Sick Kid

This is earlier this month. Sneedlet claimed to have a headache and got himself this giant bandage. Does he look like a guy with a headache?




I'm being held hostage by a sick child. Poor Sneedlet One is sick. He went to the doctor yesterday for his four-year check up and he got three immunization shots. When he got here last evening, he was feeling a little puny and I figured that the immunizations might have gotten him down. His mother swore that he felt fine when they left home. I'm sure.

Today he has a cough and a bit of a fever. It is one of those things where he felt better this morning, but has gotten sicker as the day went on. He took a nap, I gave him a child's Tylenol and he took a bath to cool off some. Right now he is laying on my our bed, watching PBS Kids Sprout, his favorite channel.

So, instead of my usual Saturday routine, I have been parked in the house puttering around. Wait that is my usual routine. I cleaned the bathroom, did some laundry and picked up toys several times.

Sneedlet is like most four year olds in that he isn't so good at picking up. I usually tell him that I will throw out his toys if he doesn't pick them up. This is usually marginally effective. This morning he was playing with his Dora the Explorer game and when he was done he moved on to something else. I told him to come back and pick it up and he tells me to just throw it out. Nice.

At the moment I am waiting for Mrs. Sneed to come home from her counseling gig so that I can go to the football game this evening. Our local college team was supposed to be very good this year, maybe even go to a bowl game. Instead, they have been abysmal. A lot of fans are up in arms over this development and are calling for the coach's head. I try not to invest too much emotion in the success or failure of football teams, but many people do.








Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

"Just when I thought I was out, they dragged me back in."--Michael Corleone, The Godfather III


I've noticed a disturbing trend recently. Several of my blogging friends have either thrown in the towel on blogging or are hinting that they might. Let me be real clear about this trend. It is unacceptable. I remind you that I am a hedonist and your lack of blogging commitment is messing with my happiness, my comfort and my ability to have fun. What did I ever do to you?

The reasons bloggers cite for stopping their blog are all over the board, and range from valid to lame, with most landing on the lame end of the scale.

In no particular order these are the lame excuses I have seen or heard lately. I'm tired, I have a job, I can't think of stuff to write, I'm too busy, no one reads my blog, blogging isolates me from real relationships, my significant other is going to leave me, the aliens are communicating with me through the blogs. Blah, blah, blah. This isn't like the scouts, where you can just quit. Blogging is like a gym membership, there's no getting out.

Blogging is a commitment, it's not something you can do when you feel like it. When you stop blogging, you are basically telling a lot of fellow bloggers that you didn't have what it takes to see it through. It is time to man up, even you women. Some of us would have no friends if it weren't for cyberspace. Think about that. Without a blog and without other blogs to read, I would be wandering the streets annoying the public. Can you live with that? Well, can you?

True story. Arvin Miller of Hester, S.C., quit his blog, Adventures With The Dulcimer, and two days later he broke all four fingers and the thumb of his right hand in a freak handshake accident. Coincidence? Perhaps.

The fact that almost no one reads your blog is also no excuse. I only get 25 visits a day to the Sneed blog and several of those are my relatives checking up on what I'm saying about them. If anyone had an excuse to stop, it would be me, but I forge on. To those who say that they lack inspiration, I use me as an example...again. If I can attract 25 visits a day, imagine what an intelligent and articulate person like yourself can do. How many times have you said to yourself, a baboon can write better than Sneed? And yet 25 visitors a day read my drivel.

There are a handful of legitimate excuses for abandoning your blog duties. Maybe you're dead or maybe a relative needs vital medical care. Perhaps you were trying on your neighbor's undies and she came home and found you and now you are incarcerated. Maybe someone got a restraining order or your spouse threw your laptop out of the car window on the freeway. These things happen.

Should you feel the urge to quit blogging, drop me an email and I will set you back on the path of blogging righteousness. Do not make me send the blog missionaries to your house on their little bikes.

As Chairman Mao said, The blog of a thousand posts begins with a single keystroke. Or he would have had he not died before the invention of the internet.








Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Oktoberfest

Son Sneed and I were driving in the car this afternoon, enjoying one of the many fine hit songs by the group Abba, when I caught sight of a sign promoting something called Oktoberfest. I wondered to myself, what is this Oktoberfest and why is it misspelled?

No sooner had the thought entered my mind, than a commercial came on the radio inviting listeners to Oktoberfest being held at one of our municipal ball stadiums. The festivities of Oktoberfest are being held here in our fair city September 27 through September 30.

I thought I had misunderstood the dates, because if the Oktoberfest is being held September 27th to the 30th, it should be called Septemberfest. Don't you think? At the end of the message the announcer gave the dates again. They are in September. That's odd, I thought.

When I got home I decided that I better check out Oktoberfest on the internet. It turns out that the first Oktoberfest was held in someplace called Bavaria in 1810. Many people think the the Germans started Oktoberfest, but it was actually an extinct group of people called the Bavarianites. It wasn't until years later that the Germans co-opted the idea. The Germans improved upon Oktoberfest by making people wear leather shorts with suspenders known as lederhosen.

Oktoberfest began when fellow named Price Ludwig was marrying a Teresa something or other in Bavaria. He was so thrilled to be getting married that he decided to hold a horse race. Since this was prior to the invention of the mint julep, they drank beer. Later they dropped the horse race altogether and concentrated on the beer drinking.

The first Oktoberfest was in fact held in October. The sign maker Ludwig hired was drunk and misspelled October, hence Oktoberfest. No sense in tossing out a perfectly good sign, thought Ludwig. The Bavarianites were famously frugal.

Prince Ludwig became King Ludwig and since kings don't have real jobs and have a lot of free time, Ludwig lengthened Oktoberfest by starting it in September. They actually toyed with the idea of changing the name to Septemberfest, but again, they already had a sign.

The celebration has spread far and wide, with every major city, except Salt Lake, having an Oktoberfest celebration. Salt Lake has a festival called near-Oktoberfest, when instead of beer, they enjoy root beer. Who knew? Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints hold that the angel Moroni gave Joseph Smith the formulation for root beer along with the golden tablets. At least that's what someone told me.

So, look for an Oktoberfest in your city. If you don't find one contact your municipal government and let them know you are interested in having an Oktoberfest at a venue near you. Be sure to specify that you want actual beer.

Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Mr. Dan Miller read this. I had a very productive day today, despite what you think. I just didn't earn any money. I also received no word from God that he was displeased with me over this Hedonist business. Do I seem defensive? I went to the golf course today. I didn't intend to play golf, just hit some balls at the driving range, but I was hitting the ball so well that I just had to try it out on the course. The starter joined me up with three younger guys, all in their middle to late thirties. They were all pleasant enough guys, so it was enjoyable to join them. One fellow has real issues in his life, although he may not know it yet or at least acknowledge it. It seems that way to me anyway. The thing I noticed was that when he introduced himself to me he seemed a bit intoxicated and he stunk of beer. He felt the need to tell me that his birthday was Tuesday and that he hadn't quite sobered up. I'm not making this up, during our three hours round of golf he drank eleven beers that I saw. The reason that I know this is that he was drinking one when he introduced himself and then beverage cart stopped at our group five times during our play. At each stop he bought two more beers. What a way to live your life, not to mention the cost. I suspect that this guy drinks like this most days. Believe it or not he told me that he works at a bar. Over the years I have seen lots of guys like this and they usually wind up prematurely dead or just eking out an existence. Very sad. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Work, Who Needs It?

