And one married a Wilson!

 

9/11 at 25.

I've shared my thoughts on Patriot Day over the years in this blog. Basically, at this point it's obvious we did not dispatch enough of the sons of bitches in Afghanistan, going by the chaotic withdrawal from that blighted country under President Biden. As Kurt Schlichter wrote yesterday, "If there is one overriding failure in the war on terror, it is that we did not kill enough of the terrorists."

And that's my main thought at this late date. 

I asked a friend of mine, retired now from the New York City Fire Department, if he had any thoughts he would share. He said no; "I just try to forget it." He avoids anything on television that might show the World Trade Center on that day. I told him I understood. I do not know what to do with my anger when I go down that path. 

I saw a question raised online about why Hollywood has not done more by way of movies regarding the War on Terror and the September 11 attacks. I actually don't blame Hollywood for this. In World War II, war movies were popular, because we knew we were fighting nation states, and we would fight them until they suffered complete defeat. We can't do that with multinational death-cult adherents of a 1400-year-old religion. So our frustration and fury are unresolvable. Any film or TV show that takes on these topics will face a huge stumbling block right there. That's why I think the films we have had about the attacks and the war have not been successful. 

It's not because America does not love her heroes. You'd better believe we do.

We are now engaged in a war that began when our country and the West backstabbed the Shah of Iran and Jimmy Carter told France to let the Ayatollah go back to Iran (after the Ayatollah lied about how he had no beef against the USA). The birdies were always going to come home to roost, and they were either going to be vultures carrying nukes or eagles with lesser but highly effective arms. That's where we are in September 2026.

If you know anyone in the American armed forces, please make sure to tell them that we really do care, and we really do appreciate them. And if any more sons of bitches need killing, we trust them to do the job. 

God bless the United States of America. 

Pants macabre.

I've lost four pairs of jeans because of this move already, and if I lose anymore I will be walking around like the guy in the barrel. 

Yeah, him
again

It has become ridiculous. 

The day we left the house, after spending a full day of work getting stuff together and working with the movers to load of the truck, I had intended to take a fast shower and then head out the door, leaving New York behind. This did not happen. The day was so arduous that my wife determined that we would never make it to our new home alive if we set out then, so we just left as is and went to a local hotel (since we were required to be out of the house that night). Of course, I left my favorite pair of jeans and a shirt hanging in the bathroom, where I had intended to change into them after my shower. I did not realize this. When I showered in the hotel, I figured I had just packed them somewhere and couldn't find them. Only a day and hundreds of miles later did I realize what I'd done. 

Jeans total: -1

On arrival in our new state, we checked into another hotel. Our things were roaming the land, as I noted in my last blog entry. I was pretty sure my second-favorite pair of jeans was in one of the boxes, but as of today, a couple of weeks later, they have yet to show. 

Jeans total: -2

So I ordered a couple of pairs from JCPennney. Mock if you well, but their stuff has always fit me well. I got the notice yesterday that my package of jeans had been delivered . . . to my old address. I did not give Penney's the new address. Because I'm stunad. I have no means of contacting the owners of our new place. And I wouldn't want to bug them if I did. 

Jeans total: -4

I did buy one pair at Kohl's while we were in the hotel, because I was not going to wear shorts or sweatpants to a lawyer's office for the closing. 

Jeans total: -3

I've heard of guys losing their shirts, but this . . . !

In sum, I'm down three pairs on the enterprise, and I'm afraid to try to buy any more clothes. I seem to be losing pants on the deal each time. Love 'em or hate 'em, you just gotta have pants. It's impossible to find a good barrel these days.

Stay where you are! Or not.

Okay, sometimes you can't stay where you are. Sometimes you have to leave. Sometimes you have to move. Sometimes you can't stay in the same state because it is run by twits, thieves, highbinders, dimwits, jerks, numbskulls, crooks, communists, idiots, and assorted bastards, and you thank God the US Constitution guarantees free movement between the states. And then you sell your house and go.

not my house

But, as I have noted during my sporadic entries over the last few months, moving is a chore. I'll put it more strongly than that: moving is a 

🏠CHORE👷😫

It is the most difficult thing I have done in decades, and that's saying something. When we moved into our house in New York we were coming from an apartment, so we didn't have a lot of stuff. After more than two decades in the house, we had amassed a lot of stuff.

Here, in no set order, are the Top Twenty Things I Learned This Year About Moving. This is gonna be a big one.

