I have found my reality TV addiction. No, it isn't one of the scripted pieces of dreck on Fox, it is the C-Span coverage of the Democratic National Convention. No commercials. No commentary. No "fair and balanced" talking heads. Nope. Just pure convention, all talking, all the time.
I've loved watching the national conventions since I was just a Yellow Puppy.

Last night was some of the best stuff I've seen in years. It was wonderful to see Jimmy Carter (sounding, however, like his dentures were loose, or he'd just come from having a root canal) blasting the Bush policies of unilateralism and intolerance.

And my old flame, Al Gore. I'd seen Al speak in person way back in the old days, before he was anything other than a rising Young Democrat. I never understood why people thought he was stiff and humorless, except that is what the pundits decided during the last election cycle.

Last night he was funny, and eloquent, and yes, bitter about the last election. As well he should be. And he gave the people in Boston a direction for their own bitterness: Don't let this ever happen again. Don't let the Supreme Court ever select another President, and don't let this President select the next Supreme Court.

Like Al, I've never forgotten how Bush came to be in the White House. Nor have I lost my bitterness. It's a lot like my divorce. I had to remember all the hurt, and all the cruelty to maintain the fight. At the same time, I had to channel that energy outward, and not inward, so that, although the bitterness and resentment informed my actions, it did not change me into a bitter and resentful person.

And then we had Herself, Ms. Rodham Clinton. Wowza. I loved that she pointed out that SHE had been at Ground Zero on September 12th, unlike someone else, namely the duly appointed President of the United States. (Maybe he was still digesting the plot of My Pet Goat.)

The evening wrapped up with Bill, another reminder of my first marriage. I never cared much for Bill Clinton, because his personality was so much like the AntiChrist: slick, insincere, a survivor of childhood abuse, and over-driven because of it. Unlike the AntiChrist, though, Clinton was not a sociopath, and did honestly care about other people. His presidency was proof of that. Last night he was in rare form. In my opinion, it is Bill Clinton, and not Ronald Reagan, who should be remembered as The Great Communicator.

So yes, I was glued to the set by the spectacle of reality TV. I'll be there again tonight. And the night after that.

In closing, let me leave you with some quotes from great politicians of the past:

"I have always strenuously supported the right of every man to his own opinion, however different that opinion might be to mine. He who denies another this right makes a slave of himself to his present opinion, because he precludes himself the right of changing it." -- Thomas Paine, 1783

"Free speech exercised both individually and through a free press, is a necessity in any country where people are themselves free." -- Theodore Roosevelt, 1918

"The truth is found when men are free to pursue it." -- Franklin D. Roosevelt, 1936

"If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear." -- George Orwell, 1945

"Any time we deny any citizen the full exercise of his constitutional rights, we are weakening our own claim to them." -- Dwight David Eisenhower, 1963

"What is objectionable, what is dangerous about extremists is not that they are extreme, but that they are intolerant." -- Robert F. Kennedy, 1964

"Go fuck yourself." -- Dick Cheney, 2004

I've had an earworm all week: Elvis Costello's "Less Than Zero". I've even listened to it, since that will usually run one off. It didn't. I'm still walking around spontaneously combusting into "Hey!, Whey-Hey!".
For the past two days, people have chosen to sit next to me on uncrowded trains, despite the fact that my big tote bag was already occupying that seat. This morning it was a man of great heft who opted to drop his fat ass on my Vera Bradley. Unfortunately for all of us, I'd already removed the knitting needles. Thankfully, however, he missed the i-pod, or the security guard would have had to keep me from plunging said bamboo needles into the fat bastard's heart.

Just in case you thought that the absurdity of my work life had diminished, it hasn't.

I took a photo of my PHB, sleeping at his desk, and had it posted for the past two days, but discretion being the better part of Valerie, or, because I listened to common sense advice from others, it has been removed. Rats.

Yesterday was a hukilau, with the PR department sending me information to post ASAP (since it ties to an ad that's running this weekend, someplace). Yes, of course it was a PDF, and they wanted text to accompany it. So for the zilliontyseventh time we did the PDF lecture. This resulted in the text coming over as a Word file, which I should use to create an HTML page and then link to a PDF (which I could just make myself from the Word file). So I did. And then, as I read the file, I realized that there were typos and missing information.

I sent a note to the PR person, pointing out that children do not usually have an age of ??, but actual numbers. People do not get TD booster shots, at least to my knowledge, but I am familiar with TB.... like that.

