached to my tongue just by suction alone. I have also claimed some dominion over my spleen, which is the name I give to anything that is inside of me and which I have never seen.

A word of advice: If your mother-in-law comes to live with you, and she discovers you chasing your shrieking wife (her daughter) through the house while wearing a towel, and she asks you what in God's Name you are doing, do not reply "Hot spleenal love, mommie pie." This does not play well in small towns. A little tip from your Uncle Wiggy.

So anyhow, another day, another lesson in what not to do to your nose.

I like to think I'll never stop learning, and this morning, the shower was my classroom.

Keep Yer Stick on the Ice,

Wiggy

Saddam is Crushing Your Head!

2006-09-12T12:03:00.000-04:00

BBC News Story

The BBC reported today that Saddam Hussein, former Penis Potato (oops, sorry, I mean dictator) of Iraq, addressed the judge at his trial and said, "You are agents of Iran and Zionism. We will crush your heads."

It is quite clear that Spudboy Saddam has been viewing reruns of old "Kids in the Hall" episodes. The 'crushing your head' reference is clearly taken from the character played by Mark McKinney, that of "Mr. Tyzik," who felt that 99.999 percent of all humanity deserved to have their head crushed:

Wikipedia Entry - Mr. Tyzik

Well, all I can say is that it is a sad, sad, day when a former Tyrant Tuber can blithely go around crushing heads.

The next time he does it, I suggest that the judge simply raise his thumb, block out Saddam's face, and declare "There's nobody home."

And while I'm thinking about it - do you suppose Iran or Israel either one have a problem with them both supporting the judge in Iraq? You'd think they'd have trouble getting along. I dunno, maybe it is just me.

Hey, don't crush my head.

Smooches,

Wiggy

Katie Couric and Free Speech

2006-09-06T15:52:00.000-04:00

Saw the news last night with Katie Couric as news anchor. I comment on this only because of something she said during her intro, something that made me choke on a waffle I was snarfling at the time. She introduced a new segment to the show, something she calls "Free Speech." Interestingly, she characterized it as "a privilege we have."

Now, I don't know about you, my little droogies. Maybe things are very different where you are. Where I am from, the gold old US of A, a 'privilege' is a 'right or benefit granted someone'. See, what she's saying is that we have the 'right' to 'Freedom of Speech.' But by calling it a 'privilege', she's also saying that it has been granted to us. That implies it could be taken away again.

This bothers me no little bit.

See, Freedom of Speech is not a privilege. It is a right, acknowledged by our Founding Fathers as being a pre-existing condition, as it were. It was not given us by the US Constitution, we had it already, by the natural state of being born in the USA as citizens of this great nation. For Christians, this right is seen as given by God or our Creator. For those of non-religious persuasions, let's just say that Freedom is a condition that attaches to personhood - all people are born free as part of their human condition.

Our rights, our civil rights, cannot be 'taken away' by the US government. In fact, that is precisely what the Bill of Rights is - not a declaration OF our rights, but rather, a list of prohibitions against the federal government.

Does the Bill of Rights say "You have the right of free speech?" No! It says that the federal government is PROHIBITED from infringing on free speech. Do you understand the difference? This is critical.

What is given can be taken away again. If our 'Free Speech' is a privilege, as Katie Couric seems to think, then the government, having given us it, can take it away, as one can revoke a driver's license.

The Founding Fathers, in their wisdom, simply identified the rights that human beings, and more specifically, citizens of the USA, already have, given us by our Creator.

I'm sorry Katie; you're not allowed to take our rights away.

Smooches,

Wiggy

Hey! A plug for a friend of mine!

2006-09-06T09:27:00.000-04:00

I've been promising to do this for some time, and a few weeks ago, I lost my hard drive and all my emails dating back years and years. So I feel really bad that it has taken so long. Diane Wolfe is a friend of mine, and she is an author and a member of my photography club, and here is her latest news release. Ya'll should check it out. Thanks!

Smooches,

Wiggy

Thanks to all The Circle of Friends fans for making this latest Press Release possible!

Keep updated at www.thecircleoffriends.net and the blog - http://circleoffriendsbooks.blogspot.com/

PRESS RELEASE

*FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE*

Contact: L. Diane Wolfe

919-221-1689/1-866-627-5887

DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR TEEN IS READING?