１ Houses in New York tend to have cellars, and often even attics that allow for storage. Houses in the south more likely have no cellars (because they would get flooded) and if they have storage attics, the temperature in them can get high enough to spontaneously combust things. Therefore, all the lovely storage area you abused in New York will be gone, and now you have to make some Hard Choices about what you can bring.

２ I very much wanted to bring the workbench I had constructed, but in the end the mover -- who was NOT lazy about bringing things -- told me that in his experience the bench would not fit in the garage of the type of house to which we were going. This appears to be true, but I can't tell for sure, because five days after the arrival the garage is still full of boxes. I am not sure it will be empty of boxes until after the Second Coming. I'm glad I sold my car, because this may never be a two-car garage again. 

３ A decade ago, when we were first considering fleeing the Former Empire State, I bought a book called Moving Gracefully, written by Carol Miller Fradkin. As we got ready to put our house on the market I looked through the book for helpful tips. Ms. Fradkin's experience largely involved moving for work, her family uprooted many times, so she knew a lot about it -- but the problems of frequent moving are very different from the problems of moving after a long period of residence. The lesson here is that expertise is not always fungible. In any event, our moving was about as far from graceful as you can imagine. 

４ Not to belabor the topic, but if you've held on to things because "someone might need it" or "it's too good to toss" or "I'm still using this furniture but it's not coming with us" or "I'll use it again someday," you're going to find that the day you have to throw them all out will strike like lightning. I rented a 12-yard dumpster. Then I had a junkman come get stuff (fridge, crappy ol' bookshelves). Then I slowly put stuff out for regular collection so as to not overwhelm the garbagemen, over several months. Then I posted things on social media and gave them away free to the first caller -- including a huge dog kennel from the backyard. Then I had the junkman come over for round two, removing old furniture. Then the movers came. Then I needed junkman AGAIN for stuff that the movers couldn't or wouldn't move or forgot to take. 

５ A special note about books. Which are heavy and mostly worthless. As a child I loved books, not just as repositories of wisdom and adventure, but as the objects themselves. Computers have made them irrelevant. Except for a few rare editions, they are barely worth anything -- people can get the stories without lugging them around. Plus, my childhood dreams of owning a magnificent library were always undercut by my buying the cheapest version of any book I wanted -- used paperbacks, often enough. So when push came to shovel, and I mean shovel, I heaved hundreds of pounds of books into the recycling pile, week after week. I had to ask every time, Did I enjoy or at least respect this book? Might I ever read it again? If the answer was yes both times, I would save it. And now I don't know where to put them all. 

６ I thought we might have trouble getting to the house before the movers did. When we moved into the old place, the moving men went straight from the apartment to the house, fifty-odd miles away, me following in my tiny car. That's not the way it works now, or at least not on trips of 600 miles or so. By the time they got to our old house, they had already picked up a load in Massachusetts. After they left, they went to get another load in New Jersey. I grant you that the truck was enormous, but I really thought we had enough crap to fill it ourselves. Nope.  

７ And so our stuff wandered to and fro over the countryside for an entire week. We drove down the day after our stuff took off and sat in a hotel while we waited. Well, we also went to the lawyer to close on the new place and started bringing what we had in the car into the empty house, but there was no place to sleep, so we hung out at the Hampton Inn. We also went to the beach. Which was nice. 

８ Our movers were great when they got there. I was sad that all the boxes we packed were just loaded into the garage, though -- my wife had made a map with numbering on the rooms to match numerals on the boxes, and it all came to nothing. Nope, they just piled the boxes up in the garage. So that was a lesson. (They did assemble furniture that they had disassembled, so that was good.)

９ The old cable company wants you back. No, seriously. If you use cable for TV or Internet and you leave, they will come after you. I explained twice on the phone to the operators in Bangalore (or somewhere) that Optimum service was not available where we now live, so even if I wanted to continue with Altice's US company, it was impossible. I think they finally got the message. I once thought that Optimum (formerly Cablevision) would have to better after Jimmy Dolan sold the company. I was wrong. 

１０ Little red stickers. Everywhere. Every box. Every bag. Every stick of furniture. Everything that was ours that made it onto the truck got a little red sticker with a number on it. It set apart our stuff from the stuff that came from Massachusetts and Jersey, so good. But I have removed dozens of them. The highest number I've seen so far was 630, so I may be at this for the rest of my life. 