I got an email today that sort of ticked me off. I know longtime Sneed readers will be surprised by that reaction, but it is true. I'm not sure that this post will mean anything to anyone else but it is very personal to me. There's a fellow in Nashville, TN. named Dan Miller, who operates a little empire called 48 Days To The Work You Love. I subscribed to Mr. Miller's free e-letter because at the time I did so, I was 38 years into the work I didn't love, so the title intrigued me. I guess the premise of Mr. Miller's business is that we all have something that we really want to do, but haven't figured out what it is or how to get there yet. Mr. Miller seems to operate on the premise that if we find the right work, it won't seem like work and we can just do it forever and ever, amen. I have read his e-letters and listened to his podcasts, but they mostly seem geared toward the assistant manager at Gap who wants the manager job. I exaggerate but not much. What I was looking for (and still am) is something that is not a job, but a calling. So far I've come up empty, although I confess to not looking that hard. Not to be unfair to Mr. Miller, but he has found the work he loves in writing and selling his stuff to people who don't love their work. Not exactly like working at the Gap or at Tedious Industries. I'm guessing that Miller has never had to call a meeting with himself to say that he will remain at his desk until 4:15 pm or else. What has me in a snit is the e-letter I received today. The letter has an article called “Earned” Retirement – or Hedonism? Well, excuuusssse me Dan! Miller tells a story of a friend he calls Sam, who retired at 53 years of age and is just sitting around enjoying the retirement that he "earned". Miller is flabbergasted (his word) that this guy who has time, energy and money choses to do nothing. Miller cites none other than Rick Warren of the Purpose Driven Life empire as an authority on the subject. Warren says that wanting to feel good, be comfortable and have fun is the definition of Hedonism, which he evidently thinks is a bad thing. I call it living, but let's not quibble. So, now that I have ransomed myself, I get to decide when I come and when I go. I get out of bed a free man each morning. That is worth a lot to me. Retirement is my job and I am my client. Miller concludes his latest e-letter with a question. He asks "How would you like to stand before God and say, When I began my adult life I spent the first 30 years in a job I hated and then I spent the next 30 years looking at my navel. Now what kind of ‘treasures’ do I have in store here to enjoy for eternity?” Setting aside my obvious conflict with the validity of that scenario and the question's obvious conflict with Christian scriptural teaching, I'll take a shot at the answer. The question creates the logical fallacy of a false dichotomy. Working or staring at one's navel are not the only two points on the continuum of activity. I do lots of things. Granted, most involve me having fun, but some are family commitments that I couldn't keep if I had a job. I have no problem defending my work situation. Besides, if God doesn't want me sitting around, he could whack me now and keep me from "wasting" the next thirty years. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

A Rant

True story. When the Lovely Mrs. Sneed was looking for a new SUV to replace her Honda Accord, we looked at three vehicles, the Honda Pilot, the Toyota Highlander and the Saturn VUE. We bought a Pilot almost by accident. The Pilots at our local Honda dealers were just too much money and the dealers were unwilling to budge on the price, because people will normally pay what they ask. A deal at the typical Honda dealer involves them jacking the price above the MSRP and then agreeing to take off the overage, leaving the buyer to pay the original MSRP. Our Pilot came through a broker who sells top-quality used vehicles and occasionally has new vehicles that they were able to get a deal on. We paid about dealer invoice for our Pilot, about six thousand less than the Honda guys wanted for the same car. It was brand new and had thirty miles on it when we got it. We love it. The guys at the Toyota dealership were basically pains-in-the-ass to deal with, so we got nowhere on the Highlander. They were convinced that we were going to buy the only Highlander that they had on the lot, even though it had more features and cost more than we wanted to spend. The Highlander was really nice and has the Toyota reliability. The take it or leave it attitude of the dealer made us leave it. The Saturn VUE built by a great American manufacturing icon, General Motors, failed one very important test. The interior of the car is cheap-looking, made largely of plastic in a way that just screams "plastic crap". This is true of all GM products, no matter their cost. GM skimps on the little things to cut costs. Their mileage lags the Japanese because they are skimping on costs. Everything GM does is based on cost, because GM is near death. Their costs are galloping out of control and an ever smaller group of buyers want their product. So, I was surprised to see that the United Auto Workers have called a strike against General Motors. GM and the UAW are like two guys shooting at one another in a jetliner at 35,000 feet. Someone might win, but it is more likely that they will both lose. The sticky issue in the negotiations centers on an idea by GM to fund a trust for future healthcare costs. A fund that would be run by the union. GM has a liability of $51B in future retiree health coverage. The company is only worth $20B, so they don't have $51B to kick in. That's the rub. The union would have to do the best they can with the money they get. If it runs out it will be up to the union to break the bad news to the members. The same members they promised benefits for life. The average United Auto Worker makes about $70,000 per year, plus benefits. It is estimated that each hour of labor in a GM plant costs the company $73.25 in wages and benefits versus Toyota's $52 per hour US labor cost. Their the healthcare costs alone ($3B per year) add $1500 to the cost of each car. The UAW member enjoys a generous pension plan and a host of benefits for life. The UAW salaries and benefits are simply among the best around. All of these labor costs are swell when you are selling cars like they are going out of style, instead of selling cars that have gone out of style. The old rust belt states are now filled with empty houses, high unemployment and people who would die for a job paying $27.00 an hour, with or without benefits. So, I can't figure out what these UAW knuckleheads think the outcome of this strike will be. The gravy train has made its final stop, and they are refusing to get off. The fact that we see an ever-increasing number of Toyota's, Honda's, Hundyai's, etc. on the road is evidence that something is dreadfully wrong in the American car business. But no one needs me to point that out. It is all related to how much cash those companies have to put into research and development, instead of into healthcare premiums for life for the workers. We can have better and more fuel-efficient cars when the Big Three stop being healthcare providers, who also happens to sell cars and back to guys who sell good cars. I get my healthcare coverage through my former employer, so I'm not advocating that as a bad thing. Until our selfish public officials fix this mess, this is the system that we have. The difference is that I pay to continue that coverage. I pay one-third of the cost of my coverage, which seems more than fair. The UAW retiree pays zip. Free healthcare for life was a noble goal, but like Social Security, it has become unsustainable in its present form. Going on strike isn't going to resolve the unresolvable. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Birthday Sunday

