PAgent’s Progress

This frog walks into a bank, hops right over to the loan officer’s desk and sits down. The loan officer looks up, mouth open, and after a second or two says “Good morning. Can I help you?”

The frog looks at the loan officer’s nameplate on the desk, and says “Good morning, Mr. Huac. I’m here to apply for a loan.”

“Call me Patrick, please. We, uh, don’t get many frogs in here. What was your name?”

“Milo Jagger,” says the frog. “My father is Mick Jagger. He had a bit of a fling with my mum back in the sixties.”

Huac is completely nonplussed, but fords on as best he can. “And what kind of loan were you contemplating, Mr. Jagger?”

“I think about $250,000. I’m hoping to start a trendy vegan nightclub.”

“I … see. Well, what were you hoping to use as collateral?”

“This.” says the frog, and he pulls out a ‘Precious Moments’ figurine and sets it on the desk.

Mr. Huac looks at the angelic figure, with its huge luminous eyes, and cannot believe his ears.

“I’m sorry, you want this bank to loan you a quarter of a million dollars, and all you have as collateral is this statue thingie?”

“Ayup.” says the frog.

Mr. Huac is completely furious. “I don’t know how irresponsible you think we are here, but that is the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard!” He sees his manager urgently gesturing at him behind the frog’s back. “Just a moment, Mr. Jagger.” He walks over to his manager, who is practically apoplectic.

“What do you think you’re doing there, Huac? Just complete his application. Immediately!”

“But sir,” complains the confused loan officer, “He wants $250,000, and all he has to secure the loan is a little porcelain thingie!”

The bank manager pokes him in the chest and says “It’s a knick-knack, Patty Huac. Now give the frog a loan. His old man’s a Rolling Stone!”

For some families, when the Momma is gone, it means a steady diet of PB&Js, Top Ramen, and cold cereal. Not at PAgent’s house, however. No, at my house, when the Momma is gone, it means I can fix all the things that the Momma hates.

BBQ beef ribs, cider vinegar-style cole slaw, and (store bought) yeast rolls. Mmmm-hmmmm. The PAgent menfolk ate well tonight.

I put a dusting of my favorite rub on the ribs, cooked them with mostly mesquite pellets, with some cherry, half an hour at high temperature, half an hour at medium temperature, and two hours low and smoky. I was afraid they would still be tough, but they were just pleasantly chewy. And homemade cole slaw is always better than the stuff you can buy. Dinner was gooood.

Our late cat Toby was a foodhound of the first order. Aside from nonchalantly swiping things from our plates while we were still eating, he once snagged a chicken breast from an open oven, while it was still being broiled.

This picture was taken not long before he passed away. It’s one of our favorites of him, and lends itself to a lolcat image.

After walking halfway across downtown, I am told that the ancient, yellowed document labeled “Certificate of Birth” with every bit of vital information associated with my mortal arrival inscribed upon it is NOT, in fact, my birth certificate. It is a “hospital certificate”.

Fortunately I have years of personal experience dealing with government employees who are at the mercy of federal regulations, and so upon hearing this news my eye barely started twitching. Much.

So. On to the next hurdle: obtaining an actual honest-to-God birth certificate verifying that the person listed on my driver’s license is in fact a U.S. citizen.

I often joke about being old, getting old, being a grumpy old man, etc. Perhaps its my own way of acknowledging my own mortality. I recognize that 42 isn’t old, per se. Nonetheless, it certainly isn’t young. However, if you want to feel genuinely old, arrange to have your wife hand you an antique document, yellowed with age and fraying around the edges, with the information written on it in old-fashioned calligraphy… and then realize it is your birth certificate, which you asked her to track down for you.

***

With reference to this little ditty, it’s almost like Gwen Stefani made a bet that she could write the most vapid and intentionally annoying song EVER, and it would still get airplay. Even the DJ’s are complaining about it. I used to like Gwen Stefani, back when she was with No Doubt and actually sang music that was worth listening to.

***

You know what would be neat? If, once the election was over, the President of this country at least pretended to be the President of the whole country, and not just the party that got them elected. Wouldn’t it be neat if the people in the White House could be counted on to forsake partisan politics for as long as they were in power? Or at the very least be a little bit subtle about sabotaging their political opponents? I still can’t understand how, during the runup to the 2004 election, Bush & Co. actually got away with excluding everyone that wasn’t a die-hard supporter from his public appearances. I mean, isn’t he at least technically my President, too? It certainly seems like he doesn’t feel that way.

I don’t install toolbars in my browsers. I might install a particular widget if it looks particularly useful, but I’ve grown leery of the “Hey, just click here to install the nifty, Whizbang, feature-laden toolbar du jour!” come-ons.

Well, it turns out that there might be a very good reason not to install the Google toolbar. Google Web History.

From Google: “You know that great web site you saw online and now can’t find? From now on, you can. With Web History, you can view and search across the full text of the pages you’ve visited, including Google searches, web pages, images, videos and news stories. You can also manage your web activity and remove items from your web history at any time.”

That is, Google can keep a record of every site you visit, and everything you view. And this is separate from your browser’s history file, which you can easily delete.

So far it looks like you have to have a Google Account, and you have to install the Google Toolbar in order to activate Web History for all pages you visit. Without the toolbar, Web History will just save a record of your Google Searches.

Well, that’s small consolation, frankly, and more than enough reason to never install a Google Toolbar. I have friends that have accused me of being too trusting of Google, but this is the first time I’ve ever thought they may be right.

Update: And this blog entry is hardly reassuring.