PAgent’s Progress

With apologies to Country Joe and the Fish.

Just got a notice from the CDC,
the swine flu’s coming for you and me.
It seemed to get rolling down Mexico way,
and now it’s popping up in the U.S.A.
You and me have to start washing our hands,
and looking suspicious at our fellow man.

And it’s one, two, three,
what are you sneezing for?
Don’t touch me with that hand-
I’ve got a survival plan.
And it’s five, six, seven
time to evacuate!
Going to get right out of town
while the swine flu’s going around!

The doctor’s all say that we shouldn’t fear,
because new flu strains pop up every year.
Besides they know just what to do,
they’ll shoot you chock full of tamiflu.
I’d have more faith that they were telling the truth,
If they weren’t sealed up in a hazmat suit!

And it’s one, two, three,
What are you sneezing for?
Don’t touch me with that hand-
I’ve got a survival plan.
And it’s five, six, seven
time to evacuate!
Got to get right out of town
While the swine flu’s going around!

If we feel sick we’re told to stay home,
ground the kids, don’t let them roam.
I’d let the rugrats watch TV,
and save the Xbox just for me.
But I don’t think I can remain content,
If I can’t find a pig that could pay my rent!

And it’s one, two, three,
What are you sneezing for?
Don’t touch me with that hand-
I’ve got a survival plan.
And it’s five, six, seven
time to evacuate!
I’m getting a room out at the beach,
and wiping it down with bleach!

Hmmm….haven’t updated the blog in a while, must be time for a flotsam post!

If you’ve ever wanted to see an elephant land at a major airport, you should watch this PSA against animal trafficking.

Looking for inspiration for this year’s Halloween costume? Check out the Best. Costume. Ever.

I don’t know why I find it so funny, but this routine by Billy Connolly reduces me to tears every time I hear it.

These commercials for the Schick Quattro for Women are not so much offensive as unbelievable. And they aren’t a gag, I’ve seen one of them on television already.

Don’t know what to do with that horse? I happen to have this handy flowchart to provide you with guidance.

And last but not least, here is a disturbing commercial for Japan that shows that sometimes having high blood pressure can be a blessing.

Here in the great state of Oregon, when the time to renew your vehicle registration looms near, you receive a handy form in the mail instructing you to report to your local Department of Environmental Quality so your car can be tested for emissions.

I’m all in favor of emissions testing. Back in the day I spent quite a bit of time in the southern Indiana/Louisville region, and at that time Kentucky had emissions testing, but Indiana did not. The difference in air quality while sitting in traffic was not just noticeable, but dramatic. But I digress.

This little chore is the bane of my existence. The registration renewal form gets shuffled, misplaced, and generally forgotten, and it always becomes a mad rush to get it done by the deadline. In fact the last time this happened, I completely MISSED the deadline, and drove around with expired license tabs for a couple of weeks.

I resolved that this would not happen again. This time, I tacked the renewal form up in a prominent location. I double- and triple-checked the due date for renewal. This time, I was ready. So, even though I didn’t have to get it done until April 28, I drove down to the Sherwood DEQ testing station after work last night.

The Sherwood DEQ testing station is located beneath some huge power transmission lines. In dry weather everything you touch there will give you a static shock. I also think I can hear them humming. But again, I digress.

I pulled up, got out of my car, and the nice DEQ Examiner plugged my car into a computer. And immediately came over to talk to me.

“Your ‘Check Engine’ light is on.” he said.

“Yeah, it came on right after I had the 60,000 mile maintenance done. Go figure.” I said.

“Well, the error code says the engine is running too lean. It’s an automatic fail. Go to a garage and get it fixed, then come back and try again.”

“Come…back?”

“Yeah. Make sure you drive it around for a couple of days after they work on it before you get it retested.”

So. The one time I actually get there in time, I get an automatic fail. And now I need to take the damn car in to get the computer adjusted, or whatever has to happen. At least this explains why it’s been on the edge of stalling every time I’m starting out in first.

When I am an Old Man,
I will let my hair grow long,
and wear it in a ponytail.

I will wear my trifocals
in round metal frames
that are silver like my hair.

I will practice smiling,
so that the lines in my face
are happy ones.

I will wear old, worn jeans,
and heavy flannel shirts
that have taken on my shape.

I will wear wool socks
and Birkenstocks
no matter the weather.

And everyone that sees me
will know that I am wise
know that I have seen many things.

And they will see in me
a kind and gentle person.
Even though I’m not.

My knees were sore yesterday. That’s actually worth mentioning, because during the recent winter my knees were aching so badly every day that I hobbled around like a little old man. Although I swear I didn’t really change anything about my lifestyle, as the spring progressed my knees began to hurt less and less. Lately I’ve been walking the dog at a pretty good pace, and even going up and down stairs without clutching the railing like a lifeline.

Ah, but right now I know exactly why my knees hurt; I was crawling around on the floor Sunday night, and being on hands and knees is pretty much guaranteed to take a heavy toll on them. However, there are just some activities that require you to get down on one or both knees, and I was working on my daughter’s bike.