Author L. Diane Wolfe’s series, The Circle of Friends, refuses to compromise

GOLDSBORO, NC (PRWeb) September 6, 2006 – Today’s young adult novels are full of salacious and immoral acts, portraying children involved in sex, drugs and witchcraft. Many of the latest titles glorify frequent sexual activity, negative attitudes, and deviant behavior. Morals are abandoned for the sake of controversy. Yet despite this trend, many authors continue to focus on wholesome and uplifting stories, and Wolfe’s series joins the battle of decent books for young adults.

Her latest, JAMES : The Circle of Friends, Book III follows one person’s quest to overcome abuse and neglect. Meant to inspire as well as entertain, Wolfe’s books have been described as “encouragement personified”. The Circle of Friends series features positive, moral tales and offer readers hope. Centering on a group of college-aged kids, they portray love and friendship overcoming all obstacles. Book I, Lori, follows a young swimmer with Olympic dreams, while Book II, Sarah, focuses on a couple searching for trust and belief. Two more tales will follow: Mike and Heather.

Wolfe’s current book tour goes well into December, with stops as far south as Orlando, where Book III’s story takes place. Dubbed “Spunk On A Stick”, the author averages over eighty appearances and interviews each year, traveling from Ohio to Arkansas to Florida. In the top 1% of her publishing company, she was asked to attend this year’s Book Expo America in DC, and now has several larger publishing houses interested in her series. Wolfe’s motivational training makes her a natural for public speaking and her experience as a foster parent assisted with the creation of Book III. While negativity appears to prevail in the world, she aims to give others hope with the positive messages within her series. “When the dream’s big enough, the facts don’t count!”

Lori, Sarah, and James are published by AuthorHouse. For review copies, contact the Promotional Services Dept. at 1-800-839-8640 ext.5244 or by Fax 1-812-961-3113. For press kit and DVD, contact the author directly or visit www.thecircleoffriends.net.

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Went to the Museum in Raleigh

2006-08-27T11:18:00.000-04:00

We saw dinosaurs and bugs. Well, we went there to see a nature photography exhibit, which we did, and it was great. But we also saw the dinosaurs and bugs. And here are some of them. Enjoy!

You'd Think I'd Have Better Sense

2006-08-27T11:12:00.000-04:00

Well, you'd think that, anyway.

The Marines Are Looking For A Few Old Men...

2006-08-23T16:35:00.000-04:00

So I see on the TeeVee news that the US Marines are planning to issue an involuntary recall of a few thousand jarheads who have done their active duty time, but who are now in IRR (Individual Ready Reserve) status.

Some in Congress are calling this a 'Backdoor Draft'. Yes, it seems as though someone has a draft up their back door. Basically, the Congress Critter known as McCain is blowing smoke up your jaxie. There's your 'Backdoor Draft'.

See, people who were not in the US military don't understand. You enlist for a certain period of time - in my day, it was six years, but they changed that to eight years a long time ago. You further agree to serve a minimum of X years on active duty (could be 3, 4, or 6, depending on your military specialty, training to be received, guaranteed promotions, and other stuff) and the remainder either in the Reserve (you drill two weekends a month and two weeks every year) or in the IRR, in which case you just have remain available for call-up.

And that's the point. Everyone the Marines are planning to call up are members of the IRR, and they AGREED to be called up if needed. And they're needed, apparently. This is not a draft, and the only thing 'involuntary' about it is that the Marines being called back are not stepping forward and saying "Take me!" They already 'volunteered' when they signed their enlistment papers.

All this said, when we saw this on the TeeVee news, Mrs. Wiggy gave me the hairy eyeball. I hastened to explain to her that my IRR days ended long ago - in 1985! Twenty one years (has it really been that long?) and 70 or so pounds later, I'm not likely to be on anyone's short list to be called up and given a pickle suit, a bad haircut, a boom stick, and a designated field of fire.

But Mrs. Wiggy knows me well. She sighed, looked at me, and said, "Yeah, but if the Marines called and said they wanted you back, you'd go, wouldn't you?"

You bet I would. Semper Fi, Baby.

I'm just old and fat. I never stopped being a Marine.

Is that a backdoor draft I feel? McCain, knock it off! Tickles.

Smooches,

Wiggy
MP Co, HQ Bn, 1st MarDiv, Camp Pendleton, CA (1979-1985)

The Sum Total of My Worth to the World Today

2006-08-19T20:00:00.000-04:00

Mrs. Wiggy and her mother went to the Farmer's Market in Raleigh and came home with loads of fresh stuff. And some flowers.

My grand contribution, besides eating, was to take a photo of the flowers in a water pitcher, sitting on our kitchen counter with the sun doing a pretty good thing.

So there you go.

Tomorrow, I may pull weeds in the front yard.

Smooches,

Wiggy