１１ When people tell you about the weather, believe them. I was dispatched to get a pizza one night and the drive turned out to be longer than I thought. And the clouds opened, and I mean opened. I got a real Carolina Baptism. The water came down so hard that on a couple of occasions I literally could not see well enough to pull off onto the shoulder. The last time I got walloped like that was 15 years ago, and on that occasion I hydroplaned and wrecked the car. Nothing like that happened this time. Thank God.

１２ Speaking of baptisms: Northerners, when someone tells you to make a turn at the Baptist church, ask them to be specific. We have very few of them in New York, and almost nothing but them here. I am happy to see evidence of strong Christian faith anywhere (although I will have to drive farther now for Mass). 

１３ The pizza I mentioned above was pretty good. Pizza, as they say, is like, uh, other things you might name*, in that even when it's not great it's still pretty good.

１４ It is typically humid enough here in the mornings for Aquaman to swim through the air. My fuzzy canine does not like this. He has had one decent walk, where we explored the local park on an afternoon when there was a breeze and the temps were in the eighties. My worry is, will we ever acclimate, or just huddle in the A/C? While taking out the trash this morning I saw a young woman walking two well-trained dogs at a brisk pace -- one of them appeared to be a Bernese mountain dog, a snow-obsessed hairball that Nature intended for cold climes -- and they all appeared to be very happy and active and comfortable. I hated all three on sight. Not just the fitness and happiness, but also the fact that when I had two dogs, walking them together was like being pulled by hyperactive morons driving scooters in different directions. Still, it gave me a little hope that Izzy might get used to this weather. 

１５ Speaking of garbage, they only do one trash pickup per week here. Is that typical across the nation? I believe that in the City and outside the City, every town in New York state does two, and a third pickup for the recycling boondoggle. 

１６ And on that note, problems you don't think about are: What am I going to do with all these damn cardboard boxes? They take them for recycling, but everything has to fit in a big green bin, so at the rate I'm going I will have gotten rid of unneeded boxes in 2028 sometime. There is a dump, but I will have to establish residency first, which means . . .

１７ . . . we gotta go to the nearest city worthy of the name to use the DMV. Not an unexpected chore, but since the car's registration is good in New York state until 2027 and the insurance is paid until November, I'd hoped to avoid doing anything for a few months. Alas, I will need that ID, and anyway we would like to vote this year. The DMV does not let you print out forms and fill them out in advance, as far as I can tell; everything has to be done on the spot. In California I think you can send any old border jumper to get a Class A Commercial Driver's License as long as he doesn't speak English, but here in Normal World they want to make sure you are who you say you are. Which is, frankly, as it ought to be. 

１８ The dog was an absolute champ on the drive south -- the longest car ride he has ever taken (eight hours over the previous record) and the longest drive I have ever made. He caused no trouble except for necessary bathroom/water breaks, and on that score he was no worse than the driver (ahem). He has, though, been having difficulty getting used to the new house. For some time I think he expected we would go home, to where he was comfortable and where his favorite sofa was. But the sofa was old and it was among the junkman's haul. Poor Izzy.

１９ It's going to be hard to think of myself as a Southerner, and that is absolutely not a rap on the people here. They have all been great, as friendly as advertised. But I had spent almost every day of my life prior as a citizen of New York, and damn it, for most of that time I was proud -- utterly proud -- of that state. From America's most world-class city to the natural beauty of upstate and the hard-won factory towns to the west, from its amazing history and its contributions to the nation and the world, there was no part of New York I didn't love. But in my lifetime it has chased out industry, encouraged lawlessness, pushed bleeding taxes to fund criminal activities, and let one of civilization's greatest enterprises turn to garbage. My heart is broken. When I mentioned to some people that I'm from New York, I added that I didn't break it and I couldn't fix it. And that is the sad truth.

２０ My main point in this Voyage of Stupid Discovery is that, while there were many reasons to leave New York  -- financial, cultural, professional -- I was settled in there, there were people we loved there, and (this is no small thing) I knew with dire certainty that selling the house and moving would be among the most prolonged, stressful, exhausting, and infuriating things we would ever do. I was wrong, though -- it was worse than that. And yet, this is nice place, I'm finding my way around, we are not far from the ocean, and I would do it all over again. Which is saying a lot, since I'm still surrounded by boxes and still can't find my favorite pants. Gonna check one more box . . . 

* ice cream

The spice must go!