Today was a birthday celebration day. Daughter-in-Law Sneed had a birthday this week, as did Mr. Peterson, Daughter Sneed's squeeze. You may recall from an earlier post that I have nixed the use of boy/girlfriend to describe the love interests of adults, so I struggle for a way to identify Mr. Peterson. Perhaps I should have thought more carefully about the ban before putting it into place. The story of my life. We commemorated the occasion by having a breakfast at a local restaurant called The Good Egg. Clever, eh? There were twelve present for the festivities, including the two Peterson daughters, plus one...uh...one, dammit, boyfriend. This isn't working out at all. A good time was had by all. After the meal, the Sneedlets and I took our customary stroll around the plaza, where they jumped off of stuff, looked into the windows of the closed stores shouting one-word descriptions of the store, such as "shoes", or "bike store"! Mrs. Sneed and I were talking today about the labels that are used to describe the relationships among relatives. For instance, when your daughter has a child, he is your grandchild. You sister's kid is your niece or nephew, that sort of thing. In blended or step-families the named relationships can get real murky. One of the Peterson Daughters has an toddler. If Daughter Sneed were to marry Peterson, and I am not saying she should or should not, she would become the stepmother of the Peterson daughters and step-grandmother to the toddler mentioned earlier. Since Daughter Sneed is our daughter, would we become step great-grandparents of sort? Sneedlet One would become a step-uncle at four or five. That's weird. By the way, the Sneed children no doubt just guffawed at the word weird when they read this post. Years ago I banned the use of the word weird and they never let me forget it. When they were teens, we went through a period where they could not form a sentence without the use of the word weird. It drove me to distraction, so I banned its use. Not that they honored the ban, mind you. So to the Sneeds, one and all, I lift the ban on the word weird and welcome its return to the Sneed lexicon by using it in this post. Also feel free to watch reruns of Three's Company. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

A Religious Experience

I had a conflict in my very busy schedule for Saturday. You may recall from Thursday's post, that I am in charge on watching Sneedlet One while his mother is out of town and the lovely Mrs. Sneed is at her jobs. She has two jobs at the moment.

The conflict arose because several weeks ago I let Some Guy Named Bob talk me into playing in a golf tournament today. To be clear here, these are four-man team events. A collective effort. Since we have the Seafood King on our team, the remainder of us are mostly filler, hitting the occasional lucky shot. The Seafood King is the only one with golfing skills on the team. If I was in an actual tournament and had to rely on my golf skills, I would finish second to last, assuming Some Guy Named Bob played too.

Luckily for me, Son Sneed and Daughter-in-Law Sneed agreed to let Sneedlet One come to their house, to play with Sneedlet Two for the day. This freed me up to keep my important golf commitment.

Some Guy Named Bob is in charge of signing us up for these events. The tournaments are usually fund-raisers for local charities and groups. On any given Saturday, these events are taking place all over town. The cost ranges from a low of about $40 per person to over $100, depending on the profile of the cause. The higher-profile the cause, the more players participate and the higher the entry fee. Plus, the better the prize loot. Very often the big deal charities get very cool things as prizes from eager corporate sponsors.

Some Guy Named Bob has a lot of discretionary cash, so we have to have to put a dollar limit per tournament or he would bankrupt us. I only play occasionally, the other guys play every Saturday, so it gets expensive.

Apparently, Some Guy Named Bob got confused about what he was signing up for today. At various times he said it was for a local Catholic Church school fund, The Knights of Columbus Building Fund and some big Protestant Church Youth Outreach. Today was play golf for God day, it seems. Ironic, isn't it?

What Some Guy Named Bob actually signed us up for was a tiny tournament to benefit a teenie tiny African-American church. There was just four teams registered. I'm guessing that this was supposed to be a fund-raising/social event for the church and old Some Guy Named Bob crashed it.

The entry fee was $40 per person, so I figure at the outside they netted $320 from the entry fees, after they paid the golf course and before other expenses. I didn't see any evidence that they got any corporate sponsorship. I suspect that after buying four trophies for the winning team, they were lucky to net $250 from this deal. Maybe if you have a really small church, $250 is not bad. It seems like a lot of trouble to me.






Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

I know zip dot squat about flower arranging, but I stuffed a bunch of Irises and Lilies in this vase with various flourishes. I think it looks okay except for the giant bloom in the corner there. If these are not Irises and Lilies, fell free to correct me.



My buddy Sneedlet One came over yesterday and will be staying until Sunday morning. His mother went out of town for the weekend. I picked him up at his preschool yesterday afternoon. We are having so much fun (rolls eyes).

Cool weather has arrived here in the desert. The highs are in the low nineties and upper eighties, but more importantly, the overnight lows are in the sixties. We have a wider difference between the daytime highs and the nighttime lows, than most places do.

Someone in the newspaper wrote the other day that our difference in temps is about thirty degrees, day to night, regardless of the season. That is a bit of a stretch, but it is a solid twenty-five degree difference. I suspect that before the urbanization of our area, the difference was greater.

My plants all look great, except for a few annuals on the downside of their life cycle. The cooler weather is fabulous for growing.



One thing I learned in my gardening class is that there is more than one way to root a plant. I am accustomed to rooting cuttings, although some plants are easier to root this way than others. My Sweet Potato vines will root in water by simply cutting off a shoot and plunking it in a container of water. Most things won't root that way.

The method in this picture is called layering and essentially means allowing the plant to contact a rooting medium, such as potting soil. I bent over a long shoot of a Lantana, into a clean pot, covered the branch with soil and held it down with a rock. Hopefully, roots will develop in the branch where it contacts the soil and I can sever the branch from the mother plant, creating another plant.

If you have ever grown a Spider plant, you have seen this technique occur naturally. I damaged the plant by removing the leaves in the area I hope will root, to cause the plant to grow roots where it normally would not.











Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Long time Sneed blog readers know my position on God. I don't think that there is a God. I might be wrong though. I for sure don't see any evidence that if God created the universe, He cares one wit about our day-to-day lives. The existence of God simply doesn't matter to me. But this rant is not really about God, so I'll stop. My friend is in the middle of a trying time. One of her toddlers has a heart defect and will have surgery to correct the problem...heart surgery. Think about that for a minute. A tiny tot is having her heart cut open so that the doctor can repair a flaw. Very scary stuff, even if it almost always works out just fine. She is worried and that may be an understatement. She is also struggling with the reactions of others to her angst. Some people are even offering platitudes, religious thought and cutesy motivational shinola in an effort to allay her fears or as a weapon to crush them. Here's a clue. She gets to be worried out of her mind and no amount of platitudinous bullsh*t will or should, change that one bit. She's a mom and she gets to be worried about her baby. Offering up crap like "finding the good in every situation" or "give it to God", trivializes the serious of the matter and disrespects her feelings. Anyone who wouldn't be worried under these circumstances, either has no feelings or has stuffed them way down deep inside. Or they are just an idiot. Anyone who tells you that they have the peace that passes all understanding in this situation is just full of crap. They mistake their good fortune for insight, the smoothness of their life as proof of God's love for them. One thing that is decidedly unhelpful is for people to say that things will turn out alright. That is of course, unless they can actually predict the future. Then it is real helpful. My experience is that most people can't predict the future. People are telling my friend how to feel (don't worry) and how to deal with her feelings (pray, my dear, or be optimistic). I've been there and I can tell you, it doesn't help. There is nothing anyone can say that makes things better for a parent who has to put the life of her child in the hands another. Even if the other is a highly-trained and skilled surgeon who has done this procedure dozens of times. Until the doctor says, "She did great and things look real good", worry is the order of the day. When our little guy was killed a lot of well-meaning people said a lot of really stupid stuff to us. Sometimes they were just trying to say something to bring comfort to the situation. Other times they were talking. Some of the most meaningless platitudes were offered by religious people. More than one knucklehead said that God has a plan. Well yeah, he planned to kill my grandson. As plans go, I have to tell you that one sucks. So, I just pass on asking that this God take my pain away. If He exists, he has done quite enough. Sometimes people will tell you that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. What a load. Sometimes you do get more than you can handle. Not killing yourself is not evidence of handling adversity. Just surviving day-to-day isn't evidence either. Sometimes life deals you a body blow that changes you forever, and not for the better. If you believe in God and that gives you some measure of comfort, good for you. Me, not so much. So, at the end of the day, bad things happen to good people, as the man said. I don't think it is some part of a divine plan, it is plain old lousy breaks. Sometimes things can be done to fix it and sometimes they can't. The darkest moment of life for a parent is to face the death of their child, even if it is the remotest of chances that the worst will happen. We fear the worst because we are human and our children are the most important thing in our lives. So, here's a tip. When you have a friend or loved one in crisis, don't make false assurances or offer silly platitudes. Just let them know you are there if they need help and then shut up. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Home Repairs

Here's something I knew, but had to relearn today. You can't cut roses in the kitchen sink and expect the garbage disposal to chop them up enough to go down the drain.

I bought some roses this morning and rather than take them outside to cut off the ends of the stems and remove the foliage above the water line, I did it in the kitchen. Then I shoved all the ends and leaves into the garbage disposal, turned on the water and the disposal and figured I was done.

Later in the afternoon, I was wiping down the surfaces in the kitchen and I partially filled the sink with water and added some Simple Green. When I finished I opened the drain and discovered that the water wasn't moving. I ran the disposal for about ten minutes before the water slowly went down. I refilled the sink and the same sluggishness happened.

I had to disassemble the piping under the sink to find the source of the blockage, which was clumps of rose stems. Of course, in the process, I found a Teflon washer that was distorted out of shape making a trip to the Ace Hardware necessary to get a replacement.

As I was just telling young Sneed this morning on the way to the dump, "It's the lazy man who does the most work". I should have taken the roses outside to begin with.



You may be wondering what this picture is. We have a gate on the north side of the house that is normally locked. When I have to bring things in or out of the backyard, I unlock it. With all the cleaning going on around here, I have been leaving it unlocked. A couple of times I didn't make sure it was latched properly and Lacie the Wonder Mutt got out and romped around the neighborhood.

This is an automatic closer that I fashioned from two springs and two eye bolts. Like most things I do, it cost too much and took three trips to Ace to get all the right parts.

I also saw that Dan Rather is suing Viacom and CBS for crashing his career over the made up George Bush / Air National Guard story. In my opinion, Dan should not have relied on his underlings to craft a story that he desperately wanted to be true, even though it wasn't. Long after everyone with a lick of sense could see the evidence of a fraud, Dan stuck to his belief. He got what he deserved.

In all the hoopla today surrounding America's least favorite homicidal maniac, was the revelation that one of the guys that OJ robbed is on tape saying the he helped the Juice set up offshore bank accounts. Isn't this how it always happens? I hope the Goldman's find the money.









Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Last evening at my Monday night bowling league, I was talking to one of my teammates about O.J. Simpson getting locked up. A fellow on the other team came over and rather than joining in our revelry about the travails of the old homicidal maniac, he asked us if we really believed that O.J. murdered his ex-wife and young Goldman? We looked at one another and then almost in unison, answered yes. This chap, who I believe teaches high school so he isn't a dumb guy, launched into a long explanation about the facts of the O.J. case and all the reasons O.J. didn't do it. Let me say that he knew his O.J. evidence, but I think he had a screwy take on what the evidence meant. I just never know what to make of true believers. The world is full of people who believe in complex conspiracies, when simple explanations make more sense. Why did the Twin Towers fall down? Because airplanes hit them. The heat from the fires weakened the structures sufficiently for the floors above the impact zone to fall down on the remaining structure, causing the whole building to pancake. Pretty straight forward stuff. Is an elaborate conspiracy involving George W. Bush, the Saudis, and thousands of citizens a more likely explanation? Whether it is Bigfoot, UFOs, JFK or any number of things, conspiracy theories abound. To my way of thinking, things are what they seem to be. And it seems to me that O.J. killed them. In other news, I had my gardener training again today. We had a lecture this morning about plant propagation. It was really interesting and informative. This afternoon's lecture was on fertilizers. Let me just say that I know more about fertilizer that I ever thought I would know. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Junk

The junk exorcism continues at Casa Sneed. Today Son Sneed and I attacked the garage. This is a picture of my truck loaded with crap that was clogging up the garage. We found a lot of weird stuff.

There were about twenty-five half-filled gallons of paint . I'm pretty sure that the walls they once adorned have been painted over, so it is off to the hazardous materials dump for them. It was just full of useless stuff. Lest you think it was a total pig sty, let me assure you that two cars were able to fit in the garage. Decluttering feels so good.

I went to play golf this morning and the starter joined me up with three old guys. I recognized one guy, he bowled in a league with me several years ago, but he didn't remember me.

These three guys play together on a regular basis. They have an interesting dynamic going. Two of them are afraid of the third one. This fellow named Joe has the other guys frightened. He is sort of a bully.

The starter sent me over to join these guys. As I was introducing myself to the guy from bowling, he shushed me. I could see some panic in his eyes, but I didn't know why. He quickly explained that Joe doesn't allow any noise when he is hitting. And by any noise, I mean any noise. The golf course in under the flight path of a busy Air Force base, but this dumb ass is worried about a whispered conversation. This is about power, not sensitivity to distraction.

The third guy took me aside and whispered conspiratorially that Joe is easily bothered and it would be good to give him a wide berth. I rolled my eyes at him and he nodded knowingly.

At the next hole, Joe was preparing to hit his drive and I was standing quietly, as ordered, when he abruptly turned to me and said that he didn't want anyone standing behind him when he hit. I wasn't directly behind him and unless he has eyes in the back of his head, I don't see how my position could affect him. I told him that I was sorry and that I didn't get a copy of the rules.

I asked the guy from bowling if he played with this knucklehead all the time and he said yes. When I asked him why and he said no one else will. You think?