To be specific, I was replacing both sets of brake pads and the front derailleur cable and cable housing. The brake pads got replaced because the brakes were getting sloppy, and I won’t have my daughter riding a bike that can’t stop on a dime. The cable and housing were getting replaced because I had flattened the existing housing with a sledgehammer.

Let me explain.

Last week The Girl informed us that she had lost the key to the Kryptonite U-lock she used to lock up her bike. Unfortunately, her bike was still securely locked to the bike rack at school. I asked if there was a spare key, only to be told that if there was, it was on the same keyring. This is what you would call a redundancy FAIL.

So, I armed myself with a Bic ballpoint pen, a small sledgehammer, a cold chisel, and a 4 1/2 ton hydraulic jack, and went to the school. Unfortunately, we were dealing with a Kryptonite U-lock that had been purchased back in the early ’90s, before they were susceptible to the Bic pen trick. Either that, or I suck at the Bic pen trick. So, it wasn’t going to be trivial.

If I could have gotten the hydraulic jack inside the curve of the lock at any point, I have no doubt that I could have popped it open. Unfortunately, it didn’t fit. At this point, I began a brute force approach, and started hammering on the lock with the sledge. No dice. Similarly, hammering on the cold chisel placed at the point where the U-bar enters the horizontal bar was spectacularly ineffective.

It was at this point that I finally realized that my daughter, bless her heart, had not locked her bike through the bike frame, but only around the handlebars. Fortunately I had packed a set of allen wrenches as well, and I had the handlebars off in short order. Yay! Then I noticed that all the hammering on the lock had crushed the cable housing for the front derailleur cable. Crap.

As you may have gathered, the damage was repaired and the bike is ready to roll. The only little hiccup occurred when I tried to find MY Kryptonite U-lock for The Girl to use. Funny thing, it turned out that the U-lock that I had been bashing was MINE. My daughter had misplaced the keys to her mother’s lock, and so took MY lock and key from the garage, without asking and/or telling anyone.

Okay, the locks were identical in every respect. Except one. This one was MINE. It had traveled with me over many miles of road and secured my beloved bicycles for decades. It was an old companion. A faithful tool. And I had been beating on it with a sledge hammer.

I know most people won’t understand why this pains me. Lord knows my wife doesn’t understand it. I get rather unfortunately attached to inanimate objects, particularly ones that I’ve had for a long time. For no sane and rational reason, I feel like I owe them some measure of loyalty, especially if they’ve served me well. This lock didn’t get any such consideration, and that makes me sad.

Besides, after seeing how hard I had to work to put a scratch on it, I’m reminded what a good lock it was. Farewell, old friend. I’ll see you hanging on the Great Bike Rack in the Sky.

One of Mrs. Agent’s little endearing behaviors(i.e. annoying habits) is her tendency to leave whatever she happens to be reading while in the bathroom on the floor, usually propped up against the bathroom counter. This just happens to put whatever-it-is directly underfoot for anyone using the sink or bathroom mirror.

I have complained long and loud about this, because I hate having to move something every time I want to use the mirror, or wash my hands. If I leave it there, I’m kicking it the whole time I’m standing there, plus my evening ablutions tend to distribute water drops a considerable distance (I’m an enthusiastic face washer) which is incompatible with library books and crossword puzzles. My pleas have fallen on largely deaf ears.

By which I mean she doesn’t care, not that she’s deaf. Although she IS nearly deaf. Too much Black Sabbath and Psychedelic Furs at too high a volume. Have you priced hearing aids lately? Good Lord. But I digress.

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, with my wife’s crossword puzzle directly underfoot, I suddenly felt a sharp pain. I looked down to find a mechanical pencil neatly stuck in the big toe of my right foot. By neatly stuck, I mean I had to lift my foot and pull it out to dislodge it.

Okay, it hurt, but surprisingly it didn’t hurt that much. Nevertheless, the puncture looked very dark, so I went and asked The Wife to look at it. My concern was that there was a piece of pencil lead left in there, as I have a general policy against leaving foreign objects within my flesh, unless under a physician’s explicit direction. The Wife readily agreed.

At the time I interpreted her eager acquiescence as either a token of her love for me, in that she couldn’t bear the thought that I was injured, or that she was suffering guilt and remorse at having been the indirect cause of my impalement. It did not occur to me until later that she was simply thrilled at the prospect of sticking sharp metal objects into my flesh. But again, I digress.

I was not that surprised that the examination process rapidly escalated into minor surgery, requiring needle-pointed tweezers, rubbing alcohol, a sewing needle, and an open flame. After she had substantially enlarged the tiny perforation in my toe, she started drilling for depth. All along, the Wife seemed to be confirming that there was something in there, but it proved elusive, and when she started really driving in to fish it out, the pain began to increase dramatically. Since it was well after midnight at this point, and since I have the pain threshold of a small infant, I told her to lay off.

I mean, as foreign objects go, graphitic carbon is pretty damn benign. I’m sure I could live the remainder of my life with pencil lead in my toe. It’ll give me something to remind me of my wife.

As she picked up the alcohol, the matches, and implements of extraction, she remarked “Well, I guess I learned my lesson.”

To which I replied “No, I think I learned your lesson.”