Okay, I went with the Dune reference for the title, but I had to choose between that and several others: 

On the rack

In a Pickle

Herbs and a-whey

A Change of Seasons

Spicemaggedon

And several others. I'm sure you'll have other ideas. 

What finally made me settle on the title above is that I realized that the guy whose famous series was about a substance that made faster-than-light travel possible, a substance called Spice, was named Frank HERBert. So there. 

Sorry, I'm crazed from lack of sleep. 

 

We have a moving truck booked, and if you've ever hired house movers, you know they won't take food. Especially stuff in open containers. Why should they? Who wants to deal with that?

If we were moving locally I could bring all the open herb and spice jars and condiment bottles to the new place in the car, but we are moving hundreds of miles away, and between humans and large dog there isn't going to be a whole lot of room. Plus, while we can get to the area in less than 12 hours, the movers may take three to seven days. Even with all our crap, we can't fill up the truck ourselves. So we need suitcases and a hotel room. 

So no, no room for spices. Ironically, the thing that makes travel to the stars possible in Dune cannot travel at all here. 

And no one wants your old, open spice and pickle jars. I had a small handful that had not yet been opened, which I will donate with canned soup and the like. But the rest? Down the toilet, down the drain, or just into the trash. 

I just finished the job and I have an incredible mound of plastic and glass for recycling day on Wednesday. I also have a garbage can that smells like an amazing antipasto. 

Now the goal is not to cook anything between now and next week that will be bland because I had to do the purge. Needs coriander? Sorry, that's down the sink. A bit of rosemary? Headed for the landfill. Onion powder? Pardon the oniony scent in the loo. Hundreds of dollars' worth of flavors, gone. 

Can't be helped, I guess. I've already had to part with so much -- sentimental items, books a-plenty, money like there's no tomorrow -- so what's a recently opened jar of dried bay leaves compared to that? 

On the bright side, some of those seasonings looked a little too seasoned. I think my bottle of dried savory had a Durkee label from two or three iterations ago. Never had a lot of call for savory .. . .

Chairs for baby derrieres.

Some years ago when I was working for a family publication, I attended a police training session. The attendees were me and a bunch of traffic cops. As my magazine dealt with topics germane to young families, I was there to learn about the proper installation of child car seats -- and my fellow students were there to learn what to look for when examining the same. 

If you've had a kid in the last thirty years, you know that car seats for children, especially babies, are of grave importance. They always were, I guess, but if they were even around when I was a baby it was not something most people bothered to have. My earliest memory of being in the car was sitting on my mother's lap in the front seat as Dad drove us across a bridge -- possibly the GWB from New Jersey, but I'm not sure. All I remember was that my mom held me tight and that bridge was the BIGGEST THING I had seen in MY WHOLE LIFE -- all three years of it or thereabouts.

The reason I am thinking of my Crazy Car Seat Class is that, while cleaning out the office in preparation for moving, I found the notebook I used that day! Why I still had it I don't know; it got put in a trunk and forgotten after I filed my report. But it brought back memories of the day -- and the doodles I made during the more boring parts.

"Why is this kid upside down?"

We started with a busy classroom discussion on the types of baby seats, why parents shouldn't get a used seat (may have been in an accident), seats for kids with special needs, and basic physics (weight x speed = restraining force, so a 10-pound kid at 60 mph needs 650 pounds of restraining force) (which is more force than an adult holding the kid can generally muster). 

We also saw a video entitled "Don't Risk Your Child's Life" (an ongoing series) that, while not on the level of the cinematic classic "Red Asphalt," was an eyeopener nonetheless.

The next day we went outside to practice fitting seats in cars and discover how easy it is to do it wrong. My car was one of the ones used -- appropriately, a car that would perish five years later in a hydroplaning incident (no children were with me at the time). 

On our final day, the police, with us students in tow, held an actual session with the public. The police had arranged to have a free child seat check in the parking lot of a shopping center nearby. While I had not qualified as a Certified Car Seat Safety Technician, I was allowed to help and observe. Using my secret code (that is, my illegible handwriting) I took notes on each of the checks I watched:

Child 1: 11 months, 22 lbs.

Should have been in a rear-facing seat

The seat he was in was loose (straps holding the seat are too loose if you can pinch the webbing together)

The retainer clip was too high

The harness was also too loose 

Child 2: 6 months, 20 lbs.