God bless these two guys for having the patience to play with such a buffoon. My life's too short to deal with it, so should I ever see them again, I will pass on being their fourth.






Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Separation of Church and Football

Well, if O.J. is telling the truth about his involvement in the alleged robbery at the Palace Station Hotel in Las Vegas, the police aren't buying it. The old homicidal maniac has been arrested. That makes me glad. And speaking of maniacs, I went to the University of Arizona football game last night and saw a couple of maniacs in action. The tailgate area at the football game has about 10,000 people, holding several dozen parties. They tend to spillover into one another, giving the impression that it is one large party. About 99% of the party-goers are also drinking, some are drinking a lot. For the most part it is harmless fun. Last evening the aforementioned maniacs were walking around the tailgating area with giant signs warning that Jesus was coming soon and that everyone who wasn't them, had better shape up. They seemed to be from one of these really hardcore fundamentalist churches, of which we have plenty. I was unimpressed by the warning. The signs they carried were rectangular, about three feet wide and maybe ten feet tall. They were mounted to a big pole that each guy had resting in a belt around his waist. Picture the Roman guys leading a military formation into battle in the movies and you get the idea. Their signs also had some very serious stuff plastered on them. Burn in Hell, Eternal Death, that sort of thing. The alpha-lunatic of the pair appeared to me to be a body-builder. Since he wandered into the crowds of revelers and shouted that they were drunkards and fornicators, bound for hell, being a muscle-bound giant was to his advantage. The other guy was only slightly smaller but he seemed less inclined to get into people's faces. He did his shouting from a more prudent distance. A woman, apparently Mrs. Giant, followed along with a clipboard and a bible. I guess she had the sign up sheet. She looked bored. For the most part, people ignored these two misguided nuts. I saw several people offer them a beer, a college kid doing an impromptu "Jesus is the Man" cheer, and a few other college kids shouting harmless insults as they passed by. In a crowd of 52,000 "sinners", no one took them seriously, at least no one I saw. I suspect that these guys pulled this stunt as much to satisfy their own egos as anything else. People have mostly heard the old original sin, Jesus saves spiel and are for the most part moved to inaction on the matter. So wandering around hurling insults and making a spectacle of yourself is unlikely to sway anyone to your side. But it is not as much about saving souls as it is about feeling superior and taking some insults for the Big Guy. At the end of the day, I don't care what people believe or what church they belong to. I just don't want to be bothered by someone on a mission from God. If God really has issues with me, He knows how to find me. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Fibber McGee's Closet

Have you ever noticed that your shoes look okay until you get a new pair? Then you can't believe how crappy they look. This obviously doesn't apply to women who all own a lot of shoes, but men know what I mean. The same thing must be true for other things. I was cleaning out the storage shed today and when I dragged everything out, I couldn't believe how much crappy crap we had stuffed into the thing. A lot of the contents of the shed was baby things that were kept for sentimental reasons, but a bunch of stuff was just inexplicable. Mrs. Sneed and I have different philosophies regarding saving stuff. She saves pretty much everything and I don't. I operate on the idea that when I stop using something I am unlike to resume using it. Mrs. Sneed figures almost anything may come in handy someday. But back to the shed. There was a bag of lava rocks, evidently from when we owned a gas grill about ten years ago. There were several bags of lawn care products, but we don't have a lawn, so I'm not sure why we kept them. I found a plastic bottle of motor oil. Maybe it was from when we had a lawn mower, for the lawn we no longer have. I'm glad we kept that. We stored a rollaway bed that no one will ever actually use again and Son Sneed's portable dishwasher from when he had an apartment about seven years ago. I also found a pair of steel ramps that you can drive your car up to work underneath it. They will come in handy when Hell freezes over and I decide to crawl under my car. I'm not sure how to get rid of them. As bad as the junk itself was the bins and baskets that contain the junk we even worse. First, I'm here to tell you that if you lock up stuff for ten years in a metal shed in the back yard, it will accumulate a lot of dirt and grime. Plus, it seems that the blistering heat of the Arizona summer isn't that good for plastic. Most of the containers were in a state of serious degradation. I was able to take a bunch of stuff to the Goodwill donation center and pitch a bunch of stuff out. I will probably have to go to the dump tomorrow with the items that will not fit into the garbage can. Anyway, the shed is cleaned out and Son Sneed has moved his various woodworking devices out of the garage and into the shed. We have uncluttered things a bit around here, which is always a good thing. It funny how I never realized how bad the shed looked until I cleaned it. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

The Inside Scoop, With Some Stuff I May Have Made Up.

O.J. Simpson, the man with possible the biggest head in the United States, is in the news again. By the biggest head in the US, I don't mean just the size of his ego. I mean his noggin. Have you ever noticed the size of that thing? It's enormous.

In case you missed the story, let me recap the events as they stand.

A sports memorabilia collector named Tom Riccio, was contacted by some guys who said that they had some of OJ's sports memorabilia for sale. Riccio arranged to meet the sellers, on the pretext of being interested in buying the goods. He also tipped off O.J., who claims the items were stolen from him. When interviewed by Las Vegas police, Mr. Simpson couldn't remember when or from where the items were taken.

Mr. Simpson's claim of rightful ownership of the items is legally questionable seeing as how the murdering skunk was ordered to sell them and give the proceeds the Goldman family. The Goldman's were awarded a civil judgment against Simpson for his role in the murder of Ron Goldman. You may recall that Simpson fled California for Florida to avoid paying that judgment.

Simpson said he was in Las Vegas to attend a friend's wedding and that the mob that accompanied him in the alleged break in, were just a bunch of guys he just met at the reception. Simpson said that when he shouted, "Who wants to kick some sports collector ass?", during the tossing of the bridal bouquet and a bunch of guys just stepped up and offered to help.

O.J. and his impromptu posse waited for Riccio to arrive at the meeting in a room at the Palace Station Hotel in Las Vegas, and then barged in and took back the disputed items. The sellers called the cops to report that O.J. and his makeshift crew had used guns to pull off what they claimed was a robbery.

Simpson and the other members of the gang, dispute the robbery claim. Simpson claims that he was invited into the room and that when told that the items were stolen, the sellers promptly returned them to him. He said that reports that he wore a Ninja suit during the encounter were overblown.

A reasonable person would have contacted the police to report that stolen merchandise was being offered for sale, but that apparently didn't occur to The Juice and his pal Riccio. He told police that he was conducting a "sting operation".

According to Las Vegas police officials, Simpson said that he forgot he doesn't have sworn police powers. Mr. Simpson however claims that his extensive investigation into his ex-wife's murder and his tireless search for the real killers of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman, has conferred a special auxiliary police status on him.

Las Vegas police spokesman, Kip Shipman, said that Simpson's claim of policing power is "legally doubtful".

Simpson also dismissed the gun allegation as ridiculous, claiming that everyone knows that he is a knife man. Police officials have not recovered any guns, but a bloody glove was rumored to have been found in the hallway. Police expect Simpson to remain in Las Vegas until the matter is fully investigated.

