Newsweek (which used to be a magazine, I think) has a cover story about the plight of white men in these tough economic times. Although I didn’t actually read it, it seems a simple concept – white guys, having been repressed for years now, are suffering more than any other group. As a white guy, I can, of course attest to this fact. David Sirota (a traitor to both his race and gender), on the other hand, begs to disagree. Sirota tosses out all kinds of statisticy-sounding things, such as that while the unemployment rate for “white workers dropped below the overall national average to 7.9 percent, the unemployment rate among black workers increased from 15.3 to 15.5 percent.”

There’s no mention of gender there, so I can only assume that the huge number of unemployed white men is balanced out by all the white women who have taken all our jobs, by virtue of the fact that they have a huge advantage in the workplace – namely, that you only need to pay them 77% of what you’d pay a man. Now how can we compete with that?

On a serious note, if you want to even begin to address wage inequality for women and minorities, organize the workforce.

The union wage benefit is greatest for people of color and women. Latino union workers earn almost 51 percent more than their nonunion counterparts. Union women earn almost 34 percent more than nonunion women. For African Americans, the union advantage is 31 percent.

Anyhow, back to us downtrodden white guys (more persecuted in this country than Christians, even, if you can believe that).

The disappointing thing about being a white guy in this day and age (particularly for men of my generation), is the knowledge that just a short while ago, we were the unquestioned #1 and had it all. Oh, sure, we’ve still got most of it, but what good is “most” when your forefathers had it ALL?

I mean, everything I learned, I learned from TV, and when I was a kid, white guys could expect to have cool jobs like astronauts or cops or advertising executives, and have a hot blonde wife that wore a harem outfit, who would call you “master” and you could stick in a bottle when you wanted a break from her (except for Joe Friday, who never seemed to be much for the ladies – I mean, Col. Potter and his wife kept trying to set him up, but he never seemed to show much interest. If they’d have had gay people back in those days, I might have suspected he was a little, well…nah, not Joe. He was just too busy serving the people, and I think maybe be was a closet member of the he-man women-hater’s club with Alfalfa and Spanky and maybe even Darla Hood, who I think was actually a little dude in drag). Ah, those were the days.

Now? Bah. You not only get stuck with the lousy jobs like snaking out the septic line in a damp, freezing cold basement standing up to your ankles in human waste and rotted toilet paper, but you have to be “sensitive” about it.

And of course there’s a touchiness and double-standard you have to put up with, too. For instance, I was watching The Colbert Report with Caroline Kennedy hawking some book of freakin’ “feel good” poetry or something ( :yawn: ), which she described as being poems of “men celebrating women and women celebrating themselves.” When I muttered to myself, “oh, boy, that sounds great,” I was immediately met with a response of “oh, you hate women.”

Clearly the only obvious conclusion. 🙄

Now, had, oh, I dunno, Andrew Dice Clay been on hawking a book about women celebrating men and men celebrating themselves (though he might phrase it a bit differently), he’d have been derided as being a sexist pig.

Why? Because he’s a white guy, that’s why. Also, he’s a has-been who wasn’t actually ever funny. But mostly because he’s a white guy.

Plus, the poem she picked to read was pretty crappy and sappy. I prefer poetry by people like Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Dorothy Parker or Ezra Pound. You know, depressed, neurotic, alcoholic, and/or suicidal poets with names beginning with ‘P.’

Now, did I have a point? No, I don’t think I did. Mostly, I’m really tired because the thunderstorms started at about 2:30 this morning and the dogs were freaked, so, being the sensitive, downtrodden white guy that I am, I finally decided to just get the hell up and bring the dogs with me, so at least one of us could get a little sleep.

But if I did have a point, it would be that it’s hard being a white man in a white man’s world, no matter what David Sirota thinks.

I mean, what does he know? He’s just a dumb old white guy.

Ok. Gonna try and do this from the BB, but my typing sucks on a regular kwyboard, let alone this thing. No Internet, but they did call me last night (at 8:30 – don’t they know I go to bed early?), so hopefully that means I’ll get connected again some day. See ya.

Well, back to work again, with high hopes of having Internet access at home by the time I get there tonight. Though it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I didn’t, which will mean yet another night of boredom and torture. OK, not quite that bad, I guess. Good thing I switched to Dish, though, or I’d have neither TV (except OTA, I guess) nor Internet, and that’e really no way for a person to live. You know what’s nice about not having Internet access, though? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

The problem for those who are curious, lies with the cable itself. In my situation, there’s a pole out on the street (nothing unusual so far), then another pole on my land about, oh, I dunno, I’d guess about 80 feet from the street. Here the cable goes down the pole and to the ground, where, I thought, it was buried before heading on over the, oh, I dunno, maybe 40-50 feet to the house.