Convertible seat should have been rear-facing but was forward-facing

Belt not used properly

Child 3: 2 years, 30 lbs.

Funny-lookin' kid

Harness too loose

Locking clip used incorrectly

Child 4: 1 year, weight not recorded

Seat and harness too loose

Clip too low

Latch used without the top tether

Child 5: 4 years, 45 lbs.

Booster seat but in the front; should have been in the back seat; kids that age cannot handle airbag deployment

Shoulder belt improperly threaded

And on like that. Every vehicle I saw had something wrong, and it's not like these seats don't come with instructions. Confusing instructions, I imagine. Mostly the problem was that the straps holding the seats were too loose. The LATCH system (Lower Anchors and Tethers for Children) was coming into use then but was not universal. 

Ultimately I was not asked to write the story for the magazine of My Adventures in Child Seat Safety, but I did become the Child Seat Answer Man for a while when the topic came up. And I learned to warn people to follow the installation directions carefully, and if they're concerned, to talk to a local police department to see if anyone there is a certified car seat technician. 

No matter what anyone reading this thinks of the police, know that cops never want to see people grievously wounded or killed in traffic accidents, and they NEVER EVER EVER want to see children get hurt or worse. 

Even if you have great confidence in your driving skill and your situational awareness, we all know that the roads are full of morons, dope fiends, drunks, the befuddled, the overtired, and the thrill-seekers, and we all need to protect ourselves and our loved ones with good safety practices. 

Thanks for reading, and happy and incident-free motoring to you! 

Live white man's clothes.

Over the weekend I completed a chore I've been dreading for years. 

When preparing to move, it's important to identify the things that should not move with you, to cut down on the waste of lugging things that you didn't use and won't use. That meant, among other things, trying on every single article of my clothing, discarding the worn-out ones, and donating the ones that don't fit anymore.  

It's time.

I've done some weeding before, but this is the first wholesale clearance I've done in twenty-plus years. So you know a LOT of things have been hanging around, waiting for me to lose those excess pounds I put on over Christmas/New Year's/Easter/the Giants winning Super Bowl XLII. And it's time to say, well, if I ever accomplish the weight loss, I can buy some new duds. 

Meanwhile, I had to try on everything. 

The upshot: two lawn bags full of trash, for starters. Old painting clothes, beloved tees with holes, socks and sweatpants with weak elastic, suspect underwear. Out out out. Then: FOUR lawn bags with clothes in good shape that either don't fit at all or just make me look like a potato. That's a pretty good load that won't make the moving truck. 

For the first time in decades I can wear every article of clothing that I own.

The trash men got the garbage and the good stuff was broken down into smaller bags and dropped off at the church clothing collection box. 

Now, about that: I understand that so-called "fast fashion" is polluting the Third World:

Dead White Man's Clothes: It’s the dirty secret behind the world’s fashion addiction. Many of the clothes we donate to charity end up dumped in landfill, creating an environmental catastrophe on the other side of the world.

In short, 15 million garments show up in Ghana a week; no one will wear most of them again, and it's all turned into a tremendous landfill. And that's just one African country. Our donations are also said to have collapsed the local clothing industry.

It's depressing, and I have plenty of reason to accept the Australian Broadcasting Company's report. However, I have to ask: If the clothing collection boxes we see everywhere are just essentially collecting garbage, why is there money in it? Who's paying for them? Most of them are not for local thrift stores or charity drives. When you see them in a parking lot, that means someone is paying rent for those boxes to be there. Who's spending money to collect clothing no one wants?

There's more to all this than I know. 

But in my personal defense, I am not a buyer of fast fashion. I have very little fashion sense of any kind. If I have a shirt that is not obviously stained or ripped and is comfortable, I will wear it until it becomes embarrassing. 

Unless I get too fat for it. 

What I'm saying is that I get quality clothing, not stuff meant to be worn once and discarded. So I have reason to hope that the things I've donated will find a better user along the line. There's still a lot of life in that suit I had to give up. 

Or maybe that suit will be picked up by a funeral home. The jacket will be split up the back for ease of use and put on suitless corpse so he looks nice at the wake. And then my good suit will be interned, not in a landfill, but a human landfill -- the cemetery. 

And who knows? When the final trump is blown and the dead emerge from their tombs, there will be one guy who looks at himself in his resurrected body and say, "Hey, this suit isn't mine! But -- it looks fabulous!"

And: "Why'd they have to slice up the back?"