Simpson is reportedly contacting members of the jury from his original murder trial to see if they will be in Las Vegas anytime soon, should this matter go to trial. Johnnie Cochran was unavailable for comment.




Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Teeth

I got a call today from Sneedlet One. He wanted to tell me about his trip to the dentist. He got his teeth cleaned and was so proud that he didn't cry. He says that he is "big now". Sneedlet is lucky that preventative dental care is important to his mother. Nationwide only about 40% of children get routine visits to their dentist, at least according to the American Academy of Pediatrics. The statistics on dental care are tricky because they vary by age, race and health factors. Growing up, I never had any preventative dental care, nor did any of my siblings. None of us kids ever visited a dentist until we were old enough to pay for it ourselves. Our parents didn't place much stock in trips to the dentist, but of course they both wound up with false teeth. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Another Busy and Fulfilling Day

Blue Potato bush, also called Paraguay Nightshade. Basically, a pain in the butt.


I thought that I might play golf today. Then I remembered that Son Sneed had to go to the dentist. I thought his appointment was at 9:00 am, so I was thinking I could get to the golf course by 10:30 at the latest. Then Son Sneed told me his appointment was at 2:00 pm, not 9:00 am, so I figured I could go right away.

That's when Larry the Bug Guy showed up. Larry was early, he arrived at 7:30 am. Joyce, my neighbor is usually his first stop, but Joyce is out of town or something, so at 7:30 am he showed up. This shouldn't have been a problem dentist-wise or golf-wise, except that Larry the Bug Guy started bitching about the Blue Potato bush on the side of the house. Larry the Bug Guy said he was having trouble spraying the side of the house because the bush was blocking his way.

I figured that I could trim the bush, still be at the golf course by 9:00 am and be home by 1:30 pm to drive Son Sneed to the dentist. The problem was that when I trimmed the bush with the hedge clipper, I was left with a mass of dead sticks. Evidently, most of the bush was dead. So, I figured I better just cut it down.

When I cut it down there was about ten times more dead branches than I could fit in my garbage barrel. I got my neighbor Tracy's barrel, since she is living at her boyfriend's and has no use for it. After filling that, I got my neighbor Vera's, since she lives in a major eastern city and wouldn't be back until Christmas.

I filled up Vera's barrel too and took some stuff over to Joyce's barrel since she is also gone. Luckily, the trash guy comes tomorrow, so I took all the barrels to the curb for pick up.

Since I still had a ton of debris. I decided to go to the dump, which I should have done in the first place. Son Sneed and I loaded up the truck and it was off to the dump.

On the way home from the dump I remembered that Mrs. Sneed wanted me to buy a storage shed, so I drove to Costco to get it. By then golf was out of the question. Son Sneed and I spent a couple of hours putting the thing together, before it was time for the dentist. We came back after his appointment and finished it. It looks super, but Mrs.Sneed wishes it was bigger, because our house is short on storage space.

I was going to sit down and rest, but I remembered that I had to cut up the giant box the shed came in, so that the recycling guy can take it away tomorrow. I filled my recycling barrel and had to go get Vera's to finish the job.

I did manage to sit down for a few minutes before it was time to go to bowling. I never made it to golf, but luckily for me there is always tomorrow. I don't know how I got anything done when I had a job.

Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Day One

Today was my first day in gardening training. As expected, the class was dominated by women. Of the thirty-four participants, twenty-six are women.

We had a three-hour lecture this morning on soil science by a soil scientist from the local university. He focused on salty soil conditions, a big issue in the desert. This afternoon there was another three hours on basic botany by an extension agent, also from the university. Both were interesting, but very, very technical and at times, hard for me to follow.

I was surrounded by people furiously trying to take down every word these guys said. If this program demands that I understand cell biology, I'm in trouble. I am confident that we were supposed to get the big concepts, in a general way and not the minutiae.

My long tenure at Tedious Systems has given me a pretty good idea of what will turn out to be important and what is just interesting to know. They gave us each a three-inch thick manual, that covers the same material as the lectures, so I figured what was the point of taking notes? I'll reread the book and I will be fine.

One of our speakers was talking about photosynthesis and he strayed into global warming. He flat out said that the notion that carbon dioxide is causing global warming is wrong and that many of the scientists that signed on to the idea are rethinking it. He claims that water vapor is the problem and that global warming will turn out to be from natural causes.

He may be right or he may be wrong. I am an agnostic on the causes of global warming, so I don't feel like I have a dog in the fight, but let me tell you, it made some folks uncomfortable.

All in all, it was today good experience, but it felt a little like working to me. I am looking forward to the coming weeks to see how things unfold.

Marcia commented on yesterday's post by asking about life insurance for burial costs. I suppose it never hurts to have insurance enough to bury you. Just buy term life, not whole life.

The Sneeds don't go in for burial, so it isn't an issue for me. Mrs. Sneed can have a yard sale to raise the few dollars it will take to cremate me, should we blow through the vast Sneed fortune before I die.




Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

She's kidding, right? Being old, I'm not completely sure what Brittney Spears' claim to fame was, but since she took up life as a public oddity, she is a smashing success.



I played golf today with a fellow who sells life insurance. He is new to the business, so he is full of the nonsense the insurance industry tries to peddle. This got me to thinking about the things insurance companies tell us that may not be so. Many agents will tell you that everyone need life insurance. I don't think so.

I don't have life insurance and haven't had any for a while now. My pension will continue until both Mrs. Sneed and I are both dead. Should I die first, Mrs. Sneed will not notice any meaningful change in her financial situation. Overall, her life will actually take a turn for the better, since I won't be around to annoy her.

Another thing you hear is that life insurance is a good way to save money. That is also a load. I never mix insurance with savings. Insurance is about transferring risk from you to someone else, not savings.

One of the things about life insurance that builds up cash value is that it is very expensive insurance. You can buy term life insurance for about one tenth the cost of cash value insurance. Put the ninety percent savings in a mutual fund and you will wind up miles ahead.

Plus, when you die you get the face value of the insurance or the value of the "savings" balance but not both. If you have a $25,000 policy and it has a cash value of $10,000, to my way of thinking, should you croak someone should collect $35,000. the insurance company will pay $25,000. So much for the savings plan.

I always feel uncomfortable when I have a conversation with someone about a job that I find distasteful. I never know what to say to them.

The other evening at the football game the woman seated next to me was telling me that she is a bill collector. She may be a perfectly lovely person, but one the whole, bill collectors are the scum of the earth. I didn't know what to say, so I said that must be a stressful job. She said it is a lot of fun. Yikes!








Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Y-M-C-A

Sneedlet One had his birthday party today and a couple of the Village People showed up.



Daughter Sneed had a birthday party today for Sneedlet One. The party took place at Chuck E. Cheese, a preschooler paradise, but pretty much hell for everyone else.