Turns out, though, It wasn’t buried all the way. In fact, it goes maybe 10-15 feet above ground before getting buried, then pops up about another 8-10 feet from the house (and runs across the front walkway, which seems terribly stupid, and which I somehow never noticed before – though, to be fair, there’s been a few feet of snow covering everything for most of the time I’ve been living there.

So, anyways, turns out a piece of the first part of unburied cable is skinned, and the ground and shielding are exposed. The cable dude (real nice guy, BTW) said it looked like squirrels. Sounds good to me. So, apparently it got wet and that was that, signal wise. Anyhow, this is one run of cable from pole to house, and, I guess, can’t be spliced. So they need to run a whole new line from the street, which is gonna take a couple of guys (and a whole lot of cable).

Maybe they can do it today, maybe not. We shall see. There was no talk of it costing me money (and, really, the cable should have been buried the whole way, IMHO), so it better not. I didn’t ask (sometimes don’t ask, don’t tell really is the best policy). If they do try to charge me, and it’s something more than a nominal fee, then I will, sadly, have to rethink the situation.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.

Anyhow, despite a day when it precipitated in pretty much every way conceivable (rain, sleet, snow, hail, them little brown frogs, you name it), I managed to get a fair amount of stuff accomplished, including digging a couple of fence post holes (by hand, mind you) and setting posts for what will soon become an eight foot gate in phase two of the home fencing project so that the dogs can have the the front yard to hang out in, in addition to the back and the side. Phase three will involve the woods, and that may take a while.

So, anyways, I guess I better get to work. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know why.

Kinda crappy weather in the forecast for the weekend. Right now, it’s cloudy and a bit chilly, and it’s supposed to get very windy and rainy later on. Fairly typical weekend weather. What with me getting up at about 4:00, I’m quite ready to get out there and do some stuff, but kind of hate to shatter the quiet of the morning with the sound of the tractor. I need to compact some dirt before I throw down grass seed, and I’d like to start clearing some scrubby stuff and rolling out some fence, but that all involves the tractor. I suppose I could head on out and see about picking up a couple more fence gates. At least one eight footer, and probably a man-gate, and I’d really like to get at least one more 4-footer. I need more money.

It’s Friday. Yay. Two whole days off for me, but quite a bit more than that for a lot of other folks, I guess. Apparently next week is Spring Break around here, and people are gettin’ the hell outta Dodge. I don’t get that, personally. There’s way too much to do right here without going anyplace else. I also don’t get how people can afford to do anything. I hope they don’t come crying to me when they find out they voted to abolish Social Security and Medicare. I can barely afford to go to work, never mind fly off someplace for a week. Especially if you’ve got, like a bunch of spawn in tow. Although from what I understand, we’re going to have some spawn visiting us here over the summer, which will be nice. I hope they’re bringing tools.

Speaking of tools, you’ll all be happy to hear I got my stabilizer bar yesterday, so that’s the last you should have to hear me (not that you can actually hear me) whine about that. The grass is already showing signs of growth (and turning quite green – amazing what a little bit of sun and rain will do), so I guess I better get it all greased up, change the belts, and figure out how to put the mower deck back on. I suppose I ought to think about taking the tire chains off, too. Nice thing is the grass can be up to my waist and the tractor will go through it like it was nothing.

Sounds like one of them Darlin’ boys decided it was time to get hisself hitched (not sure when they picked up and moved from Mayberry to Tennessee, but I expect they just couldn’t take Ernest T. Bass tossin’ rocks at ’em no more). I always did think Charlene was awful purdy. That Dud’a a lucky man.

Here’s every husband’s worst nightmare. Kidding.

I’m KIDDING! Jeeez, don’t be so touchy. 😉

Well, I guess I better get going before I get a beat-down.

Oh, by the way, if you haven’t got your taxes filed yet, you might wanna start thinking about it.

It’s not even summer yet, but they’ve made a huge – HUGE – concert announcement for the NY State Fair, which ushers in the unofficial end of the summer. It’s a triple-bill of Journey, Foreigner, and Night Ranger. Oh, yes, the geezers will be out in force that night. Not this geezer, mind you. Ticket prices are $55 and $65 (kind of appropriate, given the expected age group), but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even go for free. I don’t think I ever saw any of these guys back in the day (possibly Journey – were they the warmup band for Rush when I saw Rush in Buffalo in 1979 or so? Or, now that I think about it, it’s possible that I saw them in Binghamton – or was it Cortland? All I really remember about that show is being really, really stoned and snagging a couple fists full of gushy, white-bread hot dog rolls from a concession stand, woofing them down in one bite, and then nearly choking to death because I didn’t have anything to drink. Damn long beer line nearly killed me – with Sweet (speaking of not enough oxygen) – well, anyway, if I did, you can see it obviously didn’t leave much of an impression on me), and I have even less desire now.