Oh, they were so happy that I have such a good copyproofing eye. And then they said, oh, don't work on this until it comes back from the ad agency, because you shouldn't waste your time.

Too late for that, ace. I've just blown an hour dicking around with your crap to this point. And if it isn't ready, why send it to me? Really, I think that the last 12 years would qualify as a waste of time.

But, it's Friday, and we all know what that means: ALCOHOL!!!!

I saw a bumper sticker on the back of an FPL* truck this morning. Context is everything, y'know? This is what it said:

"Working people who vote Republican are like chickens who support Colonel Sanders."

And I have a rhetorical question for all those young'uns wearing their pants below their butt cracks: If they slide and you have to hold/pull them up (and I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. I, of all people, understand the pull of cool and how it is the overriding motivator of youth) why must you hold/pull directly over your nads? Huh? How come you can't grab the sides, why must you pull your pud in an effort to keep your pants up?

I'm just asking.

* Florida Power and Light, also known as Florida Plunder and Loot

The PHB is back from his week of training.

He's in his office, even as I type, "customizing" the Cold Fusion templates that manage the look and feel of the new, improved site. The one I've been busting my ass over for two and a half months.

Can you say: Recipe for Disaster? Can you say: All my work, down the toilet, until it hits a clog in the U-bend?

Can you repeat my mantra? Not enough alcohol in the world.

Sigh. Back to banging my head on a wall, uselessly.

It appears that last month, while I was on vacation, the PHB changed something in the new site architecture, and forgot to mention it to me.

It appears that the graphic calendar is now a graphic event manager. Not just a matter of semantics, it is a different management module. It has different fields and different properties. Most importantly, it is a different link to a different page.

I discovered the change just now, after entering about 30 events in the calendar, only to have them show up, well, no-fucking-where on the new site.

Just a half a day's work, down the crapper, because the moron I work for changed a big old part of the new site architecture and forgot to tell me, his little worker bee, about it.

And do you know what he'll say when I mention it to him? He'll say "My bad." This from the mouth of a sixtyish white guy who has taken to dying his (remaining) hair.

Can I shoot him, or would that be my bad.

Time for me to start entering all that fucking data, all over again.

It's Friday, and there is alcohol on the horizon. Tomorrow, I'm going on a road trip with a girlfriend. The Quilter's Shop Hop.

Have I mentioned lately that I work for an idiot?

Yesterday morning, I had the old i-pod loaded with Bob Marley. I was totally plugged in, and left myself plugged in for an hour or so, before I decided that I didn't want to run down the battery to the point where I couldn't be cocooned against the unwashed masses on the ride home.
Just before I left work, I checked my e-mail and there was a message from someone who said they were writing a book about Mr. Marley's live shows from the mid-seventies to his death. They'd found me via my list of concerts I'd seen, and wanted to know if I had any memories I could share.

This was my response:

I saw him in Montego, Jamaica at the first Reggae Sunsplash. Maybe it was the second. In any event, it was one of his last concerts prior to his death, so the summer of '79 or '80. The venue was a soccer stadium. The field was packed; I can't imagine that the show was not sold out.

There were armed guards at the gates. I handed my ticket into an outstreched hand, only to have a rifle dropped between me and the hand. "No, Miss," said the soldier, "That's not a ticket taker."

Other hands came from out of the crowd and unclasped my watch from around my wrist. I pulled on one end of the band, and the unseen person tugged on the other. Then the crowd surged and my watch was gone.

I was with a group of friends who had all traveled to Montego Bay for Sunsplash. There were about 8 of us, and, as I recall, we all piled into a little Ford rental to get to the show. We were two deep on laps, someone was stretched sideways across all the other's laps, making a third layer.

There were a number of opening acts: I remember Burning Spear and Peter Tosh. I remember when Bob Marley sang "Chase the Crazy Baldheads" my friends and I all looked at each other, then at the crowd, and realized... we were the only white people we could see. We just kept dancing. He was amazing. The energy on the field was palpable. But it was a little scary, too. We made jokes about the MoBay Massage, which was the pitter patter of little fingers all over your body, as anything liftable was taken off of you.

I'm sorry that I can't remember more at the moment. Twenty years, my friend, is a lifetime. But one of the guys who was with me is reachable via the internet. He's a sound engineer, and may be able to give you more details.

Did any of you ever see Bob Marley? Want to send your memories to this guy? Drop me a line, and I'll send you his request and address.