The Cheese people have this birthday party business down to an assembly line. There were about a half dozen other parties in progress at the same time as Sneedlet's. They even have a schedule printed showing the agenda, with a time table. You get ninety minutes of Cheesy fun.

Somewhere near the beginning of the various parties, a kid in the Chuck E. Cheese costume appears, along with several surprisingly cheerful teenagers, to sing songs and lead the revelers, in a sort of conga line around the joint. Sneedlet announced that he wasn't dancing and we all breathed a sigh of relief, since adults as well as kids were being encouraged to join in.

Our party was scheduled between one and two-thirty. At about two-twenty a cheerful member of the Chuck E. Cheese mafia came around and told us to wrap it up. We barely had time to finish the cake and not nearly time for the birthday boy to open his gifts. We had to collect the gifts and retire to Casa Sneed to open them.

My father used to use the expression "hot sheets motel" to describe a place where there was a premium on keeping the clients moving. Chuck E's, is a "hot seat" joint. They want the birthday butts out of the seats because there is another party waiting to celebrate for precisely ninety minutes.

What I say is, if you have to be thrown out of a joint, Chuck E. Cheese is the place to be tossed from.





Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

This is a bloom on one of my hibiscus plants. I have about four or five potted hibiscus. They are spectacular bloomers and do well, especially when they are kept in partial sunlight. Our high temps are a bit too high for them to thrive in full sunlight.

Last week in San Diego, I was amazed at the hibiscus hedges that people have grown. That is not possible here in our fair city because even our mild winters are too cold to leave the plants unprotected. A few hours below thirty degrees can kill the plant altogether.



I had my second golf lesson yesterday and to my surprise the teacher said that my swing is improved. She has given me some nice techniques to work on and I am excited to try them out.

This is the first time in my life that I have sought help with my golf swing. I wouldn't have done it now, had Son and Daughter-in-Law Sneed not given me the lessons as a gift. It is amazing that a few easily corrected things in swinging a golf club can make a big difference.

Sneedlet One was "helping" me watch a DVD called Origins last evening. It is a Nova program by the astrophyscist Neil deGrasse Tyson, about the origin of the cosmos. Sneedlet is very interested in the planets, especially the Earth.

We went to the bookstore today and bought a book about our solar system. It is very basic and he is learning the planet names and a few facts about some of them. So far he can identify Mercury, Earth and the Moon, Jupiter and its red spot and Saturn, although he struggles to remember Saturn's name.


Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Mrs. America...again.

The Mrs. America pageant concluded here in our fair city Wednesday. The Sneed blog is disappointed to report that Kelly "Bronco" McBee, Mrs. Wyoming, edged out the sentimental favorite Mrs. Tennessee, Christina "Stumpy" Ryan. Mrs. Ryan you may recall, had a nasty run in with a rattlesnake, sending her to the emergency department and effectively ruining her chances at earning the coveted title of Mrs. America. Pageant host, Mr. Alan Thicke, said that the combination of having to compete in one flip-flop and one high heel, along with Mrs. Wyoming's incomparable skill with a branding iron were too much for Mrs. Tennessee to overcome. "Tennessee, tried to showcase her tap dancing skills, but in one shoe and one flip-flop, she wound up basically dancing in circles. It was a disaster," said Thicke. "It is important to remember that should anything prevent Mrs. Wyoming from fulfilling her responsibilities, Mrs. Tennessee would be called upon to step in, assuming that she can step at that point." Mrs. Wyoming wowed the audience and the judges by singing her rendition of The Tenderfoot , Jack Thorp's 1921 cowboy poem set to song, and simultaneously branding four calves. The song title is widely believed to be a poke at Mrs. Tennessee's snakebite trouble. Winning contestant and new Mrs. America, Mrs. Wyoming drove off in her new Hyundai Entourage minivan, the grand prize in this year's competition. Mrs. Tennessee received matching Hyundai Entourage minivans for herself and her husband, Mr. Runnerup Mrs. America, for her second place finish. Congratulations to all the fine contestants, as well as to Mr. Thicke and his co-host, the mean woman who got kicked off The Apprentice. Disclaimer: The organizers of the Mrs. America pageant would like to remind everyone that participants in the Mrs. America pageant are delegates, not contestants. They do not participate to promote their own babealiciousness, but to represent the many really hot married women from their home states. Remember, at the Mrs. America Pageant, we are all winners. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Operators Are Standing By Now

I took this picture of the San Diego skyline. This angle is from Coronado Island. Our hotel is the building at the far right in the picture.


Ah, back to the old grind. Each visit to San Diego rekindles my longing to live in downtown San Diego. I am only about $400,000 short of being able to pull it off. Try as I might, I can't think of a way to get my hands on that kind of money.

Considering the success of the telethon over the weekend, I have toyed with the idea of running a telethon to raise money for my dream condo. If people will give money to that old gasbag Jerry Lewis, surely they would chip in to help a poor old retired guy live his dream. Drop me a note if you can help.

Speaking of the old gasbag, Jerry not me, I understand that he called someone a faggot on the telethon. Nice. That is about the level of discourse I expect of the old fool.

Perhaps my dislike for the Jerry Lewis telethon seems mean-spirited and it probably is, but the telethon has become a manipulative pity-a-thon. The whole affair is crafted to tug at America's heartstrings. It is sappy beyond belief and at the end of the day, I'm not sure how much good it really does.

Years ago when we were young and struggling, we used to shop at a Kmart near our house. There was this very obnoxious guy who had evidently devoted his life to raising money for "Jerry's Kids", because pretty much every evening he was stationed at the front door asking for money. A guy could do worse things in life, but this guy would become belligerent if you refused him.

One evening as we tried to pass, he asked and I declined. This just made him unhappy and he said so. The lovely Mrs. Sneed looked him right in the eye and said, "We hate Jerry's Kids". The look on his face was priceless.

In other news, I had to go to the Extension Service today to drop off some paperwork for the Master Gardner program. Since it is just a mile from my former office, I popped in to see my old coworkers. It was a good reminder of how good retirement is. I felt like I was visiting inmates.







Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Tuesday and Vacation Is Over

This kid stole Gilligan's hat.


Our vacation is at an end and nerves are frayed among the various Sneeds, mine included. To prove that point, I just got into a disagreement with a young guy while I was waiting in line at the Southwest Airlines check in area. Mrs. Sneed had to remind me that I was in danger of getting myself into real trouble with the airlines, if I didn't shut up.

It all began when a young guy kept trying to sneak into the line ahead of the fifty people waiting to check in. He had a bottle of tequila that he thought he could carry on the plane, but found that he couldn't get it through security. They sent him back to the check in, so that he could check it.

The first time he tried to cut in front of the line, the agent told him to go to the back of the line. He wandered off to the other end of the line, trying to jump the line in various places, but coming up unsuccessful at each stop. I was mildly amused by the little dumbass, until he cut me off, trying to sneak up to the agent directly in front of where I was standing.