I don’t know about your neck of the woods, but up here, the average price for a gallon of gas is $3.88. Now that I drive something like 40 miles a day on weekdays, that means it’s costing me roughly $1.50 a day (hoping for better mileage now that the snow tires are off) just to go to work. The garbage dudes just tacked on a $4 fuel surcharge (per quarter, which isn’t bad, I guess, but if it gets much higher I’ll be bringing it in myself, which I probably ought to be doing anyway, since I drive right past the dump on my way to work). And it’s time to go fill up my diesel cans – that’s around $4.20 a gallon at the “cheap” places, so there’s another $40+.

One of the things I inherited with this house is 300 or so gallon fuel oil tank that’s pretty new looking and sits in my garage. I’d love to have somebody come out and fill it up with diesel (shoulda done that about 50 cents a gallon ago), but the thought of even 100 gallons all at once is just a bit too daunting. Good thing the Kubota is pretty economical to run.

Jennifer Lopez has been named (by somebody or other) the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. Really? I mean, I’m not saying she’s a pooch or anything, and, let’s face it, it’s a pretty stupid thing in the first place (I mean, it’s dumb, superficial, and very subjective), but, still, I encounter much more beautiful women every day at the grocery store, the gas station, at work, – and, of course, the most beautiful of all, right here in my very own home (just don’t tell my wife).

I think what cinched the deal for Jennifer was her job as a judge on whatever stupid “reality” show she’s on, because she sits next to geezer-rocker Steven Tyler, and, hey, even I would look like the most beautiful woman in the world next to him.

Speaking of geezer-rockers, Ritchie Blackmore is 66 today (and I think I even saw a rainbow), and washed-up former baseball player Pete Rose is 70. And of course (whilst on the subject of former baseball players) I suppose we should mention that Barry “asterisk” Bonds was convicted on one count of something or other related to his steroid use. Or I guess his lying about steroid use. Or something. Can’t say as I really care, but I’m glad that they’ve stopped all other crime in the country. I mean, they must have, right? ‘Cuz this would have to be pretty much at the bottom of the list of things to prosecute, behind murder, rape, and Wall Street fraud. Right?

Well, Barry’s lawyers are no doubt hoping prosecutors will retry Bonds on the three other counts the jury was deadlocked on, so that they can their hands on some more of Barry’s $80 million or so net worth. And I’m sure taxpayers can afford whatever it takes. Justice at all costs, and whatnot.

Oh well, time to go and do whatever it is I do so I can go and get it over with and then come back and go to bed.

I was listening to NPR in the car the other day (Saturday, I think it was), and heard Scott Simon interview Gary Player as part of the Masters golf coverage. Gary had won his first Masters 50 years ago in 1961 at the tender age of 25. I always liked him – hell, what’s not to like? He grew up in a fairly poor household in Johannesburg South Africa (his mother died when he was 8, and his father worked in the gold mines), and he invited Lee Elder (a black guy) to play in the South African PGA tournament in 1971 – a time when that wasn’t exactly looked upon fondly by the white folks there (or, presumably, Ronald Reagan). But, anyhow, the part that caught my attention was that Gary – 75 years old, if you do the math there – does 1,000 sit ups a day. That’s a lot of goddamn sit ups. Of course, I’d do that too, but, sadly, my back limits me to 10. Not every day, of course. But every few months when I decide I need to tighten things up a bit. Then I do a few and my back hurts and my tailbone hurts, and I say, “eh, fuck this.”

It’s been raining all night, I think. Too dark to see, but I’m interested to see just how high my little pond has gotten, and if it’s overrun the retaining wall I built for it (I suspect it has – but we’ll see when it gets a bit lighter out). I should have made it bigger, but was a bit constrained by the water line to the south (really, really, don’t want break that), and the leech field to the north. I couldn’t make it much deeper, because the clay likes to grab hold of the tractor tires, and getting stuck in a hole wold have been just too embarrassing (as it was, I had to shove myself up and out a few times with the loader).

Whether the rain will stop in time for opening day at the local baseball stadium (Alliance Bank Stadium, I think it’s called these days) is doubtful. Even if it does, it’ll be a damp, crappy day for it (which is quite typical for a baseball game in April in Syracuse). Better than going to work, of course, and if I could just win the lottery, I’d go. Well, no, actually I’d go shopping for a mini-excavator. And build a barn to put it and my tractor (and maybe a little bulldozer and a plow truck, and…) in. :kub:

Speaking of tractors, I’m sure you all want an update, so, yes, the bucket forks arrived yesterday, and they are very, very nice. The stabilizer bar didn’t come with them, but is supposed to arrive Thursday. I’ll keep you informed.

Oh well, time to nuke the rest of yesterday’s pot and get a fresh one going.

The official temperature hit a new record of 85 yesterday. Normally, I’d bitch about the heat, but it was very breezy and quite comfortable for working outside. I kept waiting for the rain to come, but every time it got dark and I thought it was about to pour, it didn’t, and the sun came back out. Very, very nice. Got some good tractor time in, pounded some fence posts, put up a (very) short stretch of fence, piled up some rocks around the new drainage pond, extended some trails out in the woods, and even took the dogs out for a walk around (and they both went swimming in one of the ponds). All-in-all, a very good day. Which makes going back to work today that much more difficult.

On the bright side, while my whining probably didn’t have anything to do with it, my forks are supposed to arrive today! Really coulda used them yesterday to help with my fencing. But I reckon there’s plenty of time left for that. Hell, it won’t be winter for at least another three or four months.

The wind got pretty fierce last night, though. The 100 foot pine trees that line my property were bending and swaying pretty good. My friend John said his chimney cap blew off and bounced down the road. I’m pretty sure nothing blew off my roof, but I reckon I better check when the sun gets over the ridge.

I did find what I’m guessing is what remains of a skeet target on my roof, though. It was fairly intact (good size pieces – enough for me to see it was like a little clay frisbee® made by Remington™), so I’m figuring it was a miss that crashed on the house. Not crazy about somebody shooting skeet close enough around here for one to get away and land on the roof. I should have put some Mylar® around it, taken pictures, and reported it to MUFON (or at least George Noory) as a crashed extraterrestrial vehicle. I think I have some little plastic army men I could have put around it to make it look big (and that would explain the utter lack of evidence remaining if somebody came to check it out – damn gubberment coverup).

Speaking of a Government coverup, a conspiracy has been unearthed by Michelle Bachmann, who says Planned Parenthood is the ‘LensCrafters® of Big Abortion.’ I guess that’s kinda like “Big Pharma” or something. Yes, I can see those “big abortion” fatcats kicking back behind their big posh desks with their feet up, wearing top hats and lighting up Cuban cigars with hundred dollar bills. As Earl Pitts would say, “Wake up, Uhmer’ka!” Abortion is a huge bidness here in the You Ess uf Aay. If these planned parenthooders have their way, there won’t be any unplanned and unwanted children left in the country to grow up and have more more unplanned and unwanted kids. Or something.

Well, I dunno about all that, but it does remind me that I need new glasses. And thanks to the godless union I belong to, I get an eye exam and free glasses. I could probably get an abortion out in the back room, too. Except we don’t use LensCrafters®, we use Empire Vision. But they probably have an abortion on demand room out back, too.

But I’m past my child bearing years, so I guess that’s one benefit I can’t take advantage of.

It appears that God has lifted his veil of protection from North Dakota. I’m not sure why God hates Fargo, but the evidence is pretty clear. It might be because God planted so many of his fake dinosaur fossils, there. I dunno. Far be it for me to try and understand the mind of God. And why bother when we have Jerry Falwell around to interpret for us? Oh, that’s right. God lifted his veil of protection from Jerry back in 2007 (or called him up to the majors – I’m not quite clear on which folks get punished for happening to live in a place that the Almighty got pissed at for one reason or another, and which are so goshdarn holy that God wants them right there next to Him at the supper table). Well, maybe Pat Robertson will issue a press conference or something explaining it all.

Anyhow, I guess it’s time to go see what this day will bring.

Today is supposed to be the warmest day we’ve had since last October 17th, which was before I closed on the house I’m living in right now. And that seems like a lifetime ago. To celebrate, I’m having the snow tires removed, and the summer tires put on. And an oil change while they’ve got it up in the air. As such, I’d put my money on a mid-April blizzard. Of course, with warm weather comes punishment – in this case, heavy thunderstorms are predicted for this afternoon. Guess I’ll get to see how the rain fade is with the new dish.

We have a new little pond, dug to accommodate the sump pump discharge. With the sump still running at about 5 times an hour, it’s filling up quite nicely. No need for a liner when your soil is about 90% clay. Next up is to try and line the banks with rocks and plants that like both water, clay, and the expected summer drought.

Oh well, it’s getting bright out there. Time to see if the pond filled up some more.

Yesterday was a beautiful day around here. Sunny, warm enough to work outside but not so hot as to be miserable. It was even warm enough out for there to be mosquitoes in the evening (goddamn bugs. I can’t wait for winter). Anyhow, it was about as close to perfect as it gets, and today we’re supposed to have more of the same, at least until some rain heads in later on in the day. I needed some hitch pins and clevis pins and a fence post pounder (got one somewhere, but darned if I can lay my hands on it), and some other manly-sounding things, so I headed over to Tractor Supply in the morning whilst waitin’ for things to warm up a bit.

All they had was a (rather pricey) spring-loaded pounder, which is nice in that you don’t have to lift it up to pound it, what with the spring and all, but which kinds sucks in that you’ve gotta overcome the spring tension to pound the post in. A bit of a workout for an old-timer. Only had a few posts to do yesterday, but I’ve got a shitload of fence to put up, so my triceps or whatever them muscle thingies are called ought to be pretty well developed by the time I’m done (so I can have them bury me in a muscle shirt and looking good at the wake).

TSC also had cute little chicks (I’m referring to the kind that grow up to be chickens, not the cute one behind the register, who was, indeed just the cutest little freckle-faced kid – with her overbite and doe-eyes, she looked just like a little bunny rabbit). Probably not even as old as the flannel shirt I had on, which has recently been brought out of retirement since it fits me again.

Speaking of bunny rabbits, they had them, too. Very cute, but the sign on the cage said “the rabbits are being sold for agricultural purposes so don’t handle them.” I assume ‘agricultural purposes’ means ‘meat,’ so I’m trying not to think about it.

Speaking of fresh meat, I found a dead mouse on the basement floor yesterday. Pretty good size one, too, and not your typical field mouse that the cats generally present me with (as if that’s supposed to make up for what a pain in the ass they are most of the time). He was lying on his back, and he was all white underneath and brown on top. Cute little fella (other than being dead and a little on the flat side – I think I may have inadvertently stepped on him before I saw him as I was pondering the reason for the sudden appearance of mouse shit all over the floor).

Not sure where he (or the shit) came from. I had been down there on Friday pulling ceiling tiles out in an effort to locate some wires and cabling, but I don’t recall being showered with mouse shit (or, thankfully, any flying mouse cadavers; I’m a manly-man, not afraid of mice – alive or dead – but would probably shriek like a little girl if one came flying out of the ceiling at me; come to think of it, I shrieked like a little girl when I looked down and unexpectedly saw the dead one).

That reminds me, I suppose I ought to scoop the little feller up and give him a decent burial (aka, wing him over the fence). Normally I reserve critter funeral duty for my lacrosse stick (just seems kinder and gentler than using a shovel; damn shovels scrape the poor things and roll them around and leave bits of them on the floor, which I suppose is at least a warning to the others, but with the lacrosse stick I can cradle them in the pocket, which sounds much gentler, and as a bonus, I can get some impressive height and distance when I chuck ’em – especially a big juicy fella like this guy; at the old house, I even managed to drop one – bloody, eviscerated, and turned inside-out by one of the cats – on the windshield of a car going through the Burger King drive-through. I regret having been unable to hear the ensuing conversation inside the vehicle, or whether they then decided to pass on that Whopper with cheese), but the lacrosse stick has yet make it over here, so I guess it’ll just have to be the shovel. Oh well.

So far, I’ve used up about half my 4-yard load of topsoil, but not before I got to hear from my dirt guy about his experiences with the best goddamn health care system in the world. Seems that thanks to a defective medical device (a staple gun, of all things), a two-hour surgery turned into a five-hour surgery, which then necessitated a second surgery. Oh, and he’s one of those young adults with no health insurance (funny, I thought Obama and the Death Panels – great name for a band; much better than Merkin Wranglers – were gonna fix all that), so the hospital is doing him a big favor and settling for a mere half of the $300,000 bill, which he can pay either all at once or $4,500 a month. His choice. Might as well tell him to pay a million dollars a month.

Really nice kid from what appears to be a really nice family, and he really doesn’t deserve this shit. But, well, we can’t have universal health care now can we? That’d be a commie pinko socialist thing (speaking of socialist evils – “This Land is Your Land” Vernon? Really? There’s no place for your socialist crap in baseball, buddy. Next thing you know, you’ll want steroid injections covered by the health care plan).

Well, the sun aint quite up yet, but it’s getting bright out there, so I reckon I better think about moving out of this chair – even if it’s only to get more coffee.

In the meantime, have a look at these, and tell me which one I ought to get.

Happy Sunday.