Unfortunately, that agent took him ahead of everyone else, including me. The agent also told him that he would need a box to ship his bottle in and that the airline didn't provide boxes. That set off a whole round of pleas and denials for help in finding a box. Finally, no doubt tired of the little piss ant, the agent found him a box somewhere in the back, along with some packing material and tape. He held up the line while he packaged the bottle and checked it in.

What I said to him, that set him off, was, "Thanks for waiting in line, buddy". What he said that set me off was "Shut up, grandpa". This exchange led to the usual back and forth, culminating in mutual accusations that we each were punks. One of the advantages of being old, is that young guys don't know how to deal with you when you call them on their misbehavior. Perhaps this sort of thing ought not bother me, but I patiently waited in line and I don't need to wait while some dunderhead thinks he is entitled to not wait.

Apart from that we had a very nice day. We had breakfast outside in a restaurant along the San Diego harbor. Then we took a harbor sightseeing tour on a boat, and finally took a drive out to Point Loma to look at the tide pools.

One funny thing happened while we were eating breakfast. A woman at the adjacent table was badgering the waiter over seventy-five cents that she said she had been over-charges. He said that he would get her a refund, but she wouldn't stop. Finally, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar bill, slapped it on the table and said, "That should cover it." He turned on a heel and walked off. She shouted after him, "But it was only seventy-five cents."

One thing I really like about San Diego is that there is a lot of free WiFi access. Neither the hotel nor the airport charged for internet access. I wrote this post while waiting in line to board the plane. I waited in line without causing a scene. We need a whole lot more free WiFi, if you ask me. It's one way to keep old coots like me occupied and not bothering passersby.

Once seated in the front row of the fine Southwest Airlines jet aircraft, we had another moment of unpleasantness. Some old bag, in the throes of congestive heart failure, asked the flight attendant if she would kindly remove Sneedlet to another area of the plane and away from her. The flight attendant told her that she could not move him, but she did come over and ask Sneedlet to use his "inside voice". She also apologized to me for having to ask and gave Sneedlet several Southwest Airlines souvenirs as a little token. He promptly fell asleep, leaving the area quiet enough for the whole section to be able to hear the old witch yammering at the top of her lungs and badgering the flight crew relentlessly.

When we arrived at the gate, the old coot demanded that someone fetch her carry on while regaling the flight crew with how accomplished a pilot her neighbor's son is. Unlike the guys who fly for Southwest. I had an opportunity to ask the very nice flight attendants, who needed an inside voice now? I, of course, used my outside voice to ask. The flight attendants and all the Sneeds had a hearty laugh about the old gal.

Now, we are home and tomorrow I resume my regular life, which is basically like being on permanent vacation anyway, just at a crappier location.





Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

The Lovely Mrs. Sneed is teaching Sneedlet to play wheelbarrow.


Ah, Labor Day. The day on which the rest of America adopts my work ethic. they should call it Sneed Day, because almost no work gets done.

Far from being a cool semi-paradise this weekend, San Diego is experiencing a hot spell. We took a walk through the park at Seaport Village this morning and it was very uncomfortable.

Our hotel basically cleared out this morning, which is a relief. The Padres baseball team was playing the Los Angeles Dodgers over the weekend and there were a surprising number of Dodger fans who made the trip down to see the games. There is a suite across the hall and it was occupied by about ten young guys, all Dodger fans. They and their endless supply of beer made for a rowdy group.

The Dodgers have a huge Hispanic following in Los Angeles and they are die-hard fans. The really made quite a showing at the game we attended Sunday.

There was a time when I was a big baseball fan, so I recognize the hard-core fans. There were men keeping score in official score books. Who does that anymore? I used to, but I have to wonder why? It seemed that every other patron at the game was wearing a Dodgers jersey. After the Padres had fallen hopelessly behind, the only fans remaining were cheering for the Dodgers.

The Padres fans are a laid back bunch for the most part. They took the verbal jabs from the Dodger invaders in good spirit for the most part. Baseball fans in New York or Boston or Philadelphia, would find this good-nature foreign.

Once, when the lovely Mrs. Sneed and I were in Philly, we decided to take a carriage ride around the city. Our driver was inexplicably wearing a New York Mets cap. At an intersection he was accosted by a crazed Phillies fan, who suggested that he go to hell back to New York. I thought that a fist fight would ensue, but fortunately the animosity was restricted to name calling.

This afternoon we intended to drive to La Jolla for lunch, but I took a wrong turn and drove about twenty miles too far north before it was pointed out to me that we were lost. I've probably only driven from downtown San Diego to La Jolla about a hundred times, so you think I could find it. We had had lunch in Solano Beach, at a California Pizza Kitchen.

Despite the heat, San Diego remains America's Finest City.

Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Sunday

This is a view of Petco Stadium, home of the San Diego Padres baseball team, from the window of the Omni Hotel in downtown San Diego. The hotel is connected to the ballpark by a pedestrian bridge to the second level. It is kind of a cool deal because it is restricted to hotel guests or anyone who bought Padre ticket through the hotel. The walk across the bridge right into the park saved us from having to walk all the way around the stadium to the main entrance.




We sat in the third level behind home plate. It was a serious hike to get to our seats, but they were in the shade, so that was good. The temperature is in the high eighties in Sn Diego this weekend, which is pretty high for here.

Less fortunate seating-wise than us, were a group of about 400 Marine Corps recruits, from the Marine Corps Depot, San Diego, who endured the game in the full sun, dressed in their olive green fatigues. It must have been very uncomfortable for them. About the seventh inning, they left the stadium and double-timed it to their buses for the trip back to the base.




This character managed to get to the sixth inning before demanding that he be taken back to the hotel. His mom and grandmother were happy to comply. Right after they left a guy trying to get to his seat in the row behind us fell and landed on me. That was sort of startling and it was good that Sneedlet and the lovely Mrs. Sneed weren't sitting in their seats when he fell.


Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

On the news front, I was notified yesterday that I am among the thirty-five selectees for the Master Gardner training program, beginning September 11th. So that will keep me off the street one day a week. The Sneeds will be spending another Labor Day weekend in beautiful San Diego, California. In fact, will leave for the airport in less than an hour, where we will board a modern jet aircraft, as Kurt might say, for the short flight. Our friends at Southwest Airlines promise that we will be afforded extra peanuts and free soda. Beer and wine available for four dollars, hard liquor is five. Spending Labor Day in San Diego affords us the opportunity to avoid Jerry Lewis and his insufferable telethon. We will be staying at the new Omni Hotel located downtown and adjacent to the baseball stadium. We hope to take in a ball game tomorrow, the Los Angeles Dodgers will be playing the San Diego Padres. If the internets have reached as far west as San Diego, I will be posting over the weekend. Trips with the Sneeds invariably turn to calamity. I invite you to review this post from May, 2006, to prove my point. In case of a failure of the internets in San Diego, I will just wish everyone a safe and relaxing long weekend. And remember, this is America, no one has the right to badger you about Jerry's Kids. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky